by Grass(Lit)
"Genocides," shrieked Marjorie at the top of her lungs. "Ingrates! Malicious beasts! Curs!"
"Oh, wah. wah, wah, wah," screamed Tony, making as much noise as he could but incapable of thinking words.
"For Dimity," cried Rowena. "For Dimity, Dimity, Dimity."
"Cowards," trumpeted Sylvan. "Cowards. Animals. Peepers. Mig-erers. Muddy migerers with no more honor than a mole."
The Hippae came out of the screening brush in a rush, then stopped while those on the hill fell silent. The humans had expected Hippae. They had not expected them to have riders. Foremost among them was a great gray mount bearing someone they all knew on its back. "Shevlok," breathed Rowena. "Oh, for the love of God, my son."
"It's not Shevlok," Sylvan spat at her. "Look at his face." The face was a mask, empty as a broken bottle. There was nothing there. "You're fighting the beasts, not the riders," trumpeted Rigo. "Remember that. The mounts, not the riders!" He kneed El Dia Octavo into a trot. Behind him the others did likewise, falling into a diagonal line so that each would have room to charge and turn without endangering the ones behind.
Rigo counted as he rode. There were ten of the Hippae. The one bearing Shevlok's body was to the fore with three others beyond to Rigo's right. Well and good. The one in front would take the brunt, and better Rigo to attack that one than to expect the bon Damfels to do it. The other Hippae riders-who were they? He risked a quick glance. Lancel bon Laupmon. Three of the bon Maukerdens: Dimoth, Vince, and one whose name he had forgotten. He didn't know any of the others, or he didn't recognize them. The faces didn't look like faces at all. They had been transfigured into something merely symbolic. Something wholly possessed
He was only a few feet from them when he felt them pushing at his mind, erasing his intent. He howled, the howl driving them out, away. He flicked the trigger to turn on the knife and signaled Octavo for a slow, collected canter. The gray Hippae reared high, and Octavo ran toward it, then turned to the right without hesitation as Rigo clipped off its front feet with the fiery lance. It hadn't expected that! One. One, screaming, but down!
Octavo stretched his stride and galloped along the hillside, running swiftly as three of the Hippae came up from the swamp and tried to intercept him from the left. Cursing, Rigo lifted the tip of the lance from under his left arm, brought it across and anchored it in his right armpit, then stretched out his left arm to hold the lance perpendicular to the line of Octavo's movement. The humming flame caught the first interceptor low across its shoulders. Leg muscles severed; it fell as the other two screamed and turned away. Two.
Sylvan was behind him, Her Majesty flying in the face of the Hippae, swift as a bird. He saw Rigo shift the lance and shifted his own almost simultaneously. The object was to get the creatures moving in pursuit, he reminded himself. Not necessarily to kill them yet. Now, if possible; eventually, yes, but not necessarily now. He jabbed the lance toward a green-mottled Hippae and heard it bellow in angry pain. Then he was past. He cast a quick glance across his shoulder and saw the green monster coming after him. Good. Well and good. He pointing the lance in the direction he was moving and leaned forward to whisper soft words in Her Majesty's ear. They were words he had whispered to lovers in time past. He saw nothing incongruous in urging Her Majesty on with them now.
Rowena was behind Sylvan, copying his tactics a little too late to make the wide turn he had made. It was only when her lance had chopped into the throat of a shrieking mud-colored creature that she remembered they had to flee. Millefiori had already decided it was time. Wheeling on her hind legs, she set out in pursuit of the other two while the mud-colored monster staggered behind them, screaming, being rapidly outdistanced by two other, uninjured Hippae.
Three, Marjorie thought to herself. Three down. Four in pursuit of the three horses, two of them at least slightly wounded. Three waiting for her, and for Tony. Little Tony. White-faced. The way he always got when he rode. Fearful. Not thinking about it.
"Anthony!" she screamed in his ear, "Follow me!"
She thumbed the lance on, sighted a line of travel that would take her in front of two of the remaining Hippae, The third one was hanging back, as though for an ambush. "Watch that one," she cried, pointing to the mottled wine-colored beast half screened by the trees.
Tony cried something in answer, she couldn't tell what. Then Quixote was crossing the path of the two, both charging at her, necks twisted to one side to bring the barbs to bear. She flipped the lance to her left as the others had done and raked them with the blade. Screams. Bellows. She turned Quixote up the hill and around.
Tony. He was facing the final Hippae, his lance dipping and swirling, the beast staying well back, out of range. Tony was too close. If he turned to flee, the other would have him!
She looked behind her. The two she had touched were not badly hurt. Surprised into inaction for the moment, but not badly hurt. She had touched their necks, not their legs. She pulled Quixote up and back, wheeling on his hind legs. "Come on," she cried to Quixote, riding directly at the monster confronting Tony. Beyond the beast was a patch of level ground.
Her heart was hammering so loudly that she could hear only it, nothing else, a pulse in her ears that drowned out the fall of hooves. She took the lance in her left hand, held it loosely. They came closer. "We're going to jump," she told Quixote. "We're going to jump over him, boy. Over him." Then there was no time to say anything. Quixote's haunches gathered under him; they were high, high over the monster's back and the lance was pointed down, down and back, then they had landed on the other side.
They were on a tiny island, only large enough for Quixote to stop on, stop and wheel and jump once more, back over the pool to the solid hillside. Tony was there, looking stupidly downward at the recumbent, slavering Hippae with the severed spine while two wounded ones stalked toward him.
Four.
"Anthony!" she cried as she went past. "Come, Blue Star!"
Horse heard her if rider did not. Quixote lunged up the hill, faster than the wounded Hippae, with Blue Star close behind. When they had gained a little distance, Marjorie turned to the south. Blue Star was even with her. She risked a look at Tony. He looked almost like Shevlok, his face white and expressionless. She drove Quixote at Blue Star's side so that they raced only inches apart, then leaned out and slapped Tony with her glove, and again.
He came to himself with a start, tears filling his eyes. "I couldn't think," he cried. "It got into me and didn't let me think."
"Don't let it!" she demanded. "Yell. Scream. Call it dirty names, but don't let it!"
Perhaps a half mile ahead of them on the hillside, Octavo and the two mares raced side by side with four of the Hippae in pursuit.
"Now," Marjorie cried, pointing ahead and to the right. "We're going to intercept them."
She leaned forward. Rigo, Sylvan, and Rowena were riding on the level line of the hill, around it. not up it. The full circuit of the sloping ground, back to the gate, would take two or three hours, riding at top speed the whole way. If she and Tony went slightly uphill and to the west, they should intercept the others a bit past the southernmost point of their arc. Quixote and Blue Star stretched out, galloping side by side like twins joined at the heart. Behind them came the two wounded Hippae, still screaming, still with their blank-faced riders aboard. They were not fast enough to be an immediate threat, but the laser knife had cauterized as it cut, so they were not being greatly weakened by blood loss, either.
'They're still trying to get into my head," Tony called. "So I'm thinking about going home."
She smiled at him, nodded encouragingly. Whatever worked. She herself could not feel them at all. She felt something, but not Hippae. Something else. Someone else.
"You didn't kill your bad individuals," Someone commented, quietly curious. "Why are you killing ours?"
"Because I could tie mine up and keep them from hurting anyone," she replied. "I can't do that with these creatures."
"You could figure something
out," the voice suggested. "No!" she said, angrily. "Everyone always says that. It isn't true. If you can figure something out, you do. If you don't, it's because you can't. Can't because you don't have the time, or the money, or the material. Can't because there isn't any way or any time or you're not smart enough."
A thought very like a sigh. A touch, like a caress. "Damn it," she cried aloud. "Can't you see that theoretical answers are no answers at all! It has to be something you can do!"
Shocked silence. Tony was staring at her. "What was that?" he cried.
"Nothing," she muttered, concentrating on riding. "Nothing at all." The ground fled by beneath them. The leather of their saddles creaked.
Occasional bunches of tall grass whipped at them Brush materialized before the horses' feet. Rocks and holes and hollows were there, were jumped, were gone. Behind them the wounded pair came on, howling. Time went by, swift but interminable. Time past was nothing, no matter how long. Time ahead was everything, no matter how brief. Tony's eyes were glazed with his effort to keep the Hippae from commanding him. Marjorie sat quietly, helping Quixote by her quiet. He would do all he could do for her without her bothering him. The arc of the hill against the sky seemed no closer, no matter how long they rode.
And then at last it was there. They came upon the height to see Rigo and the others to the south below them, coming around toward them to make the arc which would bring them back along the west side of the long hill on which Commons was built. The four Hippae still pursued Rigo and-the other two riders, more closely than before. "Come on, Quixote," she cried, urging him down, wanting to let Rigo know she was there but judging the distance too great for him to hear her yet.
She looked at the point where the two lines of travel would intersect, laid her body along Quixote's neck, and urged him on. When they had halved the distance, she yodeled, seeing three heads come up. Rigo looked over his shoulder, apprehending what Marjorie intended. She could come in behind the four Hippae pursuing Rigo, Rowena, and Sylvan. Rigo and the others could then turn and take them from the front while Marjorie and Tony attacked from behind. Which would have been an acceptable tactic except for the two other Hippae, just now coming over the hill behind Marjorie and Tony. Their presence would put her between two groups of them. He waved, pointing behind her.
She turned, saw what was coming, and cursed. She had thought the horses could outdistance the wounded beasts, but the Hippae had kept pace. That made the odds six Hippae to five humans. Even though four of the Hippae were slightly wounded, it wasn't good. Not good enough.
From the east came a great crumping sound, a concussion of air, like thunder. The ground shivered. The two Hippae on the hill screamed in rage, realizing before Marjorie did what had happened. Alverd Bee's men had blown up the tunnel. The tunnel. For the first time, Marjorie realized that the tunnel had been too narrow and low to allow a sudden, full-scale invasion. If the Hippae had been planning their attack for long, there were probably other tunnels. There was that great trail out there in the grass. There had to be other tunnels... "We're looking," said Someone. "We haven't found any others yet." Which didn't mean there weren't any.
"Are you going to help?" she demanded. "Are you going to let us get killed doing this all by ourselves?" There was no answer.
Rigo had heard the explosion. Now he leaned over Octavo's neck and urged him forward. Her Majesty and Millefiori fled along behind him, moving like the wind, opening the distance between them and the Hippae.
Marjorie turned more to the north. It would do no good to come up behind the other riders. Now they had simply to outrun their pursuers. Get to the stony ridges of Com, get to the gate. "If it were your people, I'd try to help," said Marjorie. "Humans have been helping the Hippae kill foxen," came the answer, snappishly, not at all allusively, in clear words. Not the familiar voice, another one. "All along."
"You know damned well that's not so," she cried. "Humans have been used by Hippae to kill foxen. That's entirely different." At least partly a lie, too. Humans had been all too willing to lend themselves to that Hunt. No answer.
They ran. Quixote was lathered, breathing harshly. It had been a long hill and the armor was heavy. Marjorie held the reins in her teeth, took her knife from her pocket, and cut the straps that held the armor, one around Quixote's breast, two on each side. The plates dropped off and the horse made a noise that sounded like a prayer. Tony saw what she was doing and did likewise.
Rigo had been watching. He nodded and called to the other two. Sylvan followed suit, as did Rigo himself. Rowena cried out in dismay. She had no knife. She had come last, and no one had thought to give her one.
As though distracted by this cry, Millefiori stumbled and fell. Rowena went rolling away, coming up wild-eyed. Then she was up, running toward the horse, mounting all in one fluid motion as Millefiori struggled to her feet, limping. Then the mare was running again, though awkwardly, slowly, with a wide space opening between Rowena and the others.
Sylvan saw. He turned Her Majesty and made a tight circle which brought him to his mother's side. He reached out, pulled her onto the saddle before him. Now Her Majesty was carrying double. She slowed Millefiori slowed. Sylvan edged back to give his mother room. One of the Hippae leapt forward with stunning speed and gaping jaws, snatching him from Her Majesty's back. Another ran even with Millefiori, ready to leap. Rowena, face like death and mouth wide with an unheard howl, rode on.
Sylvan had vanished. Where he had been was nothing, no movement. Marjorie screamed in anger and pain, tears streaking her face. "I'll begin by burning the swamp forest. It won't burn easily, but we'll do it somehow. Then the grasses, all of them. That will take care of the plague and the Hippae. There'll be no more Hippae."
"What about us?" voices cried.
"What about you?" she snarled. "If you're no help, you're no help. You don't care about us. Why should we care about you?"
A whine. A snarl. A slap, as from one being to another being. Then, suddenly, there was something behind Millefiori, rising to confront the approaching. Hippae Mauve and plum and purple, a lash of tail and ripple of shoulders, a moving mirage of trembling air.
"If He has to do it alone," Marjorie cried, "I'll still burn the forest, even if I have to do it by myself."
"The ones behind us are gaining," Tony called. "Blue Star's exhausted."
"We're all exhausted," she cried, tears running down her face. Where Sylvan had been was a tumult of beasts. "Turn more toward the road." She looked behind her, then up at the sun. They'd been running for well over an hour. Perhaps two. Thirty miles, more or less, all of it over rough ground and a lot of it uphill. With another twelve or fifteen miles to cover before they got back to the gate. "If I die out here," she threatened, "my family will burn the forest, I swear to God they will."
"What's going on down there?" cried Tony. "The Hippae have stopped."
They had stopped. Stopped, turned, were running away. Not back the way they had come, unfortunately. Uphill. Toward Marjorie. "Foxen," Marjorie cried. "Not quite where I would have wanted them, but better than nothing, I suppose."
She was trying to feel philosphical about dying, not managing it, trying not be frightened, and not managing that, either. "Tony, we have to take out the two behind us before those others reach us."
He turned a stricken face upon her.
"We have to! If the other four reach us first, we'll have them all around us."
He nodded, biting his lip. She saw blood there, the only color in his face.
"Turn on your lance."
He'd forgotten about it. He thumbed it on. looking at the humming blade almost as though hypnotized.
"Tony! Pay attention." She motioned, showing him how she wanted him to circle-the two of them wide, in opposite directions, coming back to hit the wounded Hippae from both sides.
They broke from one another, circled tightly, and were running back toward the pursuing monsters before the Hippae understood what was happening. Then they, too, broke,
one headed for each of the horses. Marjorie tried to forget about her son, concentrate on what she was doing. Lance well out in front, the blaze of its blade apparent even in the light of day.
There was a roar above her. She looked up to see Asmir Tanlig and Roald Few beckoning from an aircar, screaming at her. She lip-read. "We'll pick you up, pick you up."
Leave Quixote and Blue Star to face these beasts alone! She shook her head, waved them off. no. Only when the car rose did she realize what she had done. Oh, God, how silly. How silly. And yet...
The Hippae was before her, circling just out of reach, darting forward, then back. He could maneuver more quickly than Quixote could. Quixote kept his head toward the beast, dancing, as though he wore ballet shoes, as though he stood on tiptoe. Behind her she heard Tony yell. She didn't dare look. Again dance, dance. Then Quixote charged. She hadn't signaled him to do it. He simply did it. There was an opening, the lance found it, and they were dancing away again while the Hippae sagged before them, yammering at the sky, its neck half cut through.