Tale the Eighth

When Vemáley saw Mateo's bruises in full daylight, she was even more outraged. She was ready to walk to Ikmos, alone if necessary, just to give Zoan and his father a piece of her mind. Thanas and Ranof dissuaded her with some difficulty, and only succeeded when they pointed out that Mateo would probably appreciate a hot breakfast more. The shepherd men looked at the colorful wounds with more admiration than anger, impressed that any town boy could hit so hard, and that Mateo bore it so stoically.

The boy himself was bewildered by the attention. He had never been so fussed over in his life, quite literally. "They aren't that bad," he said as they sat to breakfast, an enormous meal that would have kept him comfortably fed for a week. "They don't even hurt now. Well, not much."

The Seeker gave him an uncertain smile. "Have you seen yourself in the mirror since last night, Mateo? It's an amazing sight."

"They aren't that bad," Mateo repeated softly, shaking his head.

Neuma stared at him in undisguised awe. "I've never seen that color before," she said wonderingly. "All blue and red and purple and black mixed up."

For lack of a better answer, Mateo ducked his head and started eating, slipping bits to Rascal, who sat on his lap, and Hikano, who leaned against his leg.

The shepherd family seemed to have taken to Hikano, and the dog to them, though Mateo had been worried about his canine friend, at first. The past had a way of sneaking up on you--you thought everything was fine, you could behave normally, it didn't bother you anymore--and then wham! it ran up from behind and administered a good clout to the head. Hikano seemed to have no such problems, however, away from the town, in fresh country air surrounded by people who patted him and spoke in kind voices. The only thing he objected to was the bath.

Joqirl and Mateo gave him that, after Thanas and Ranof had taken the flock to pasture. Wari had gone off to pray, and Neuma and Vemáley were at lessons inside. This was the country, and today, sixth-day was a day for doing special tasks, not for playing. Seventh-day was the day of rest, and greatly revered, but some chores still had to be done.

How were they to know just how unrestful this seventh-day was fated to be?

Joqirl and Mateo did not bother their heads with the future, too busy trying to keep Hikano in the washtub. Joqirl laughed at the sudsy water that soaked her when the dog jumped out, shaking furiously, but Mateo was not amused.

"Come now, Hikano, it's good for you, truly it is . . ." He pulled the big dog by his furry ruff, not too hard, but not too lightly, either. "Truly, friend, I had a bath just yesterday, they're quite pleasant . . ."

Hikano barked doubtfully and slapped a huge pink tongue at the boy's face, then at Joqirl's, wriggling all over with puplike agitation. The girl laughed and shoved his side, toppling him into the tub with a shower of water and spraying them all with the strong smell of lye-and-tallow soap. Hikano was on his feet immediately, struggling in the water, but Mateo wrapped himself around that huge neck and hung on like grim winter, holding him down.

"Hurry, Joqirl--wash him while I have a hold--be careful with that gash on his rump--"

Splashing and laughing, Joqirl won her battle to scrub the dog down, though by the time she finished both she and Mateo were dripping from head to toe. She was very gentle with the gash, not even disturbing the scab, and he whimpered slightly but didn’t begin fighting again. At last they let Hikano jump out, then drained the tub, just in time for one last soaking as the dog shook himself to mere dampness, rather than the drowned look he'd worn. Mateo turned from the mighty spray and shielded his face, but Joqirl just laughed, arms outflung to catch it all.

When the deluge ended, Joqirl ran inside to change. Mateo skinned out of his tunic and laid it on the well-cover to dry, then picked up the brush the girl had brought out earlier and clumsily attempted to smooth the tangles from Hikano's damp fur. It did not go well, and he said "Fewmets" about half a dozen times before Joqirl returned and gently took the brush from his awkward fingers. Her own were much more deft.

She looked at him sideways. "I'm sorry about your face. You certainly weren't kissing any girls, were you?"

Mateo shook his head wryly. "The only thing I kissed last night was the ground."

Joqirl's eyes widened. Then she laughed, delighted. Mateo had made a jest!

The corner of Mateo's mouth twitched up, despite the swollen lip. "Truly, Joqirl, it isn't that terrible. It hardly hurts at all."

"Not like your back did?" she asked quietly.

Mateo flinched and jerked away, suddenly realizing what he had exposed by taking off the tunic. He faced her so she couldn't see, feel his face cool as blood left it. No words came to his lips, so he just stared.

Joqirl sat back, letting the brush fall into her lap. Hikano whined anxiously, and she lifted a hand to scratch his ears. Her face was open, understanding. "Seeker Wari never said how it was you'd gotten so badly hurt, and you wouldn't say anything either. I figured it was something terrible; you have such a hard time with people, with talking. But I didn't think--until I saw--that is, Mateo--I . . ." She stopped.

He stared back, unable to move. He didn't mind Teacher Arandfel knowing, and Wari's knowledge was pretty much unavoidable, since he had saved Mateo from it in the first place. But Joqirl knowing, Neuma and Thanas and their parents, that was something else entirely.

Hikano whined again and rocked forward, then got up and crossed the few inches that separated them. He licked Mateo's cheek, gently, then laid down with his head in the boy's lap. Mateo could not move to acknowledge him, could not shift his eyes from Joqirl's face.

"I'm sorry," she said at last. "You don't have to tell me anything, and I won't mention it to anyone, even Seeker Wari. But--I'm sorry, Mateo, that you were hurt."

She pressed the brush back into his nerveless fingers and left.

When Mateo could move again, he put his wet tunic back on and continued brushing Hikano's fur, better at it since he had watched Joqirl. He pushed it all away and thought of something else.

Hikano yipped in greeting, tail waving to and fro, and Mateo looked up. “Oh. Greetings, Seeker.”

Wari knelt to ruffle Hikano’s fur. “You’re wet, young one,” he observed sagely.

Mateo nodded. “We gave Hikano a bath.”

That explained it. The dog was much drier than the boy was, though. The Seeker mulled out his next question for a moment, then gave a mental shrug. The lad could answer or not as he chose.

“What were you thinking about?” Wari asked.

Mateo did hesitate, but not for very long. “I had a strange dream last night,” he said, and described it fully. He was getting used to talking, at least to Wari--the words didn’t come quite as slowly and tentatively. “I’ve had strange, vivid dreams like that once in a while,” he finished. “Usually not . . . connected to anything I’d seen before. Sometimes they were almost . . . prophetic, and sometimes I didn’t understand them at all. This one, the windows could have come from Estaed’s house, and the Katamobe from fighting Zoan, and the breaking bow from my fear when I shot to save Hikano’s life. But somehow, I . . . I don’t think they do.”

Wari squeezed the boy’s shoulder, his own eyes distant and thoughtful. “This will bear more thinking on,” he said. “Dreams mean nothing, or everything, with little middle ground. I think this may be the latter. That sense of foreknowledge seems to point that way.” He looked down at Mateo’s face, turned attentively to his. The open trust there--so new!--made him smile, but the bruises made the smile a sad one. Wari gently touched the edge of the swollen eye, quickly drawing his hand back before Mateo pulled away himself. “If you had stayed here last night, you would not have these. I should have let you stay, as you asked. Forgive me.”

The boy lowered his gaze. “If I had stayed here last night, Hikano would be dead.”

The Seeker froze and stared at his apprentice, hearing what the lad was saying. “It was worth it all, to save Hikano.”

“It would be worth much more, to save Hikano,” Mateo corrected. He looked down at the dog, so content just to be near him, to lay on the ground at his feet, then met Wari’s eyes again. “Don’t feel bad, Seeker. It was Zoan’s choice to hurt me. I could have walked away when I first realized they were waiting for me--I could have yelled for help. But I didn’t want Zoan to release his anger on more animals. It wasn’t your fault.”

Wari was surprised again, as much by Mateo’s willingness to offer himself as a punching dummy as by his absolving Wari of guilt. Would this youth never cease to amaze him?

Still he could not quite accept it. “But it is my responsibility to protect you, young one.”

“You can’t protect me from everything.” Anyone else would have looked ridiculous with both eyes blackened. Mateo only seemed more serious, forest-hazel eyes earnest and direct. “You can’t protect me by leaving me behind.”

Wari started physically, it struck him with such power. The words resonated in his being, held in his mind like the afterimage of a lightning bolt. You can’t protect me by leaving me behind. Oh, Ponomára . . .

Of course, Mateo sensed his distress. He didn’t really need a strange, ethereal bond, or a Seeker’s sight--it was engraved on Wari’s weathered face. The boy paused for a moment, then whispered, “The Dwarven lass?”

Wari nodded. His lost apprentice. One of the two greatest failures of his life.

Mateo looked at Hikano, stroking the clean, almost-dry fur. The cuts on his hands were healing well, though they still made Wari want to wince. The dog thumped his tail and sighed, wriggling closer to the boy, and Mateo looked back at the Seeker. “I don’t know what happened to Ponomára, or why it hurts you so much. But please, don’t let it stop you from trusting me.” He smiled a gorgeous, fat-lipped smile at that last concept. Trust. That word just kept popping up in their conversations, like a zealous perennial flower determined to show its face both and in and out of season.

Wari took the boy’s shoulders in his hands and looked him squarely in the eye. “I trust you, Mateo,” he said quietly. “I will not leave you behind.”

Mateo’s smile held, perhaps even brightened, and he nodded.

Namágol stood in the center of the common green, near the scraggly tree that was so integral to his plans. He picked his teeth with a jagged splinter he’d pulled off the fence that bordered the south end of the meadow, now out of sight beyond a slight rise. At the north end of the meadow a group of village children, free on this warm, sixth-day afternoon, played a game that was completely incomprehensible to the assassin, but seemed to require a lot of running and jumping and laughing. High, childish giggles floated to him on the fragrant breeze, as grating on his nerves as the pounding of a pneumatic drill.

The Shadowhand shoved the annoyance into a small box in his mind, as he did with everything else that troubled him--fear, pain, loneliness. He only acknowledged the emotions that served his ends. Everything else was tamped firmly down and forgotten. Only once had something been too big and strong for his box to contain--his extreme terror and sense of dislocation when he first entered this world.

Namágol crossed to the tree and swept smoothly up to sit on its lowest bough, providing himself with a view of the entire green, Ikmos, the hills to east and west, and the path his quarry would soon be walking down. That had been quite a ride, almost fifteen years ago, when he crossed the dimensional portal. He had been George Colburn then, though with another set of aliases on the world the people of this one called Terra.

Not that he had known he was crossing a dimensional portal, of course. He had been hiding out in the state park, waiting until the pursuit for his latest killing in Chicago had died. It always did. However terrible the crime, another always came along, and fervor for the last one, with every lead exhausted and infertile, simply melted away.

Now, after watching the Madran woodsmen, Namágol knew what true woodcraft was. Back then he’d thought he was pretty hot stuff, stepping on moss, moving when the breeze blew, breathing slow and quiet. Angry voices had drawn him toward that fatal clearing, that lovely day in summer. The voices of agitated adolescent girls, one enraged, one conciliatory.

George Colburn had been interested in the cause of the debate. The reasons seemed pretty obscure, from what the girls were yelling at each other. He moved cautiously to the edge of the clearing, parted the branches--

And there it was, stealing the breath right out of his lungs. An enormous golden globe, pulsing on the hill, humming like the world’s biggest, quietest vacuum cleaner. If things like this were sitting in the middle of state parks, no wonder loonies ran around screaming about UFOs and alien abduction.

Four children stood in the clearing, obviously related, between ten and fourteen years old. The arguing stopped when the girl with auburn hair turned and ran up the hill to the globe--and disappeared into it. The other three were badly shaken, but they followed her.

When they all vanished, George Colburn’s knees gave way, and he sat on the pine needles. For a long time he waited for them to come out, but nothing happened. The golden globe just sat there and throbbed mysteriously. It was compelling, intoxicating, as if the weird thing had a noose around his waist and was pulling him in. Whatever waited inside that sphere, Colburn knew it was nothing like the world he lived in now. Here was a once in a lifetime chance, adventure beyond all he knew. This opportunity wasn’t going to come again.

So when the golden globe started to diminish, deflate, George Colburn of Terra threw away the agonies of doubt and ran for it, crossing inside before it got too small. He couldn’t help screaming at the sensation that poured over him as the golden light permeated his body. It didn’t hurt--it was just so strange, as every single one of his molecules was rearranged, shifted infinitesimally over . . .

And what happened next, well . . . that he didn’t really need to think about right now. George Colburn, Namágol, shoved the memories into his box and looked back over to the west path Seeker Wari and his apprentice would be traveling down.

Things weren’t really all that different here, after all. The level of technology was much lower, but people here were just as ugly and nasty and deserving of death, though most claimed to serve some god they called ‘Maker.’ Only a few were truly good, and those poor sods, well, they certainly shouldn’t be forced to hang around in a dark and cruel world, should they? Namágol was doing them a favor, sending them on to the afterlife they called ‘Hosiotos.’

It was his life’s work, his great commission: sending souls on. He took it very seriously.

And in some ways, it was better over here, on the world called Madra. No photographs, no newspapers, no international criminal databases--just rumors and travelers’ bits and pieces of information. Even the policemen, the constables, were pretty helpless against killers that came and went in the night. The constables had some ideas of the rudiments of detective work, and most of the trackers were highly skilled, but really, they were no danger to an assassin of Namágol’s caliber.

Except the Seekers. Those were exceedingly dangerous, to anyone they perceived to be on ‘the side of darkness.’

But he considered them more of a challenge than a peril. Most of the others in the Golbora Guild, the self-styled ‘league of assassins’ he had joined a few years into his sojourn on Madra, refused assignments that were near known Seeker locations. But George Colburn of Terra welcomed them. It was one reason of many that he had earned the title of Shadowhand.

Really, there was only one thing he missed about Terra. Cigarettes. They had a thing called ‘pipe baccy’ over here, but it in no way compared to a simple pack of Camels.

Namágol chewed the splinter in his mouth, welcoming the blood when jagged wood scratched the inside of his lip. Blood sharpened his senses, woke them up, much better than a shot of liquor did. He would need all the alertness and agility he had.

The man Seeker Wari knew as Farig Solma glanced at the sun. Not much longer. The Seeker would be showing up any time now . . .

Mateo was not going to be caught without his bow and arrows again. He took care that the quiver was positioned for a quick grab over his shoulder, the strung bow held firm in his left hand. Seeker Wari had told him about the warning he’d received while arranging this meeting with Farig Solma. They would be ready for anything.

And ambushes of Seekers always failed. It was an ancient maxim, on that had been proved time and time again. Yet people kept trying.

Wari unsheathed his great tibian sword and hefted it, then halted. He took Kóa from his neck and held the gray stone in his left hand. Mateo watched as his guardian closed his own marcellia-grey eyes and was immediately lost to the small dingle they stood in, just east of the common green. Mateo saw the faint gold nimbus of Wari’s presence in the Spirit Dimension sharpen and expand, then draw back a moment later.

The Seeker opened his eyes and frowned.

“Is he there?” Mateo asked.

“Yes . . .” Wari shook his head distractedly. “I think so, in the center of the green, as we agreed. But his sense is so odd . . .”

“Dark?” Mateo perked up. He could perceive the presence of Light and darkness with outer eyes, unlike the Seeker, but he didn’t have the training to perceive it from a distance. There were so many things Wari had yet to teach him, so many arts they hadn’t even touched yet. The most the apprentice had learned so far was how to ride a horse, and that clumsily.

“Dark or Light, I cannot tell.” Wari’s frown deepened. “I did not study him closely enough last night; I didn’t see this. His sense is vague, young one, slightly out of rhythm. The only other time I encountered such was fourteen years ago.”

“Who?”

“The four warriors from Terra.” The Seeker mustered a smile. “Impossible, isn’t it? Those four went back to their own dimension. But this man feels the same way, and I cannot account for it. Back then I was just learning the craft, so I could be mistaken, but I don’t think so.”

Mateo felt a warning tingle on the soles of his feet, the one that always told him to run when he was hunting alone in the Mingled Forest. “So you can’t perceive his intentions?”

“No, only his mere presence.” Wari clenched the Seeing Stone in his fist, then lifted his sword. “No fear. We are not unprepared, and not without warning. But keep your eyes open, young one.”

Mateo nodded. Wari patted Xakor’s nose and asked him to please stay within calling distance, a request Mateo vigorously seconded. Then they began making their way over the rise to the green.

The first crack in the plan appeared when the Seeker and his boy came from the east instead of the west. The second gaped wide when Namágol saw that they were carrying their weapons. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d thought.

Good.

Namágol leaped lightly down from his tree and stood to wait for them. The children at the north end of the green were now gathered in a circle, engaged in a complicated clapping game. They laughed in annoying, high-pitched bursts whenever someone made a mistake. At least the laughter wasn’t incessant now.

Namágol waited until his visitors were only ten yards away before nodding to the crow that waited in the top branches. It took off, heading south. The Seeker’s boy started, blinking in a way that must have been painful, with that gorgeous pair of shiners.

Maybe he could tell that something was wrong about that crow.

The Seeker halted a few feet away, the kid standing nervously at his left elbow. “Greetings, Master Solma.”

Namágol leaned back against the tree. “Greetings, Seeker. You come armed for battle.”

Wari glanced down at his sword, but didn’t sheathe it. “We’ve had warning that something not to our good will happen at this meeting.”

For the first time in many years, the Shadowhand blinked in surprise. He had been wrong. The Seeker wasn’t completely duped.

But if Wari knew what was really going on, he would have attacked the assassin already. No, Namágol’s gift, the one that somehow neutralized a Seeker’s power, was still working. His confidence returned, along with a faint smile.

“You fear me? I have no weapons.”

“I doubt that,” the kid spoke up, and blinked again at his own boldness. He squinted painfully at Namágol, as if trying to read fine print on a legal document. After a moment he shook his head in puzzlement.

Namágol smiled. “You have nothing to fear from me.” Then he felt the first vibrations of the ground, and fashioned a look of anxiety on his face. “But I think you have much to fear from them.”

They spun to the south in comical unison and gasped, also in comical unison. The shock on their faces was priceless. Namágol would treasure it forever.

The crow had told the two constables at the pen to do their duty, and they had released the semi-wild horses and driven them to stampede. The taming of the horses hadn’t been going well, anyway--their loss was nothing next to capturing these two. By their faces, it had worked splendidly. The Seeker had not been able to sense them, and if the boy had, he’d dismissed it.

Namágol leaped for the tree. “Quickly!” he cried. “Up here!”

The boy hesitated, but Wari followed and put his hand on the branch Namágol stood on. The Seeker turned back. “Come, Mateo! I’ll help you up!”

The apprentice stood there and stared at him as the horses drew nearer. He was not afraid! Namágol realized it suddenly--the boy did not fear the horses. A third crack in the plan, worse than the first two.

“Quickly, Mateo!” the Seeker shouted.

Namágol had no time to waste. Even if the boy wasn’t trampled, he’d be easy enough to catch later. In one motion the assassin crouched down on his branch, took the dagger from his boot, and cracked the Seeker’s head with the hilt.

Wari didn’t fall, but he reeled, the sword falling from his suddenly clumsy fingers. The boy had begun moving toward them, but he halted again, eyes widening. The Seeker caught himself against the tree, and Namágol leaned down to kick his head, holding the trunk with both hands.

Still the Seeker didn’t fall! And then the horses were there, eddying around the tree. The boy was not trampled--he stood amidst the runners, wide-eyed but unharmed.

A glitter in the air--Wari had tossed something to his apprentice: the gray marcellia jewel on its tibian chain. “Run, Mateo! Go! Warn the others!”

Namágol cursed. That jewel was precious beyond price. He had hoped to demand it as his payment. Spitting vile words, he kicked the Seeker’s head again.

“The children--!” Wari choked, gesturing toward the north end of the green. At last he crumpled, and Namágol hauled him out of harm’s way.

The boy fled.

For the first time in remembered history, an ambush of a Seeker had succeeded.

Mateo’s numbed mind screamed a hundred different things at him. He couldn’t think about it right now! He had to concentrate on one thing--the children, the children at the north end--they were going to be trampled!

If only he could get to them first, he might be able to--but he wasn’t even running as fast as the horses, and his bad leg was screaming almost as loudly as his mind. It wasn’t going to hold up! He was going to fall, and the children would be--

“No!”

In the tales, heroes leaped onto galloping horses as easily as raccoons leaped into trees. It wasn’t so easy in real life, especially with a hurt leg. But suddenly, impossibly, Mateo was astride a huge black horse, the swiftest in the herd. His head spun dizzily, but the wild creature did not buck beneath him. Maybe the legends are true, he thought giddily. Maybe I can jump really high without knowing it, when I have enough reason. A Katamobe at my heels, a kit stuck in a tree--

He couldn’t think about that! The children, he had to save the children! Mateo crouched over the stallion’s massive neck, clutching the whipping strands of ebon mane. “Hai yah!” he more gasped then yelled, kicking its sides. “Quickly! Get ahead of your fellows, Blackstar!”

The stallion responded--whether to kick, voice, or new name, Mateo didn’t care--and surged ahead. Swift as running water down steep hillside Blackstar sped, powerful muscles rippling under Mateo, pounding hooves making the earth shudder. He outdistanced the pack, though not by very much. Then they were on the circle of children, the small white faces lifted in shock and terror, and Mateo tumbled off his mount, screaming for them to gather around him.

He grabbed as many of the little ones as he could hold, feeling their trembling, and instinctively thrust his will out into the stampede. Here, this place, stay away, it is a boulder, it will break your legs, it is a Katamobe, it will eat you, it is a chasm, it will swallow you whole. . . Mateo hid his face in the hair of a shivering child and prayed. The horses veered away, blurs of color all around them, flying manes and flashing hooves.

Only a few sharp, shaking moments, and the stampede was over, the horses rushing away into the northern hills. As soon as it was safe, most of the children began to weep. Mateo had no idea how to deal with this.

“All is well, all is well,” he stammered, smearing shakily at a little girl’s tears. “Truly, all is well. No one is hurt, you see? Only the grass is trampled. We’re all quite safe, truly we are.”

Then he looked up and realized his error. Farig Solma was heading over the green toward them, leaving Wari bound next to the tree. The traitor’s eyes burned dark and cold--all was not well. Mateo wasn’t safe.

Solma didn’t want the children, though. They would be just fine. Mateo stood hastily. “Go home,” he told the oldest, a boy perhaps two years younger than he. “Tell your parents what happened.”

The children scattered toward Ikmos, and Mateo ran for the eastern hills. He started to reach over his shoulder for an arrow, but realized he had dropped his bow somewhere in the stampede. Farig Solma was gaining steadily, and Mateo’s leg was all but giving out every time he put weight on it. Desperately he whistled, low then high, hoping Xakor was still in earshot.

At last Mateo’s leg simply couldn’t hold him up anymore and he fell to his knees, whistling frantically. Solma was running now, almost there, sunlight glinting off a metal spike in his fist. Mateo pulled his skinning knife and waited, panting gustily, his lungs and leg afire.

Then Solma was upon him, his face twisted in anger, ordinary features almost demonic, brown eyes seeming to shine with red highlights. He kicked the knife away without visible effort, numbing Mateo’s hand, then grabbed the youth’s tunic and pulled him close. A dagger point sharpened to needle-keenness pricked the hollow of Mateo’s throat.

“The jewel,” Solma hissed. “Give it to me.”

“What--?” Mateo felt so breathless with fear he thought his head would float off. This was just like his dream--something twisted but recognizably human transforming into a deadly demon, overpowering him effortlessly. “What--I don’t know what--you want--“

”The marcellia jewel.” Solma shook him, then pressed the dagger a little farther. Mateo felt warm blood trickle down his neck.

“Marcellia--?” Kóa. Seeker Wari had thrown Kóa to him. Mateo had forgotten in the rush--where was it, where had he put it? He fumbled at the pouches on his belt. In one of those?

Wait. He couldn’t give such a treasure to this monster. Mateo stopped moving and looked back in the traitorous spy’s eyes as calmly as he could, breathing so heavily. “I don’t--have it--“

“Don’t lie to me, boy.” Solma shook him again, harder, and tilted the dagger up to Mateo’s chin, slicing a thin cut along his throat. “Hyran wanted the Seeker alive, but he didn’t say anything about you. It would be easier if you just handed it over, but I could slit your throat and search your dead body without too much trouble. Give me the jewel.”

“I don’t--“ Mateo’s eyes widened. “Look out!”

A barking, slavering dog arrived, jumping all over Solma’s back, biting at his shoulders and head. The spy yelled and threw up his hands, trying to protect himself, trying to stab his attacker. The knife flailed wildly. Mateo scuttled back and forced himself to his feet despite his throbbing leg, and found himself leaning on the warm, quivering flank of the stallion Xakor. His head whirled--Hikano had followed--again, he’d jumped to Mateo’s defense--

Xakor snorted urgently, jerking his head at Mateo. The boy clumsily threw himself into the saddle, swinging his bad leg over Xakor’s broad back as he stepped up with his left foot in the stirrup. “Hikano!” he screamed, and the dog broke off his attack, bleeding from a couple of new gashes but still barking in high spirits.

“Away, away!” Mateo cried, tugging the reins. He looked back at Wari, desperately, but knew he would not be able to lift the large man. If he stopped to try, Solma might catch him again, and Mateo doubted he could get away second time.

Though his heart cried out, he pulled the reins across the stallion’s neck, guiding him to the right. Xakor turned to the west and raced across the green, closely followed by the happily panting Hikano. They escaped into the hills, and Mateo finally discovered Kóa, which he had dropped into his quiver at some point.

Behind them Namágol stumbled to his feet, cursing and spitting blood from a gashed lip. The dog had mauled his face--the wounds burned, but not as lethally as the kindled hatred of the Shadowhand’s defiled soul. The death sentence of that boy was now signed in red fire. The only blank line was the date of execution.

It would have to wait. Right now, ‘Farig Solma’ had a contract to fulfill. He walked back to the unconscious Seeker and kicked him viciously. “Trained him well, didn’t you? No worries, good Seeker, no worries. That remarkable kid isn’t long for this world, and he’s not visiting Terra, either.”

He laughed bitterly, then stooped to lift the huge man over his shoulder, after shoving the sword back into its sheath. Wari was heavy, and Namágol staggered, drained by his fight with the rabid dog. But he steadied, and reached the south end, where the two constables waited with a few tame horses.

When Namágol and the others crossed into the hills, all that was left on the green was trampled grass and the splintered remains of the apprentice’s bow.

--end tale the eighth