“Forgive my saying,” Koli ventured as the station receded slowly behind them, “but you don’t look at all well.”

Storm regarded the trader sullenly. He was still trying to get a handle on the bloodthirsty side of his little birds, and trying to fit that aspect into his comfort zone. It didn’t help that Thrush had very sharp teeth, and —when she was angry— a tendency to bite. “Where are we going?”

Koli pointed straight ahead. “There.”

“Why don’t you just kiss my—” he stopped himself and fought for calm. It didn’t help that he had bloody punctures where he met the saddle, or that Sandahl was apparently under orders to roughen his gait. “Could you be more specific?”

Koli shrugged. “Over there?”

* * *

Only a few minutes after dawn Joblar’s chance presented itself. The rain let up and one of the guards stumbled out to the privy half asleep. The loose end of Joblar’s neck chain flipping ‘round his neck didn’t even register until he was choking out his last.

The others mistook the figure opening the cabin door a few minutes later for their companion, and Joblar was among them before they could realize their peril. The guard nearest the door took the whirling end of the neck chain across the bridge of the nose and somersaulted over backwards in a shower of blood. His companion folded around the point where Joblar’s foot had sunk into his oversized gut.

By that time, the other two were staggering from their bunks, but it was too late. The desperate dalla had reached the weapons rack and freed a horseman’s mace.

Three minutes later, the dall set the bloodied weapon on the table and sank wearily into a chair. That’s where he made his big mistake. He should have gotten the hells out of the camp then and there, stopping only long enough to free the slaves and catch up a horse, hoping he could figure the knack for riding the thing before it pitched him off.

Instead, he took a moment to relax weary muscles and therefore smelled the food. Not the swill he’d been living on for the past six years, but real food. Inhaling a deep lungfull of the aroma, his mouth watered. There was side meat sizzling on the small stove. And griddle cakes. The smell of khoof overreached even the blood and shit of the dead overseers. Looking around, Joblar couldn’t see any reason not to enjoy his first moments of freedom to their fullest.

He was swabbing the last of the bacon grease from the pan with a griddle cake when the extremity of his blunder came to light. Head back, eyes closed to savor the flavors, he reached for the khoof mug. His hand couldn’t find it, and so he opened his eyes to look. What he saw instead of the errant mug as his eyes passed the carcass of a dead guard draped over the torn window covering, were horses. A double handful of them and more coming out of the gap in the trees that marked the forest road. The rest of the guard troop had chosen this morning of all mornings to return!

In an instant, Joblar’s plan changed. The other slaves wouldn’t be freed. He wouldn’t be leaving the camp ahorseback. He might well not live out the hour. The cabin’s sole door and few windows all faced toward the camp and the approaching party. He dare not move in that direction, for any movement would be in full view of the oncoming riders. He dare not even pull the body back inside, lest the movement draw an eye. Yet he had to get out somehow, for there was no way he’d survive a confrontation with so many man children all at once.

Working swiftly, Joblar searched the bodies and then the cabin. He’d need coin if he escaped. There’d been a thieve’s station, he recalled. Some distance westward. Little enough these vermin had, still every bit couldn’t but help. With a few coppers and a silver piece or two, he caught up a pair of long daggers and the mace.

The returning guard detail was almost close enough now to distinguish the unit standard. They’d be in the camp in two or three fingers even if they didn’t notice the lack of activity and increase their pace.

Joblar moved to the back wall of the cabin. The wood wasn’t all that thick or all that well preserved; perhaps he could batter his way through before the returning guards came in the front door.

It was the work of less than a finger to smash out a hole large enough to wriggle through, and Joblar was running through the grain, careful to keep the bulk of the building between himself and the king’s men. He had no real hope of survival now– they couldn’t possibly miss the hole in the wall nor his trail outside the hole, and there was no way he was ever going to outrun horses after six years in the shackles. But he was Joblar Bonecruncher, chief of the Blue Deer dall, and the last of his people. He would run until he couldn’t, and then fight until they killed him.

* * *

“What do you make of that?”

Koli shaded his eyes, leaning forward over the horse’s neck. “Where– oh, I see it.” He watched the bobbing dot for a moment. “Ah. Dall, I believe.”

“Alone?” Storm asked. “I thought you told me that no dall ever travels alone.”

Koli shrugged. “Not by choice.”

“And...?”

Koli lowered his hand and turned to the man astride the tall palomino stud. “He’s either following something or being followed by something. Is that what you were asking?”

“He? Are your eyes that good?”

Koli bared his teeth. “They needn’t be. dallehya lean farther forward when they run. Only the dalla run upright.”

Storm had his mechanical eye tuned to maximum magnification, and he could see that the figure was both male and running more or less upright. More or less because his pace was more a falling stagger than true run. “Being followed, I think,” he opined. “How well do you know this area?”

“I’ve been through it a time or two.”

“Can you get us in front of him without his seeing us?”

Koli surveyed the terrain critically. “We’d have a bit of a run, but yes. Why?”

Now it was the man who shrugged. “You got anything better to do?”

Koli foreswore comment. He had more than half an idea what was happening out there in the distance in any case, and it would serve as well as his original destination. “Very well, Tairn, follow me,” and he brought his horse hard about, kicking it into a fast gallop.

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Sandahl pivoted on his hind feet and charged after Koli’s gelding.

* * *

He’d run too far! Joblar cursed himself for a fool, or would have could he spare the breath. Six years in the chains had dulled his wits beyond reason. The sun bobbed wildly in his vision trading places with the earth at each tearing gasp — each thudding footfall. He’d have dropped the mace already without the loop around his wrist; he wasn’t about to lift it against an enemy.

He could hear the man children now, unless that pounding was the blood pulsing in his head. He would have looked back to verify, but was afraid he’d fall if he turned his head. Better to get another pace or two before he collapsed.

* * *

“Hand me your pistol and hold the horses.”

* * *

They were definitely behind him now, and gaining. He could hear the clatter of tack and armor, smell the foamy sweat of horses driven near to death. Joblar had only one hope left; perhaps he could run himself to death. If his heart gave out before they caught him, well, that was freedom of a sort, wasn’t it?

The dalla’s progress was hardly more than a shambling stumble as he crested another in an endless progression of rises only to bring up short, nearly toppling. Straining through the red haze, he struggled to focus on the scene that confronted him. Two men stood at the base of the slope. Or what appeared to be two men. The large figure, near as tall as a dall, but thicker, wore some sort of mask and carried a pair of pistols loose at its sides. The other, older, smaller, and pointy-faced, stood back and held two hard-ridden horses, a naked blade in his free hand.

Struggle as he might, Joblar couldn’t raise the mace. It was all he could do to retain his feet. Then the tall figure waved him aside with a horizontal sweep of its off pistol. The dall shook his head slowly, not believing his watering eyes. The gesture was repeated and he staggered past, giving wide berth to the entire tableau. The far rise seemed an escarpment and the blood rush was drowning out all other sound. Each step was a long lifetime, each footfall the smiting blow of a giant.

The clatter of racing hooves crested the rise behind him, bringing up short with a shouted curse. Despite himself, Joblar turned, and in turning, fell. Unable to rise, resigned to his fate, he watched.

Neck chain. Escaped slave, then. The dall stood slumped over, swaying slowly, straining to bring his weapon to bear. Storm waved him past. Already he could hear the retrieval party thundering up the far side of the rise. Eight of them, from glimpses as the three parties had converged upon this spot. The dall passed from his sight and from his mind. His eyes were trained on the crest of the hill. He’d give them the advantage of a downhill charge. He could afford to.

The guard party crested the hill at a full gallop, spurs gouging the bloodied flanks of flagging horses. When the corporal in the lead brought up short in astonishment, three other animals piled into his before weary riders could react. Storm stood rock still while the king’s men untangled themselves, his sapphire eye blazing.

The corporal restored order amid considerable cursing and laying about with his riding quirt, always with an eye down the hill. He could see their quarry on the far side of the empty swale, and the two men standing at its bottom. Slavers, no doubt, seizing an opportunity. Well, he’d show them opportunity! Some semblance of formation restored, the corporal looked square at the man with the pistols and shouted, “fusileers...!”

“I’ll kill the first man to strike a spark.” The voice was flat, but it carried.

The corporal felt a chill run down his spine, and noticed that he could see his horse’s breath of a sudden. “Are you insane, man? Know ye not who we be?”

The man remained in place, neither raising nor gesturing with the pistols he held. “You’re dead men. The only questions now are how it happens and when.”

The corporal straightened in his saddle. The audacity! “I don’t know what you think—”

“They didn’t give you assholes my message, did they?” the man’s voice overrode the question.

The corporal was rapidly losing control of his temper. He looked around, taking in the plain, his men, and the trio that confronted him. Only the large man was in any position to be dangerous. The one by the horses had nothing but a blade, and the slave was all but dead. He turned back to the man with the pistols and repeated; “fusileers!”

Storm swept his right hand pistol up and shot the corporal out of the saddle. Dropping the pistol midway through the recoil, he allowed it to fall, drawing the sword from its scabbard as he stepped rapidly forward up the hill. The offhand pistol was up and out, waiting for the next aggressive move as he rapidly closed the gap.

The remainder of the pursuit party dissolved into disarray. Some stared open-mouthed down at the body of their corporal, while others watched the oncoming figure and the pistol in its fist.

Koli raced forward to catch up the fallen pistol, reaching for recharging components as he ran.

Atop the hill, one of the guardsmen dropped his matchlock and made to draw a sword. Storm’s remaining pistol spoke and he reeled backward out of the saddle, clutching at his geysering throat. The second pistol hit the ground as Storm drew his combat knife. He was nearly among them now, frost riming the lower portion of his sword blade, his pace never slowing.

He was picking targets, marking the dead with icy, intangible fingers. It was too much for three of the remaining guards, and they hauled their tired horses around and put spurs to them.

Fifty feet to go, and Storm dug in his toes just as the remaining guards found their courage and charged.

A pistol barked from the base of the hill and blood and meat leapt from the nearest guard’s cheek. He flinched aside, inadvertently pulling on his reins and bringing his mount into an abrupt turn.

In that instant, Storm shifted, realigning target priorities. Bouncing on his near foot, he sprang straight at the speeding animal. Shoulder first, his near hundred kilos hit the off-balance beast just forward of the saddle, bearing it and its rider over, tangling the next rider behind.

Storm slit the first rider’s throat as he rolled, smacking the flat of the sword into the nose of the already confused horse beyond. Momentarily blinded by the stinging blow, the horse tucked his head between his forelegs and threw his hind legs skyward, catapulting his burden westward.

The last guard sawed at the reins of his own frantic mount, trying desperately to wheel himself around and make for safer climes. It wasn’t to be. Storm flipped the sword up, caught the blade at the ricasso, and pitched it dart-like with all his might, skewering the fleeing guard.

Before the body had fallen from the saddle, he was looming above the man who’d been thrown from the bucking horse. Neck broken, the body lay huddled upon itself, leaking freely.

“Horse!” he bellowed. “Horse!”

He turned when he didn’t hear the expected hoofbeats, and saw Koli fighting against the reins trying to snub Sandahl down tight. “Leave him be!” he shouted, advancing on the trader, bloody knife in hand.

Koli got an ear in his teeth and bit down hard, glaring out the corner of his eye at the approaching man as the horse froze. He was in a serious pickle now. The Tairn wasn’t thinking rationally, and he didn’t hold out much hope of escaping if the man decided him an enemy for some reason. He held his position as the sapphire-eyed figure bore down on him. At the last minute, Koli released the ear and jumped clear, crouching in the grass, ready to sell himself dearly if it came to that. The Tairn ignored him, catching up the reins and vaulting into the saddle.

“Your duty lies elsewhere, Tairn!” Koli shouted as the horse was hauled around.

The big back hunched as though weathering a blow, and The Tairn brought Sandahl up short.

“Think!” Koli thundered, ready to dodge. “The other three will abide, but our duty will not! Think of our people, Tairn! They wait!”

With each succeeding word, the shoulders hunched farther, the head bowed lower. The imperatives driving the man did not diminish in intensity, but duty and loyalty overrode even breath. He brought Sandahl around again to face the crouching trader, humanity slowly reclaiming his face. His body wasn’t ready, and he sagged in the saddle as the larger part of him fell back from the mindset his sylvans called the cold place.

He looked sadly down at the trader and then back over his shoulder at the mess atop the hill. Finally, he regarded the exhausted dall. He dismounted slowly, tying the reins and looping them over the saddle.

Do you understand me? he touched foreheads with the palomino stud.

Sandahl snorted and tossed his head.

Find the other horses and bring them back here. Storm told him.

With another toss of his head, Sandahl cantered off up the hill, head high, tail up.

“Are you back for good, then?” the trader inquired.

“For now, at least,” Storm acknowledged with a sigh. “Shall we say hello?”