made a whistling sound at the living herd-bane, moving one hand in a gesture. The bird responded by moving in that direction in long, stalking steps, its eyes sweeping back and forth.
The Marat, meanwhile, dropped down to all fours. He sniffed at the blood on the fallen herdbane's claws and then, to Tavi's disgust, leaned down and ran his tongue along it. Then he closed his mouth with his eyes narrowed, tasting the blood as though it were a wine. The Marat opened his eyes again, remained low, on all fours, and began casting around the floor of the
clearing like a dog after a scent. He paused at the fallen sword and picked it up, staring down at the weapon stained with the herdbane's blood. Then he lowered the blade to wipe it clean on the grass of the clearing and slipped it through his cloth-belt.
The wind continued to rise and changed directions at every breath. Tavi felt it brush against his back. He froze in place, sure that if he moved he would be immediately seen.
The Marat jerked his head up, abruptly turning to look directly at Tavi's hiding place. The boy swallowed, tensing in fear. The Marat let out another whistle and made a hand signal. The herdbane stalked toward Tavi's hiding place.
Just like a chicken after a bug, Tavi thought. And I'm the bug.
But a few steps later, the herdbane let out a shriek, turning to face south. The Marat followed the herdbane, golden eyes reading the signs of passage in the earth. He crouched down, nostrils flaring and looked up with a sudden, eager light in his eyes.
The Marat rose and began to stalk southward after Tavi's wounded uncle.
"No!" Tavi shouted. He threw himself to his feet and out of his hiding place, hurling one of his remaining stones at the Marat. His aim proved true. The rock struck the Marat high on the cheek, and blood welled from the gash.
The Marat stared at Tavi with those golden, bird-of-prey eyes and snarled something in a tongue Tavi could not understand. His intentions, though, were clear even before he drew the glass dagger from his belt. His eyes burned with anger.
The Marat let out a whistle, and the herdbane whirled toward him. Then he pointed at Tavi and let out that same whistling teakettle battle cry the dead bird had used.
Tavi turned and ran.
He had run from those larger and stronger than him for the whole of his young life. Most games at the steadholt involved chasing of one kind or another, and Tavi had learned how to make his small size and quickness work for him. He ran through the densest thickets of bracken he could find and slipped through mazes of thorns, windfalls, sinkholes, and young evergreens.
The wind grew stronger, filling the air with fallen pine needles and dust. Tavi ran west to lead them away from his uncle. The eerie wailing of the herdbane and its master raced after him, but fear gave his feet wings.
The boy's heart pounded like a smith's hammer, heavy and swift. He
knew that he was alone, and that no one would come to help him. He had to rely on his own wits and experience, and should he falter or slow, the pursuing Marat and herdbane would have him. Sunset was drawing near, and the vast storm building over Garados had begun to spread over the valley. Should the Marat, the storm, or the darkness catch him unprotected in the open, he would die. Tavi ran for his life.
Chapter 6
When twilight fell, Amara remained at liberty.
Her body ached to her bones. The first swift rush of flight had taken the strength from her, and the second, steadier flight would have been impossible without a fortunate breeze blowing north and east, in the direction she fled. She was able to use the prevailing currents of wind to assist Cirrus, and thus to conserve much of her own energy.
Amara kept low, at the tops of the trees almost, and although they swayed and danced at the passage of the miniature cyclone that kept her aloft, she was better off flying low, where the terrain might help hide her passage from the eyes of the Knights Aeris pursuing her.
The last, rust-colored light of sunset showed her a sparkle of water, a winding ribbon running through the rolling, wooded hills: the river Gaul. It taxed her remaining reserves to guide Cirrus to bring her in for a gentle landing and took even more