Changeling
this alley about two blocks,
there's a beer joint. Tom and Gina hang out there on their
downshifts. We'll pick 'em up and all go back to the hall
together."
    It was prudent plan, Tom and his partner
being no strangers to street brawls, if even half of their stories
were to be believed. Ren Zel inclined his head. "Very well."
    "Great. This way."
    They had gone perhaps a block in the
direction of the tavern, when Ren Zel heard a noise behind them. A
glance over his shoulder showed him the wolf pack just entering the
alley by the rear door to the restaurant.
    Suzan swore. Ren Zel saw the gleam of metal
among the pack as they moved into a ragged run nothing like the
smooth flow of pilot motion. Though it would serve. And when they
were caught, the wolf pack would not care whether they killed one
or two.
    He already had one death on his hands.
    "Go on," he said to Suzan. "I will speak with
them."
    She snorted, "Pilot, I thought you knew I
wasn't as big a fool as I look. Those boys don't want talk--they
want blood." She reached down and grabbed his arm.
    "Run!"
    Perforce, he ran, stretching to match her
pace, willing the bad leg not to betray him. Behind, he heard their
pursuers, chanting--"Dead man! Pilot slayer! Dead man!"--and found
time to be grateful, that Suzan did not speak Liaden.
    "Here," she gasped and pulled him with her to
the right. One massive shoulder hit the plastic door, which sprang
open, and they were eight running paces into a dark and not
overcrowded room before Suzan let him go, shouting, "Vandals right
behind us! Call the Watch!"
    Several of the patrons of the room simply
dropped the long sticks they had been holding and bolted for the
front door, for which Ren Zel blamed them not in the least. Left on
his own, he spun, fire lancing the bad leg, which held, thank the
gods, and looked about him for a weapon.
    There were several small balls on the green
covered table just beside him. Before he had properly thought, he
had snatched the nearest up. The ball was dense for something so
small, but that was no matter. His hands moved in the familiar
pattern, the thing was spinning and then airborne as the first of
the wolf pack charged into the room.
    The ball caught the fellow solidly in the
nose. He went down with a grunt, not quite tripping the man
immediately behind him. That one, quick enough, if not pilot-fast,
leapt his comrade and landed on the balls of his feet, a chain
dangling from his hand.
    He saw Ren Zel and smiled. "Dead man. But
still alive to pain, eh?" The chain flashed as the man jumped
forward. Ren Zel ducked, heard metal scream over his head, grabbed
one of the fallen long sticks and came up fast, whirling, stick
held horizontal between his two hands.
    The chain whipped again. Ren Zel threw the
stick into the attack. The chain wrapped 'round the gleaming wood
twice, and Ren Zel spun, trying to pull the weapon from his
adversary's grip.
    With a laugh, the wolf jumped forward,
grabbed the stick and twisted. Ren Zel hung on, then lost his grip,
danced back a step, and then another as the man raised the weapon
in both hands and swung it, whistling, down.
    Once again, action preceded thought. Ren Zel
dove, rolling under the green covered table, heard chain and stick
hit the floor behind him, and came up on the far side of the table
just in time to see Suzan place a well-considered bar stool into
the back of his opponent's head.
    Elsewhere in the room, the remaining three of
the pack were engaged with those of the patrons who had not run.
Suzan waded back into the melee, swinging her bar stool with
abandon. Thinking that he might yet have use for a weapon, Ren Zel,
went 'round the table to retrieve the long stick. The thing was
shattered, the pieces still wrapped in chain. That he let lie,
judging he was more likely to harm himself than any adversary,
should he try to wield such an unfamiliar weapon. He straightened,
ears pricked. Yes--from the open front door came the sound of a
siren, growing rapidly

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