The Silver spike by Glen Cook Page B

learned that he was just five days behind his quarry now. The
White Rose and her party were in no hurry, and were having no
trouble getting around the imperial authorities. For all his
desperation he took two days off to rest. It was an investment of
time he was sure would pay dividends down the road.
    When he left Lords he did so with a horse and pack mule selected
for stamina and durability, not for speed and beauty. The long far
leg of the next stage would take him through the Windy Country, a
land with a bad reputation. He did not want to linger there.
    As he passed through ever smaller, meaner, and more widely
separated hamlets, approaching the Windy Country, he learned that
he was gaining ground rapidly—if closing the gap by four days
in as many weeks could be called rapid.
    He entered the uninhabited land with little optimism for a quick
success. There were no regular, fixed tracks through the Windy
Country, which even the empire shunned as worthless. He would have
to slow down and use his talent to find the trail.
    Or would he? He knew where they were headed. Why worry about
where they were now? Why not forget that and just head for the
place where they would leave the Windy Country? If he kept pushing
he might get there before they did.
    He was three-quarters of the way across the desolation, into the
worst badlands, a maze of barren and wildly eroded stone. He had
made his camp and had fed himself and had lain back to watch the
stars come out. Usually it took him only moments to fall asleep,
but tonight something kept nagging at the edge of his
consciousness. It took him a while to figure out what it was.
    For the first time since entering the Windy Country he was not
alone within that circle of awareness open to the unconscious
scrutiny of his mystic sensibilities. There was a party somewhere
about a mile east of him.
    And something else was moving in the night, something huge and
dangerous and alien that cruised the upper airs, hunting.
    He extended his probing mind eastward, cautiously.
    Them! The quarry! And alert, troubled, as he was. Certain
something was about to happen.
    He withdrew immediately, began breaking camp. He muttered all
the while, cursing the aches and infirmities that were with him
always. He kept probing the night for that hunting presence.
    It came and went, slowly, still searching. Good. There might be
time.
    Night travel was more trouble here than he expected. And there
was the thing above, which seemed able to spot him at times,
despite his best efforts to make himself one with the land of
stone. It kept his animals in a continuous state of terror. The
going was painfully slow.
    Dawn threatened when he topped a knife-edge ridge and spotted
his quarry’s camp down the canyon on the other side. He began
the descent, feeling that even his hair hurt. The animals grew more
difficult by the minute.
    A great shadow rolled over him, and kept on rolling. He looked
up. A thing a thousand feet long was dropping toward the camp of
those he sought. The still stone echoed his shouted,
“Wait!”
    He anticipated the lethal prickle of steel arrowheads with every
step. He anticipated the crushing, stinging embrace of windwhale
tentacles. But neither dread overtook him.
    A lean, dark man stepped into his path. He had eyes as hard and
dark as chunks of obsidian. From somewhere nearby, behind him,
another man said, “I’ll be damned! It’s that
sorcerer Bomanz, that was supposed to have got et by the Barrowland
dragon.”
     
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XVIII
    A serpent of fire slithered southward, devouring castles and
cities and towns, growing larger even as pieces of it fell away.
Only fire black and bloody red lay behind it.
    Toadkiller Dog and the wicker man were the serpent’s
deadly fangs.
    Even the wicker man had physical limits. And periods of
lucidity. At Roses, after the city’s punishment, in a moment
of rationality, he decided that neither he nor his soldiers could
survive the present pace. Indeed, losses