“Go to Father. Follow the Bowing Dragon. Follow Susiron. Father is there!”
“Auron, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. Don’t waste time.” He trotted out into the meadow, arcing down for the pine woods. Lithe elves ran among the horses. A moon-haired rider in a long cape hanging almost to the hooves of his horse blew a silver horn. Other horns answered from the pine woods.
“You’re brave, brave, brave-and-good-and-I-can’t—,” Wistala mind-called faintly.
“Good-bye, sister,” Auron thought. If there were elves in the pine woods, he’d best go up, among the rocks. Horses couldn’t climb rocks as well as he. Neither could elves, probably.
Running was hard. Auron only had two speeds: a sprint and a dog-trot. Neither would serve him now: the sprint would exhaust him, and the riding elves would catch him if he trotted. He did the best he could, lengthening the stride of his trot and running like a cat, using both his sii and saa in pairs.
The meadow gave way to a tangle of boulders. Auron put the biggest ones he could find between himself and his pursuers.
The elves jumped from their horses at the edge of the boulders, spinning as light and landing as soft as windblown leaves.
A hawk, and then another, swooped in from overhead. They dived at him, and he went flat as metal-sheathed talons cut the air above him. The hawks flapped skyward again and circled above him.
He clung to the side of a rock, panting. The hawks weren’t fooled, and they tightened their circle, screaming abuse in bird speech:
“Hey-ya-ya hatchling! Your hide will be made into a chair for my keeper’s sit-upon!”
“Aiyeek! Where are your wings? Where is your fire? Are you a dragon or an overgrown skink?”
The elves were trilling closer now. Auron dashed, climbing farther. He saw a running elf, its hair thick with leaves, out of the corner of his eye. The elf let out a shriek like an angry falcon and pointed with its spear.
“Hey-ya-ya hatchling, you’re in for it now! The riders are in the rocks with you.”
Auron hoped one of the hawks would swoop low enough for him to bite. He kept climbing, watching elves to either side hop from rock-top to rock-top, nimble as the mountain goats he had hunted with—
Wistala! He had to prolong the chase, whatever the cost. She was probably going up the mountain, and he was putting the elves too near her. The longer he could flee, the better her chances. The sun was nearly down and in the dark, both of them could see better than the elves. He took a moment to catch his breath and sniffed the air to locate the horses.
Another song-cry, and something flew through the air. It shattered among the rocks like ice cracking, and Auron caught a whiff of burning in his nostrils—but no flame came with it.
He didn’t wait to find out what it was. He slithered back down the hill toward the scent of horses. He felt light, detached, muddle-minded. Elven magic clouded his will. He suddenly longed for sleep.
An elf stepped out of the shadows, hurling a spear at him with a savage yip. It was a vicious, two-pointed weapon with glittering barbs at its points. Auron whipsawed his spine to avoid it and rushed between the elf’s stance, knocking the pale hominid down in his passage. He scrambled up a tall boulder.
The gathered horses he and Wistala had first happened upon stood below, stamping in nervousness at his odor.
He leaped down from the rocks onto the back of a horse, claws extended. The horseholders dropped reins to draw their knives. Auron bit and clawed to either side, a fighting daemon in the half-dark. The horses screamed their pain and panic.
The one he clung atop bucked him off, kicking another, and the ranks of horses turned as one and galloped away from the rocks. Auron twisted in the air and landed on his feet, running after them in his best dragon dash—squawking.
So began a strange three-part chase across the mountain meadow. One horseholder managed to leap atop his mount, trying to cut off the stampede, but the horses would not be slowed on a night of alarm, blood, and dragon scent. Then came little Auron, not even half the weight of the smallest pack pony, trying to make up in noise what he lacked in size. Elves ran behind him, answering musical instructions whistled by the one in the great cape.o;Auron! Auron . . . look.”
He followed her gaze up. A dra—Father! Father was flying in from the southwest. He came down in two great loops, prey carried in each sii.
Auron dashed across the field for the stone projection. He’d turn himself yellow as the sun if he could, if it would just get Father to look down.
The dragon’s eyes were elsewhere. He disappeared behind the shoulder of the mountain. Auron got up to the outcropping, just enough to read Father’s mind: he was exhausted from long flight, burdened with food. Auron tried to broadcast danger with every thought in his brain, but by the time he reached the perch, all he could see was Father’s tail disappearing into a cave shaped like the half-moon.
A cascade of broken rock stood below the cave mouth, as if the mountain had vomited its innards from that aperture. Remnants of what Auron guessed to be battlements stood all around. The ruins stood like teeth around the edges of the mouth, broken teeth shattered by some blow years ago. Leveled walls, fallen towers, and debris-filled ditches were overgrown with grass and lichen; mountain creepers hung their tresses to curtain the cave.
Auron waited at the prominence. He couldn’t feel Father’s mind anymore. Wistala climbed up on the slab with him, so she just poked her head over the edge.
“Father didn’t see me,” he told her.
Wistala gulped anxiously.