The wolf howled once more.

He remembered the Barghest that had attacked Sally Tsung. He would never forget its terrifying howl and slavering jaws. The beast’s baying had frozen him and the others where they stood. The wolf’s howl did not have that power, but it was chilling nonetheless. Sam had no magic to destroy a beast as Tsung had done.

What could kill people could also kill animals. He walked over and picked up the weapon. The weight surprised him, for Chin Lee had waved it around so easily. At least it had a strap, which he slung over his shoulder as the Ork had done. He would carry the weapon in case of attack by some ravening paranimal. But he wouldn’t to use it against people. That he promised himself.

Sam looked again at the clearing. If he stayed to bury his former companions, the Elves would return and catch him. Choosing his direction blindly, he turned his back on the scene and began to walk. He wondered how far he would get before the Elves came back.

Sam started to run as soon as he heard the first rustling in the undergrowth. He hadn’t seen anything, but neither had he waited around to look. Now he couldn’t hear anything over the sounds of his own passage. The assault gun bounced against his shoulder and back, bruising the skin even through his tough coverall. Already he was winded, panting hard for every breath. He should have gone running more often with his dogs, or otherwise exercised to keep himself in better trim. Now he was running for his life and paying for his indolence. He wanted to stop, to breathe, to rest, but did not dare. They were behind him somewhere. They wouldn’t rest, so he couldn’t.

A root snagged at his feet, forcing him into a sideways lurch. The assault gun dragged at him, pulling him off balance. He staggered and crashed into the bole of one of the forest giants. The tree was unimpressed and he caromed off, losing his balance totally. He toppled over backward to land painfully, the gun’s magazine and stock digging into him even before his head rocked back to rap against the barrel. Dazed, he rolled over and tried to stand. Nausea swelled in his stomach and his head pounded. His vision narrowed and he fell heavily. The gun’s barrel wedged against a root, and he sagged over the weapon like a limp sack as his vision dimmed.

Lord, not now, he prayed. They’ll get me.

His body had no strength. It was weak, exhausted. But he could not rest until he was safe. He needed to know if the Elves were tracking him.

Sam tried to get up but the world spun, then went dark. The next thing he knew he was rushing back along the path he had just taken. Here and there some twisted tree or rock outcropping looked familiar, but he saw no signs of his pursuers. Had he lost them? Was all his running in vain?

His questions were answered as he looked out onto the clearing where the Elves had killed Hanae and the runners. He watched from the edge of the trees, the leaves shadowing his position and the bushes screening him. The scene had an unreal quality, a dreamlike distance as though it were continually receding at his approach. Everything was gilded with a faint, silvery light, yet the moon was cloud-hidden at the moment. A band of Elves roamed amid the ruins of two strangely insubstantial Caravaners, one of them still burning. All but one of the Elves wore uniforms bearing badges whose symbols spoke of protection and guardianship. Sam surmised that they were Tir Tairngire border guards. The Elf not in uniform stood apart from the searchers. Dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, he seemed to radiate power. He was familiar somehow, and Sam concluded that this must be the Elven mage that the radio voice had named Rory. Other than these seven Elves, Sam detected no other living persons in the area.

“What’s the story, Grian?” the mage asked the tall Elf who approached him.

“One deader in the burned-out van. Bran says the skeleton looks to be female and there are indications that it’s the renegade from Renraku. Aidan scraped a couple bones out of the other van, so it looks like we got the second woman, too. The three in the open all match the runner descriptions, and the Ork you got accounts for all the males except the Renraku guy.”

“Got him, too,” Rory assured him.

“We’ll see about that soon.” Grian shook his head. “Too bad about the high-tech stuff in the van. Ehran would like to have seen it.”

“You sure it’s beyond salvation?”

“Couldn’t be in worse shape if a Dragon sat on it.”

Rory clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, at least we got a full count on our uninvited guests. Makes it a profitable evening.”

“Don’t spend it before you get it, Rory. We don’t have a full count until we get a confirmation on your second kill.”

“Then let’s get it. The guy went down over here.”

Rory led his companion toward the spot where Sam crouched spying. He feared that the Elves would discover him and cry the alarm, but they seemed not to see where he hid. They stopped near where the sorcerer’s spell had overwhelmed Sam. Though they had come closer to Sam’s hiding place, their voices were no clearer. A trick of sound the forest was playing on his weakened condition.

“No body, Rory,” Grian observed to the accompaniment of Rory’s curses. Then he raised his voice. “Bran, get over here! We need a tracker. Our cocksure sorcerer went and missed.”

Grian skidded his way down the slope while Rory, more fastidious, followed him carefully. Both Elves moved with a languid, slow-motion grace. Bran arrived in time to find Grian bending over to pluck something from the streambed. At first, Sam couldn’t tell what sort of device the Elf was holding. Then he recognized the broken strap and realized it was his discarded watch.

“He went down here, all right.”

Rory reached out from where he stood on the bank and snatched the watch from Grian. “See. Good and charred. If he walked away from here, he didn’t get far.”

Grian ignored him. “Take a look around, Bran. See if you can find us a trail.”

Bran nodded and headed upstream. In a quarter of an hour, he was back. He spent several more minutes studying the stream bed near where Sam had fallen. The others watched him, Grian standing patient and confident, Rory pacing back and forth at the edge of the stream.

“Don’t think you’ll have to worry,” Bran announced.

“Why?”

“Found some hoof prints on a mud flat upstream. Looks like a single horse; riderless, I think. No signs of entry or exit from the stream for almost half a kilometer. No normal horse would take that kind of path at night.”

“Water Horse, then?” Grian hypothesized.

“Looks like.” Bran nodded and pointed out signs as he spoke. “Stopped about there, where our boy fell in. Stood for a while, then took off downstream like a bat out of hell. Should have reached the Columbia by now. Looks like our boy is breathing water.”