Brappa landed at Braan's left side, his bow singing. The growler died in mid-leap, two arrows jutting from its skull. Braan looked over his right shoulder and saw Craag nocking another arrow.

"Flee!" Braan screamed at his cohorts. "It is my order! Fly away! Craag, thou art in command. Who takes charge? Fly now!"

Craag had no time to answer, but neither did the growlers have time to attack.

Buccari lost control of her mount. Her reins were useless; the thick cords of the horse's neck resisted all efforts to change direction. The mare plunged across the salt flats, her gallop a soothing pace change—except for the breakneck speed! Buccari grimly held on to the thick mane with both hands. She dared to glimpse sideways. The other horses also dashed headlong, riders powerless to sway or slow the beasts, though MacArthur sat erect, his rifle in hand. Buccari returned her view forward. The nightmares were scattering, feral eyes wide in fear. Her horse bunched its muscles and drove hard with a gut-sucking burst of speed to overtake the retreating predators, lunging into their midst.

Buccari redoubled her grip, desperately trying to anticipate the steed's terrific accelerations and swerves. With nimble strength the golden animal drove the panicky nightmares in tightening circles, working in concert with other horses. When a collection of the slavering beasts were made to collide back upon themselves, rendering them directionless and confused, one of the horses would charge into the pack and trample upon them with unbridled fury. It was during one of those charges that O'Toole was thrown. Buccari watched him crash to the ground. The horses avoided the fallen man, driving the nightmares clear.

The hunters on the ground screamed in fright and huddled together. Horses rumbled past, thick legs crashing like earth-drumming pistons, trampling the bodies—living and dead—of the growlers. Braan, sword held impotently, watched as the giant golden animals—helpless and frightened long-legs clinging to their backs—towered upon hind legs and crashed hoofs down upon the crippled growlers, crushing life from the whimpering and howling devils. Flashing teeth grabbed and snatched at the cringing beasts; powerful hind legs delivered deathly blows, and growlers fell by the dozens. The beleaguered scavengers scattered in rout, and thehorses pivoted and pranced nervously, looking for more victims. It was over. The horses, one riderless, nerves high, tails twitching, danced sideways as they converged in a trot around the awestricken cliff dwellers.

Tentatively, like dry falling leaves, the troop of dwellers drifted down from the skies and formed up by the discarded salt bags. Craag comically recovered his demeanor, bowed in apology to Braan, and moved away to take charge. Brappa, leading the injured novice, followed Craag, leaving Braan—the diminutive hunter— standing erect, if uncertain, before the towering, prancing horses.

O'Toole limped in their direction, smiling awkwardly.

"What the hell!" Shannon shouted, thick, silver hair blown askew; perspiration rolled from his brow, his eyes wide in astonishment.

"What happened? What made them do that?" Buccari asked, heart pounding. The muscles in her forearms and thighs ached from exertion.

"They evidently don't much care for nightmares," MacArthur said. "I wonder why they let us control them, or pretend to control them."

The horses settled down, and Buccari gingerly dismounted, joining O'Toole on the ground. Shannon and MacArthur did likewise, apprehensively watching their powerful mounts. The horses, breathing hard, dropped their heads, sniffing and snorting at the salt beneath their feet. Captain, small and frail, bravely if tentatively approached the tall humans and their taller horses. The horses eyed the small creature disdainfully, sniffing the air in its direction as the nervous hunter bowed politely if quickly. Buccari reciprocated, and MacArthur started rapidly gesticulating, flashing sign language to the cliff dweller. Braan answered with equal fervor.

"They're ready to go," MacArthur said. "They've been waiting for us."

Buccari knew the horses would be loaded with bags of salt, requiring the humans to hike back to the river. MacArthur made that clear when he was trying to dissuade her from coming. After the beating her rear end had taken for the last four days, walking was a welcome alternative.

"How long will it take to get to the river?" she asked. "Captain says five days, maybe six," MacArthur replied.

Jook stared with regal scorn as Et Avian, listing slightly with the weight of his cast, moved haltingly to the foot of the imperial throne. Et Kalass and an aide flanked the injured noblekone, assisting his movements. Et Avian, appearing feeble and infirm, made no effort to show obeisance, but only raised his face to stare at the Supreme Leader.

"You requested my presence, Leader of Leaders," Et Avian said weakly.

"Almost eaten by a bear, eh?" Jook snarled. "The physicians say you are lucky to be alive, and that you may yet lose the use of your arm."

"The bear is dead, Great One," the noblekone parried. "For the bravery of the aliens."

"So says your report," Jook reflected. "The aliens must be powerful. Well armed."

"If you have read the report, then you know that is not the case. They are of slight proportions, perhaps one-third the mass of a kone. Their weapons are modest chemical implements. They do not present a danger to our planet." The dialogue visibly sapped the noblekone.

"A most presumptuous conclusion. You have only seen a shipwrecked sample of this race. Is it so easy to perceive their nature?"

"Your skepticism is healthy, Great One, but mine has been eradicated. The aliens sacrificed their lives to save mine. There was no reason for their bravery, other than an inherent sense of goodness and compassion."

"Goodness and compassion. Goodness and compassion! Dangerous attributes upon which to base an alliance. What have you learned of their technologies? That would be the brick and mortar with which we could build." Jook paraded down the wide steps and peered deeply into the invalid's unblinking eyes.

"Your Greatness!" Et Kalass interceded. "Et Avian is not up to this. I beg of you! Permit us to withdraw before we do him further harm."

"I can tell you nothing of their technologies—as yet, my Leader," Et Avian whispered. "My science team is persisting in this area. I have received reports, very sketchy reports, that contact has continued. If the communication satellites were operational, we could have current information, including video."

"As you know, my noble scientist," Jook said, turning and remounting the stairs. "We are at war. In wartime information is the first victim."

"I beg of you, Great One! We must give aid to this kone immediately. His mortal health is in jeopardy," Et Kalass beseeched.

"Very well, Minister," Jook replied. "But see that he does not travel far."

Et Kalass grabbed Et Avian's elbow, gently turned the injured noblekone, and led him unsteadily away. Jook watched them depart, settling his massive bulk. A burgundy-uniformed officer appeared from behind the throne dais and crawled to the reception area. The intelligence officer made obeisance to the Supreme Leader.

"Do you understand your mission, Colonel Longo?" Jook asked.

"My duty is to serve, Leader of Leaders," Longo fawned.

"Your duty, Colonel Longo, is to capture the aliens. They represent a strategic objective of growing importance. We must capture them and cultivate them as allies. And if we cannot do that, then we must kill them. Do you understand?"

"Your orders are clear, Great One," Colonel Longo said. "Depart," Jook ordered, "and do not fail."