appeared there, but dust clouds were approaching.
Rogala had flown to the spot like a pigeon to its coop, Gathrid reflected as they cantered across open terrain. They escaped the closing circle only a quarter mile ahead of galloping horsemen. In his way, in his field, Rogala was certainly competent. Useful, if one had need of a bloodthirsty dwarf.
"What're we going to do?" the youth asked. "Make a run for the border. Get over into this kingdom you call Bilgoraj. Maybe we can shame your allies into doing something." The dwarf kicked his mount into a gallop.
The chase was on. It continued throughout the night, growing painful and exhausting. Rogala was in his element, running like a fox before hounds, enjoying himself hugely as he matched wits with the Ventimiglian commanders. He strove to keep a southwest heading, toward where the border made its closest approach, but torch-bearing riders kept turning them west and north, toward a border twenty miles more distant. Rogala conceded the ground.
Once they skirmished with a party of four, and took fresh mounts, but lost ground to the growing pursuit. Above the night, a waning moon ghosted westward like a mocking grin in cloth of diamondstudded black felt. The ominous comet led it by thirty degrees. The latter was twice the size it had been when first Gathrid had seen it.
As false dawn sketched the horizon behind them, where fires glowed and pillars of smoke wandered up to mask the lower stars, Rogala shouted, "We're not moving fast enough. They're guiding us.
Watch for trouble." Trouble found them as, moments later, they crested a hill. Across a shallow, misty valley a lone dark rider waited. A Toal.
Where one could be found others were likely to appear, including the master devil himself. "Ride over him," Rogala ordered. Easy to say, Gathrid thought.
The Toal awaited them in full knight's regalia, every piece some sorcery-haunted relic unearthed from the Mindak's mines of the past. The Toal's lance caught the light. It was crystal alive with internal fire. Its shield was a swirling surface from which one or another of Hell's tenants occasionally leered forth. Its armor was the familiar black, and proof against mortal blades.
But its mount most inspired Gathrid's awe. Dragon was the name that came to mind, yet it only vaguely resembled the huge, sinuous, winged monster of artists' conception. It stood horse high.
It was heavily scaled, and a third longer than a horse. Its legs bowed remarkably. The Toal sat far forward, almost astride the beast's neck. Wings protruded behind the rider, lying close against the beast's flanks. Gathrid wondered if they were functional. Nothing that large ought to fly.
"Guide right," Rogala shouted as they roared toward the Toal. "Make him swing his lance across his body."
Gathrid tried, almost collided with the cursing dwarf. He wondered how he was supposed to get inside the lance's reach, and what the devil, without shield or armor, he was doing attacking.
The Toal swung with him. Soon he and Gathrid were riding parallel, swirling the low patches of mist in the deepest part of the vale. The youth had failed. It was he who had to swing his weapon across his body.
The Dead Captain's mount was preternaturally quick. It darted in and out, trying to catch him off guard.
At each lance thrust Daubendiek lightninged over. Each meeting produced a thunderclap, noisome smoke and a numbing shock in Gathrid's arm. Yet Daubendiek felt no distress.
The Toal was playing with him, he realized. It was keeping him occupied while awaiting unwitting help from his mount. Over the rough ground, still concealed by the mist, his animal would stumble sooner or later.
Gathrid put all his strength into an attempt to shatter the fiery lance. He succeeded only in making the thunder louder.
But Rogala, too, was in the fray. The dwarf drifted round to the Toal's left quarter. Gathrid redoubled his assault on the Dead Captain's lance. Rogala planted his short blade
Rogala had flown to the spot like a pigeon to its coop, Gathrid reflected as they cantered across open terrain. They escaped the closing circle only a quarter mile ahead of galloping horsemen. In his way, in his field, Rogala was certainly competent. Useful, if one had need of a bloodthirsty dwarf.
"What're we going to do?" the youth asked. "Make a run for the border. Get over into this kingdom you call Bilgoraj. Maybe we can shame your allies into doing something." The dwarf kicked his mount into a gallop.
The chase was on. It continued throughout the night, growing painful and exhausting. Rogala was in his element, running like a fox before hounds, enjoying himself hugely as he matched wits with the Ventimiglian commanders. He strove to keep a southwest heading, toward where the border made its closest approach, but torch-bearing riders kept turning them west and north, toward a border twenty miles more distant. Rogala conceded the ground.
Once they skirmished with a party of four, and took fresh mounts, but lost ground to the growing pursuit. Above the night, a waning moon ghosted westward like a mocking grin in cloth of diamondstudded black felt. The ominous comet led it by thirty degrees. The latter was twice the size it had been when first Gathrid had seen it.
As false dawn sketched the horizon behind them, where fires glowed and pillars of smoke wandered up to mask the lower stars, Rogala shouted, "We're not moving fast enough. They're guiding us.
Watch for trouble." Trouble found them as, moments later, they crested a hill. Across a shallow, misty valley a lone dark rider waited. A Toal.
Where one could be found others were likely to appear, including the master devil himself. "Ride over him," Rogala ordered. Easy to say, Gathrid thought.
The Toal awaited them in full knight's regalia, every piece some sorcery-haunted relic unearthed from the Mindak's mines of the past. The Toal's lance caught the light. It was crystal alive with internal fire. Its shield was a swirling surface from which one or another of Hell's tenants occasionally leered forth. Its armor was the familiar black, and proof against mortal blades.
But its mount most inspired Gathrid's awe. Dragon was the name that came to mind, yet it only vaguely resembled the huge, sinuous, winged monster of artists' conception. It stood horse high.
It was heavily scaled, and a third longer than a horse. Its legs bowed remarkably. The Toal sat far forward, almost astride the beast's neck. Wings protruded behind the rider, lying close against the beast's flanks. Gathrid wondered if they were functional. Nothing that large ought to fly.
"Guide right," Rogala shouted as they roared toward the Toal. "Make him swing his lance across his body."
Gathrid tried, almost collided with the cursing dwarf. He wondered how he was supposed to get inside the lance's reach, and what the devil, without shield or armor, he was doing attacking.
The Toal swung with him. Soon he and Gathrid were riding parallel, swirling the low patches of mist in the deepest part of the vale. The youth had failed. It was he who had to swing his weapon across his body.
The Dead Captain's mount was preternaturally quick. It darted in and out, trying to catch him off guard.
At each lance thrust Daubendiek lightninged over. Each meeting produced a thunderclap, noisome smoke and a numbing shock in Gathrid's arm. Yet Daubendiek felt no distress.
The Toal was playing with him, he realized. It was keeping him occupied while awaiting unwitting help from his mount. Over the rough ground, still concealed by the mist, his animal would stumble sooner or later.
Gathrid put all his strength into an attempt to shatter the fiery lance. He succeeded only in making the thunder louder.
But Rogala, too, was in the fray. The dwarf drifted round to the Toal's left quarter. Gathrid redoubled his assault on the Dead Captain's lance. Rogala planted his short blade
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