Rigo had been watching. He nodded and called to the other two. Sylvan followed suit, as did Rigo himself. Rowena cried out in dismay. She had no knife. She had come last, and no one had thought to give her one.
As though distracted by this cry, Millefiori stumbled and fell. Rowena went rolling away, coming up wild-eyed. Then she was up, running toward the horse, mounting all in one fluid motion as Millefiori struggled to her feet, limping. Then the mare was running again, though awkwardly, slowly, with a wide space opening between Rowena and the others.
Sylvan saw. He turned Her Majesty and made a tight circle which brought him to his mother’s side. He reached out, pulled her onto the saddle before him. Now Her Majesty was carrying double. She slowed Millefiori slowed. Sylvan edged back to give his mother room. One of the Hippae leapt forward with stunning speed and gaping jaws, snatching him from Her Majesty’s back. Another ran even with Millefiori, ready to leap. Rowena, face like death and mouth wide with an unheard howl, rode on.
Sylvan had vanished. Where he had been was nothing, no movement. Marjorie screamed in anger and pain, tears streaking her face. “I’ll begin by burning the swamp forest. It won’t burn easily, but we’ll do it somehow. Then the grasses, all of them. That will take care of the plague and the Hippae. There’ll be no more Hippae.”
“What about us?” voices cried.
“What about you?” she snarled. “If you’re no help, you’re no help. You don’t care about us. Why should we care about you?”
A whine. A snarl. A slap, as from one being to another being. Then, suddenly, there was something behind Millefiori, rising to confront the approaching. Hippae Mauve and plum and purple, a lash of tail and ripple of shoulders, a moving mirage of trembling air.
“If He has to do it alone,” Marjorie cried, “I’ll still burn the forest, even if I have to do it by myself.”
“The ones behind us are gaining,” Tony called. “Blue Star’s exhausted.”
“We’re all exhausted,” she cried, tears running down her face. Where Sylvan had been was a tumult of beasts. “Turn more toward the road.” She looked behind her, then up at the sun. They’d been running for well over an hour. Perhaps two. Thirty miles, more or less, all of it over rough ground and a lot of it uphill. With another twelve or fifteen miles to cover before they got back to the gate. “If I die out here,” she threatened, “my family will burn the forest, I swear to God they will.”
“What’s going on down there?” cried Tony. “The Hippae have stopped.”
They had stopped. Stopped, turned, were running away. Not back the way they had come, unfortunately. Uphill. Toward Marjorie. “Foxen,” Marjorie cried. “Not quite where I would have wanted them, but better than nothing, I suppose.”
She was trying to feel philosphical about dying, not managing it, trying not be frightened, and not managing that, either. “Tony, we have to take out the two behind us before those others reach us.”
He turned a stricken face upon her.
“We have to! If the other four reach us first, we’ll have them all around us.”
He nodded, biting his lip. She saw blood there, the only color in his face.
“Turn on your lance.”
He’d forgotten about it. He thumbed it on. looking at the humming blade almost as though hypnotized.
“Tony! Pay attention.” She motioned, showing him how she wanted him to circle—the two of them wide, in opposite directions, coming back to hit the wounded Hippae from both sides.
They broke from one another, circled tightly, and were running back toward the pursuing monsters before the Hippae understood what was happening. Then they, too, broke, one headed for each of the horses. Marjorie tried to forget about her son, concentrate on what she was doing. Lance well out in front, the blaze of its blade apparent even in the light of day.
There was a roar above her. She looked up to see Asmir Tanlig and Roald Few beckoning from an aircar, screaming at her. She lip-read. “We’ll pick you up, pick you up.”