He used a stick of kindling to scatter coals into the straw bedding, and tossed the flaming brand after. With luck no one would ever know what had happened here. As Vonones had said, there was a limit. They had better finish the lizard-ape fast.
The pack began to bay fiercely not far away. From the savage eagerness of their voices, Lycon knew they had overtaken the lizard-ape. Whatever the thing was, its string had run out, Lycon thought with relief.
Recklessly he ducked into the hedge and wormed through, not pausing to look for an opening. Thorns shredded his tunic and gouged his limbs as he pulled himself clear and began running toward the sounds.
No chance of recapturing the beast alive now. Any one of the six Molossians was nearly the size of the blue creature, and the arena would have taught the pack to kill rather than to hold. By the time Vonones’ men arrived with the nets, it would be finished. Lycon half regretted that—the lizard-ape fascinated him. But quite obviously the thing was too murderously powerful to be loose and far too clever to be safely caged. It was luck the beast had kept close to its kill instead of running farther. The pack was just beyond the next hedgerow now.
With an enormous bawl of pain, one of the hounds suddenly arched into view, flailing in the air above the hedge. A terrified clamor broke through the ferocious baying of the pack. Beyond the hedge a fight was raging—and by the sound of it, the pack was in trouble.
Lycon swore and made for the far hedge, ignoring the cramp in his side. His knuckles clamped white on the boar spear.
He could see three of the dogs ahead of him, snarling and milling uncertainly on the near side of the hedge. The other three were not to be seen. They were beyond the hedge, Lycon surmised—and from their silence, dead. The lizard-ape was cunning; it had lain in wait for the pack as the dogs squirmed through the hedge. But surely it was no match for three huge Molossians.
Lycon was less than a hundred yards from the hedge when the blue-scaled lizard-ape vaulted over the thorny barrier with an acrobat’s grace. It writhed through the air, and one needle-clawed hand slashed out—tearing the throat from the nearest Molossian before the dog was fully aware of its presence. The lizard-ape bounced to the earth like a cat, as the last two snarling hounds sprang for it together. Spinning and slashing as it ducked under and away, the thing was literally a blur of motion. Deadly motion. Neither hound completed its leap, as lethal talons tore and gutted—slew with nightmarish precision.
Lycon skidded to a stop on the muddy field. He did not need to glance behind him to know he was alone with the beast. Its eyes glowed in the sunset as it turned from the butchered dogs and stared at its pursuer.
Lycon advanced his spear, making no attempt to throw it. As fast as the sauropithecus moved, it would easily dodge his cast. And Lycon knew that if the beast leaped, he was dead—dead as Pentheus after his sisters rent him in their fury. His only chance was that he might drive his spear home, might take his slayer with him—and he thought the beast recognized that.
It crouched like a wrestler advancing upon a foe, its lips drawn in a savage grin—and then it vaulted back over the hedge again.
Lycon tried to make his dry mouth shape a prayer of thanks. Eyes intent on the hedge, he held his spear at ready. Then he heard feet splatting at a clumsy run behind him.
Galerius puffed toward him, accompanied by several of the archers in a straggling clot. “That hut back there caught fire!” he blurted. “Didn’t you see it? Just a ball of flame by the time we could get to it. Don’t know if anyone was there, or if they got out or . . .”
He caught sight of the torn bodies of the hounds, and his puffing excitement trailed off. His voice drawled in wonder: “What happened here?”