He thrust the sour memory aside. The reality of the moment was more than enough to sour anyone.
Chip stared into the distance. “The front lines are a good few miles back that way. We could try to hide back there and break out when the force field goes down for the next push.”
One of the rat-girls chittered distress. “Agreed. Our obvious course now—is—to hide.” Chip could hear the exhaustion in Melene’s voice, and accepted the reality behind it. They had to rest, and soon. The rats had speed, not stamina.
“Why don’t we hide out up there?” Chip pointed to a cluster of rocks at the head of a narrow gully, maybe a quarter of a mile away. “If you bats stop fluttering around like a smoke signal, they won’t see where we’re going.”
“We’re not good walkers, Connolly,” pointed out Siobhan.
“Cling onto me, then. I’ll give you a lift.” Despite the wingspan the bats were light-boned. Even a big bat like Eamon wouldn’t weigh much more than two pounds.
The bats fluttered about him doubtfully. Then Bronstein settled on Chip’s shoulder. “I vant to trink your blud.” She bared her long white fangs and licked her lips with with a long, thin, red, red tongue.
Chip hoped like hell that that was just bat-humor.
The others settled on him too. ” ‘Tis a damned affront to my dignity, this,” said Eamon glumly, clinging to Chip’s left breast pocket. The sharp bat-claws pricked Chip through his combat jacket. The big male was a solid weight of bat, hanging like that.
” ‘Tis the blood o’ a virgin princess you fancy, Eamon?” chirruped a more cheerful Siobhan.
“Well, you’re out of luck with Connolly, then,” grumbled Phylla, limping along beside them. “He’s as common as vatmuck. Not even a good prince, nor less a princess.”
“No virgin neither,” piped Melene. “Oft did I espy him a-giving the horn of abundance to Dermott.”
“Belike she was giving it to him,” snickered Doll. “An abundance of horn going about, anyway. Why do you humans take so long?”
“More like how do they make it last so long . . .” Phylla looked wistful.
Now, Pistol started whining. “My aching paws!” He peered up at Chip with a solitary beady eye. “How about a lift, Connolly? You owe me a bottle of whiskey, so a ride would be in order.”
“A bottle? It was a drink—not even a double!” Chip protested.
“Whoreson caterpillar! A debt dodger. Come on, let’s all ride Connolly, like a mare,” said Fal, who plainly thought anything rather than walking was a brilliant idea.
Rats jumped aboard and scrambled for purchase, clinging to his head, shoulders, clothing, pack and pockets. Chip sighed and accepted the inevitable. At least even the rats were relatively light. It was no worse than an extra fifty-pound pack.
Like an ambulatory hat-and-umbrella stand festooned in clinging bats and rats, he struggled up the slope to the shelter of the rocks. Fortunately, there was a lot of strength in Chip’s stocky form, and even more stamina. But it was still a brutally exhausting slog.
As he planted one foot in front of the other, Chip gasped out his warnings. “I have to . . . tell you, bats . . . I take garlic . . . pills. My blood . . . pure poison. And you . . . useless bunch of freeloading . . . Rat-hitch-hikers . . . I charge . . . Cost you all . . . in drinks. Or next time . . . you can carry me!”
The last phrase came out in a rush. He had reached the boulders. “Come on, all off! I want to sit down.”
Rats and bats scrambled clear, and Chip flopped.
“Someone should have a quiet look to see if they’re after us yet,” said Eamon. “A rat or the human,” he specified, folding up his wings.
“Let me just catch my breath first,” said Chip. “I’m absolutely exhausted.”
“The human condition does not approach the Absolute Notion.” G. B. F. Hegel sniffed and adjusted his pince-nez. “Not even remotely. I’m beginning to have my doubts about Plato’s Forms, too. A shadow is one thing, but this—this gasping, panting, pathetic—”