The lower part of the stack where it stood mainly free of the canyon’s wall was still in shadows, which gradually drew back as the moon rose higher still. Jazz was glad of that moon, for the sun was now plainly declining. When he crossed the crest of the saddle, then perhaps he’d catch up a little with the sun, earn himself maybe an hour or so more of its dim light; but here in the lee of the great grim castle, for the present the moon was his only champion. He moved swiftly forward, going at a lope because of the imagined (?) eyes, sticking to the shadows of boulders where possible and crossing the moonlit gaps between at speed. And presently he came to the base of the stack of weathered rock where it leaned outward a little from the cliff. Or at least, he came to the great wall which surrounded that base.
The wall was of massive blocks; it stood maybe twelve feet high and was crowned with merlons and embrasures; the mouths of dragons formed spouts for corbel chutes. But the carven dragons were not Earth’s dragons. Jazz swiftly, silently skirted the wall, came to a gate of huge timbers studded with iron and painted with a fearsome crest: the dragon again, with the face and wings of a bat and the body of a wolf! He was reminded of nothing so much as the magmass thing in the tank back at Perchorsk. But this dragon was split down the middle with the menacing darkness of a courtyard – for the great gates stood open a little, inwards. As if in invitation. If so, then Jazz ignored it; he hurried on toward the waning sun, desiring only to put as much distance as possible between himself and this place while there was still light enough to do so.
Minutes later he began to breathe more easily, reached the crest and was at once bathed in warm, wan sunlight. Shielding his eyes against the sudden light, however hazy, he turned to look back. A quarter-mile away, the castle had merged once more into the face of the cliff. Jazz knew it was there for he’d seen it – had even felt it – but stone was stone and the uneven cliff face was a good disguise. And Jazz realized how glad he was to have come past that place unscathed. Maybe there was no one, or nothing, there after all. But still he was glad.
He took a deep breath, issued it in a long drawn-out sigh – and gave a massive start!
Something moved close by, in the shadow of fallen boulders where they humped darkly on his left, and a cold female voice, speaking Russian, said: ‘Well, Karl Vyotsky, it’s your choice. Talk or die. Right here and right now!’
Jazz’s finger had been on the trigger of his SMG ever since the castle. Even before the woman’s voice had started speaking, he’d turned and sprayed the darkness where she was hiding. She was dead now – or would be if the weapon had been cocked! Jazz was glad it wasn’t. Sometimes, with his speed and accuracy, it was as well to take precautions. On this occasion his precaution had been to leave the gun safe. It was good practice for his nerves, that’s all. Shooting at shadows was a sure sign that a man was cracking up.
‘Lady,’ he said, his voice tense, ‘ – Zek Foener? – I’m not Karl Vyotsky. If I was you’d probably be on your way to an alien heaven right now!’
Eyes peered at Jazz from the darkness, but not a woman’s eyes. They were triangular – and yellow. And much too close to the ground. A wolf, grey, huge, hungry-looking, stepped cautiously into view. Its red tongue lolled between incisors nearly an inch and a half long. And now Jazz cocked his weapon. The action made a typical ch-ching sound.
‘Hold it!’ came the woman’s voice again. ‘He’s my friend. And until now – maybe even now – the only friend I have.’ There came a scuffing of stones and she stepped out of the shadows. The wolf went to heel on her right and a little to her rear. She had a gun like Jazz’s, which shook in her hands where she pointed it at him.