Oh, Lord, I have been such a good girl! I have always attended mass, always gone to confession, always done my penance. I've done charity work. I've loved and cared for my children, no matter how hard they made it. I've tried my damnedest to love my husband. I thought about killing myself, but I repented that. I've lived a very acceptable, proper life at home, there … Piss on it.
I'd rather be here. Even if I die, I'd rather be here. If there's anything important for a very small being to do, it's fighting the plague. That's first. We've got to buy time to find the answer. The only thing that matters now is the plague. We've got to find the cure and make sure that Sanctity doesn't get it before someone else does. And if we do that then … then there's something else. Oh, God, let Him talk to me. I want Him to talk to me.
Rigo thought: This damned lance doesn't balance right. It needs to be heavier at the butt so it'll swing with less strength. Maybe it's just that I feel lousy. Sick, weak. I should still be back there in a chair letting somebody put a blanket over my legs. Instead, I'm here. Where is here? How the hell did I get here? Well, no one forced me. I'm the only one of us who's ever fought a Hippae. I'm the only one who knows where to hit them. Legs first, jaws second. Cut their legs out, their jaws off, let the damned, stinking things die.
I'm not healed yet. My legs don't feel right. My thighs feel soggy, like wet sponges. As though there were no muscle there. Someone may die out here today. Maybe me. Better me than Marjorie or Tony. They haven't played the fool, the way I have.
But if it's me, she'll be free. Free to do whatever she likes, go to whomever she likes. Sylvan. Look at him. Never ridden a horse before, but he looks like he was born riding. Well, it's not that different. The strengths are the same; legs, back.
If I get killed, will she go to him?
If she does, is it any worse than my having Eugenie? Poor Eugenie. Damn. I wish they'd saved her Lovely Eugenie. Nothing in her head but how to make things pretty and taste good and smell good and feel good. No high aspirations. No high-minded innocence to offend against. No modesty to invade. No expectations to fall short of. No serious thoughts at all. Still, she deserved better than to die like that.
If she died. God. Maybe she didn't. Maybe the hounds took her, the Hippae took her, the way they took Stella …
Don't think of that! The only thing that matters now is the plague. We've got to save Commons from being overrun, just for a while, until someone can come up with the answer. We will, will come up with an answer. Mankind will come up with an answer! Something always saves, us, just in the nick of time. God will intervene. There'll be time. Marjorie will turn back to me. She always has. Always, no matter what happens …
Sylvan thought: You have to give him credit. Not a day out of bed, half killed by the mounts, and here he is. He keeps looking at me, letting his eyes slide across me. I know what he's thinking. If he gets killed, I get Marjorie. Fool. If he gets killed, Marjorie does what she pleases, and that doesn't include me. I don't know why. I've never had trouble with any woman I've ever wanted, but I'm no good with her. I'm the real fool. I thought she was like one of us. What's the Terran word? Pleasure-seeking. Hedonistic. Well, what else have we had to think of but pleasure? The damned Hippae haven't let us think of anything else. They've tapped into us and enslaved us and kept us right where they wanted us …
Look at Marjorie! Like a queen! Regal and tall and rides that thing as though she were part of it. That thing! Ha-ha. Horse. Horse. They make soft noises when you pat them and they look at you kindly when you get on. This one, Her Majesty, she does what I ask her to. It's almost like loving a woman. Horse. Not Hippae.
Tony's watching me, too. He doesn't like me. I thought at first it was because of Marjorie, but that's not it. I offend him somehow. My manner. My bon manner. Maybe it was because I didn't take their plague seriously. I didn't know. Did I even think it mattered whether there was anything left of humanity, elsewhere? That's what the Hippae thought. They didn't care. If they thought it, we thought it How long have they been doing our thinking for us? They don't want there to be another intelligent race. And they won't believe that they themselves become another intelligent race. Foxen. What was it Brother Mainoa said? We never believe we'll get old. The Hippae don't know what they have in them to be. They've stopped themselves, half grown. They've stopped themselves at adolescence. Brutal time, that. Hateful time. Not a child. Not grown. Full of strength and fury and no place to put it …
Well, they stopped us there, too. Marjorie looks at me the way she looks at Tony. As though I'm a boy. And when have I ever had the chance to be anything else …
Mother. Mother. You shouldn't be out here at all. Oh, Mother, do you really think this pays back for Dimity …
Tony thought: Let's get this over with and go home. If I die, I die, but if I don't die, let me go home. Let's leave these people, these crazy bons, let's go! Let me go through this hour, two hours, whatever it takes, then we'll go, I'll go, somehow. Let's get it over with. If I die …
Rowena thought: Dimity. For Dimity. For Emmy. For Stavenger. For my other children, dead so long ago I've almost forgotten their names. For all of you. For all of us.
Sylvan. Oh, Sylvan. Whatever happens, remember that I love you, I love you all …
Don Quixote thought: She is riding. Trust her. Trust what she does. And listen, all of you. Listen for the voices.
At the foot of the hill they were separated from the Hippae at the tunnel entrance only by a few deep pools and a screen of foliage. Only Rigo rode all the way down, measuring the distance at a mental gallop. Then he turned back, summoning the others to a line that seemed an appropriate distance from the bottom. They wanted the slope of the hill to aid them, but there had to be space to turn along the hillside without being forced into the sucking pools at its foot. Silently Rigo checked his lance while the others did likewise, then began rattling the butt of his lance on his buckler, screaming insults at the same time. "Hippae fools. Mock horses. Stupid beasts." Not that they understood what he was saying, but they could pick the intent up from his mind.
"Genocides," shrieked Marjorie at the top of her lungs. "Ingrates! Malicious beasts! Curs!"
"Oh, wah. wah, wah, wah," screamed Tony, making as much noise as he could but incapable of thinking words.
"For Dimity," cried Rowena. "For Dimity, Dimity, Dimity."
"Cowards," trumpeted Sylvan. "Cowards. Animals. Peepers. Migerers. Muddy migerers with no more honor than a mole."
The Hippae came out of the screening brush in a rush, then stopped while those on the hill fell silent. The humans had expected Hippae. They had not expected them to have riders. Foremost among them was a great gray mount bearing someone they all knew on its back. "Shevlok," breathed Rowena. "Oh, for the love of God, my son."
"It's not Shevlok," Sylvan spat at her. "Look at his face." The face was a mask, empty as a broken bottle. There was nothing there. "You're fighting the beasts, not the riders," trumpeted Rigo. "Remember that. The mounts, not the riders!" He kneed El Dia Octavo into a trot. Behind him the others did likewise, falling into a diagonal line so that each would have room to charge and turn without endangering the ones behind.
Rigo counted as he rode. There were ten of the Hippae. The one bearing Shevlok's body was to the fore with three others beyond to Rigo's right. Well and good. The one in front would take the brunt, and better Rigo to attack that one than to expect the bon Damfels to do it. The other Hippae riders – who were they? He risked a quick glance. Lancel bon Laupmon. Three of the bon Maukerdens: Dimoth, Vince, and one whose name he had forgotten. He didn't know any of the others, or he didn't recognize them. The faces didn't look like faces at all. They had been transfigured into something merely symbolic. Something wholly possessed.
He was only a few feet from them when he felt them pushing at his mind, erasing his intent. He howled, the howl driving them out, away. He flicked the trigger to turn on the knife and signaled Octavo for a slow, collected canter. The gray Hippae reared high, and Octavo ran toward it, then turned to the right without hesitation as Rigo clipped off its front feet with the fiery lance. It hadn't expected that! One. One, screaming, but down!
Octavo stretched his stride and galloped along the hillside, running swiftly as three of the Hippae came up from the swamp and tried to intercept him from the left. Cursing, Rigo lifted the tip of the lance from under his left arm, brought it across and anchored it in his right armpit, then stretched out his left arm to hold the lance perpendicular to the line of Octavo's movement. The humming flame caught the first interceptor low across its shoulders. Leg muscles severed; it fell as the other two screamed and turned away. Two.
Sylvan was behind him, Her Majesty flying in the face of the Hippae, swift as a bird. He saw Rigo shift the lance and shifted his own almost simultaneously. The object was to get the creatures moving in pursuit, he reminded himself. Not necessarily to kill them yet. Now, if possible; eventually, yes, but not necessarily now. He jabbed the lance toward a green-mottled Hippae and heard it bellow in angry pain. Then he was past. He cast a quick glance across his shoulder and saw the green monster coming after him. Good. Well and good. He pointing the lance in the direction he was moving and leaned forward to whisper soft words in Her Majesty's ear. They were words he had whispered to lovers in time past. He saw nothing incongruous in urging Her Majesty on with them now.
Rowena was behind Sylvan, copying his tactics a little too late to make the wide turn he had made. It was only when her lance had chopped into the throat of a shrieking mud-colored creature that she remembered they had to flee. Millefiori had already decided it was time. Wheeling on her hind legs, she set out in pursuit of the other two while the mud-colored monster staggered behind them, screaming, being rapidly outdistanced by two other, uninjured Hippae.
Three, Marjorie thought to herself. Three down. Four in pursuit of the three horses, two of them at least slightly wounded. Three waiting for her, and for Tony. Little Tony. White-faced. The way he always got when he rode. Fearful. Not thinking about it.
"Anthony!" she screamed in his ear, "Follow me!"
She thumbed the lance on, sighted a line of travel that would take her in front of two of the remaining Hippae, The third one was hanging back, as though for an ambush. "Watch that one," she cried, pointing to the mottled wine-colored beast half screened by the trees.
Tony cried something in answer, she couldn't tell what. Then Quixote was crossing the path of the two, both charging at her, necks twisted to one side to bring the barbs to bear. She flipped the lance to her left as the others had done and raked them with the blade. Screams. Bellows. She turned Quixote up the hill and around.
Tony. He was facing the final Hippae, his lance dipping and swirling, the beast staying well back, out of range. Tony was too close. If he turned to flee, the other would have him!
She looked behind her. The two she had touched were not badly hurt. Surprised into inaction for the moment, but not badly hurt. She had touched their necks, not their legs. She pulled Quixote up and back, wheeling on his hind legs. "Come on," she cried to Quixote, riding directly at the monster confronting Tony. Beyond the beast was a patch of level ground.
Her heart was hammering so loudly that she could hear only it, nothing else, a pulse in her ears that drowned out the fall of hooves. She took the lance in her left hand, held it loosely. They came closer. "We're going to jump," she told Quixote. "We're going to jump over him, boy. Over him." Then there was no time to say anything. Quixote's haunches gathered under him; they were high, high over the monster's back and the lance was pointed down, down and back, then they had landed on the other side.
They were on a tiny island, only large enough for Quixote to stop on, stop and wheel and jump once more, back over the pool to the solid hillside. Tony was there, looking stupidly downward at the recumbent, slavering Hippae with the severed spine while two wounded ones stalked toward him.
Four.
"Anthony!" she cried as she went past. "Come, Blue Star!"
Horse heard her if rider did not. Quixote lunged up the hill, faster than the wounded Hippae, with Blue Star close behind. When they had gained a little distance, Marjorie turned to the south. Blue Star was even with her. She risked a look at Tony. He looked almost like Shevlok, his face white and expressionless. She drove Quixote at Blue Star's side so that they raced only inches apart, then leaned out and slapped Tony with her glove, and again.
He came to himself with a start, tears filling his eyes. "I couldn't think," he cried. "It got into me and didn't let me think."
"Don't let it!" she demanded. "Yell. Scream. Call it dirty names, but don't let it!"
Perhaps a half mile ahead of them on the hillside, Octavo and the two mares raced side by side with four of the Hippae in pursuit.
"Now," Marjorie cried, pointing ahead and to the right. "We're going to intercept them."
She leaned forward. Rigo, Sylvan, and Rowena were riding on the level line of the hill, around it. not up it. The full circuit of the sloping ground, back to the gate, would take two or three hours, riding at top speed the whole way. If she and Tony went slightly uphill and to the west, they should intercept the others a bit past the southernmost point of their arc. Quixote and Blue Star stretched out, galloping side by side like twins joined at the heart. Behind them came the two wounded Hippae, still screaming, still with their blank-faced riders aboard. They were not fast enough to be an immediate threat, but the laser knife had cauterized as it cut, so they were not being greatly weakened by blood loss, either.
"They're still trying to get into my head," Tony called. "So I'm thinking about going home."