The Warslayer(9)

She spun around, looking back wildly the way she'd come.

Behind her was the forest through which she and her companions had walked. The birches were bright autumn gold against the midnight green of a dense pine forest that seemed to stretch for miles, climbing the lower slopes of mountains that thrust blue and jagged into the evening sky. The setting sun turned the patches of snow on their higher slopes a pale shell-pink. It was a scene as beautiful as a painting, reminding her of nothing so much as pictures she'd seen of the Canadian Rockies.

The other three had stopped.

"Behold, Vixen—Serenthodial the Golden!" Englor said, gesturing toward the plains ahead.

This is really real. This is really happening. You're not in Kansas anymore, Glor, let alone Oz. Christ—what were you THINKING? You should have stayed on that couch and screamed until somebody showed up with a rubber tuxedo!

"There is the camp of the Allimir," Belegir said, pointing off into the distance. Glory squinted in the direction he was pointing. Halfway to the horizon she could see the smudges and dots of what might be . . . something. A thin spiral of white smoke rose into the sky, the only vertical in a horizontal landscape. Something with a cook fire, then, but whatever it was, it was miles away, and she'd already walked miles today.

"Since the destruction of Great Drathil, we have become refugees, outlaws in our own land, hunted for the sport of Cinnas' once-prisoned foe," Belegir added, as if that were some sort of an explanation.

She wished she'd paid better attention when they'd been talking back in her dressing room. She knew they'd been looking for someone like Vixen the Slayer, but she was hazy about the reason why. The trouble with Belegir was that he talked like a script before rewrite, and she was afraid that asking a bunch of questions now would only give him the idea she wanted to help.

But you do, don't you? And crikey, look at these guys—a housecat would give them trouble, wouldn't it? All you'll have to do is show up and fetch what ails them a good kick in the goolies, do a backflip or two, and everybody's happy.

"Outlaws?" she said cautiously.

"Oh, he doesn't mean real outlaws," Englor assured her hastily. "Nothing involving, you know, peacebreaking." His voice dropped on the last word, as though he were saying something indecent.

"Driven from our homes. Hunted like mice in a granary—with the Warmother the cat!" Helevrin said harshly.

"Do not speak of Her here," Belegir said, glancing up apprehensively toward the sky. Glory followed the direction of his gaze, but she saw nothing but sky and a collection of very large mountains. Nevertheless, the expression on his face sent a chill up her spine.

"Send for Ivradan," Belegir said. "Best we be within bounds by the time night falls."

Not unless this Ivradan has a lorry, Glory thought.

Her feelings must have shown in her face, because Belegir smiled. "Fear not. Ivradan will bring horses, and we may ride back to our people in state—bringing a hero."

Helevrin reached into her sleeve and withdrew a little red bird. At least, it looked like a bird to Glory—she caught only a glimpse of it before Helevrin flung it into the sky. Whatever it was, it flew like a bird as well, cutting through the sky in darting swoops, its body a scarlet spark against the vast blue and gold emptiness. Glory lost sight of it almost at once, but the three Allimir stared after it as if they could still track its flight.

When nothing happened immediately, Glory dropped her tote-bag to the ground and sat down beside it with a sigh. She didn't care if she never got up. She was tired of standing. At once the world retreated behind a veil of grass that crackled as she shifted her weight. The sword on her back poked her in the ribs as it always did, while the leather corset held her in an implacable embrace. But those discomforts were homely and familiar, and her current circumstances were not.

It just didn't seem likely that she was here. Even if somehow, somewhere, there was such a thing as magic, how had the Allimir found her? How could they have confused her with Vixen? What if there were a real Vixen the Slayer somewhere and Glory was impersonating her? What if the real Vixen found out?

If there is and she does, I'm dead meat.

It was almost more comforting to worry about that than about what she was going to do when Belegir and company found out she didn't measure up to their hopes. Vixen won her battles each week because the scriptwriters were on her side. There weren't any scriptwriters around here—just a bunch of mini-mages making cryptic pronouncements.

And looking up at the sky as if they expected something to come diving out of it.

Something nasty.

"Ah," Belegir said suddenly.