Sheri Tepper - Grass

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.”

She smiled at him, nodded encouragingly. Whatever worked. She herself could not feel them at all. She felt something, but not Hippae. Something else. Someone else.

“You didn’t kill your bad individuals,” Someone commented, quietly curious. “Why are you killing ours?”

“Because I could tie mine up and keep them from hurting anyone,” she replied. “I can’t do that with these creatures.”

“You could figure something out,” the voice suggested.

“No!” she said, angrily. “Everyone always says that. It isn’t true. If you can figure something out, you do. If you don’t, it’s because you can’t. Can’t because you don’t have the time, or the money, or the material. Can’t because there isn’t any way or any time or you’re not smart enough.”

A thought very like a sigh. A touch, like a caress. “Damn it,” she cried aloud. “Can’t you see that theoretical answers are no answers at all! It has to be something you can do !”

Shocked silence. Tony was staring at her. “What was that?” he cried.

“Nothing,” she muttered, concentrating on riding. “Nothing at all.” The ground fled by beneath them. The leather of their saddles creaked.

Occasional bunches of tall grass whipped at them Brush materialized before the horses’ feet. Rocks and holes and hollows were there, were jumped, were gone. Behind them the wounded pair came on, howling. Time went by, swift but interminable. Time past was nothing, no matter how long. Time ahead was everything, no matter how brief. Tony’s eyes were glazed with his effort to keep the Hippae from commanding him. Marjorie sat quietly, helping Quixote by her quiet. He would do all he could do for her without her bothering him. The arc of the hill against the sky seemed no closer, no matter how long they rode.

And then at last it was there. They came upon the height to see Rigo and the others to the south below them, coming around toward them to make the arc which would bring them back along the west side of the long hill on which Commons was built. The four Hippae still pursued Rigo and-the other two riders, more closely than before. “Come on, Quixote,” she cried, urging him down, wanting to let Rigo know she was there but judging the distance too great for him to hear her yet.

She looked at the point where the two lines of travel would intersect, laid her body along Quixote’s neck, and urged him on. When they had halved the distance, she yodeled, seeing three heads come up. Rigo looked over his shoulder, apprehending what Marjorie intended. She could come in behind the four Hippae pursuing Rigo, Rowena, and Sylvan. Rigo and the others could then turn and take them from the front while Marjorie and Tony attacked from behind. Which would have been an acceptable tactic except for the two other Hippae, just now coming over the hill behind Marjorie and Tony. Their presence would put her between two groups of them. He waved, pointing behind her.

She turned, saw what was coming, and cursed. She had thought the horses could outdistance the wounded beasts, but the Hippae had kept pace. That made the odds six Hippae to five humans. Even though four of the Hippae were slightly wounded, it wasn’t good. Not good enough.

From the east came a great crumping sound, a concussion of air, like thunder. The ground shivered. The two Hippae on the hill screamed in rage, realizing before Marjorie did what had happened. Alverd Bee’s men had blown up the tunnel. The tunnel. For the first time, Marjorie realized that the tunnel had been too narrow and low to allow a sudden, full-scale invasion. If the Hippae had been planning their attack for long, there were probably other tunnels. There was that great trail out there in the grass. There had to be other tunnels… "We’re looking,” said Someone. “We haven’t found any others yet.” Which didn’t mean there weren’t any.

“Are you going to help?” she demanded. “Are you going to let us get killed doing this all by ourselves?” There was no answer.

Rigo had heard the explosion. Now he leaned over Octavo’s neck and urged him forward. Her Majesty and Millefiori fled along behind him, moving like the wind, opening the distance between them and the Hippae.

Marjorie turned more to the north. It would do no good to come up behind the other riders. Now they had simply to outrun their pursuers. Get to the stony ridges of Com, get to the gate. “If it were your people, I’d try to help,” said Marjorie.

“Humans have been helping the Hippae kill foxen,” came the answer, snappishly, not at all allusively, in clear words. Not the familiar voice, another one. “All along.”

“You know damned well that’s not so,” she cried. “Humans have been used by Hippae to kill foxen. That’s entirely different.” At least partly a lie, too. Humans had been all too willing to lend themselves to that Hunt. No answer.

They ran. Quixote was lathered, breathing harshly. It had been a long hill and the armor was heavy. Marjorie held the reins in her teeth, took her knife from her pocket, and cut the straps that held the armor, one around Quixote’s breast, two on each side. The plates dropped off and the horse made a noise that sounded like a prayer. Tony saw what she was doing and did likewise.

Rigo had been watching. He nodded and called to the other two. Sylvan followed suit, as did Rigo himself. Rowena cried out in dismay. She had no knife. She had come last, and no one had thought to give her one.

As though distracted by this cry, Millefiori stumbled and fell. Rowena went rolling away, coming up wild-eyed. Then she was up, running toward the horse, mounting all in one fluid motion as Millefiori struggled to her feet, limping. Then the mare was running again, though awkwardly, slowly, with a wide space opening between Rowena and the others.

Sylvan saw. He turned Her Majesty and made a tight circle which brought him to his mother’s side. He reached out, pulled her onto the saddle before him. Now Her Majesty was carrying double. She slowed. Millefiori slowed. Sylvan edged back to give his mother room. One of the Hippae leapt forward with stunning speed and gaping jaws, snatching him from Her Majesty’s back. Another ran even with Millefiori, ready to leap. Rowena, face like death and mouth wide with an unheard howl, rode on.