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fraction of a second slower in moving he would have been skewered

through the neck.

Steve didn't stop to see who fired the bolt; the fact that they had

missed meant they were some distance away - and that meant he was in

with a chance. He changed direction abruptly, dashed up the slope

instead of down, leapt noisily across the stream and went crashing

through the ferns into the woods beyond. As he ran, he flailed his

arms wildly in the hope of persuading his pursuers that he was fleeing

in blind panic. Behind him, he heard the Mutes begin to whoop and

whistle as they gave chase. Steve zigzagged northwards some eighty

yards, then turned sharp right, hurtled down the slope in a series of

flying leaps and somersaults, turned sharp right again, and doubled

back towards the stream, crawling on his belly through the

undergrowth.

He had put up some good times over the assault course during his years

at the Flight Academy but this was probably his fastest eighty-yard

tiger crawl ever.

Plunging headlong into the shallow water, he clawed his way frantically

up over the stepped rock and loose pebble bed.

Reaching a deeper section where the water covered most of his body,

Steve wedged himself against the nearside bank under a loose fringe of

ferns and broad-leaved grasses that hung in graceful curves with their

tips dragging conveniently in the water.

His ruse worked. Keeping his head down with only his eyes above water

he saw the whooping Mutes leap across the stream higher up the slope

and race on into the trees on the other side. One, two, three Bears

brandishing knife-sticks, the fourth carrying a crossbow, three

She-Wolves. Seven...

Zip! How many more of them were there? Another Bear carrying a knife

leapt across the stream and ran after his companions. Eight... Steve

knew he daren't hang on too long. If the lead Mutes didn't catch sight

of him soon it wouldn't take them long to work out what had happened.

And then they'd be spearing him out of the stream with those

knife-sticks - the way they did with trout. He was on his hands and

knees with his back half out of the water when two more Mutes leapt

across the stream with a shrill whoop almost directly over his head.

Steve hit the bottom nose first. Christopher! He surfaced slowly and

caught sight of a pair of She-Wolves crossing further up. Twelve. Two

hands. That had to be it. Move, Brickman!

Steve leapt to his feet and plunged down the bed of the stream, blindly

leaping off the series of rock ledges without checking what lay

below.

Several times he lost his footing on the slippery moss-covered rocks

and fell awkwardly, crashing against treetrunks lining the stream,

bouncing off boulders, and sprawling headfirst in the water. His

newly-mended ribs took a terrible pounding; his elbows, knees and chin

were badly grazed but he didn't stop to inspect the damage and,

amazingly, he didn't feel any pain. He just picked himself up and

pressed on, stumbling and weaving his way downstream like a drunken

sailor in San Diego on a Saturday night in the myth-shrouded years of

the Old Time.

Reaching the tongue-stone he staggered sideways out of the water and

sank to his knees. Finding that too painful he sat back, drew his legs

up and tried hugging them. That's when he found out that his elbows

were on fire. He lay back on the ground in an effort to recover his

breath and found that hurt even more. Sitting up, he pulled off his

sodden T-shirt and combat boots, then stood up and stepped out of his

camouflaged trousers and underpants, twisting and beating the water out

for the second time that day. That hurt too.

Still, it was in a good cause. He pulled on his damp clothes, fixed

the scabbard of his combat knife through the loops on his trouser leg,

and stowed the map and the other items Clearwater had given him