the Noncs.
Up on the ridge, the wind and rain regained their teeth, counterpoint to the fevered edge that her fatigue had put on. In the valley, the Noncs poured forward, untroubled by the uneven slope. Pevan said, "I hope you’re a good runner."
"That bad?"
Pevan glanced down across the dell ahead. Steeper-sided, with thick brush in the bottom hiding a river, it would be hell to cross, but the far ridge was beyond her range. She pointed. "The best I can do is get us past the river. After that, I can’t be sure I’ll have another Gate."
The thief cursed. Behind them, the Noncs started on the long climb out of the valley. He said, "Do what you can."
Finding a flat enough surface on the far slope to open a Gateway on was harder than it had any right to be. Pevan felt her eyes glazing, dizziness and the floaty sense that her feet weren’t pressed to the grass the latest warnings of impending burn-out. With the Noncs on their tail, her Gates were the only chance they had. The savages came on with frightening swiftness.
When it opened, the Gate fought her control like a snake, like a storm. Like a storm of snakes. She resisted the urge to shake her head. That kind of thinking could only come when her logic stood on the brink of breaking down, but shaking her head would make things worse, not better. Van Raighan was already through the Gate, waving at her from half-way up the far side of the valley.
Traitor to his kind or not, he knew his stuff as a Gifted. She dropped through the Gate, fatigue leaving her graceless and clumsy, and the thief caught her arm. Carefully but firmly, he got her clear of the opening. She let the Gateway go, suddenly discovering how much pain it had brought. Her brain felt numb. The world reeled in a mean attempt to throw her off, but she staggered a step closer to Van Raighan and he held her steady.
As one, they turned to the wall of whortleberry and heather ahead of them. Van Raighan said nothing, but neither did he run off ahead of her. Pevan leaned forward and let her weight carry her into a weaving scramble up-slope, her hands finding prickly purchase on the low bushes when she stumbled. The thief matched her pace with no more than the occasional grunt.
Pevan only looked up once, the distance still to climb crushing with no guarantee of safety at the top, not to mention the wind and rain in her eyes, the swirling aches inside her skull. At least with her eyes on the ground in front of her she could watch where she was stumbling. They were still well short of the ridge when the cries of the Noncs found them.
Pevan felt herself sag sideways until she lay on the rough scrub, looking back. Van Raighan turned to follow her gaze. Two dark-clad figures stood on the brim of the far slope, one calling back to his comrades. Muted by the weather and distance, the shouts sounded like a yapping dog. When Pevan could hear them through the rasp of her breath and the roaring in her ears, anyway.
As she watched, the pair burst into a run again and plunged down the steep hillside. The rest followed, straggling over the crest without a break in stride. The descent fascinated for its horror; the Noncs ran as if the ground were flat, but the falls and tumbles left Pevan wincing in sympathy. One of the men flipped clean over, came down head-first into a dimple in the slope, bounced once and failed to rise, but the rest came on without him.
Pevan met Van Raighan’s eyes, read the desperation in his face. Already stiff from rescuing him the first time, her arms screamed complaint as she levered herself up and attacked the hill again. Maybe she had enough for one more Gate, but where to? There was no way any of the spots she had memorised for long-distance jumps were in range.
If the next valley didn’t offer them some cover, the Noncs would have them. Pevan distracted herself with grim amusement that her best hope was for Van Raighan’s Wilder to come back for him. The Noncs might just want to rob them. Breath sawed in her throat and lungs. Van Raighan had gained a few feet on her, but slipped and cursed.
When he rose again and pushed on, she could see he was favouring his left ankle. A glance back down the hill showed the pursuit fighting through the thicker undergrowth lining the river. At least that seemed to slow them a bit.
She stumbled again, reached out a hand to steady herself against the heather, and found herself falling away after it. Even as spring-stiffened new growth scratched at her face, she scrabbled forward. A twinge in her wrist warned of yet more damage, and she faltered as she reached for a handhold to pull herself up.
Hands seized her shoulders, pulling her blouse tight under her arms. Ice shot through her veins before she reached the thought that the Noncs couldn’t possibly have climbed so fast. Van Raighan pulled her upright, helped her into clumsy forward motion, too awkward even to be called a stumble.
The ground dropped further away than she’d expected. Each step came easier, and then easier yet. Pevan got her head up, let her brain catch up with the idea that they’d reached the crest. With a start, she recognised the terrain; the broad northern arm of the Cloverleaf Valley swept away to the right. Ahead, water sang from the rain-swelled cascade where the valley’s three ‘leaves’ met, and below that the river coursed westward into rich, dark woodland.
She pointed, leaned into Van Raighan to turn them in that direction. He resisted for a moment, looked up and yielded. The safe cover of the wood lay a long, hard dash away yet, but all she had to do was get in range for that final Gate. If they could get out of sight long enough for the Noncs to lose interest, they’d be safe. She knew the wood down there. The seven remaining hunters couldn’t search the whole thing.
High and shallow, the Cloverleaf valley offered them no shelter from the wind, which gusted at them from every direction, now urging them onward, now fighting them back. The rain had thinned, softened until its only effect was to further chill soaking clothes. Pevan drank the air, slapped wet hair from her cheek and discovered it was Van Raighan’s, not her own. She could feel a sneeze coming on.
The thief lost his footing and staggered a few steps, dragging her down. She flung her own arm around his back, somehow found strength to rally. The Noncs’ calls had faded, snatched away by the wind or swallowed by the hill, but she had no difficulty feeling harried. Through all the other pains and discomforts, the pounding of her head remained an unrelenting constant.
Van Raighan stumbled again, his leg catching against hers. Pevan pushed him away, gave him room to right himself. They were getting in each other’s way too much. His limp had grown more pronounced, her run was barely worthy of the name. She couldn’t support him, he couldn’t support her, and they were only slowing each other down.
It was only as Van Raighan grabbed her again, shouting something she couldn’t understand, that she realised the additional burst of speed she’d gained from letting him go had been the better part of a head-long fall. His words washed over, communicating nothing except the half-angry, half-terrified tone of his voice. Well, she knew how he felt about the situation.
Pevan looked up, trying to judge the distance to the forest through the wool fog in the front of her brain. She didn’t dare reach out to form the Gateway until she was sure of the range. Get it wrong, she’d burn out and be unconscious when the Noncs caught up with them. Better not to think about what they wanted.
As if to deny her that option, the valley rang to yet another high-pitched cry. Van Raighan’s grip on her shoulder prevented her turning to get a look at the ridge. Her attempt caused another stumble. The thief had his hand wrapped around the leather strap of her harness. Well, it was there for other Gifted to hang onto when she was hauling them around. She couldn’t help if it also made an effective restraint.
The single high call of the leading Nonc gave way to a chorus of echoes. Again, Pevan got the impression of the eager yelps of a pack of hunting dogs. How far to cover? It took her a moment to identify the line where silver-green grass transformed into the richer hues of tree canopies. The fold of the hillside hid the treacherous descent past the cascade, but she could Gate them past that. If she had the range.
It looked close enough, just. Pevan forced herse
lf into a deliberate effort to relax. The Noncs weren’t right on their heels just yet. She couldn’t manage a deep breath, her ribcage felt like steel clamps around her chest, but she closed her eyes and counted an extra ten paces, trusting Van Raighan’s guidance. No time to stop and ponder the incongruity of that idea.
They had to be close enough now. She didn’t have the energy left for any of her special tricks. Just enough to find a faintly-remembered flat patch nestled between tree-roots up ahead. The Gate drilled through her skull like a pickaxe, but, blessedly, spun open in the grass a few paces ahead. Van Raighan’s grip tightened as he saw it.
Pevan found her sight failing her. Fire burned where her eyes should have been. Before her, the world was a flat plane of green, a swelling brown patch leaping up to swallow her. Everything seemed to whirl, drawing a choke of nausea out of her. Tactile sensation proved more faithful; Van Raighan gathering her into his arms, pressing her face to his chest. They were off the ground, somehow, and her training reasserted itself, wrapping her arms around him.
The Gate hit like a waterfall to the face, followed by a shower of stings as they plowed into some stiff-branched plant. It caught them, not unkindly, then let them slide to the floor. Pevan