9. Flight Across the Threshold

The psychic scream of the violated Gaean dome echoed in their minds long after the physical structure vanished behind the first ridges of the desolate plain. They ran, five figures fleeing across a landscape poisoned by ancient radiation and the encroaching, alien wrongness of the Blight. The air itself felt thin, hostile, tasting of dust and a faint, metallic tang that scraped the back of the throat. Behind them, Hiero could feel the gathering fury, the focused malevolence of the Unclean adepts and the cold, implacable intelligence they served, or perhaps, merely cooperated with.

Faster! Hiero urged them mentally, conserving precious breath. He ran beside Segi, one hand gripping the high cantle of the empty saddle, letting the hopper’s powerful stride pull him along, matching its ground-eating lope as best he could. Beside him flowed M’reen, her spotted fur blending with the muted tones of the scrub, her movements fluid, effortless even at this pace. Maluin pounded doggedly behind, his massive frame built for endurance rather than speed, his billhook held ready, his face grim. The Mantan twins flanked them, silent wraiths weaving through the sparse cover, their eyes constantly scanning the back trail, their axes loose in their experienced hands. Sagenay, still largely oblivious, was securely lashed across Segi’s broad back, a precious, vulnerable burden whose fate represented perhaps the only tangible hope for their besieged world.

The pursuit began almost immediately. Hiero didn't need his newly reawakened, if altered, mental senses to know they wouldn't be allowed to escape unchallenged. The knowledge they possessed – confirmation of the Unclean-Gaean link, the existence and vulnerability of this hidden base – was too dangerous. First came the psychic probes, sharper now, more directed than the ambient pressure near the dome. Adept minds, shielded and disciplined, lanced out, testing their defenses, seeking weaknesses. Hiero focused his will, extending his own shield, a shimmering barrier woven from faith, training, and the strange new empathy gifted by Solitaire, encompassing the entire group. He felt the enemy probes strike, recoil, strike again, like vipers testing the bars of a cage. It was a draining effort, maintaining the shield while running, coordinating their flight, constantly scanning ahead.

Then came the physical pursuit. Hounds! Reyn Mantan’s thought was a sharp, cold warning. Not the great Plague Hounds of the northern hordes, but smaller, leaner creatures, bred perhaps from jackals or desert wolves, mutated for speed and endurance, their minds linked in a simple, predatory pack consciousness controlled by their Unclean masters. They emerged from the direction of the Blight, running low to the ground, dust spurting from beneath their paws, their eerie, ululating hunting cries sending chills down Hiero’s spine despite the desert heat.

“Maluin! Mantans! Rearguard action!” Hiero shouted aloud, reserving his mental energy for shielding and coordination. “Buy us time! Use the terrain!”

The big Metz warrior didn’t hesitate. Roaring a challenge, he spun around, bracing his feet, his great billhook whistling as he swung it in a glittering arc. Reyn and Geor Mantan melted into the surrounding scrub and rock, becoming part of the landscape, their deadly blowguns raised.

Hiero didn't look back. Trusting his comrades implicitly, he urged Segi and M’reen forward, angling towards a broken line of low mesas shimmering in the distance. Cover. They needed cover, defensible ground where the hounds’ speed would be less of an advantage. He could hear the snarls and yelps behind them now, punctuated by the sharp thwack of Maluin’s billhook connecting with bone and sinew, and the almost silent hiss of the Mantans’ poisoned darts finding their marks.

He risked a glance into Maluin’s mind – a brief, controlled contact. The guardsman was holding, a grim, solitary figure against the tide, his billhook a whirlwind of death, but the hounds were many, unnaturally fast, heedless of casualties. Geor Mantan was down, hamstringed by a lucky snap, though Reyn fought on, defending his brother, his blowgun spitting venom.

M’reen! Diversion! Draw them left! Hiero commanded, pushing every ounce of urgency into the thought.

The cat-woman didn't pause. With a fluid bound that seemed to defy gravity, she veered sharply away from their line of flight, angling towards a treacherous area of loose scree and crumbling ravines Hiero had noted earlier. Her speed was incredible, a golden blur against the drab landscape. Instantly, the bulk of the pursuing hound pack swerved, drawn by the flash of movement, abandoning the slower, more heavily defended rearguard. Only a handful, perhaps driven by a specific command, continued doggedly after Hiero and the hopper.

It bought them precious minutes. Hiero reached the base of the first mesa, finding, as he’d hoped, a narrow, winding path leading upwards, barely wide enough for Segi’s passage. He urged the laboring hopper on, the climb steep and treacherous, loose rock skittering underfoot. Behind him, he heard the sounds of the rearguard disengaging – Maluin’s bellowing roar, the sharp crack of projectile weapons now joining the fray as Unclean human troops arrived, and the chilling, triumphant cry of the hounds closing in once more.

They gained the mesa top, a flat expanse of wind-scoured rock offering little cover but a commanding view. Hiero spun Segi around, sliding from the saddle, crossbow armed and ready in one smooth motion. Below, Maluin and the Mantans were fighting their way up the path, Reyn supporting his injured brother, Maluin turning frequently to deliver devastating blows with the billhook, holding back the tide. The pursuit had narrowed, concentrated now – a dozen hounds, perhaps twenty Unclean soldiers led by a shielded officer Hiero could feel directing them, and, lumbering up behind, a single Glith, its gray scales blending almost perfectly with the rock, its heavy axe glinting ominously.

M’reen was gone, vanished into the maze of ravines to the north, hopefully drawing off the main body of the hounds, trusting her speed and agility to ensure her escape. Now it was their turn to make a stand.

Hold the path! Hiero sent to Maluin and the twins. Use the bottleneck! He nocked a quarrel – one of the precious few tipped with the incendiary mixture. Sagenay, he focused inward, can you hear me? Can you act?

He felt a faint flicker from the priest’s shielded mind, a stirring of awareness, but no coherent response. The data imprint, the psychic battle, the jarring journey – the toll had been immense. Sagenay was present, but helpless.

The Unclean came on relentlessly. The narrow path channeled their assault, but their numbers were still formidable. Hounds leaped ahead, snarling, only to be met by the Mantans’ unerring darts and Maluin’s impassable defense. The Unclean soldiers advanced behind, firing their projectile weapons, the slugs ricocheting wildly from the rocks. Hiero added his crossbow bolts to the defense, aiming carefully, conserving his limited ammunition, seeking out the human officers.

Then the Glith attacked. Ignoring the struggling combatants on the narrow path, the reptilian horror began to scale the sheer face of the mesa itself, its clawed hands and feet finding purchase on minuscule holds, moving with terrifying speed and agility.

Mine! Hiero sent, signaling Maluin and the others to hold the path at all costs. He sighted his crossbow, waiting for the creature to emerge onto the mesa top. This was the true threat, the lynchpin of the Unclean assault force.

The gray, scaled head appeared over the rim, the lustreless eyes fixing instantly on Hiero. It raised its axe for a killing blow even as it hauled its body onto the flat rock surface. Hiero fired. The incendiary quarrel struck the creature squarely in the chest. For a heart-stopping second, nothing happened. The Glith paused, looking down at the feathered shaft protruding from its scales with something akin to surprise. Then, with a low whoomph, the alchemical mixture ignited.

The effect was catastrophic. The creature’s dense, oily flesh caught instantly. It became a pillar of roaring flame, screeching in unimaginable agony, its powerful limbs flailing wildly. It staggered back, struck the cliff edge, and toppled into the abyss below, its horrifying screams dwindling as it fell.

A momentary lull followed the Glith’s demise. The Unclean forces on the path faltered, dismayed by the loss of their most powerful unit. Seizing the advantage, Maluin roared and charged down the path, his billhook reaping a terrible harvest amongst the shocked hounds and soldiers. Reyn Mantan followed, his axe a flashing blur, clearing the way.

Now! Go! Hiero yelled aloud, slinging his crossbow, grabbing Segi’s reins. He half-lifted, half-dragged the still unresponsive Sagenay back into the saddle, vaulting up behind him. Geor Mantan, though limping badly, managed to swing onto Maluin’s broad back as the big guardsman returned from his devastating counter-charge.

They fled westward across the mesa top, leaving the sounds of sporadic fighting behind as the surviving Unclean clashed with unseen Gaean horrors drawn perhaps by the scent of blood or the Glith’s dying psychic scream. They didn't look back. Ahead lay the unknown desert, behind lay the Blight and the remnants of a shattered pursuit. They were alive, miraculously, carrying their precious burden, but the cost had been high, and the vast, hostile wilderness stretched before them, unforgiving and unknown. Hiero settled himself in the saddle, shielding Sagenay with his own body, his gaze fixed on the distant, beckoning horizon, the resolve hardening within him like desert rock under the relentless sun. The crucible had tested them; the true journey was just beginning.