Noah Read Free

natural tunnels as though he was made of wind.
    After a while he began to hear the animal up ahead, its breathing labored, its speed hampered by its injury.
    Finally he entered a canyon that he knew from experience became increasingly narrower until it culminated in a cul-de-sac. The rock face beyond was jagged enough for an animal—or indeed a fit man—to climb, but Noah knew from the sounds of distress that the hound was making, and from the amount of blood it had shed on the dusty ground, that it would be incapable of such a feat. He slowed to a walk, moving silently now on the pads of his feet. The hound was trapped and desperate and in pain, all of which could make it dangerous.
    Sidling around the last corner, crouching low to make himself less of a target, he peered into the shadowy canyon.
    And there was the hound, exhausted, limping, whining in dismay as it ranged back and forth along the length of the canyon wall, searching vainly for an opening, a means of escape. Noah grimaced in pity as he saw the hound gather its failing strength and leap at the rock face in an attempt to scramble up and over it, only to fall back with an agonized yelp.
    Noah hurried forward, his knife tucked back inhis belt, still moving swiftly and soundlessly over the dusty ground. At the last moment, when he was no more than five steps from the creature, the hound sensed or smelled him and whipped around, its jowls curling back in a snarl, the thick, overlapping scales that covered it scraping and clacking together.
    Noah stretched out his arms, palms uppermost, to show the creature that he carried no weapons and meant it no harm. He had no intention of frightening the already terrified beast still further.
    Drawing on the last of its dwindling strength, the hound lunged and snapped at Noah. He danced nimbly out of reach as its jaws clacked together on empty air. Leaping to his left he darted forward again, sliding under another attempted bite. Now he was alongside the creature, close enough to it to wrap his arms around it. Which is precisely what he did, one arm curling up and over the dog’s snout, his hand gently but firmly clamping its jaws shut, and the other snaking around its body as he pulled the hound into the protective warmth of his embrace.
    Panicked, the hound bucked and jerked, but Noah held it tight. He could smell the animal’s blood and the rank sweat of its fear, could feel the blazing heat of its shuddering body. He made deep, soothing, cooing noises at the back of his throat.
    “Easy, easy,” he whispered, kneeling. Gradually the hound became calmer, more relaxed. Its panting lessened. Little by little Noah slackened his grip on its body. He unclamped its jaws, and feebly the animal licked his hand.
    “That’s it,” he said. “Good boy. Now let’s have a look at that wound.”
    “That kill is ours!” The voice, harsh and heavilyaccented, came from behind him. Setting the hound’s head gently on the ground, Noah stood and turned, keeping his body relaxed.
    The man standing between the narrowing walls of the canyon was a desert poacher, a desperate scavenger. He was filthy and savage-looking, his black eyes blazing from a skull-like face, his filthy, matted clothes little more than a collection of animal skins that had been stitched together. His lips curled back from teeth that had been filed into points. In one hand he was holding a curved, hand-made blade, tarnished with blood, and in the other a large, sharp-edged stone.
    A trickle of dust above him made Noah look up. Two more poachers, equally savage-looking, stood one on either side of him, perched on the rocks above, silhouetted against the dust-gray sky. The poacher to the left was holding a long spear, while the other was brandishing a roughly hewn but lethal-looking sword and grinning maniacally through a thick black beard caked with filth. Moving slowly and cautiously, Noah released the hound and positioned his body protectively in front of it.
    The