Gershwin felt her yank hard on his chest, his hands, his feet, even as he rode gently down the hills in the mountain country. He was near, so near he could hear it singing through his ears. He drew the whistle to his teeth, drove the horse head-long down the hill, down to the road, then down the road.

Forever following the pull.

Forever letting her guide him, deaf and dark and silent.

He raced through the woods, leaping over roots and ducking branches as he smelled the fire, the brimstone, the smoke, the dragon. The pull opened up in his chest, and Camphor's arm was not his own. Nor was the rest of him as he slammed into the nearest of Quetz's assailants.

Even as the dragon snorted fire and smoke upon them, even as they lay screaming, Camphor knew he was injured. He was bleeding hot, red blood, but there was no time for that. There were only men to slaughter, skulls to split.

And split them he did. His axe came down upon their skulls with every ounce of force he used to fell trees and strip them bare enough for his art. Gore spilled out into the forest paths, and he was breathing heavily by the time the archers became a problem.

Behind him, he could feel the whisper of Faline's presence as she notched her bow, let fly. But she was only one, and they were twenty strong, at least. This would take far too long.

He rushed them, arrows flying on every side of him, coming and going. They hit their marks in the enemy chests, and Camphor raced forward, axe glinting in the air.

Until an arrow burried itself to the fletching in his chest.

He staggered.

And he fell.

He staggered from the pain of it, wanting badly to yank it out, but knowing this was inherantly the wrong answer. So he left it, knowing that it was no large wonder just how he'd managed to get an arrow through his shoulder.

It wasn't like he could see it coming, really.

"Leave him!" a young girl snarled, and so, too, did a dog of some sort.

It was followed by a sharp yelp of some sort, and Tem struggled to his feet, using his staff to haul himself up. Never had he been quite so sorry he'd left Gleb's universal-if-violent protection.

As he got his feet under him, one of the men yanked the staff from his hands, smacked him sharply in the knees with it, and tossed it far away. Tem went down, breath shuddering in pain. The man's footsteps crossed the lush grasses, crunching blades beneath a heavy stride.

Tem heard the sound of metal being released from a leather sheath, and a hand grabbed his long hair firmly as it yanked his head back, exposing his neck.

He stared up at towards the sky, hearing thunder echo across the plains, hearing it drive closer, closer.

"This'll be the only chance you get to learn here, beggerman," the man chortled, and Tem emptied his heart of fears, of hope, as the thunder bore down on them.

And the hand loosened suddenly, and the man slumped to the ground as the thunder wheeled, and Tem recognized the heavy breathing of a horse that walked with smooth deliberation towards the second man.

"Mind your own business!" the second man shouted, and Tem heard a sword pull free of its scabbard. Metal clashed on metal, time and time again, and the air was filled with excited yips and yelps and the voices of children. Tem dragged himself, exhausted, towards where he thought his staff must have been tossed.

He groped through the long grasses and felt ill as he heard the sound of flesh pulling free of a skewer. Something heavy fell to the ground, and the blades slashed against each other with more intensity.

"I happened to like that horse, I'll have you know," the newcomer snarled.

Tem found his staff and hauled himself up as another skewering sound emptied the noise in the air. The stench of blood wafted to his nose, and a series of yelps and yips and the cries of "Hey! Hey! Help us out here!" filled the air.

"Hold on, children," he wheezed. "Silence the dogs, please. I'm coming."

The newcomer cleared his throat. "Uh," he said carefully. "Those are dogs."

Tem staggered over towards them.

"Maybe you'd better sit down, if you're hearing voices in dogs," he suggested.

"No. There are children. I hear children."

Tem sank to his knees as he found the ropes that were likely binding the children. He traced them to their ends, and found they were secured around thick, furry necks.

There were no children.

"What magic is this?" he breathed.

"Oh, brother," the newcomer sighed.

"It's not magic. It's rope. Untie it, will you?" the girl's voice spoke, but it came from the throat of the furred creature, and was accompanied by an alert sort of whine.

"What is this? Where are the children?"

"Don't we count?" whimpered another voice. "We're Runners, but we're still small."

"We can take care of ourselves," snapped the third voice.

Tem quickly unknotted these ropes.

"They're dogs," the newcomer protested. "They're talking dogs."

One lunged quickly towards him while the other two started ... tearing into the flesh of something nearby. Tem hoped desperately that it was the horse. He really did.

"Fine. Tney're angry talking dogs. What were you doing out here anyway, sir? This is kind of out of the way."

"I heard them. They were ... I thought they were children."

One of them butted up against his hand and rubbed itself along his palm. Tem felt the softness of his fur, and the ... feathers? Of wings? "Thank you for saving us, even if we're not," it said brightly. It smelled of blood and earth, and Tem tried not to look distasteful at it.

"You're welcome," he managed quietly. He looked up towards the newcomer. "Who are you? Why did you stop?"

"They call me Gershwin. As for why I stopped, it's because my Lady, deaf and dark and silent, has brought you into my protection. Can you walk? The bastard slew my horse, but we'll find another one soon enough."

"I hope so," the little feathered creature said merrily. "The last one was tasty!"

Gershwin did not seem amused.