Someone chattered in a language that he didn't immediately understand—and then recognized as Mang. He jerked up, realizing suddenly how weak his body felt, how limp. His last real memory was of playing Slap with a big Mang warrior—and losing. What had they done with him?

He couldn't sit up, because he was tied down, strapped to a travois.

“Hey!” he tried to roar, but instead issued only a weak cough. Still, someone else heard it, and the scratching progress of the travois suddenly stopped.

A thick, half-Human face blotted the sky, and quick fingers pulled at straps on his chest.

“Ngangata,” Perkar croaked.

“How do you feel?”

“The way I felt after the Huntress was done with me. What happened?”

“Well, that is a very long story, and—”

“Perkar!” A rustling of cloth and soft boots on sand accompanied an excited shout. He turned his head and saw Hezhi scrambling across desert toward him.

“Brother Horse said you would wake up soon! I thought the rain would do it!”

“Hello, Princess. I hope someone can explain something to me soon.”

Thank her for saving your life, Harka muttered in his ear, faintly—as if the sword, too, were ill.

“Saved my life?” Perkar paraphrased. What was going on here? Surely he had broken his neck in the game of Slap and had taken some time to heal. But Hezhi stood wringing her hands, a variety of emotions playing across her face, and Ngangata looked happy, and perhaps surprised—as if neither ever expected to hear him speak again.

“What do you remember?” Hezhi asked, biting her lip.

“Nothing, I only—” But then Hezhi had buried her face in his shoulder, kneeling down to do so.

“I'm glad you're back,” she gasped, and her throat caught once, as if she would cry. Perkar was so startled that he had no reply, and by the time he thought to raise his own arms and return the embrace, she had already pulled away again. Her face was dry, and moreover, she suddenly seemed a bit embarrassed.

Ngangata had finished untying the straps. “Don't try to stand yet,” the Alwa-Man cautioned, but Perkar ignored him, trying to swing his feet around and ending by tumbling into the wet sand. Distant thunder rolled across the hills, probably one of the gods laughing at him.

“Well, alive again,” a gruff voice barked. It was Brother Horse. “Remember what I told you about the Mang being the only race to survive out here, in the time of creation? Remember that next time you think to play one of our games.”

“I will try to remember.”

“I will help,” Ngangata said. “Next time I will remind you by rendering you unconscious. You would suffer less damage that way, you idiot.”

“Nice to be back,” Perkar said, wobbling—-finally—to his feet.

“Stay in the travois a bit longer, until you are stronger,” Brother Horse suggested. “We have to be moving.”

“Why?”

“We are being pursued. We will explain that later, too.”

“I can ride alongside,” Hezhi offered.

“Give me a few moments to think,” Perkar said, “to speak with Harka. Then tell me.” He lay back into the rough construetion of hide and poles, then bolted back up as a sudden thought occurred to him.

“Sharp Tiger? Did you think to bring Sharp Tiger?”

Ngangata gestured with the back of his hand. “There he is. Now lie back.”

Perkar strained his neck to follow Ngangata's gesture, but he could see Sharp Tiger there, staring at him with what was probably horse-ish disdain.

He lay back and soon the sky began to rattle again. A gray cloud was winging over, and against it the tiny but brilliant form of some sort of bird—perhaps a crane.

“You seem to know what has happened to me, Harka.”

“Indeed, what has not happened to you? At some points I was nearly as ill as you, so my own memones are shaky through some of it. ”

“You were ill? What does that mean?”

“Our heartstrings are paired. Anything that brings you close enough to death weakens me, as well. ”

“But if I died, you would be set free.”

“Normally. Not in this instance, however. ”

Perkar shook his head in amazement. “Impossible for me to believe any of this. Tell me all, then, Harka. And tell me why I have Hezhi to thank for my life.”

Harka told him then, and afterward, Hezhi rode alongside to explain the occurrences in the world outside of his body. The fight, their flight from the Mang village, the battle of spirits for his life, the pursuit that they could see in the distance. Through all of this, Perkar felt steadily stronger. Without a supernatural entity to battle, Harka was healing him at the usual rapid pace. By the end of her story, Perkar was ready to try riding.

“Good,” Hezhi said. “Ngangata says we will be harder to track without the travois.”

“Probably. A travois leaves pretty deep and unmistakable prints. Even a hard rain might leave traces. How hard did it rain?”

“Not hard enough.”

The party regarded him silently, nervously, as he placed one boot into T'esh's stirrup and then heaved his belly onto the stallion's back. Grunting, he pulled his other leg over.

They resumed, and though he felt faintly dizzy and still very weak, Perkar was able to stay in the saddle for the rest of the day, refining his questions as they went along.

THAT afternoon they entered a hillier country, and their path tended generally to be upward as the land itself rose away from the lower steppe. In the distance, the mountains ceased to be faint purple clouds and had become worlds unto themselves, with forests, deserts, snowfields—close, it seemed, yet still far away and above them, it made Perkar feel easier, more at home, and a sudden realization struck him.

“Hezhi, where are we going? Other than fleeing from pursuit?”

“We are going to the mountain,” she stated, simply.

“The mountain.” There it was, lurking. He had been so concerned with the events during his days of forgetfulness that he had not put the days before it into perspective. Though he had not forgotten it, he had delayed thinking about his meeting with Karak—or the Blackgod, or whatever the fickle deity insisted on being called. Karak had told him to make certain that Hezhi reached the mountain.

“Why? Who made that decision?” he asked.

Hezhi pursed her lips. “You don't remember telling me to go there?”

“No.”

“Was it just your madness then? Did the Raven not instruct you to escort me to the mountain?”

Perkar felt a wave of irritation. “Did Ngangata tell you that?”

Hezhi frowned further, and her voice frosted a bit. “No. He told me that you spoke with the Blackgod, but he knew little of the substance of what you said to each other.”

Perkar took a deep breath, using it to cool his growing angst. What was upsetting him? “I'm sorry, Hezhi,” he said. “What I told you—though I don't remember telling it—is true. Karak says we are to go to the mountain in the heart of Balat.”

“He told me the same thing.”

“You spoke with Karak? Where?”

Hezhi couldn't suppress a grin when she answered.

“Another story I need to hear,” Perkar said, dazed. He felt as if he had awakened sliding down the slick side of a mountain of ice with only one foot under him. After the meeting with Karak, he thought he knew what to do, but the world had moved on without him as he lay among the dead.

“After,” Hezhi insisted a bit forcefully. “First you tell me: why must we go to the mountain?”

If she had spoken to Karak, why hadn't the Crow God told her that! Perkar brushed at T'esh's mane thoughtfully. She deserved to know. Particularly she deserved to know after saving his life from the Breath Feasting. But his people—possibly his father and his brother—were dead and dying. It was his fault, and he must weigh that into all of his decisions. Piraku insisted that he put the higher cause first. At least, he thought it did.