It was a good weapon, better than the flint-tipped stick
with which the boy N'Chaka had hunted the giant lizard of the rocks.

His body curved into a half crouch. He voiced one cry, the challenging
scream of a predatory killer, and went in among the men.

He did slaughter with that spear. They were not expecting attack. They
were not expecting anything. Stark had sprung to life too quickly. And
they were afraid of him. He could smell the fear on them. Fear not of a
man like themselves, but of a creature less and more than man.

He killed, and was happy.

They fell away from him, the wild riders of Mekh. They were sure now
that he was a demon. He raged among them with the bright spear, and they
heard again that sound that should not have come from a human throat,
and their superstitious terror rose and sent them scrambling out of his
path, trampling on each other in childish panic.

He broke through, and now there was nothing between him and escape but
two mounted men who guarded the herd.

Being mounted, they had more courage. They felt that even a warlock
could not stand against their charge. They came at him as he ran, the
padded feet of their beasts making a muffled drumming in the snow.

Without breaking stride, Stark hurled his spear.

* * * * *

It drove through one man's body and tumbled him off, so that he fell
under his comrade's mount and fouled its legs. It staggered and reared
up, hissing, and Stark fled on.

Once he glanced over his shoulder. Through the milling, shouting crowd
of men he glimpsed a dark, mailed figure with a winged mask, going
through the ruck with a loping stride and bearing a sable axe raised
high for the throwing.

Stark was close to the herd now. And they caught his scent.

The Norland brutes had never liked the smell of him, and now the reek of
blood upon him was enough in itself to set them wild. They began to hiss
and snarl uneasily, rubbing their reptilian flanks together as they
wheeled around, staring at him with lambent eyes.

He rushed them, before they should quite decide to break. He was quick
enough to catch one by the fleshy comb that served it for a forelock,
held it with savage indifference to its squealing, and leaped to its
back. Then he let it bolt, and as he rode it he yelled, a shrill brute
cry that urged the creatures on to panic.

The herd broke, stampeding outward from its center like a bursting
shell.

Stark was in