His mount strained to the task. Clawing through broken stone, around boulders, up a dozen near-sheer rock faces, it matched the pace of the beetles as they hurried along the infinitely smoother road that was the valley. Then, slowly, it began to pull ahead. Rear guard, main group, scouts—one after another, they were lost to the blue man's view as the great dragon surged to the fore.
The last rise loomed. Haral pressed the hwalon up it.
A moment later, they were plunging perilously down the steep wall of the left spur.
At the bottom, Haral wheeled the dragon to the right, back towards the spot where the two spurs came together. Riding swiftly to its mouth, he took up a position in a side crevice where boulders permitted him a view of the valley's main course, while at the same time screening him from the view of the coleoptera.
A rattle of stones, the rustle of wing-sheaths, warned him of the beetles' approach. Seconds later, the two advance scouts came into view.
Haral sat statue-still in the hwalon's saddle. He shifted his grip closer to his lance's trigger.
The scouts came abreast his hiding-place, so close he could catch their smell and see their ray-tubes' glitter. He held his breath.
Then they passed on. Haral let out air.
Mandibles clacking like deadly castinets, the outriders moved up.