Rumbling their irritation, the huge, ungainly beasts turned west, drifting towards the pass.
Craig searched out another, larger group and turned it, too. Then another. Another.
Across the hills, Zenaor's column was creeping closer. Sweat rilled down Craig's back. He crowded his growing herd of djevoda harder.
The beasts were angry now—bellowing their rage through the stillness of the night; lunging at him, tusks high, when he swept too close.
If he should slip or fall—! He shuddered.
Then the first of the creatures began to funnel into the mouth of the pass. Craig raced his saucer back, moving up others to press in behind the leaders.
Now, again, the clanking of Zenaor's carriers drifted to Craig. He maneuvered his disc in a tight spiral—climbing, climbing.
The grasslands fell away below him. The range spread out like a problem in tactics set on a sand table: here were the djevoda, straggling into the pass. Beyond the hills, Zenaor's column twisted towards them, snake-like, as if hastening to join battle.
Already, the lead vehicles were swinging south into the rift.
Craig plummeted down ahead of the first djevoda.