"Don't pray to things that don't exist. It's a waste of time," Monroe said. And then he was leaping from carriage rails to cobbled street - or, more accurately, soaring over the cobbled street - and was, to all intents and purposes, gone.

Had Amaranth been of a more sprightly mood, she might have retorted with some semblence of wit and humour: "But the gods are convenient like that!"; something of that nature. But between the carriage, the dog, and the screams from below, Amaranth had no time for words, much less wit. Her terror had drained her of everything outside of fear's suffocating grasp.

She crouched on the carriage roof like a wild animal frozen before the predator, and from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the smartly dressed young man drawing level with the carriage. He wrenched at a sword belted to his waist - one buckled into an obscenly ornate scabbard, and one that would not come loose for all his struggle. He barked something at her. The wind tearing past Amaranth's ears made off with his words, but she heard his tone, the command in them; she saw how he gestured at the interior of the carriage. And then he was falling back, still yanking at his trapped sword.

Amaranth tried to glance over her shoulder, to see how Monroe was coming along, but the wind in her eyes blinded her. She dropped to her stomach and gripped the rails, dragged herself to the edge of the carriage.

All the wind in the world could not muffle the screams from inside. Amaranth grasped what handholds were available and eased herself over the edge, far enough that she could see the window, the women behind the glass. The older woman was clasping the little girl like a frightened child grasps her doll, and the Lady Jaget's face was pale, her eyes wide and white; her lips moved in what Amaranth wagered was a prayer. The fourth woman was gripping her bundled skirts, her face frozen. She alone was not screaming

Amaranth's duty - the duty for which the Jagets had promised gold - flashed through her mind, challenging her once all-consuming terror of the dog. She crept further over the edge, hooking her feet over a rail to steady herself. She raised a fist, leant as far as she dared, and knocked on the window.

The Lady Jaget saw her first, and she stopped her praying when Amaranth knocked. The old woman and the little girl flinched, but the fourth woman only clasped her skirts tighter and gave Amaranth a haggard look.

"Ye can stop yaer screaming; everythin's tae be fine an' good!" Amaranth mouthed.

Their response was one of blank staring.

"Really!" Amaranth said, though she doubted they stared because they were merely astonished.

It occured to her that she might convey her reassurances by way of glamour, that she might show the four visions of Monroe slaying the dog in a glorious wave of blood, of Monroe rejoining their little group followed by their smiling menfolk on horseback, of the town sliding away in the distance as the carriage bore its occupants toward into freedom, and perhaps a vision of this dictatress Mesulaine falling to her death from a high tower. She of course could not predict how they would take the visions - how would a person take phantom images in the middle of a traumatic situation? Not very well, Amaranth thought, ruefully. Content despite.

But it seemed crude to leave the four in mortal terror, and besides, she could only guess at their reactions; where was the harm in trying? "Pretend," she mouthed at them, "the dog is dead, and ye aren't bein' chased anymore. Don't you see it?"

She began to drag from the depths of her memory an image of a dead hound dog, foam on its mouth, legs twisted and disarrayed, fur sticky with blood gone black. Her body twitched, rebelling against the image. She clung grimly to it with all her mental strength.

The Lady Jaget saw the illusion first, unfolding against one of the windows like a picture in between the sheets of a slowly opening book. Her eyes grew wide, and she looked up, frantically, at Amaranth; she shook her head, mouthing the words, "No no no--" Amaranth could not make out the rest.

"What's wrong?" she shouted.

You cannot kill it. You CANNOT kill it. It will not--it is not--

"What?"

BANG!

Amaranth started, as from down the road, a gunshot sang out like an angel. She grinned into the horrified face of Lady Jaget; she mouthed, "It's dead! It's dead! It's dead!"

It took her some time and some manuevering to swing herself back onto the carriage roof, and she saw Monroe and the two Jaget men streaking toward them when she had finally straightened. Monroe leaped from the back of his horse and onto the carriage roof; Amaranth clapped her hands and exclaimed, "Ye shot it?" But of course he had shot it, she only wanted to hear him say it, and know the danger was passed from that quarter. "Monroe, did ye--"

A howl broke through her exclamation, and her words went from question to obscenity and finally into shocked silence. She looked over her shoulder - she hoped, perhaps, she was going mad - she saw the black dog.

It stalked this way, that way; it threw back its head and howled.

"It's called them!" the young Jaget screamed, pointing ahead.

They had been nearing the road out of the city, bouncing less; the cobblestone had given way to bare earth, the shops of the marketplace into low-roofed houses. The road was wide; three carriages might have traveled abreast. Amaranth marked the road before she saw the line of dogs pouring onto it, but she fixed upon them quickly enough. There were six, long and lean and black as the first. All six faced the approaching carriage.

"****," Amaranth breathed.

There were times when even the gods were not enough.

OoC: Amaranth will actually do something useful next post, I swear! xD