Quizlivan might have been the fastest human in his tribe, but the wolf was faster. He moved through the snow, not over it, and therefore had no fear about sinking past where he already was. He had his canine speed, but Quizlivan had his primate grip and flexibility. He clung to the wolf for dear life as they raced through the trees, glanced behind him to see the rest of the pack, no longer hidden, no longer quiet. The rest of their group waited outside the treeline.

It was the same plan; a human plan. Isolate one dragon and drive it away from the tribe. Cut it off from support and scare it so badly it would panic. Panic in a large, lumbering monster was dangerous, but not as dangerous as a pack of ravenous humans.

Quizlivan was alone with the wolves, but he would not be for long. He glanced up at the trees they sped past and thought of the others waiting near the end of the forest. There was no camouflage now against the snow, but humans were excellent climbers. They were almost as fast in the trees as they were on the ground, and they were arguably the fastest and most flexible of the primates.

He did not have time to prepare before they were upon the pack. He never did. Intelligence happened before the hunt; during he would rely on quick wit and instinct.

He screamed, and the wolves howled with him. The mountains around them echoed their cries and amplified them, and the humans in the trees screamed back.

The dragons took notice.

They were not as huge as they once were, when they were well-fed, but a single specimen would keep the pack fed a long time.

Their target was one of the thinnest, on the outer ring of the pack; it was hungry, but it was young and far more healthy than the creatures they normally pursued. Quizlivan had to hope that the pack would let it go to escape, that they would not protect it.

But the cries of the dragons joined their own, and when Quizlivan heard the queen let out a trumpeting call, he feared the worst.

This grove of trees may be the last bit of green left in the mountains. The dragons would not let it go without a fight.

Quizlivan hunkered down closer to the wolf’s back and leaned into the brittle fur.

“They’re not running!” The wolf said.

“Just get me close to it,” Quizlivan shouted, “It’ll run. They always run.”

The scene sped by too quickly for him to collect his bearings as the wolf raced with the others past the huge creatures, darting between legs and avoiding sweeping tails. The lack of a stampede was a completely different hunt, but as Quizlivan tried to make sense of the battlefield, he realized something important.

None of the dragons had tried to blow them away. None of them had been willing to use their most dangerous weapon, the icy breath they normally blew that was as fierce as a tornado, that would knock a human back, along with anything next to them.

They didn’t want to hurt each other.

And they didn’t want to uproot the trees.

“Get me close to it!” Quizlivan demanded again, “The one we talked about!”

“I’m trying,” the wolf snarled, and Quizlivan looked up.

“It’s dark,” Quizlivan said, “It’s still dark. It’s been so dark for so long… they can’t see us.”

“Can you see them?” The wolf asked.

“I’ve seen better,” Quizlivan let go of the wolf’s mane and stood tall on its back.

“Here we are, human!” the wolf screamed and Quizlivan lept.

He landed hard on the creatures scales, but he was so small they did not damage him; they presented convenient handholds.

“Run motherfucker,” Quizlivan muttered as he began to move sideways. The dragon could not swing it’s lumbering tail upward to reach him and he was heading for the haunches. It could not move with any real force inside the forest, and could not possibly have seen what had attacked it.

It knew it had something moving along its side, and several times tried to knock whatever the itchy annoyance was off by slamming into trees, but humans had lived in the trees, had sprang forth from them, and they were made for climbing and clinging. Quizlivan held his ground and made his way toward the haunches to the sounds of the wolves, no longer howling but scampering below them, nipping, biting, and moving away with much more dexterity than the giant creatures could summon.

Quizlivan reached his goal and clung tenaciously with one hand while he used the other to pry away a scale. It came away with a sickening wet noise and Quizlivan threw it to the ground to repeat the process.

The dragon screamed and thrashed, and Quizlivan was forced to abandon his task to reach for the dagger at his hip, carved of stone and not strong enough to pierce the armor of the dragon, but certainly strong enough to pierce its flesh. He held on as he buried it in the dragon’s haunch and tugged.

He would not kill it this way, likely could not carve out enough meat to make a meal for himself.

But he could make it panic.

And it ran.

The dragon took off at a sprint in the direction it had been facing, toward the treeline, toward the rest of Quizlivan’s tribe, and he huddled under his fur as he felt the branches of the trees tearing at it. He hoped the hides were strong enough to protect him, but he could not stay on the creature for long; there was a real possibility that in the end, he would be crushed to death.

So he turned, and he leapt. He could not see where he was going, but he trusted his abilities as a human in a forest enough to believe that he would land somewhere.

The branch he hit was not strong enough to hold him and he went tumbling past one, then another, rolling through the treetop until he came to older, more sturdy branches. He righted himself and assessed his body. He was sore, bleeding a little, and colder than he would like, but he thought his skeleton was mostly intact.

From his new position he watched the dragon thrashing and running blindly in a panic, and the very thing he had hoped would not happen happened.

The other dragons took notice, felt the fear of their comrade, and began to run after it.

Quizlivan cursed and began to leap from branch to branch after them, but he knew he could not beat them to the treeline.

The humans near the exit pulled the rope they had made taunt from their position in the trees, and the injured dragon hit it right at the knees and went down.

“Move!” Quizlivan tried to yell, “Move! Get out of the way! Stampede!”

Even if they heard him, there was no way those in the front, those who were prepared to slit the creature’s throat when it fell, would hear him. They would be directly in the herd’s path.

“Please!” Quizlivan shrieked, “Move!”

He doubted they could have heard him over the thunderous sound of the dragons even if he had been standing next to them.

His tribe!

His family!

“Get up, Xaxac,” Lee said as he shook him, “I know you’re still wore out from shiftin, but you can’t sleep all day. It’s lunch time and I’m supposed to feed you.”

Xaxac blinked awareness into himself and stared up at the sixty flowers on the ceiling. He slowly sat up and took in his gorgeous, decadent surroundings. He turned, positioned his body so that he could look out the windows at the fields, the people working there on the harvest, and the slave quarters beyond, all in the crisp autumnal air that would soon turn to snow.

“Lee, please,” he begged, “Please… where’s everybody at?”