Days of Blood and Fire - Katharine Kerr [120]
Late in the afternoon they reached what Garin called the “proper road,” narrow but banked and covered with sod, perfect footing for the mule and the men alike.
“This will get us home by tomorrow,” Garin remarked.
“Huh,” Otho snorted. “If we’re not snatched and carried off to the Otherlands by these misshapen louts that keep following us.”
Although he was only grumbling, his choice of words gave Rhodry pause. Until then, he’d been assuming that their enemies were doing what he would have in their situation—trying to kill them. He’d forgotten about that mysterious other country where beings like Evandar lived. They could travel back and forth with great ease, it seemed, judging from his one brief experience with it. What if they were after prisoners?
“You know,” Rhodry said. “I think we’d best march late, and stand watches again once we camp.”
Otho snarled a few words in Dwarvish.
“He’s right.” Garin spoke in Deverrian. “Hum. I wonder. If we had a bit of a rest now, could we do a forced march all night? The mule’s not carrying much, being as we’ve eaten most of the food.”
Everyone looked to Rhodry for an answer.
“I don’t know,” Rhodry said. “I’ve got a dread in my heart that marching at night could well be more dangerous than staying in one spot. We can all see in the dark, truly, but not all that far ahead. I’d hate to mistake the road.”
“Listen, elf-wit,” Otho snapped. “We’re on the home road now. We’re not going to be wandering off it—”
“You don’t understand. These creatures can cast dweomer on roads. You think you’re walking down one path only to find yourself on another, and heading somewhere you never wanted to go.”
“Oho!” Garin put in. “Makes me wonder about that whistle. I wouldn’t mind guessing that they were hoping we’d follow the sound, like, just to see what we could see.”
Rhodry shuddered, just an involuntary twitch.
“I wouldn’t mind agreeing with you. We’d best be good and careful from now on.”
“Sharp eyes, lads, and no leaving the road.” Garin looked at Mic and Otho in turn. “There’s a shelter not far ahead, and we’ll camp there.”
The shelter turned out to be a peaked roof of slates and beams, supported on stone pillars, over a wooden windbreak and floor. The pillars were amazingly slender for the weight they were bearing; Rhodry had to marvel at them, delicately carved in a vertical pattern of chained links, Garin noticed his interest.
“There’s iron bars inside them. That’s how they hold all that weight.”
“Interesting idea, that. You know, I was thinking. We’d best tether the mule close, in here if that’s possible. I don’t want it being chased away in the night and having Otho insist on chasing after.”
“Good thinking. Well do that.”
Although Rhodry drew the second watch, he was wakened long before by the sound of Mic yelling and the mule braying. Half-asleep as he was, he grabbed his sword rather than a knife and rolled free of his blankets. From nearby Otho and Garin were waking in a flood of Dwarvish curses. Rhodry got to his feet and rah down the length of the shelter to help Mic, who was hanging on to the panicked mule’s tether rope as the animal kicked and bucked, braying alt the while.
“I’ve got the mule,” Mic yelled. “Look outside!”
Circling round the shelter were misshapen beings, mostly human but never quite, dressed in bits of bronze armor and waving bronze knives—a jumble of human bodies or animal torsos on human legs, human heads, cat heads, dog faces, braided manes like the Horsekin, dwarven hands, elven hands, ears tike mules, fangs like snakes swirling round in a whirlpool of malice. At the sight of Rhodry they began to curse and shout in a babble of languages, but though they threatened, they never came closer. Rhodry was never far from going berserk, and as he listened to their insults something snapped in his mind. Half-dressed and barefoot though he was, he screamed out a battle cry and