Dorjan howled in pain, his face and body contorting and fading to vapors and smoke. Snarling, he crushed the terrified nipper in his translucent claws and yellow goo oozed through his fist as the nipper burst open. “You didn’t have to hurt me!” he snarled, tossing the crushed little body into his mouth like a bite of fruit.
Gnashing his teeth, Dorjan crunched the nipper’s bones and glared at his finger. Red black blood welled from a pinprick of a bite. He held his long, vaporous hand over the levitating skull and waited for a single drop to fall hissing into the brain bowl. He leaned over to look at it, grinning, as the drop grew and expanded into a small puddle.
“Take this to the nursery. I expect to have it full when I’m ready.” Dorjan stood over the little girl and grinned a smoky smile as the burbling metallic blood in her belly started to solidify and her flesh crumbled into dust.
Anguir nodded and retrieved the skull, shuffling away. Behind him, the thing that was Dorjan chuckled and floated amongst the still breathing people staked to the cave floor.
Belendin sat up, holding his head as the shed seemed to do a slow flip. He ached all over and tottered as he rose to his feet. He staggered to his corner and tried to pee, but a hot, dark trickle barely dribbled out.
“Oh blime,” he said, stumbling back to his sitting spot. He slumped to the floor and panted for a few moments, staring at the grimy lump of cheese.
He reached out and grasped it without much enthusiasm. It had dried considerably, now more like clay than cheese, and his stomach grumbled as he brushed off the loosest dirt. Breaking it into chunks, he ate the cheese, dirt and all, forcing the dry paste down his throat. He considered saving half, but, before he knew what had happened, it was all gone.
The monster in his stomach appeased for the moment, he leaned against the rough wood wall and tried not to cry. Not that I can cry, he thought. He sighed and closed his aching eyes. The day felt hot already, even though it was still morning, and he wondered how much worse his predicament could get.
On the road, Welldin
Lars watched the brambles along the edge of the muddy road as they hurried southward. They had left the good roads of Haenpar perhaps a bell before and entered the unkempt wilderness of western Welldin. No one spoke and all had one hand resting on the hilts of their swords as they rode. Other travelers and farm carts had essentially disappeared.
A group of three men on thin mules turned onto the road from a trail a few furlongs ahead, the first people they had seen since leaving Haenpar. Shabbily dressed and nervously mannered, they rode quickly away with barely a glance even though Otlee had offered a friendly nod.
Once the three men had ridden around a bend, Serian asked, “Bandits?”
“Maybe,” Lars said. “But there are five of us, three of them. The odds aren’t in their favor.”
“Unless more are up ahead.” Trumble squinted into the brush alongside the road and reached back to pull his bow from the bundle tied to his saddle. “Maybe we’d better speed up. I think I saw something move in there.”
“Maybe they were just in a hurry,” Otlee said, stretching. “Not every poor person is out to rob you.”
Serian spat on the road. “Everyone knows Welldin is full of cobbles and thieves.”
“I do not like this stretch of road,” Moergan muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. The morning had grown hot and sticky even though the seasons had barely changed toward spring, and skeletal branches of the trees and briars spouted tiny tufts of green. Scraggly elm, mulberry and hawthorn encroached the road, reaching and scratching at the riders while the silence of the forest loomed massive and dark. A hawk called from the distance, a lonely wailing cry, and the boys gripped the reins tighter.
All except Otlee. He eased Sov to a stop and slid from the saddle, pulling his dagger.
“What the—” Lars said.
“I think I saw something,” Otlee said, pushing his way into the brush.
Trumble strung his bow and heeled Eth to a stop, still scanning shadows within the trees and briars. “What did you see?”
Otlee didn’t answer.
Lars looked at Moergan who shrugged in reply. Serian snapped, “Diddy boy, if you get yourself in trouble don’t expect me to risk my neck saving your ass.”
“Maybe we should go get him,” Moergan offered, turning his horse around and sliding from the saddle. He tied Zelus to an overhanging sycamore branch and pulled his sword from his saddle scabbard.
Lars muttered a curse and dismounted as well. He had no more than led Gerald to a tree when a low painful bray came from the south. Only Trumble continued to watch the patch of brambles Otlee had disappeared into; the rest snapped their attention down the road.
“What is it?” Serian asked.
“Quiet!” Lars commanded. Squinting, he took a single step southward. Drifting on the wind he heard a curse and a clang of metal. “Otlee! Get your backside out here now! That’s an order!” He turned, snatched Gerald’s reins from the tree, and mounted.
Moergan glanced at Lars and asked, “What now?”
Gerald tossed his head as Lars turned him in the middle of the road. “Some sort of battle to the south.”
Otlee burst from the briars with dead leaves and twigs sticking to his hair and clothes. “You make enough noise to wake the dead,” he said. “Thank the Goddess I wasn’t trying to catch anything in there!
“You little shit, scaring us like that,” Moergan hissed, reaching for Zelus’ saddle. “Were you playing in the damned leaves?”
Lars pulled his sword and said, “Otlee, you stay back here. The rest of you, come with me!” Mud flinging behind them, the four galloped southward before Otlee could protest.
“Aw peg, cobbles,” Trumble muttered as they rounded the bend.
The three men on mules had been overwhelmed by the greenish-gray creatures. Only one man remained on his mule’s back. One fought on foot, and the third was nowhere to be seen. Two mules lay dead and cobbles swarmed across the width of the road. Trumble loosed an arrow, hitting a cobble in the chest, and it fell snarling to the ground.
With squashed, dog-like faces and grimy yellow teeth, cobbles stood hip-high to a grown man and were vaguely human in proportion. All wore filthy smocks or loin cloths and clutched spears and rusty short swords or daggers. Regarded as nuisance creatures in the southern and central provinces, cobbles were well known for their dietary preference for horse flesh, mules, or oxen. A score or more turned toward Lars’ group and grinned, running toward them.
“They want the horses!” Lars snarled, sliding from the saddle. Serian and Moergan dismounted as well and the three stomped forward.
Behind them, Trumble loosed another arrow and Lars felt its passing ruffle his hair. A cobble sprouted an arrow in its throat and fell dead. Past the cobbles, the last standing mule brayed and fell, spilling its rider to the ground where he screamed.
“Peg this crap,” Serian snarled, running forward, his sword slicing through the snarling obstacles. Lars and Moergan followed Serian. Spanning the road, the three hacked through the cobbles and allowed none to pass.
“Got a couple in the trees!” Trumble called.
Before Lars could turn he heard Otlee say, “I’ve got them!” Trusting Otlee to remain true to his word, Lars moved forward with Serian and Moergan.