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formal armor, though
Buncan noted an abundance of spiked leg-pieces and wristbands.
Taken in toto they were an altogether disagreeable-looking lot. It was clear
they were not out haunting the Moors in search of a casual day s stroll. By
the same token, it was difficult to countenance the possibility that they
actually lived there, though their appearance suggested a condition and
lifestyle even the Moors would be hard-pressed to worsen.
Advancing around the team, the lead hound finally halted to confront the
wagon s occupants. As he looked them slowly up and down, Buncan could see the
play of muscles across the broad chest and thickly bunched upper arms. As it
stared it methodically slapped the heavy blade of its curved sword against an
open palm.
We don t get many travelers out here in the Moors. The voice was a rough,
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curdled growl, the words crumbling against the heavy palate like gravel in a
crusher.
Not enough, quipped one of the others. Low, ominous laughter came from the
rest of the band, which by now had completely surrounded the wagon.
Where are you headed? inquired the leader.
To the northwest. Gragelouth kept his eyes down, avoiding the hound s
burning gaze, the reins of his team clutched tightly in his thick, furry
fingers.
That s not very informative. Where to the northwest?
Does it matter?
No, I suppose not.
Buncan leaned forward. We ve come a long way and have a lot farther to go. If
you re bandits, say so now and we ll give you our money. Gragelouth turned
sharply to his youthful companion, his pupils widening.
Can t step anywhere these days without avin to scrape scum off your feet,
Squill muttered.
The hound glared up at him. What was that?
Squill smiled pleasantly. I said that it were and to get around these days.
The hound s intensity diminished, but only slightly. It certainly is if your
destination brings you through the Moors. None come this way who can go
otherwise.
To go completely around the Moors would have taken too much time, Gragelouth
mumbled deferentially.
And yet there are many dangers here. Apparently the leader was in a
conversational mood.
A hound with a mottled black-and-brown visage edged nearer. A grisly scar ran
from the top of his skull down across his face and clear around to the back of
his neck. Its pattern and angle suggested a botched attempt at decapitation.
More dangers than you can imagine, he grunted.
Time is important to us, Gragelouth replied lamely.
We won t delay you long. The leader grinned hideously. Just hand over
everything you own.
Gragelouth swallowed, looking resigned. I have some money . . .
Oti, we don t just want your money, the hound explained. We ll take your
personal effects, too, and your weapons, and your clothes. And I ll personally
have that interesting-looking musical device there. A clawed finger singled
out Duncan s duar. Also your wagon and team.
Don t tell me you need to get somewhere in a hurry, too, muttered Neena.
Not at all. The hound stroked the flank of the nearest dray lizard. It bore
the caress
complacently. But these look quite savory. You know, there s not a lot for a
carnivore to dine on out here in the Moors, and we prefer to avoid the cities.
For some mysterious reason town dwellers are shocked by our attitudes and
appearance.
Several of the hounds within hearing range chuckled unpleasantly.
In fact, the creature continued remorselessly, his eyes burning into
Buncan s own, you look quite edible yourselves.
Oi, Neena husked under her breath, we ve fallen in among a lot of bloody
cannibals!
And just what is a cannibal, my fuzzy little bars d oeuvre? the hound
challenged her. A term charged with all manner of absurdly sensationalist
undertones. There was a time in the far distant past when it was the natural
order of things for those with warm blood to devour omen of land. Meat is
meat. We who are forced to dwell in the dank depths of the Moors cannot afford
to discriminate. Where consumption is concerned we are wholly democratic:
We ll eat anyone. He was still smiling.
So we ll have everything you own, and we ll have you as well. He glanced
toward the strings of utensils dangling from the rear and sides of the wagon.
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It was thoughtful of you to provide the means for your own preparation. At
least you will expire in familiar surroundings.
We won t go without a fight! Squill rose sharply behind the driver s bench,
an arrow notched in his bow. Neena rose beside him, similarly prepared.
Oh my, oh dear. The hound tut-tutted as he took a step backward. His
companions chortled darkly. The terror! The fear! Can it be we are
surprised? He caressed the heavy curved blade of his sword. All of us
against three cubs and an old sloth? How ever will we survive? One trifle
before we begin, though. I ask the names of those who would provide
entertainment before dinner.
I m Squill, son o Mudge. This ere s me sister Neena. That s Mudge the
Traveler, Mudge the Conqueror, Mudge the AU-Revengin to you.
Never heard of bun, the hound responded briskly.
It was Buncan s turn. I m Buncan Ottermusk Meriweather. Son of the greatest
spellsinger in all of time and space, Jonathan Thomas Meriweather.
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