couldn’t think of anything else to do or
anywhere else to go.
I glanced back again. Jorken was for sure right. New players had
come onto the pitch for the Shayir. A woman on unicorn back, not
wearing much but showing muscle tone on muscle tone, probably six
and a half feet talk, dark as eggplant, iron helmet with a crescent
moon up top, herself festooned with weapons and stuff. Ropes. Nets.
A falcon. Dogs cavorting around her steed’s legs, critters
that looked like half wolf and half whippet and were maybe big
enough for dwarves to ride.
Well. Your basic huntress goddess. Probably with a list of nasty
quirks, like most of the older deities. Ate her firstborn, or
whatever.
Amidst the barking and yelping and galloping another form stood
out, something like a haystack of black cloth with tails
fluttering, dripping an occasional wisp of dark smoke, more
floating than running. I saw no limbs, nor any face, but when I
looked directly at it I staggered. A voice thundered inside my
head.
Nog is inescapable.
The voice was like the Dead
Man’s, only with mental bad breath.
Jorken showed up again. He seemed exasperated by my lack of
progress. “Follow me.” He started to pull away but did
keep it down to a mortal pace. The crowd parted for him without
seeing him. I zipped along in his wake, making much better
time.
The effort only delayed the inevitable.
----
20
The huntress wasn’t thirty yards behind me when I fled the
north side of the square. The voice in my head told me,
Nog is
inescapable.
The black thing fluttered and flapped amidst the
hounds. It seemed bemused by my attempt to get away.
I ducked around a corner and into a narrow breezeway, readying
my magic cord as I went. Jorken didn’t like that. He shook
his head violently, snapped, “Don’t!”
I popped into my sack of invisibility anyway and kept moving
through the breezeway. There wasn’t much light back there,
but enough for me to see the huntress and her pets race past the
breezeway. I chuckled. “There, Winghead.” But Jorken
had taken a fast hike, last laugh choking him.
The bundle of black appeared, hesitated, drifted into the
breezeway behind me. The horsewoman returned. Her four-legged pals
climbed over one another, trying to sniff out a trail that
wasn’t there. But everybody trusted Nog’s nose. Or
ears. Or whatever.
I kept humping that sack but never got out the other end of the
breezeway. I was trying to slide into the cavity at someone’s
back door, without making a racket, when Nog caught up. I heard a
slithering snakes sort of sound, like reptilian scales running over
scales. Something like black worms, nightcrawler size, began oozing
into the sack through the little hole left by the knot when I had
closed up. The voice in my head reminded me,
Nog is
inescapable.
Old Nog knew his limitations.
Old Nog smelled pretty damned bad. I didn’t get a chance
to offer him any man-to-man advice on personal hygiene. Paralysis
overtook me. I felt like a stroke victim. I was fully aware, but I
couldn’t do anything. Nog slipped back out the hole, content
to leave me in the sack. I saw nothing that looked like hands or
arms, but he took hold anyhow and dragged me back into the street,
to the huntress. She leaned down, felt around, grabbed hold of my
arm, hoisted me like I was a doll. She flipped me down across the
shoulders of her mount. She let out an earsplitting shriek of
triumph, hauled back on her reins. Her unicorn reared, pounded the
air with huge hooves, then we were off at a gallop, hounds larking
around the great white beast’s pounding hooves, Nog the
Inescapable floating alongside. Owls passed overhead, still fleeing
the crows but finding a moment to send down hoots of
congratulations. The huntress laid a silver-tipped arrow across her
dark bow—weapon and shaft both just materialized in her
hands. She sped the arrow. A monster crow became an explosion of
black feathers. The missile flew on through, took a big turn, came
back
anywhere else to go.
I glanced back again. Jorken was for sure right. New players had
come onto the pitch for the Shayir. A woman on unicorn back, not
wearing much but showing muscle tone on muscle tone, probably six
and a half feet talk, dark as eggplant, iron helmet with a crescent
moon up top, herself festooned with weapons and stuff. Ropes. Nets.
A falcon. Dogs cavorting around her steed’s legs, critters
that looked like half wolf and half whippet and were maybe big
enough for dwarves to ride.
Well. Your basic huntress goddess. Probably with a list of nasty
quirks, like most of the older deities. Ate her firstborn, or
whatever.
Amidst the barking and yelping and galloping another form stood
out, something like a haystack of black cloth with tails
fluttering, dripping an occasional wisp of dark smoke, more
floating than running. I saw no limbs, nor any face, but when I
looked directly at it I staggered. A voice thundered inside my
head.
Nog is inescapable.
The voice was like the Dead
Man’s, only with mental bad breath.
Jorken showed up again. He seemed exasperated by my lack of
progress. “Follow me.” He started to pull away but did
keep it down to a mortal pace. The crowd parted for him without
seeing him. I zipped along in his wake, making much better
time.
The effort only delayed the inevitable.
----
20
The huntress wasn’t thirty yards behind me when I fled the
north side of the square. The voice in my head told me,
Nog is
inescapable.
The black thing fluttered and flapped amidst the
hounds. It seemed bemused by my attempt to get away.
I ducked around a corner and into a narrow breezeway, readying
my magic cord as I went. Jorken didn’t like that. He shook
his head violently, snapped, “Don’t!”
I popped into my sack of invisibility anyway and kept moving
through the breezeway. There wasn’t much light back there,
but enough for me to see the huntress and her pets race past the
breezeway. I chuckled. “There, Winghead.” But Jorken
had taken a fast hike, last laugh choking him.
The bundle of black appeared, hesitated, drifted into the
breezeway behind me. The horsewoman returned. Her four-legged pals
climbed over one another, trying to sniff out a trail that
wasn’t there. But everybody trusted Nog’s nose. Or
ears. Or whatever.
I kept humping that sack but never got out the other end of the
breezeway. I was trying to slide into the cavity at someone’s
back door, without making a racket, when Nog caught up. I heard a
slithering snakes sort of sound, like reptilian scales running over
scales. Something like black worms, nightcrawler size, began oozing
into the sack through the little hole left by the knot when I had
closed up. The voice in my head reminded me,
Nog is
inescapable.
Old Nog knew his limitations.
Old Nog smelled pretty damned bad. I didn’t get a chance
to offer him any man-to-man advice on personal hygiene. Paralysis
overtook me. I felt like a stroke victim. I was fully aware, but I
couldn’t do anything. Nog slipped back out the hole, content
to leave me in the sack. I saw nothing that looked like hands or
arms, but he took hold anyhow and dragged me back into the street,
to the huntress. She leaned down, felt around, grabbed hold of my
arm, hoisted me like I was a doll. She flipped me down across the
shoulders of her mount. She let out an earsplitting shriek of
triumph, hauled back on her reins. Her unicorn reared, pounded the
air with huge hooves, then we were off at a gallop, hounds larking
around the great white beast’s pounding hooves, Nog the
Inescapable floating alongside. Owls passed overhead, still fleeing
the crows but finding a moment to send down hoots of
congratulations. The huntress laid a silver-tipped arrow across her
dark bow—weapon and shaft both just materialized in her
hands. She sped the arrow. A monster crow became an explosion of
black feathers. The missile flew on through, took a big turn, came
back
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