Book 1 - The Silver spike by Glen Cook Page A

enmity of the tree god
was just an annoyance, the whine of a mosquito.
    But after the kill . . . Oh, after the
kill!
     
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XXIII
    Smeds said, “There’s something wrong.”
    “I’m beginning to get your drift,” Tully said.
“You think there’s something wrong.” Smeds had
said so five times. “So does Timmy.” Timmy had agreed
with Smeds three or four times.
    “They’re right,” Fish said, venturing an
opinion for the first time. “There should be more industry.
Carts on the road. Hunters and trappers.” They were out of
the Great Forest but had not yet reached cultivated country. In
these parts the tide of civilization was on the ebb.
    “Look there,” Timmy said. He pointed, winced. His
hand still hurt him.
    A burnt-out cottage lay a little off the road. Smeds recalled
pigs and sheep and wisecracks about the smell when they had been
headed north. There was no smell now. Fish lengthened his stride,
going to investigate. Smeds kept up with him.
    It was grisly, though the disaster lay far enough in the past
that the site was no longer as gruesome as it had been. The bones
bothered Smeds the most. There were thousands, scattered, broken,
gnawed, mixed.
    Fish examined them in silence, moving around slowly, stirring
them with the tip of his staff. After a while he stopped, leaned on
his staff, stared down. Smeds moved no closer. He had a feeling he
did not want to see what Fish saw.
    The old man settled onto his haunches slowly, as though his own
bones ached. He caught hold of something, held it up for Smeds.
    A child’s skull. Its top had been smashed in.
    Smeds was no stranger to death, even violent death, and this was
old death for someone he’d never known. It should have
bothered him no more than a rumor from the past. But his stomach
tightened and his heartbeat quickened. He felt a surge of anger and
unfixed hatred.
    “Even the babies?” he muttered. “They even
murdered the babies?”
    Fish grunted.
    Tully and Timmy arrived. Tully looked bored. The only death that
concerned him was the one awaiting him personally. Timmy looked
unhappy, though. He said, “They killed the animals, too. That
doesn’t make sense. What were they after?”
    Fish muttered, “They killed for the sake of the blood. For
the pleasure of the deed, the joy in the power to destroy. For the
pure meanness of it. We know too many like that already.”
    Smeds asked, “You think it was the same bunch that killed
everybody back up there?”
    “Seems likely, don’t it?”
    “Yeah.”
    Tully grumbled, “We going to hang around here all day? Or
are we going to get hiking? Smeds, you decided you like it out here
with the bugs and furry little things? Me, I want to get back and
start enjoying life.”
    Smeds thought about wine and girls and the scarcity of both in
the Great Forest. “You got a point, Tully. Even if five
minutes ain’t going to make any difference.”
    Fish said, “I wouldn’t go living too high too
sudden, boys. Might set some folks to wondering how you got it and
maybe some hard guys to figuring how to get it away from
you.”
    “Shit,” Tully grumbled. “Quit your damned
preaching. And maybe give me credit for a little sense.”
    He and Fish went off, Tully grousing and Fish listening
unperturbed, with a patience Smeds found astounding. He was ready
to strangle Tully himself. Once they hit the city he didn’t
want to see his cousin for a month. Or longer.
    “How’s the hand, Timmy?”
    “Don’t seem like it’s getting any better. I
don’t know about burns. You? My skin’s got black spots
where it was the worst.”
    “I don’t know. I saw a guy once burned so it looked
like charcoal.” Smeds hunched up a little, imagining the heat
of the spike in his pack burning between his shoulder blades.
“We get to town, you go see a doc or a wizard. Don’t
fool around. Hear?”
    “You kidding? The way this hurts? I’d run if I
didn’t have to carry this damned pack.”
    The road was festooned