Demontech: Onslaught by David Sherman

sprites can see well in low light.”
    Haft chewed on his lip, watching the light patch of foliage that indicated the bend in the road where they’d stopped. “Maybe you’re right,” he finally said. “A smart magician wouldn’t put a sprite here, he’d use a dryad, they can always see in the forest. So can some elves.” He looked at Spinner. “But why would a magician put a watch-sprite that can’t see in the dark in dark woods like this?”
    Spinner shrugged; he didn’t have a good answer. “Maybe the magician didn’t have a dryad or an elf. Maybe he had to use all he had in other places. Maybe he’s not concerned about anyone moving through the forest.” But he couldn’t think of a reason a magician wouldn’t concern himself with anyone approaching through the forest. After all, Lord Gunny had drummed into them the absolute need of watching every possible approach route.
    As if in answer to Spinner’s unspoken question, the cry of a giant cat boomed hollowly in the forest behind them. Suddenly he understood why a magician wouldn’t be concerned.
    They spun around, ready for battle, but nothing was in sight.
    “That sounded like it came from the deer crossing we used,” Haft said with an edge of uncertainty.
    Spinner agreed. He wasn’t sure either, but the deer crossing sounded right.
    “What do you think it is?” Haft asked.
    “A cat. I don’t know what kind.” Apianghia, where Spinner came from, was the home of many big cats; given the chance, some of those big cats ate people.
    Haft shuddered. It made sense to him that if Jokapcul forces were closing in on the border, someone might want to guard it with big cats. And someone who did that wouldn’t need watch-sprites in the forest.
    “I don’t think there’s a watch-sprite here,” Haft said.
    “Neither do I,” Spinner said.
    Maybe they did and maybe they didn’t think there was a watch-sprite there—or a dryad, or an elf. It no longer mattered—being spotted by a watch-sprite was less dangerous than getting caught by a big cat. They sprinted toward the yellow-dappled green.
    As they suspected, the road ran straight once it passed the bend where they had doubled back. At a distance greater than the range of their crossbows there was a gate. It wasn’t much of a gate, merely a hinged, counterbalanced bar across the road. The forest seemed to end there.
    A uniformed squad of Jokapcul wearing blue leather with metal reinforcing stood in rank facing the gate; probably the same squad that had passed them the day before. The Jokapcul cavalrymen held their swords with the points casually dipped toward the ground, but they looked ready—and willing—to fight.
    Immediately beyond the gate a dozen or more men milled about, mostly facing the Jokapcul, scowling and generally looking menacing. They were big men, standing head and shoulders above the Jokapcul they faced. They wore leather jerkins and boots and homespun trousers. Fur capes were draped across their shoulders. The only metal the Marines could make out was the blades of the men’s short swords, and banding on their horned helmets and round shields. They were speaking to one another, but Spinner and Haft could not make out any words. From somewhere out of sight came the clang of metal against metal; it sounded more like someone working with kitchen pots than the crossing of swords.
    “Must be Skraglanders,” Spinner said of the milling, furred men.
    “I think so too,” Haft said. “We’re at the border.”
    The feline cry sounded again behind them. Closer.
    “The Skraglanders might like our help in keeping those Jokapcul out,” Haft continued, with a nervous glance to his rear. “We should go and make the offer.”
    “But the Jokapcul are between them and us,” Spinner said. “We’d have to get through them to reach the Skraglanders.”
    Haft peered down the road. “I don’t see a wall.” He was right; the gate wasn’t set in a wall. All they could see was a small