the words weren't half out of her mouth before the forest floor greeted the falling pair in a terrific crash of dead, snapping branches, bouncing arms and legs, and crackling, whirling leaves. "Flaming feldrouking dung!" Juskra cursed. "Hold on, fat man!"
She and her complaining burden flashed over the tangle of dead trees that had greeted Dauntra and Iskarra, going too fast to land in it, and the wounded Aumrarr flung herself desperately over onto her side to avoid slamming face-first into a huge old gallart-top.
Through its side-branches she tore, Garfist kicking and cursing fervently in her wake, and found herself headed straight for another.
Juskra veered desperately, pulling her wings in tight, and slammed into two branches too stout to break. They sent her spinning, Garfist's snarled oaths rising into a fearful shout—and then, quite suddenly, they found themselves uprooting a sapling as they slid down its length to the ground.
Or rather, onto a little ridge of sharp rock that left them both groaning.
"Wingbitch," Garfist growled, inevitably finding his feet and his breath before the sobbing Juskra could, "did ye never learn any gentler sort of landing?"
"Fat man," she gasped back at him, still writhing on the rocks in pain, "go glork yourself." She spat out a sob that turned into a hiss, rocking back and forth in pain.
"Get up," he growled. "If ye can curse me that glibly, complete sentences an' all, ye're not sore hurt."
Juskra gave him a murderous glare. "No, but you soon will be!"
Leaving a chuckle behind, Garfist turned on his heel and lurched away, heading back to where light lancing through the trees marked the tangle of deadfalls Isk and Dauntra had crashed through.
He found them sitting together against the moss green trunk of a large and ancient gallart-top, clutching at themselves and wincing. Whipping branches had sliced more than a few cuts across their faces and ears, but they were as small as they were many.
"Anything badly broke?" Garfist greeted them cheerfully.
Two bent heads moved in rather weary unison to tell him "no."
"Need... to rest..." Dauntra gasped, not looking up.
"Aye," Garfist agreed sourly, feeling his own bruises and wincing— those rocks had been sharp, and trust Lady Icycurses Wingwench to find them, in all this muddy forest. "But why heref"
"Because it's near a spring," Juskra said sourly from behind him.
When he turned, she tapped his shoulder and then pointed at a glimmer of water racing past nearby. "Water," she explained brightly, as if to an idiot child. "Water. That we can drink."
Then she turned to Iskarra, who was wobbling to her feet, wincing, and asked despairingly, "Doesn't he think of anything besides stealing, eating, and rutting?"
"No," Iskarra replied crisply. "In our modest little army, thinking's my job."
THESE WERE PASSAGES he'd never seen before.
They were halls he could barely see now, in the fitful glows of the skeletons bobbling along so silently beside him. Still deep enough to be carved out of bedrock, but rising. As he walked, ringed about by his eerie escort—his captors, Rod reminded himself—he was ascending. He must be moving up into the hollowed-out innards of the hill on the far side of Malragard.
Or rather, the hill beside and beyond the exposed roots of the place, now that the tower had been toppled and roofs torn off the wings and buttresses. He wondered if the greatfangs had gone, or were perched on broken walls and high places around the ruins, like so many buzzards in a dead tree.
Then he started to fervently hope the skeletons weren't marching him up to where he'd find out. Probably by promptly serving as a meal to the nearest greatfangs.
Or would they share him, all tugging and tearing at different limbs with their teeth? Pulling him apart, arms and legs and his head...
Rod shuddered, quelled a sudden urge to be sick, and told himself angrily to worry about whatever crises he was facing, not imagine new ones for
She and her complaining burden flashed over the tangle of dead trees that had greeted Dauntra and Iskarra, going too fast to land in it, and the wounded Aumrarr flung herself desperately over onto her side to avoid slamming face-first into a huge old gallart-top.
Through its side-branches she tore, Garfist kicking and cursing fervently in her wake, and found herself headed straight for another.
Juskra veered desperately, pulling her wings in tight, and slammed into two branches too stout to break. They sent her spinning, Garfist's snarled oaths rising into a fearful shout—and then, quite suddenly, they found themselves uprooting a sapling as they slid down its length to the ground.
Or rather, onto a little ridge of sharp rock that left them both groaning.
"Wingbitch," Garfist growled, inevitably finding his feet and his breath before the sobbing Juskra could, "did ye never learn any gentler sort of landing?"
"Fat man," she gasped back at him, still writhing on the rocks in pain, "go glork yourself." She spat out a sob that turned into a hiss, rocking back and forth in pain.
"Get up," he growled. "If ye can curse me that glibly, complete sentences an' all, ye're not sore hurt."
Juskra gave him a murderous glare. "No, but you soon will be!"
Leaving a chuckle behind, Garfist turned on his heel and lurched away, heading back to where light lancing through the trees marked the tangle of deadfalls Isk and Dauntra had crashed through.
He found them sitting together against the moss green trunk of a large and ancient gallart-top, clutching at themselves and wincing. Whipping branches had sliced more than a few cuts across their faces and ears, but they were as small as they were many.
"Anything badly broke?" Garfist greeted them cheerfully.
Two bent heads moved in rather weary unison to tell him "no."
"Need... to rest..." Dauntra gasped, not looking up.
"Aye," Garfist agreed sourly, feeling his own bruises and wincing— those rocks had been sharp, and trust Lady Icycurses Wingwench to find them, in all this muddy forest. "But why heref"
"Because it's near a spring," Juskra said sourly from behind him.
When he turned, she tapped his shoulder and then pointed at a glimmer of water racing past nearby. "Water," she explained brightly, as if to an idiot child. "Water. That we can drink."
Then she turned to Iskarra, who was wobbling to her feet, wincing, and asked despairingly, "Doesn't he think of anything besides stealing, eating, and rutting?"
"No," Iskarra replied crisply. "In our modest little army, thinking's my job."
THESE WERE PASSAGES he'd never seen before.
They were halls he could barely see now, in the fitful glows of the skeletons bobbling along so silently beside him. Still deep enough to be carved out of bedrock, but rising. As he walked, ringed about by his eerie escort—his captors, Rod reminded himself—he was ascending. He must be moving up into the hollowed-out innards of the hill on the far side of Malragard.
Or rather, the hill beside and beyond the exposed roots of the place, now that the tower had been toppled and roofs torn off the wings and buttresses. He wondered if the greatfangs had gone, or were perched on broken walls and high places around the ruins, like so many buzzards in a dead tree.
Then he started to fervently hope the skeletons weren't marching him up to where he'd find out. Probably by promptly serving as a meal to the nearest greatfangs.
Or would they share him, all tugging and tearing at different limbs with their teeth? Pulling him apart, arms and legs and his head...
Rod shuddered, quelled a sudden urge to be sick, and told himself angrily to worry about whatever crises he was facing, not imagine new ones for
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