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 home. Mama snatched it out of the air, on the fly.
The crows got the idea.
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 home. Mama snatched it out of the air, on the fly.
The crows got the idea.
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