highlands. They paused only once at a likely fishing spot, where Tymmon managed to spear a small trout, and then pressed on until sunset, before they stopped to gather a large stack of driftwood, build a fire, and cook their meal. And although Troff’s portion was surely not enough to satisfy his huge appetite, he showed no interest in leaving the campsite on a hunting expedition.
Twilight was deepening as Tymmon chose a sandy spot between two boulders near the river’s edge, stacked a supply of firewood close at hand, spread his blanket, and then stretched out with Troff beside him, and the Spanish dagger near at hand. He was still hungry as well as being deeply, achingly weary, and sleep did not come easily.
It was a strange place. Around their camping spot, rugged boulder-strewn land sloped upward from the water’s edge to heavily wooded hills. Here and there among the great gray stones dead trees leaned and tilted at crazy angles. Across the river a steep cliff of sheer rock rose straight up for many feet to a high plateau covered with stunted trees. The air was still and silent except for the liquid murmur of the deep running river, but the silence brought no feeling of peace and calm. Instead it seemed to be only a breathless hush, the tense and quiet wait before the storm, or perhaps the stillness that spreads across the land just before a hidden enemy launches a surprise attack.
Tymmon moved closer to Troff. Tonight, in this weird place where towering rock and skeleton tree cast ghostly shadows, he was glad—extremely glad—for Troff’s large warm presence beside him. And just for tonight he would not think about what might happen when the two of them reached the valley and civilization. About what would happen if the people they met refused to believe that Troff was only a dog. There would be time enough to think of that later when other fears were less pressing.
Vague fears at first, that only drifted invisibly in the strange silence, but later, in the depths of the night, were transformed into dark shadows with great red eyes.
The cries came first, long pitiful wails that throbbed up and down the scale and then faded away to nothing. Then the silence returned and it was not until later, when the fire had burned low, and Tymmon had finally fallen asleep, that the dark shadows gathered.
Tymmon woke suddenly to the realization that Troff was on his feet and growling deep in his throat. Throwing back his blanket, he sat up and stared out into the surrounding darkness. And then he saw them, silhouetted against the starlit river. Shadows, strange humpbacked blobs of darkness that circled stealthily on silent feet.
With shaking hands Tymmon seized the dagger and waved it threateningly, but the shadowy circling continued without pause or change of pace. But then, realizing that the fire was very low, he dropped the weapon, in order to throw a log of firewood onto the glowing coals. Sparks flew upward and the shadows stopped pacing and turned to stare at him with great red eyes. For a moment he froze, unable to move hand or foot. Even his heart seemed to have stopped beating.
Only his racing mind seemed unaffected. “Demons,” his mind told him. “They are demons from the depths of hell. Your breath has stopped and your heartbeat. They have turned you to stone.”
But then his heart throbbed again with a great rib-shaking thud. He gasped for breath, and leaning forward, he added another log and then a handful of dead leaves to the fire.
The flames shot upward, Troff’s growl broke out into a thunderous roar, and the shadows retreated back into the darkness.
“What are they?” Tymmon asked Troff. “What creatures are they?” But Troff’s growling answer was not for him.
Stay away, the growl said. Stay away. There is no helpless prey here.
For another hour, or perhaps two, Troff sat stiffly, staring out into the darkness. Beside him, Tymmon also watched and waited, and kept the fire high and bright.
Twilight was deepening as Tymmon chose a sandy spot between two boulders near the river’s edge, stacked a supply of firewood close at hand, spread his blanket, and then stretched out with Troff beside him, and the Spanish dagger near at hand. He was still hungry as well as being deeply, achingly weary, and sleep did not come easily.
It was a strange place. Around their camping spot, rugged boulder-strewn land sloped upward from the water’s edge to heavily wooded hills. Here and there among the great gray stones dead trees leaned and tilted at crazy angles. Across the river a steep cliff of sheer rock rose straight up for many feet to a high plateau covered with stunted trees. The air was still and silent except for the liquid murmur of the deep running river, but the silence brought no feeling of peace and calm. Instead it seemed to be only a breathless hush, the tense and quiet wait before the storm, or perhaps the stillness that spreads across the land just before a hidden enemy launches a surprise attack.
Tymmon moved closer to Troff. Tonight, in this weird place where towering rock and skeleton tree cast ghostly shadows, he was glad—extremely glad—for Troff’s large warm presence beside him. And just for tonight he would not think about what might happen when the two of them reached the valley and civilization. About what would happen if the people they met refused to believe that Troff was only a dog. There would be time enough to think of that later when other fears were less pressing.
Vague fears at first, that only drifted invisibly in the strange silence, but later, in the depths of the night, were transformed into dark shadows with great red eyes.
The cries came first, long pitiful wails that throbbed up and down the scale and then faded away to nothing. Then the silence returned and it was not until later, when the fire had burned low, and Tymmon had finally fallen asleep, that the dark shadows gathered.
Tymmon woke suddenly to the realization that Troff was on his feet and growling deep in his throat. Throwing back his blanket, he sat up and stared out into the surrounding darkness. And then he saw them, silhouetted against the starlit river. Shadows, strange humpbacked blobs of darkness that circled stealthily on silent feet.
With shaking hands Tymmon seized the dagger and waved it threateningly, but the shadowy circling continued without pause or change of pace. But then, realizing that the fire was very low, he dropped the weapon, in order to throw a log of firewood onto the glowing coals. Sparks flew upward and the shadows stopped pacing and turned to stare at him with great red eyes. For a moment he froze, unable to move hand or foot. Even his heart seemed to have stopped beating.
Only his racing mind seemed unaffected. “Demons,” his mind told him. “They are demons from the depths of hell. Your breath has stopped and your heartbeat. They have turned you to stone.”
But then his heart throbbed again with a great rib-shaking thud. He gasped for breath, and leaning forward, he added another log and then a handful of dead leaves to the fire.
The flames shot upward, Troff’s growl broke out into a thunderous roar, and the shadows retreated back into the darkness.
“What are they?” Tymmon asked Troff. “What creatures are they?” But Troff’s growling answer was not for him.
Stay away, the growl said. Stay away. There is no helpless prey here.
For another hour, or perhaps two, Troff sat stiffly, staring out into the darkness. Beside him, Tymmon also watched and waited, and kept the fire high and bright.
Similar Books
