The shadows did not return, but even so there was no more sleep that night. No sleep until, in the soft gray light of dawn, Troff yawned and stretched and said the danger was over. They both slept then, but it was not long before a hot bright sun cleared the hills beyond the river and, beating down fiercely upon them, forced them to awaken.
“What were they?” Tymmon asked again that morning as he made up his pack. “Were they demons, or perhaps wolves? Were they wolves, Troff?”
But Troff only growled and, looking fiercely toward the wooded hillside, said that he had chased them away. That he had chased them away and they would not return.
“I hope you are right,” Tymmon said. “In any case I think we should not wait to fish again in this place. I think that we should leave as soon as possible.”
And with his eyes still turned toward the hillside, Troff said that he agreed. When all was ready, Tymmon shouldered his pack and then, with the gargoyle trotting close beside him, began to wind his way southward through the boulder-strewn canyon.
They walked all that day, eating nothing but some half-ripe berries, a lizard, and a great ugly frog. It was Tymmon who found and ate the berries, and Troff who devoured all of the lizard as well as the frog, after Tymmon made it clear that he was not interested in sharing. Thus they were ravenously hungry and bone-achingly tired when, not long before sunset, they came out of a thick stand of young trees that grew along the bank of the river.
Ahead of them was an open stretch of grassland, and not far away a herd of oxen and cattle were grazing peacefully. Closer still, sitting on a tree stump, was a human being. The first human, other than the two brigands, that Tymmon had seen for many days. Grabbing Troff by the scruff of his neck, he pulled him to a stop and retreated back into the shelter of the saplings.
The cowherd, for such he seemed to be, was about Tymmon’s size, and appeared to be almost as ragged and dirty. Completely unaware that he was being watched, he was whistling tunelessly to himself and whittling on a piece of wood.
“Look,” Tymmon whispered. “A boy. The cowherd is only a boy. Remember now. You are a dog.” He again grabbed Troff by the loose skin on the back of his neck and shook him. “Remember. A kindly, good-natured dog. Like this.” Tymmon extended his tongue and panted, while with one arm he reached back to demonstrate the friendly waving of a tail. Troff watched with interest.
But then Tymmon’s arm, the one that was representing a waving tail, suddenly made contact with the point of the Spanish dagger. Muttering a muffled exclamation of pain, he was rearranging the weapon in his belt, when he noticed the expression on Troff’s face. His head cocked to one side, the gargoyle was grinning, in a familiar and particularly maddening way. In exactly the way that Lonfar had always smiled when some plan he had spoken against turned out badly.
“Troff,” Tymmon was starting to say angrily when he suddenly realized that Troff was right. At least for the moment, he was entirely right to fear the dagger. It was, for the moment at least, dangerous. What would the cowherd, and other peasants as well, think if they saw the elegant and valuable weapon? Would they not, as Tymmon had done when he saw it in the possession of the brigand, be certain that it had been stolen from a murdered nobleman?
A few minutes later the dagger was hidden, along with Komus’s cap, at the bottom of Tymmon’s pack. And Troff did indeed wave his tail in a convincingly doglike manner as they started out across the meadow to where the cowherd was still busily carving his piece of wood. They were only a few feet away when he stopped whittling and, as if suddenly aware that he was not alone, quickly turned his head.
NINE
“O H, HELLO. WHO BE you... the cowherd began and then, as he caught sight of Troff, “Holy saints protect me. Blessed Mary help me.” Leaping
“What were they?” Tymmon asked again that morning as he made up his pack. “Were they demons, or perhaps wolves? Were they wolves, Troff?”
But Troff only growled and, looking fiercely toward the wooded hillside, said that he had chased them away. That he had chased them away and they would not return.
“I hope you are right,” Tymmon said. “In any case I think we should not wait to fish again in this place. I think that we should leave as soon as possible.”
And with his eyes still turned toward the hillside, Troff said that he agreed. When all was ready, Tymmon shouldered his pack and then, with the gargoyle trotting close beside him, began to wind his way southward through the boulder-strewn canyon.
They walked all that day, eating nothing but some half-ripe berries, a lizard, and a great ugly frog. It was Tymmon who found and ate the berries, and Troff who devoured all of the lizard as well as the frog, after Tymmon made it clear that he was not interested in sharing. Thus they were ravenously hungry and bone-achingly tired when, not long before sunset, they came out of a thick stand of young trees that grew along the bank of the river.
Ahead of them was an open stretch of grassland, and not far away a herd of oxen and cattle were grazing peacefully. Closer still, sitting on a tree stump, was a human being. The first human, other than the two brigands, that Tymmon had seen for many days. Grabbing Troff by the scruff of his neck, he pulled him to a stop and retreated back into the shelter of the saplings.
The cowherd, for such he seemed to be, was about Tymmon’s size, and appeared to be almost as ragged and dirty. Completely unaware that he was being watched, he was whistling tunelessly to himself and whittling on a piece of wood.
“Look,” Tymmon whispered. “A boy. The cowherd is only a boy. Remember now. You are a dog.” He again grabbed Troff by the loose skin on the back of his neck and shook him. “Remember. A kindly, good-natured dog. Like this.” Tymmon extended his tongue and panted, while with one arm he reached back to demonstrate the friendly waving of a tail. Troff watched with interest.
But then Tymmon’s arm, the one that was representing a waving tail, suddenly made contact with the point of the Spanish dagger. Muttering a muffled exclamation of pain, he was rearranging the weapon in his belt, when he noticed the expression on Troff’s face. His head cocked to one side, the gargoyle was grinning, in a familiar and particularly maddening way. In exactly the way that Lonfar had always smiled when some plan he had spoken against turned out badly.
“Troff,” Tymmon was starting to say angrily when he suddenly realized that Troff was right. At least for the moment, he was entirely right to fear the dagger. It was, for the moment at least, dangerous. What would the cowherd, and other peasants as well, think if they saw the elegant and valuable weapon? Would they not, as Tymmon had done when he saw it in the possession of the brigand, be certain that it had been stolen from a murdered nobleman?
A few minutes later the dagger was hidden, along with Komus’s cap, at the bottom of Tymmon’s pack. And Troff did indeed wave his tail in a convincingly doglike manner as they started out across the meadow to where the cowherd was still busily carving his piece of wood. They were only a few feet away when he stopped whittling and, as if suddenly aware that he was not alone, quickly turned his head.
NINE
“O H, HELLO. WHO BE you... the cowherd began and then, as he caught sight of Troff, “Holy saints protect me. Blessed Mary help me.” Leaping
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