Toll the Hounds

To such a greeting, Traveller could only stand, silent, bemused, torn between laughter and weeping.



The younger of the two men-perhaps in his mid-twenties-smiled wryly and said, ‘The more strangers we meet, the more we add to our words of welcome. This is born of experience, most of it sad, unpleasant. If you mean us harm, we ask that you heed the words given you, and so turn away. Of course, if you mean to betray us, then there is nothing we can do. Deceit is not our way.’



Traveller grimaced. ‘Deceit is everyone’s way.’



Twin expressions of dismay, so similar that it was made clear they were father and son. ‘Yes,’ said the son, ‘that is true. If we saw that you would enter our camp and be with us, yet plan betrayal, why, we would plan the same, and seek to deliver unto you first what you thought to deliver unto us.’



‘You are truly the last camp left?’



‘Yes, we are waiting to die. Our ways, our memories. And the g’athend will run free once more, until they too are gone-for the horses we keep are the last of their kind, too.’



‘Do you ride them?’



‘No, we worship them.’



Yet they spoke Daru-what strange history twisted and isolated these ones from all the others? What turned them away from farms and villages, from cities and riches? ‘Kindaru, I humbly accept your welcome and will strive to be a worthy guest.’



Both men now smiled. And the younger one gestured with one hand.



A faint sound behind him made Traveller turn, to see four nomads rising as if from nowhere on the slope, armed with spears.



Traveller looked back at the father and son. ‘You are all too familiar with strangers, I think.’



They walked down into the camp. The silent dogs, ranging ahead, were met by a small group of children all bedecked in white flowers. Bright smiles flashed up at Traveller, tiny hands taking his to lead him onward to the hearthfires, where women were now preparing a midday meal. Iron pots filled with some milky sub¬stance steamed, the smell pungent, sweet and vaguely alcoholic.



A low bench was set out, four-legged and padded, the woven coverlet a rain¬bow of coloured threads in zigzag patterns. The wooden legs were carved into horse heads, noses almost touching in the middle, the manes flowing in sweeping curves, all stained a lustrous ochre and deep brown. The artistry was superb, the heads so detailed Traveller could see the veins along the cheeks, the lines of the eyelids and the dusty eyes both opaque and depthless, There was only one such bench, and it was, he knew, to be his for the duration of his stay,



The father and son, and three others of the band, two women and a very old man, all sat cross-legged in a half-circle, facing him across the fire. ‘The children finally released his hands and a’woman gave him a gourd filled with the scalded milk, in which floated strips of meat.



‘Skathandi,’ said the father. ‘Camped down by the water. Here to ambush us and steal our horses, for the meat of the g’athend is highly prized by people in the cities. There were thirty in all, raiders and murderers-we will eat their horses, but you may have one to ride if you desire so.’



Traveller sipped the milk, and as the steam filled his face his eyes widened, Fire in his throat, then blissful numbness. Blinking tears from his eyes, he tried to focus on the man who had spoken. ‘You sprang the ambush, then. Thirty? You must be formidable warriors.’



‘This was the second such camp we found. All slain. Not by us, friend. Someone, it seems, likes the Skathandi even less than we do.’



The father hesitated, and in the pause his son said, ‘It was our thought that you were following that someone.’



‘Ah.’ Traveller frowned. ‘Someone? There is but one-one who attacks Skathandi camps and slaughters everyone?’



Nods answered him.



‘A demon, we think, who walks like a storm, dark with terrible rage. One who covers well his tracks.’ The son made an odd gesture with one hand, a rippling of the fingers. ‘Like a ghost.’



‘How long ago did this demon travel past here?’



‘Three days.’



‘Are these Skathandi a rival tribe?’



‘No. Raiders, preying on caravans and all who dwell on the Plain. Sworn, it is said, to a most evil man, known only as the Captain. If you see an eight-wheeled carriage, so high there is one floor above and a balcony with a golden rail-drawn, it is said, by a thousand slaves-then you will have found the palace of this Captain. He sends out his raiders, and grows fat on the trade of his spoils.’



‘I am not following this demon,’ said Traveller. ‘I know nothing of it.’