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Back to Empire on the HPe3000
... and ...
Burrfoot was the fastest, though Heavyfur was packleader, tonight
the feeders had overridden the pack order and urged them on as quick as
they could run and still pick out the trail. He'd heard the spirit yowl
and then the howls from his brothers on patrol. Something had happened
beyond the field.
They'd just been set loose, the yard and their dens were behind
them and they ran toward the sound of their brothers crys, what were they
saying? They yipped with pain, someone yowled out, "My nose, my nose."
Now he heard the cry taken up by several voices. Burrfoot ran on but
snuffled a bit, wondering what had bitten at his packmates and if his own
nose would be safe.
* * *
Master Ivo lagged behind the others. He could run, gnomes were
tough as dwarves, but had legs just as short, he did not waste his breath
or strain his heart with running. Instead he stopped beside a gentle
stream, having crossed its slow flowing course, and stood upon the bank.
>From his belt he took a leaf rolled into a ball, it held a small white
stone and broken piece of twig. He formed a picture in his mind and spoke
a silent magic word, then with a quick gesture, flung the leaf, and
stone, and twig, across to the farther side. The picture in his mind came
to life, the stream swelled and stretched into a wide torrent, foaming
white. Stones and trees tumbled among its crashing waves and rolled
downstream.
Smiling, pleased with his craft, he made his way back to the
hidden lair at his own slow pace.
* * *
A half dozen wolves rubbed at their muzzles with furry paws and
sneezed between their yowls. As Burrfoot neared his brothers they called
to him and warned of some foul scent that bit and burnt when smelled.
"Go round" they called, "go left," cried some, "go right." the
rest howled at him. And as they called, a light came flashing from beyond
the hill, the spirits wailed again and the entire pack joined in. Some
feeders spirit cried forth and then was gone, then another spirit
gave voice. As Burrfoot raised his head and cried to the starry sky, a
ghostly hand gently ruffled his fur, and passed away.
The pack had reached him at the edge of field and hill. They'd
stopped to howl the feeder spirit into the night and from below,
where the southern slope ran down to lower fields, a chorus of screams
rang out and a burning smell, scorched flesh, burnt hair and cloth,
reached up to Burrfoot's nose. A whip snapped nearby and Burrfoot cringed.
The feeder-painbringer screamed and urged them on and cracked his whip
again.
Despite his fear, Burrfoot leapt down the slope, his brothers
close behind. Ahead he caught a sharp painful scent and veered aside,
then raced on. The burning smell reached his nose, a feeder lay before
him, dead and smouldering, burnt through like the meat they served.
Two more lay moaning and beating at their clothes, but Burrfoot passed
them by. He smelled blood, and the scent of opened bowels, a deadly
wound, but the feeder lived and groaned, then lashed out, blind with pain.
Another body, Burrfoot leapt and cleared it with a graceful bound.
And beyond he stopped, nothing moved, no prey in sight. He sniffed,
careful at first, testing for the stinging smell. He grinned, humans, yes
he'd smelled their like before.
* * *
(To Be Continued)