The small temple was carved into the heart of the cliff face. The approach was a narrow path of plaited rushes, atop horizontal wooden posts socketed into the stone. Each hole was encircled by carved forms of Stone Vipers with tails held firmly between fang filled jaws. The rushes were blown, or washed away as nature dictated, and had to be regularly replaced by the attendant. It was a dangerous task, and had the effect of putting all else of life’s tribulations aside for a time. NOT focusing on the thousand meters of crystal clear air separating the bottom of the slender wooden supports, from the rocks far below.

Before the first villagers had built their tall and narrow houses along the cataracts of water plunging down the narrow valley, the tiny temple had been there, as had the ever present and solitary caretaker.

 

The thin path that climbed from the bottom of the valley to the high backed ridge that eventually butted up against the cliff’s Eastern wing, took a good six hours, and was traveled by few. Such excursions were usually driven by the curiosity of youth, and normally foundered shortly after the adventurers began traversing the rush trail that climbed gradually around the near shoulder of the Rampart’s Eastern buttress. From that point, the route to the unadorned rectangular opening in the cliff was over two hundred meters. There were no handholds and only one small platform cut into the stone wall where the path turned the corner. The featureless surface continued as far above as to the bottom. Under the sun the smooth black basalt was always cloaked in a shimmer of heat distorted light. 

“A suitable perch for only flies and eagles,” was the saying in the valley. 

No one knew either when, by whom or why the temple had actually been constructed. The story most told to the curious traveler through the valley was one of heresy, of rebel priests. They had been immune from a penalty of death by law but not from a punishment resulting in the same. It was said, “The first group never saw the door!” 

Whatever the circumstance of history it is a fact that the present priest of the `fly’s perch’ on the cliff face had been resident for over three decades. Oldsters in the hamlet remember the spring when he arrived to take the place of the former devotee who had not been seen since the previous Fall. The new priest’s trunks had all fit on one thin pack horse. After the animal was unloaded it was pastured by the innkeeper to be taken by the next passing Temple courier. 

The young priest had begun ferrying his belongings up the mountain. It had taken him nearly a week. Rushes had to be cut on the valley’s floor to repair the walkway, a skeleton of stubby horizontal ribs marching around the waist of the cliff. With few words to the people, he went to his post of devotion, and was seldom heard from or seen by most in the flat world below his Erie. No one knew to what gods he prayed, but none doubted his dedication. 

 

It had been nearly thirty years, and the priest had been down from his place on the cliff no more times than you can count on your hands. Several of these visits had been brought on by some form of crisis in the small village, and the people had been glad for his help. Several times he had fought alongside the villagers, the blade of his pole arm a blur among the pitchforks and scythes. They had driven off a band of Dhalreg during the last HUNT, and even harder dispatched a pair of Daemon separated from their pack. None in the village doubted his skill as a fighter. Coupled with the times he had tended to the medical cares of the remote hamlet, he was firmly fixed in a valued position in the tight knit community. Though they may have no idea of how his days were spent, it was obvious he kept an eye on theirs It was a given that any village would welcome a fighter, even more so one clad in the blue and saffron of a Temple trained warrior.

It was a beautiful early summer day, when one of the children tending her small band of goats in the boulder strewn rubble field at the base of the cliff, gave out a shriek of surprise. She had been trying in vain to chase several of the young kids from their boulder top perches high above, and was paying no attention to her surroundings. The sound of several pebbles whizzing past, and the respondent bleats of surprise from the kids as their small hooves skidded down the steep faced rocks surprised her. She turned and jumped like a startled fawn when she saw the smiling figure of the now middle aged monk standing in the boulder’s shadows. His silken sleeve was hiked up on his right arm while a few small round stones bounced slowly in his left palm as he flexed his fingers. His capped pole arm was canted into the crook of his left arm, the butt resting on top of his booted right foot, clear of the dirt and gravel of the path.  

 

“You would be the daughter of the innkeeper?” he asked. “I need to talk to him, and I would not give him news that his best goats have been eaten along with their lovely shepherdess because of errant billies, so I apologize for startling you.” He bowed low to her. “Please young princess, I beg your most gracious leave to be on my way, and please, beware of those who would eat you!” With that he sprang to the nearest boulder top and leaping silently from one to the next made his way quickly towards the small cluster of buildings hanging to the cliffs flank, their stone roofs of black shale were the backdrop for rainbows arcing through the mists of the cataracts in the morning sun.

The path twisted and turned far below where the giant boulders sat in the small valleys soil like eggs in a cup. No one knows when the last great stone fall was, but the village has incorporated those nearest into their walls. The paths around them are ever a confusion to travelers and more senior inhabitants.

Soon the priest was seated in the cool interior of the inn, with the Inn Keepers eldest son, but one, was on his way to locate the master of the establishment. It took little to explain the monks visit.

His tenure in the cliff side temple was complete, and it was time for him to return to the Temple Het. He required a horse to carry his few belongings, and would arrange for payment and return of the animal by courier, when he arrived at the Temple enclave at Second Redoubt.

The portly inns man explained to the priest that his wife and elder son were on their way to First Stop in two days, and their small party would welcome his company. They would be traveling with three armed retainers but the added blades of the temple fighter would make him feel better about having his family on the road. His presence would be more than enough compensation to have both a pack animal and a horse to ride. They could return carrying packs full of goods instead of with the empty backs they’d have if trailing a courier back to their own stable.

 

When time came for them to depart, the small mound of possessions transported down from the temple easily fit atop a short pony. 

They made an early morning start. The heavily armed retainers each trailed spare mounts, with the camp and supplies for the group being carried by four more animals led by the wife and son. She was a Highland bred woman, gray hair tied back out of her eyes, sitting her mount with ease. Her heavy woven skirt was divided, both forearms were protected by leather vambraces. A light cloak with applied leather platlets draped her shoulders. A quiver of four stubby javelins was at her knee and a strung short bow rested on the spatulated horn of her saddle. This was a mother of seven who had fought for her family’s lives many times over the years. Her eldest son of twenty seven summers was dressed and armed the same. 

The small party rode west. Horse’s hooves kicked up tiny bits of morning dew laden dust. The priest aboard his ride swayed from side to side like a drunken sailor, but managed to keep his seat. 

 

 

It was nearly two months later and the bluff’s face was baking in the afternoon sun. Summer was on the land.

 

 

 

 

They came down a narrow goat path that traveled along the edge of the cataracts. An avalanche of rock and dirt cascaded through the legs of their plunging mounts. Nobody remembered anyone ever riding a horse down from the Highlands. The nearest way was nearly ten days west.

Each trailed two mounts with saddles and light packs. Two pack horses were carrying Dhalreg skins, their sour odor hard to cover. The horse’s coats were sticky with lathered dust turning to mud. Their sides heaved as they stood in front of the inn, their muzzles sinking into the water troughs still surface. Flecks of foam floated in eddies around their still flaring nostrils, as their riders dismounted.

Any that saw recognized Free Fighters, by appearance, long time veterans. Two were tall, one short. 

The darker of the tall pair dismounted off the right side, his left knee fused, the leg in a perpetual bow. His horses were the rangy breed usually found along the Southern fringes of the Hersot sands. His head was wrapped in a dark turban. Black eyes were set in a sun baked landscape of high cheekbones. Scars spread in pale lines across one cheek. His light cotton breeches were bloused in tall boots. The light harness wore across both shoulders carried a pair of straight bladed fighters. A gently curved sabre hung at his side.

His tall companion was a polar opposite, pale skin and white hair, his nose and cheeks peeling from the sun, the left side of his face showing three tattooed green bars. Deep blue eyes looked out from under the brim of a cavalry officer’s hat.  His nose twisted to one side, a mean looking red scar cutting across one cheek. The faded maroon officers jacket trailed silk ribbons down its back, fluttering behind as the riding boots of the cavalry veteran took the steps to the inns entrance, leaving the reins of his Highland mounts trailing. His sabre was from the forge at Hardfist Down. The grip was done in the old style, blade fullered to deep hollows, to be light and fast.

Of a different cloth was the third. He was as short as his South Prairie mounts. His face was seemingly out of proportion to the rest of his body. The jaw was proud, the nose aquiline. His headgear carried the horse tail plume of a Thunder Mountain Stone Eater clansman. His saddle horn was hung with a brace of war hammers, each pick shaped in the form of a prehistoric bird’s head, with a wrapped black shaft socketed into the back of its bronze skull. Short topped black boots were run over at the heels. Dark green trousers were bloused at the boot tops, their knees and butt patched with leather. Behind each of his saddles was a clutch of short javelins, resting in lacquered quivers. These were known as “Draegon Killers”, their grooved tips poison laden. Thunder Mountain is in the flyway of the Draegon and this was a trueblood Draegon Hunter. A renegade not to have returned to his homelands after the past HUNT, but still one of a small clan of fierce stalkers. He spoke to his mounts before turning towards the inn. His body flowed across the small yard to the ramped entry, the wary stalk of a ferel cat, his eyes picking out those watching. He carried no obvious weapons, but was more menacing than the other two..

Soon the three were out of site, leaving their mounts to the attendant flies, no pampered city horses these. This was obviously only a brief stop, time enough to feed and brush the horses later.     

 

The inn was cool and dark inside. One of the owner’s younger daughters went in search of her father, while an older placed glazed mugs of ale on the table for the travelers.

“So, you fellas have some Reg hides do you,”  the innkeeper said as he entered the room.

The pale faced rider spoke. ” True….. we need supplies and have more than enough hides to pay, we need only see the local Templeman and collect bounty.”

“Well, there is a problem with that. Six Falls has never been big enough to rate a full time temple representative. There is no place closer than four or five days to get that money. I’d be happy to take them off your hands, but they stink so bad every animal on the place is spooked for days after they’re gone.” The innkeeper hooked his thumbs in his apron and watched the men appraisingly, his girls staying out of site.

They spoke quietly for several minutes coming to a decision.

“Innsman, we do not have enough rations to last another four or five days, our mounts need rest, and the attention of a farrier. There appears to be only one solution.” Pointing to himself and his comrades he said, “I, Bar Du Ak Ban and my Free Fighter companions Ko Ak Sha Bu and Tah Ak Batchu do offer service at your door.”  

The balding innkeeper stood silent for a moment. “I do accept your service and will fulfill my duties as a citizen, as I know you will yours. “

He waved for his daughters to come out of hiding, and sent one off to the kitchen to let cook know there were guests. The younger went to fetch the stable boy to properly tend the horses.  

The shorter Free Fighter spoke. ” I hope the fulfilling of service can wait until the morrow. I have been in the saddle for days, and my bones need the caress of a real bed before I go off to slay your personal Draegons.”

“There is no problem in that gentlemen. If it were not for you, the inn would be empty this night. Time enough tomorrow to deal with my problem. For the moment let me tend to heating some water for the bath. I’ll send the boy for the farrier. You can stack your packs in the stables if you want, except those bags with the Reg hides, of course. Dinner’s an hour after sunset.” With that he turned to depart.

“Hold Innsman!” the dark skinned fighter said. “Shabu ` Draegon Killer’ is willing to do anything for a meal. We need know what task before breaking fast and binding ourselves to your cause.”

Turning to face them the inn keeper hesitated a moment. “Nearly two months ago my wife and first son left for First Stop. They were to return two seven days later, but we have had no word of them or seen a traveler along the Rampart road for all of that time. I fear they have been taken in a clan dispute, with no word reaching anyone coming this way that there is danger on the road.”

The three looked at each other, then the shorter one said, “this is a task we will accept.” His two companions nodded in agreement.  

The fighters were left to their ales, the inn man disappearing through the leather curtained doorway behind the stubby serving counter.

 

Next morning found the Free Fighters loading their horses with provisions supplied by the people of Six Falls. There had been a highly respected Temple monk with the vanished party, and all of the villagers donated, a form of community “binding” of the warriors, to make sure they would have enough equipment and rations to do a complete search.   

Their horses disappeared from the villages view just as the sun broke through morning clouds to shine on the basalt face of the Rampart, the priests small temple’s opening a black speck to the eyes of those far below.

They were nearly three days out from Six Falls when they discovered the remains.

The stench had hit them a good quarter day before they reached the site. The odor seemed everywhere, a cloying putrid scent that caused the inside of their noses to burn. They had known what waylaid the travelers before they saw the evidence. The smell of decay rode the air but there were no carrion birds. Only one thing could drive this world’s scavengers away.

The four meter tall mound was centered in a dirt bowl about fifty or sixty meters across. It would have been filled with water in a wet climate, probably was when flash floods on the Highlands dumped waters down the Ramparts face. It was surrounded by huge boulders. The grass grown ruts of the one track road entered between two of the huge stones on their side and after crossing the intervening space passed out between their mirror images on the other.

The three separated as they entered the shallow depression. 

Faces of the surrounding stones were scarred, their black surfaces laced with gouges, some of the rock was sloughing off in streaks of yellow and grey sludge.

Wrapping a wet cloth over his nose to block out some of the smell, the squat Stone Eater clansman slipped from his shying horse and approached the pile of debris. 

 It contained more than the party from Six Falls. There were parts of a wagon, horses and people all held together by a glue of feces and blood. A brown stained blue silk sleeve hung limp in the thick air, the owner probably inside somewhere. 

After walking around the oozing mound the short fighter stepped back into the saddle and the three rode back down the road Easterly, in the direction of the village, watching the boulder fields to their right closely. They pushed their horses steadily for nearly an hour before drawing up to let the animals rest at the foot of the Rampart. A trickle of water fed a shallow pool sheltered from the sun by the overhanging cliff, and a screen of spindly bushes.   

Stretching, the white haired Bar Du said. “Well, we know what happened to them, now what? Do we go back and report or pass on as quietly as possible? A Hell Hound, that’s a bit more than we bargained for!”

“What’s the matter pale one, are you getting soft?” The desert warrior sat, his back against the warm rock, drinking deeply from his canteen. Slowly he massaged his stiff left knee. “We have pledged service, so there is no question, other than how to kill this beast without becoming part of his shit pile monument.”

“It was a territory marker, not a monument. Like the Snow Tigers in the mountains of Skile. This Hound is putting out sign for any to read. This is its ground!” The Draegon hunter said this over his shoulder as he began offloading his mounts. 

“Wouldn’t it be better to move our camp a bit further toward Six Falls?” Bar Du said as he began removing the packs and gear from his own animals.

 

“If you could tell me for sure which way the bastards land runs from that marking I’d be able to answer your question, but as it is this is a pleasant spot to die if your Ban Horse Clan gods aren’t watching over your skinny ass.”

The three went through the motions of setting up camp with a practiced efficiency. Well before sunset the horses had been put on their picket line, having had several hours to graze on the short yellow grass growing among the small boulders. 

They were meters from the cliff’s face. In places water spilled over the edge from the Highlands far above, and created small oasis like the one where the men were camped. The area was a small patch of green in an otherwise baking landscape. To the north a dark volcanic mantle covered the earth, heaving in great folds, one stacked atop the other for as far as the eye could see. Only a few stunted bushes broke the endless vista. 

A heat mirage showed them the shores of a lake, so close you should be able to smell the water, but that would take a breeze and some sign from the horses that water was near. All was still, and hot. 

The three slept through most of the time till dusk, setting light to their fire just as the sun set. It would be chill soon.

“So- Draegon Killer what do you suggest we do?” Tah, the Batchu, asked. “We’re only a day or two from the main road between Keep of the Hunt and First Stop. Then the Keep is another six days north if we ride hard. First Stop is to far south to consider.”  

“You’re probably talking a good twenty day for any kind of force to arrive! We don’t have that long before the Hound returns to this part of the road. That leaves travelers in peril. I doubt any have possibly survived to tell of this!” The short fighter said.

“And how do you know this?” Bar Du asked. “Have you divined it by watching the flies on horse turds?” The tall cavalier slapped his thigh at his humor, thin white hair moving slightly as the cooling night air felt its way along the base of the cliff.  

“You always manage to surprise me Horseman! When you are at your most ignorant, there is a bit of the savant in you!  As a fact I did, and such interesting things they had to tell me.”

“Now he speaks with flies! That is more exalted than being the shortest Draegon killer in existence! I don’t know of anybody that can talk to flies!” 

Even the serious turbaned warrior laughed softly at this jab of the pale Highlanders. “Perhaps it is because their buzzing is less noisome to his Stone Eater ears. I have been told a Sha Bu can actually hear their footsteps!” He added.

They all sat quietly, their fire’s sparks spinning skyward, adding to the stars. A soft mantle of light came from the full orb of the moon.

“I’d find a couple of other assholes to ride with, if you two would just manage to get yourselves killed. I spend most of my time doing all of the thinking for you two sorry bastards, and get nothing for it, but a continuing ration of bullshit. This could be a great opportunity! While the Hound is adding your dumb asses to its piece of shit sculpture I’ll be shoving a few Draegon Killers up its. It will be dead, and you two beautiful pieces of work will be out of my life!”  

All was silent while they ate. 

 

“What have the flies told you Ko Ak Sha Bu?” His long time verbal protagonist Bar Du asked, using the Draegon Killers formal clan name.

The Draegon Killer passed a flask of Six Falls brandy to Bar Du. 

“I never participated in the killing of one, but have talked to some who did. We have a difficult task, better that it were, twenty blood hungry clansman, bent on revenge for the killing of a woman. There our odds would be excellent by comparison. This I know! The Hell Hound is as fixed in its way as the moons in their courses through the night sky. From time I spent in the headwaters of the Golden as a young apprentice to my uncle, I know the marking will be repeated every fifteen day. Right now it’s out there somewhere, moving along a track from one corner of its territory to another, pissing on the boundaries in case another of its kind should try to move in. That’s what’s causing the stone of the boulders to flow.”

“The flies told you this? Fifteen day is a long time my stubby friend, to sit here and wonder when the beast will show its face!”

“No. What I saw was, flies on the horse droppings outside. There were no flies on the carrion pile. It usually takes them about ten days to move on an exposed site. The fumes from its piss are as unhealthy for them as us. This cache’s air is trapped in a closed bowl, like a bag holding the fumes in, so I figure they’re running a bit late, maybe as much as three days. I don’t think we’ll have to wait long. We have to ride in and check the flies each day, until they move on the mound. The Hound will spend a day or two in the vicinity so there should be no difficulty in arranging an encounter.”

“Since we need prepare before our return in the morning, I suggest we sleep more now to give time to prepare our weapons by light.” Tah Ak Batchu, the desert warrior, said as he slipped into the shadows and his bed roll. You could hear the whisper of his sabre as he drew it to lie at his side. 

We need set no watch for this hunt. The Hell Hound is very proud of its voice. All will know of its arrival,” the Stone Eater said from the dark. He was standing among his mounts giving each a bit of grain before going to his nearby blankets.  

That morning they left their camp stand. A faded banner hanging from a stunted tree’s lower branches, warned any strangers away from this Free Fighter Hold.

At first light the Draegon Hunter had brought several small bags from his packs. He measured portions of each into a slowly simmering pot sitting among the hot coals at the fires edge. After being stirred for nearly an hour, the liquid had been cooked down to a thick dark paste. With care he applied the mixture to the deep grooves running the lengths of his javelin blades. Each was then wrapped in tissue thin waxed paper, several thin string ties holding the nearly transparent covers in place to protect him from contact with the poison. After placing them back in their quivers he coated the tips of the other two’s pole arms as well, once again warning them of the dangers of the mix as they headed out of camp. The trailing spare mounts were saddled and carrying a full complement of weapons.

The first day, the flies did not move… nor on the second. 

On arriving the third morning they found their horse droppings from the previous day barren of flies. They were in the bowl on more toothsome pickings.

 

“We’ll hole up here close to the cliff. He can only come at us from straight on if there is any sneakiness in the bastard, or maybe happens to be mute! Then we wait. It’ll have to be a cold camp tonight. We’ll set watch when we wake up, it will be easy since sleep will not be possible once the creature is within our hearing.” The Stone Eater led his mounts in amongst the jumbled pile of twenty foot tall stones.

They made a light camp nestled back in amongst a stand of boulders directly under the vertical face of the Rampart. There was a clear view of the mound, and most of the shallow depression. The near side of the enclosed area wasn’t visible, blocked by the tops of boulders in their line of sight.

“Now we go over this again,” the Draegon hunter said as they sat in the shaded interior of their hideaway. 

“It is just like taking Daemon, only harder. The Daemon for all of its nastiness seems to make rational decisions, pretty much like us, and can be killed if enough participate in doing the job. We have the same thing going on here, only the Hound is driven by just outright hate for anything it meets, regardless of what. It is nearly impossible to take down without a lot of luck, and we all know `Luck’ is a fickle partner, better we count on what we know! We work it like a Daemon until there’s enough poison in its body. There is a good chance it will kill us before it realizes it’s dead, but I know of no other way to stop one. I guess we will soon know eh?!”

His companions shook their heads in agreement in the dusky light between the boulders. 

The horses heard it first, their eyes showing white as they strained at their leads. 

Standing as one they looked down into the bowl of the miniature stone ringed coliseum. Nothing could be seen.

There was first a low warbling sound, then, it climbed the scale to a stuttering howl that rang off the cliff, bouncing through the boulders, fragmenting into the banshee wails of a hundred lesser echoes.   

They sat their mounts in concealment for nearly an hour’s passing of the sun. Their mounts ears were covered to shut out the sound. It was close at hand. The smell had reached them, carried on the air moving along the cliff base as the day grew short. 

Tah spoke. “We will soon lose light. It would please me greatly if our guest would stop shouting his name, and put in an appearance before dark. I am sure he will still wish to play, regardless of whether we can see. I don’t think it possible we could hide here until morning without being discovered.”

“There will be no need for waiting my friends,” Bar Du said. “The fox is in the henhouse!”

A russet colored shape was near the gruesome pylon. I’s ass was raised in the air, and it was spraying the mound. 

“Come! We must go now! Whatever happens, stay focused or I will be the one to piss on your grave!”

The three urged their mounts into a run as soon as they broke cover, each horse with its nose wrapped like the riders, in freshly wetted cloth to cut the acidic air.

As soon as they entered the bowl the Hound saw them.

 

Bar Du led, cutting left and, riding for the far side. His two trailing mounts were so close their muzzles nearly touched the backs of his legs. His lite lance was down at the ready as he turned.

The turbaned Tah Ak Batchu went right, hanging off the side of his mount away from the Hounds vision, his lance held at stirrup height below the horses nose.

For a brief moment the Hell Hound hesitated, swinging its tusked snout from the empty horses passing to focus on the ones with a visible rider.

The animal was four to five meters long. Stubby legs with knees that jutted out at an angle from the tapered form of the body. The belly was nearly a meter and a half above the ground, scaled. It was covered with spines and tufts of bristly hair down its back and bunched around clusters of bony spikes and yellow tusks protruding from the head, mouth, snout and tail. The beasts color was red clay and grey.

The claws of the creature dug into the ground as it launched at Bar Du, closing with him in three tremendous leaps, each time its claws leaving meter long trenches. It’s warbling howl beat off the faces of the boulders.

They met.

Bar Du’s lance tip took the Hound in the left shoulder, shattering as the blow carried up the shaft, unseating the cavalier. A blur of claws took out his horse’s neck, blood spraying into the air.

Before it could reach Bar Du, Tah’s lance sank into its hindquarters, breaking off at the lancers hand. He swept on past, with the Hell Hound in immediate pursuit. The rumps of the desert war horses were only inches away from the razor claws when it was hit from the side by the Draegon hunter’s first javelin. A stream of urine sprayed the short prairie horse as it passed. It screamed and convulsed, throwing the stocky Draegon hunter. The terrified animal, its eyes burning, ran straight to the Hound taking Ko’s two spare mounts, and their cases of poisoned javelins.    

The Highlander was now on his second mount. He charged while the Hound still savaged the three Prairie horses, catching it by surprise with a hit to the other shoulder. The lite lances shaft broke at the blades shank. The poisoned tip imbedded deep in the muscle.

The dark skinned Batchu helped Ko up behind, and from there the diminutive fighter jumped to the third of Tah’s string, grabbing reins and immediately driving for the far side of the small arena. With the reins locked between his teeth he pulled two of the remaining three javelins from the quiver slapping against his back.

The Hell Hound stood near the mound. It raised its bloody muzzle to the darkening sky and howled, a staccato wail that should have brought the stones down around them. For a brief moment all was quiet. On three sides were the horses and men with their sides heaving, with the devil creature in their midst, the four broken stumps of their poison bladed shafts waved in the air.

Seconds later it was across the bloody dirt arena and the Batchu clansman was down. His companions attacked the Hound from the rear as he pulled his bad leg out from under the dying mount, cutting it’s throat with a back handed swing of his saber as he tried to roll clear. The Hound was spinning in a tight circle in front of him. Both of his mounts were down. His back was against a boulder with no place to go.

 

Ko’s two javelins entered the spine just back of the Hound front shoulders, causing it’s whole body to spasm. As it went down, its body twisted and crashed into Ko’s mount sending him flying through the air. His horse lie still where it fell, wounds seeping blood from the Hound’s poison laden spines.

The Hell Hound tried to rise and attack again, but the poison had at last taken its toll. Slowly the body collapsed onto its side, unmoving. Tah shook himself where he was, a few meters away from the now dead animal.

A short time later the three fighters stood, looking at the carcass. The two remaining horses of the Highlander Bar Du were back outside the close aired bowl.   

“Well, the way I figured, we were in the clear once the damned thing died, but fate seems to have other ideas. See those fresh scratches and cuts on the belly? This bastard is a bitch! There’s a litter of cubs nearby, and we’re out of daylight. Two horses can’t carry us far enough or fast enough, especially if one is doubling, even if we run and ride. Batchu! You haven’t been able to run in over ten years! We could just leave your burnt dessert ass, but two horses won’t be able to carry two men fast enough either!”

Bar Du looked down his broken nose at the Draegon Hunter. ” Are you finished `Oh Great Bullshitter’? The numbers are easy. I agree, only one can ride away. I say it’s Tah. He fights like a cripple on foot anyway. I actually watched him for several years in case he was faking , but he really is pretty useless when his butt is not stuck to a horse!”

“I agree Horseman,” said the Stone Eater. 

The tall turbaned fighters voice came from the near dark of full nightfall. “You both know it will not be possible to get away from them and they’ll be here soon. Best prepare and hope it is a small litter. If you wish me to go, I will think about it. First I think it a good idea for you two brave warriors to step outside and get some air and a bit of rest while the ol’ crippled Batchu man goes and fetches some wood round for your lordships!” 

 

 

 

The monk looked around the fire at his listeners. “And that is how I found them nearly two weeks later. Word reached the Keep of the Hunt and the Temple immediately dispatched me to investigate. There were three of the Hell Hound young, the dead horses, the mound and the bodies of the Free fighters. Two of the men were with their backs against a boulder, two of the litter lying dead with them. All the blades the fighters had, were protruding from the two meter long Hounds. The third Hound was nearly ten minutes ride towards Six Falls. It died dragging the Batchu clansman’s body back to add to the mound. All three of the Free fighters had taken the remaining poison on their weapons and rubbed it on their clothing. The desert clansman had drawn the one after himself, leaving his companions on foot a chance to kill the others. Each knew that even dead there was a chance to destroy the Hell Hound litter, if the poison could be gotten into them, and as long as there weren’t to many. ” 

“There were only three. Any survivor would have savaged the bodies and added them to the marker. So we know all are dead.” 

“I think all would agree the men gave full service.” The Tinker said from under his hood. 

 

Looking around the fire at his companions of the night the Courier said. “For those who wonder how I know all of this, I back tracked from the site. The small arena was easy, there had been no rain and the flies were still outside. The tracks told the whole story. Then I followed their trail back to Six Falls, where the rest of the tale lie.”

The people huddled around the smokey fire didn’t say anything for a few moments.

“That’s a bit more service than I got with my weasel,” the farmer said.

“That Hell Hound sounds like a nasty bit of work priest. How do you know more didn’t pass over Sea Keep with them?” This question was from the horse courier who had spoken earlier.

“That is difficult to tell. Perhaps you should give the next Free Fighters you encounter some food or supplies and ask them to be extra vigilant. There is a saying in the land of the Snow Tiger. “Remember Pilgrims, there always be tigers in these woods!”

  Chuckling to themselves over the temple couriers verbal jab at the young bravo, people began moving towards their bedrolls. Only the old Free Fighter and theTinker remained by the fire minutes later.

“I know you Tinkur. I’ve seen you and yur companion up Prospect way. Been bout ten years, but even if I’d furgotten I’d know yur partners smell. Keep the vermin bastard out of my sight or I’ll have his hide fur the Temple’s gold!” 

The Tinker nodded. “You will have no problem with us Stone Eater. We have both walked the road to long, seen too much, to search out trouble.”

As the old warrior disappeared in the cold night the silk ribbons at his back floated on the chill wind.

“Peace on the road to you old one,” the Tinker said under his breath, wondering, “what, is a Draegon Hunter doing here in the snowy passes of the Midlands?”

Dashing his pipe out against his leg as he stood he said to himself, “but that is another story.”

 

A cold morning dawned on the tiny junction to find all departed. Eager to be shut of the cold camp everyone had been on their way before first light. All that remained was a still smoldering fire pit and frozen horse turds.   

 

 

  

 

THE END