The dog sighted or perhaps scented them first. It was a rough-coated
beast, showing its fangs with a wolflike ferocity. But it was smaller
than a wolf, and it barked between its warning snarls. Ashe brought his
bow from beneath the shelter of his cloak and held it ready.
"Ho, one comes to speak with Nodren--Nodren of the Hill!"
Only the dog snapped and snarled. Ashe rubbed his forearm across his
face, the gesture of a weary and heartsick man, smearing the ash and
grime into an awesome mask.
"Who speaks to Nodren--?" There was a different twist to the
pronunciation of some words, but Ross was able to understand.
"One who has hunted with him and feasted with him. The one who gave into
his hand the friendship gift of the ever-sharp knife. It is Assha of the
traders----"
"Go far from us, man of ill luck. You who are hunted by the evil
spirits." The last was a shrill cry.
Ashe remained where he was, facing into the bushes which hid the
tribesman.
"Who speaks for Nodren yet not with the voice of Nodren?" he demanded.
Pages:
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101