Standing just under five and a half feet tall, the hound had teeth that gleamed in the baleful light. Prominent fangs hung from the upper jaw. The canine specter wore a muckledidun shirt and pants tucked into high boots. Protruding from the trousers, the short tail switched back and forth like a metronome. Or a scythe.
A short sword with an unusually heavy, sharply curved blade hung with studied indifference from one paw. It would take a powerful individual to wield such a weapon with one hand, Buncan knew. His own fingers rested on the duar’s strings as he exchanged a meaningful glance with the otters. They nodded understanding, though there was no reason to spellsing yet. While the Moor dweller’s aspect was intimidating, he’d made nothing in the way of an overt threat. Yet.
A second pair of eyes materialized out of the mist. Another, and another, and more. All were hounds, though of varying shape, coloration, and size. All were heavily armed.
The one who confronted them had a spiked collar encircling his neck. The spikes had been filed to fine points. None of the others wore anything like formal armor, though Buncan noted an abundance of spiked leg-pieces and wristbands.
Taken in toto they were an altogether disagreeable-looking lot. It was clear they were not out haunting the Moors in search of a casual day’s stroll. By the same token, it was difficult to countenance the possibility that they actually lived there, though their appearance suggested a condition and lifestyle even the Moors would be hard-pressed to worsen.
Advancing around the team, the lead hound finally halted to confront the wagon’s occupants. As he looked them slowly up and down, Buncan could see the play of muscles across the broad chest and thickly bunched upper arms. As it stared it methodically slapped the heavy blade of its curved sword against an open palm.
“We don’t get many travelers out here in the Moors.” The voice was a rough, curdled growl, the words crumbling against the heavy palate like gravel in a crusher.
“Not enough,” quipped one of the others. Low, ominous laughter came from the rest of the band, which by now had completely surrounded the wagon.
“Where are you headed?” inquired the leader.
“To the northwest.” Gragelouth kept his eyes down, avoiding the hound’s burning gaze, the reins of his team clutched tightly in his thick, furry fingers.
“That’s not very informative. Where to the northwest?”
“Does it matter?”
“No, I suppose not.”
Buncan leaned forward. “We’ve come a long way and have a lot farther to go. If you’re bandits, say so now and we’ll give you our money.” Gragelouth turned sharply to his youthful companion, his pupils widening.
“Can’t step anywhere these days without ‘avin’ to scrape scum off your feet,” Squill muttered.
The hound glared up at him. “What was that?”
Squill smiled pleasantly. “I said that it were ‘and to get around these days.”
The hound’s intensity diminished, but only slightly. “It certainly is if your destination brings you through the Moors. None come this way who can go otherwise.”
“To go completely around the Moors would have taken too much time,” Gragelouth mumbled deferentially.
“And yet there are many dangers here.” Apparently the leader was in a conversational mood.
A hound with a mottled black-and-brown visage edged nearer. A grisly scar ran from the top of his skull down across his face and clear around to the back of his neck. Its pattern and angle suggested a botched attempt at decapitation.
“More dangers than you can imagine,” he grunted.
“Time is important to us,” Gragelouth replied lamely.
“We won’t delay you long.” The leader grinned hideously. “Just hand over everything you own.”
Gragelouth swallowed, looking resigned. “I have some money . . .”
“Oti, we don’t just want your money,” the hound explained. “We’ll take your personal effects, too, and your weapons, and your clothes. And I’ll personally have that interesting-looking musical device there.” A clawed finger singled out Duncan’s duar. “Also your wagon and team.”
“Don’t tell me you need to get somewhere in a hurry, too,” muttered Neena.
“Not at all.” The hound stroked the flank of the nearest dray lizard. It bore the caress complacently. “But these look quite savory. You know, there’s not a lot for a carnivore to dine on out here in the Moors, and we prefer to avoid the cities. For some mysterious reason town dwellers are shocked by our attitudes and appearance.” Several of the hounds within hearing range chuckled unpleasantly.
“In fact,” the creature continued remorselessly, his eyes burning into Buncan’s own, “you look quite edible yourselves.”
“Oi,” Neena husked under her breath, “we’ve fallen in among a lot of bloody cannibals!”
“And just what is a cannibal, my fuzzy little bars d’oeuvre?” the hound challenged her. “A term charged with all manner of absurdly sensationalist undertones. There was a time in the far distant past when it was the natural order of things for those with warm blood to devour omen of land. Meat is meat. We who are forced to dwell in the dank depths of the Moors cannot afford to discriminate. Where consumption is concerned we are wholly democratic: We’ll eat anyone.” He was still smiling.
“So we’ll have everything you own, and we’ll have you as well.” He glanced toward the strings of utensils dangling from the rear and sides of the wagon. “It was thoughtful of you to provide the means for your own preparation. At least you will expire in familiar surroundings.”
“We won’t go without a fight!” Squill rose sharply behind the driver’s bench, an arrow notched in his bow. Neena rose beside him, similarly prepared.
“Oh my, oh dear.” The hound tut-tutted as he took a step backward. His companions chortled darkly. “The terror! The fear! Can it be we are surprised?” He caressed the heavy curved blade of his sword. “All of us against three cubs and an old sloth? How ever will we survive? One trifle before we begin, though. I ask the names of those who would provide entertainment before dinner.”
“I’m Squill, son o’ Mudge. This ‘ere’s me sister Neena. That’s Mudge the Traveler, Mudge the Conqueror, Mudge the AU-Revengin’ to you.”
“Never heard of bun,” the hound responded briskly.
It was Buncan’s turn. “I’m Buncan Ottermusk Meriweather. Son of the greatest spellsinger in all of time and space, Jonathan Thomas Meriweather.”
“All those names.” The hound snorted. “Never heard of him either. We’re not much for celebrity here in the Moors.” He glanced to Buncan’s right. “And you? Speak up, sloth.”
The merchant flinched. “I am called Gragelouth. A simple barterer in household goods and services.”
“Well, tonight you’ll be called supper.” Within the hound’s jaws, filed teeth gleamed menacingly.
Buncan was whispering to his friends. “Lyrics? Don’t you have any lyrics yet? What’s keeping you?”
“I can’t think o’ any songs about ‘ounds,” Neena hissed. “These ‘ere blokes are about the first o’ their kind I’ve ever encountered.”
“ ‘Ow do you get rid o’ ‘ounds?” Squill wondered aloud.
“I don’t know either, but you’d better think of something quick. There’s too many of them for arrows, and they make the ones who tried to rob Gragelouth back in the Bellwoods look like country bumpkins.” He turned back to the leader, trying to stall for time.
“Now it’s my turn. Who threatens us, with no regard for our ancestry or the revenge that will surely follow if any harm befalls us?”
“Nothing follows into the Moors,” the hound growled belligerently. “Not kings seeking reluctant subjects nor sorcerers searching for strayed apprentices. Certainly not revenge. This place is the womb of bleakness, and we are its offspring. We who survive here do so only by giving in to woe. It suffuses our very beings. So do not think to appeal to our better nature, because we have none. Though I admit that your presence makes us feel better. It’s rare we come across food that has not already begun to rot.”