Toadkiller Dog lay in the shade of an acacia tree gnawing on a shinbone that had belonged to one of the wicker man’s soldiers.
Only a dozen of those had survived that grisly night when they had taken the monastery. Half of those had died since. When the breeze blew from the north the stench of death was overpowering.
Only two of the witch doctors had gotten through alive. Barely. Till they recovered, he and the wicker man were in little better shape than they had been in the beginning, back in the Barrowland.
Toadkiller Dog kept one eye on the mantas gliding overhead and around the monastery, eternally probing for soft spots in the shell of magic shielding the place. Bolts ripped through any they found. Only one in a hundred did any damage, but that was enough to guarantee eventual destruction.
The wicker man’s triumph over the windwhale had given a respite of two hours. Then another windwhale had appeared and had resumed the struggle. There were four of them out there now, at the points of the compass, and they were determined to avenge their fallen brother.
Toadkiller Dog rose, bones creaking and aching, and zigzagged his way between dangerous spots to the low, thin wall that surrounded the remains of the monastery. He limped badly. His wicker leg had gone in the conflagration that had come when the Limper’s firedrake had turned back upon him.
He consoled himself with the knowledge that the Limper was worse off than he was. The Limper had no body at all.
But he was working on that.
How the hell had they managed that turnaround?
Toadkiller Dog rose on his hind legs, rested his paw and chin on top of the wall.
The picture was worse, as he had expected. The talking stones were so numerous they formed a circumvallation. Groves of the walking trees stood wherever the ground was moist, feasting. They had to endure eternal drought on the Plain of Fear.
How long before they moved in and began demolishing the wall with their swift-growing roots?
Squadrons of reverse centaurs galloped among the shadows of gliding mantas, practicing charges and massed javelin tosses.
That weird horde would come someday. And there would be no turning them back while the Limper had no body.
They would have come already had they known how helpless were the besieged. That was the only smart thing the Limper had done, getting himself out of sight and lying low, so those creatures out there did not know where he stood. He was counting on the White Rose to think he was trying to lure her into a trap by pretending to be powerless.
The Limper needed time. He would do anything, would sacrifice anyone, to buy that time.
Toadkiller Dog turned away and limped toward the half-demolished main structure of the monastic complex. A frightened sentry watched him pass.
They knew they were doomed, that they had become rich beyond their hopes but at the cost of selling their souls to death. They would not live to enjoy a copper’s worth of their stolen fortunes.
It was too late now, even to find hope in desertion.
One man had tried. They had him out there. Sometimes they made him scream just to remind everybody they were irked enough to take no prisoners.
Toadkiller Dog squeezed through the tight halls and down steep, narrow stairs to the deep cellar the Limper had taken for his lair. Down there he was safe from the monster boulders and whatnot the windwhales dropped when the urge took them.
The Limper had set up in a room that was large and as damp and moldy as might be expected. But the light there was as bright as artificial sources could make it. The sculptors needed that light to do their work properly.
The bodiless head of the Limper sat on a shelf overlooking the work in progress. Two armed guards and one of the witch doctors watched, too. The actual work was being done by three of the dozen priests who had survived the massacre of the monastery’s inmates.
They had no idea what their reward would be if they did a good job. They labored under the illusion that they would be allowed to resume the monastery’s work when they finished and their guests departed.
In the southwest corner, the highest of the enclosure, there was a small spring. The monastery drew its water from this. Below the spring, kept moist by its runoff, lay a bed of some of the finest potter’s clay in the world. The monks had been using it for ages. The Limper had been delighted when he had learned of the deposit.
The sculptors had the new body roughed in to the Limper’s satisfaction. It would be the body he’d always wished he’d had, not the stunted, crippled thing he’d had to endure when he’d had a body of his own. With the head on it this would stand six and a half feet tall and the body itself would fit what the Limper imagined was every maiden’s dream.
About a third of the detail work was done and it was very good work indeed, with all the tiny wrinkles and creases and pore holes of a real human body, but with none of the blemishes.
Only one of the three monks was doing any sculpting. The other two were keeping the clay moist, basting its surface with oil that would keep that natural dampness in.
Toadkiller Dog glanced at the clay figure only long enough to estimate how much longer their good luck would have to hold. He was not reassured. Surely those things out there would stop procrastinating in a day or two.
He retraced his route to the surface, prowled from wall to wall, eyeing potential routes of escape.
When the hammer fell he was going out of there at a gallop, straight at the talking stone and jump over. They would not expect him to bolt and leave the Limper to his fate.
He would find a more reasonable patron somewhere else. The Limper was not the only one of the old ones who had survived.