Page 14 of The Thrice-Bound Fool

“Not if you don’t shoot one.”

I picked out one bobbing its head. I didn’t like that head-bobbing, it was creepish. Not that I could see what kind of head it had, but I could see its eyes moving up and down.

I loosed.

Something moved fast in the darkness, then they all started in howling.

Loud, like.

Angry.

HOOOOOOOOOooooooOOOOOOOOOOO.

The donkey didn’t like it.

HEE-HEE-HAAWWWWWWW!

I didn’t like it either.

“Piss off, ya karkers! We don’t want any!”

I loosed again.

Think I got one.

HOOOP! HOOOP!

The donkey was bucking against his hobble-rope now. In his panic, he got farther away from the fire. Something struck at him, something fast, I couldn’t really see what, and he brayed. It might have taken him, but Galva was up and bashed whatever it was with her shield, swung at it with her sword, but I think she only cut air. Now we heard the soft, fast crunching of a bunch of whatever the fuck they were running off.

Galva put her hand to the donkey’s flank, and her fingers came up red.

HEEEEEEE-Haw.

“How bad is it?” I said.

“Not bad.”

“I wasn’t asking you.”

“Ha.”

HAW!

The next day, up and up we went, farther into the Thralls. The air was gray and misty and only sometimes spit snow at us. It was slow going. The donkey wasn’t hurt bad, just a shallow cut, knee to thigh, but he bit at me when I put whiskey to it. He was scared shyteless now, especially when the hooing came from points unseen. They were following us. We had decided to try to make it to a defensible position before we camped again, then Galva would loose Dalgatha to help us watch during the night. Maybe they’d think twice about trying us with that feathered, killing bitch clicking back at them.

Turns out they didn’t wait for night.

A snowstorm came down fast, and in a bad place, too. We came to a sort of rocky, snowy plain that dead-ended at a drop down a ravine. The kind of thing you could throw a coin down with no reasonable expectation of hearing it hit. Not that I would waste a coin that way. A big, old, dead tree leaned out over that drop like it was thinking about jumping.

Hooooooo-oooo! Hooooooooooooooooooo!

They sounded excited, like some god of mountain murder had just rung the soup bell on us, and I suppose he had. We were well boxed in. And now, through the heavy snow, they came at us in a sort of skirmish line. Six of them. I couldn’t stop myself making comment.

“Fucking owls? Truly?”

More like a mouse’s nightmare of an owl if I’m honest. Six feet tall if an inch, so, well taller than me or Galva. White feathers so they blended into the snow. Longer legs than owls, the talons on the end exaggerated so each foot had two lethal-looking scythes in front, snow pads in back. Lamp-like amber eyes, wide and eager. They also had small, stubby wings raised as they stalked forward, as if in surrender, but I don’t think that’s what they had in mind. I’d have been willing to hear terms for our surrender that didn’t involve us or the donkey getting eaten, but none were forthcoming.

The worst thing about them was the way they bobbed their fucking heads. Sometimes side to side. Sometimes up and down. Always weirdly hypnotic. I’d watch them do it and hardly notice they’d gotten ten yards closer while I gawped. Galva was saying something.