Outside the tent the kodo milled together by their acacia tree, steam rising from their flanks and square-nosed faces.

I stood motionless under the grey sunrise sky, trying to listen through my panting, clenching my jaw to keep it from chattering. The echoes of that terrible inhuman scream faded away.

It was quiet.

Very quiet.

Nobody else had emerged from the other tents.

Where was everyone? The hair on my arm stood up like a hedgehog's quills.

I approached Drog and Harga's tent. Surely Harga would be there, even if Drog was out. Just outside their tent I coughed, hoping to wake her if she was still asleep, though it was hard to imagine anyone sleeping through that terrible shriek.

Silence.

Gulping, I peeked through the crack of their door flap.

It was dark in there, with only a little early light coming in through the smokehole. But it was enough light for me to see by. Their sleeping furs were empty.

I was about to check the next tent when I glimpsed the outline the four dark boxes at the back of the tent.

None of my business. At all.

I should just move on.

I glanced behind me. The camp was totally silent.

I would just take one peek. Just one.

Taking my courage in both hands, I crept inside.

Drog and Harga's tent stank of unwashed bodies, a sour, grimy smell. I covered my nose with my hand.

At the back of the tent I ran my hands over the topmost iron-cornered box, ears straining for any sound of swishing footsteps through the grass. There! Hinges, and a fine, barely-perceptible groove that ran around the box like the imprint of a hair. And on the opposite side, a small but sturdy latch.

My fingers fumbled with the latch. Locked. Damn. But thankfully, it was a simple skeleton key lock, and as a good detective I always carried a ring of skeleton keys around with me. I tried the first one, careful not to scratch the finish. No go. I tried the second one, and third. Still nothing. Despite the cold, my hands began to sweat.

I didn't want to be in this tent when Drog returned with his new lion.

A chirp broke the silence outside the tent. I leaped upwards, spun around, and landed on my feet facing the door, heart thudding in my ears.

But it was only the first bird of the morning. As I turned back to the chest, more birds joined in, shattering the dawn silence with a chorus of cheeps, chatters, and calls.

Fifth key. Aha! The key turned, pushing the pins upward, but it wasn't a perfect fit: it made such a loud scraping, scratching noise, like a dog clawing at door, that I stopped, trembling.

No true First Class Detective would shake like I was. Summoning a resolve I didn't know I had, I gripped the key tighter, and kept turning.

screeeeeeeeeeee

With a click, the lock opened. With the flats of my hands I eased the lid up, gently, softly, like I was lifting a sleeping hen off a nest.

The lid opened in total silence on well-oiled, well-cared-for hinges.

I peered inside.

The box was filled to the brim with curled wood shavings.

Packing material.

I thrust my hand into the shavings crinkle crumple crackle and spread my fingers, feeling around, right and left, up and down. Shavings overflowed onto the ground. Crap, I'd have to sweep those up.

In the very center of the box my wrist hit a hard object. Twisting, I grabbed it. It was small, about the size of my foot, but surprisingly heavy. I pulled it from the box. It was a loaf-shaped package snugly wrapped in linen and tied over and over with twine.

I turned it over in my hands, examining the many knots. It would be hard to re-tie the knots exactly the same way. I picked at the twine – just to see how tight the knots were, you understand – and discovered a little folded-up flap of linen.

I pulled it back, revealing a hard, cold substance – polished rock. It was hard to see in the dimness of the tent, but it looked black, black studded with faint specks that caught the light from the smokehole and sparkled, every so slightly. I ran my hand over it. It had grooves, straight carved grooves, rather like the toes of a carved paw.

I was just peeling back the linen to see more when the grass outside crackled under a rapidly approaching footstep.

I froze.

Drog.

He mustn't find me here, messing with his baggage.

With utmost speed I stuffed the linen-wrapped package back in its box, scooped as much of the spilled packing material back inside as I could, my hands moving as fast as the spinning blade of a shredder crinkle crumple crackle. So loud! I bit my lip. Hard.

The footsteps crunched on gravel. The feet were in the camp now.

Crap crap crap.

I shut the box lid with a click and sat on it.

"Harga…" a voice outside said, "Harga?" The tone was low and soft, but there was something else in it, too: an anxious, upward lift at the end of the word. Worry.

And it didn't sound like Drog.

I crept toward the door and peeked through the crack of the doorflap. It was Blackhoof, standing in the middle of the camp, panting, staring at the tent I was in.

Staring right at me through the tent door.

I had no time to think. Best defense is a good offense.

I took a deep breath, lowered my head and dashed blindly out of the tent, cannoning directly into Blackhoof. He took a step back with an "ooof!"

I clawed at him, tearing at his belt and clothing.

"Where is everyone? Where's Drog? Where's Harga? What was all that screaming?" I gasped. A button of his tunic popped off under my assault.

Grabbing my wrists, he held me away from his clothes. He squatted down to be at my eye level.

"Harga isn't here?" he asked.

"Nobody's here!"

He swore.

"What was that scream?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said, "It was terrible. It woke me up, and when I found that Harga wasn't beside…" his voice trailed off. He looked down at me, eyes wide as he realized what he'd said.

I should have known. The cracked hoof, last night. The gentleness. I should have known that Harga would find solace elsewhere. I eyed the young Tauren. His hands were trembling as they held my wrists, as his brown eyes looked into mine. I thought of Drog's massive granite chest, the hands like plates, the thick neck. I had not seen Drog's anger, but I could imagine it breaking on the two of them like a lashing, violent storm.

Blackhoof and Harga were braver than I would have been.

I held their secret in my hands, now.

"I won't tell Drog," I said.

Blackhoof's shoulders relaxed for a moment, "Thank you." His voice was almost a whisper. The sound of a secret shared.

Releasing my wrists, he stood up and asked, "Was Drog here when you woke up?"

I shook my head, "The camp was empty."

Blackhoof looked sick. "Drog woke up alone, then. He knows. He knows. If he finds Harga first… that awful scream… Harga…"

He adjusted his quiver over his shoulder, and started loping toward the source of the scream with the mile-eating pace of a plainsrunner.

I ran after him, ponytails bobbing at the back of my neck.

But there was no way I could keep up with Blackhoof's pace unassisted. At the edge of camp I activated the rocket belt which all goblins wear as a point of pride, shot forwards, and cannoned into him again, knocking him to the ground.

He picked himself up, shot me an unsmiling look but patient look – he was such a Tauren - then swept up and sat me on his shoulders. I was so surprised I almost fell off backwards. I dug my fingers into his mane just in time.

He climbed up the side of the hill to a path that ran level along the hillside, like a belt on a fat lady. The height gave us a good view. The sun was up now, bathing the savannah in thin morning light. The greys and blacks of night were replaced by pastels of pale yellow grass, white-blue sky, and pink hillside.

Blackhoof's shoulder gave me an extra six feet of height. I could get used to being so tall. As I bouncity-bounced along I made a mental note – stilts.

From my perch I started scanning the plain below us for signs of lions… and Harga.

We'd been running for a quarter of an hour (and my rear end was getting sore) when a motion up ahead caught my eye. I squinted. About a mile ahead of us half a dozen vultures had congregated on the plain.

They weren't circling – they were sitting on the ground, sitting in a large circle, facing something I couldn't see. As I watched, one of them hopped forward awkwardly with a rolling sailor's gait, wings half-outstretched like a wobbly "M" writ dark against the pale grass. And stopped. Folded its wings, shook its tail from side to side, and sat some more. Watching. Something.

Blackhoof had seen them too. Deep in his throat, I heard him moaning, no no no no no….. He quickened his pace. I clutched his chocolate-colored mane in white knuckles. I wasn't going to get jounced off.

The path rose a little here, giving us a better view.

That's when I saw the thing in the vulture's midst.

I tightened my legs against Blackhoof's neck. It wasn't a log, no. Or a rock. My mind slowed down, my thoughts flowed thick, like syrup. The birdsong and morning breeze faded away in my ears; all I could hear was a curious humming. My vision narrowed to encompass only the motionless thing in the grass.

We reached the point of the path directly above it.

Blackhoof lifted me down, but I didn't feel his hands. His mouth moved, but I couldn't hear him.

All I could do was look down the slope.

The heavy-set body of an Orc lay face up in the grass, a deep jagged black-red void where the throat should have been, like a gaping, monstrous second mouth.

But it wasn't Harga.

It was Drog.