Chapter Ten
27th February
Henneth Annûn
Dinner at the Whistling Dog had been good enough, Erin reflected, but not as good as the lunch Alfgard's family had provided. Perhaps the dozen or so people talking and eating at the long tables knew no better, but a hobbit was keenly aware of such things. Cameroth needed to tell his cook to put more sage in the lamb stew, and the pie crust had been rolled until it was nearly shoe leather. The hobbit sighed and propped her chin in her hand, watching Sev trace a finger slowly down the list on the table between them.
The Rohirrim murmured softly to herself as she read; "Candles … lamp oil … writing paper … ink …"
"Don't forget sealing wax," Erin offered.
Without looking up, Sev replied, "Already got that."
"I think all that's left is to visit the dairyman tomorrow, right?"
"Yes, cheese and buttermilk. But I want to make sure we're not overlooking anything that we'll remember halfway home."
"Hmm," Erin replied, and let her attention drift around the common room.
Their day had been a busy one, the two of them marching from one shop to the next filling the order of sundries needed back home at The Burping Troll. Running an inn required many things both large and small, and while their elf and Ranger friends could keep meat in the larder and brought many herbs of the woods, there were some things that required craftsman and tradesmen who could only be found in Henneth Annûn.
Erin had enjoyed watching part of the horse sale, and was only too pleased to look at the seamstress Mistress Devana's new cloth samples from local weavers, and the baker had ever so kindly given samples of his new butterscotch apple stickies. However … just a little bit of an adventure would have been nice.
Next she thought of the man with the strange green eyes whom she had met, and wondered who he was. A minor noble, perhaps, certainly a person of substance, but just as certainly not from around here. The encounter was not an adventure, of course, but anyone so curious and so chilly at once was certainly an oddity. As soon as Sev put down her lists Erin would tell about him.
Over by the front window three local fellows also sat over plates of supper, and Erin recognized Rathard the knifesmith as well as the tanner's newest journeyman whose name she did not recall. The third, youngest fellow caught her eye, but though familiarity niggled she could not seem to place him. He was well-dressed, as a young gentleman should be, but the foolish lad slouched like a ditch-digger and leaned over his ale tankard as if afraid it would leap out of his arms and run away.
"Sevi, who is that by the window? The young one with the pint and the fancy waistcoat?"
Sev glanced up and her mouth thinned in a faint grimace of disapproval. "That is farmer Tiroc's youngest son, Cullen."
"Oh!" Erin's eyebrows sprang up then dropped to a puzzled frown. "Why, so it is, but I don't remember him dressing so fancy before."
"He didn't. Evidently he has come into some money, though as hard as his father works to support that family, I'd think it could be put to better use."
As if sensing their attention, Cullen looked up. Upon meeting Sev's disapproving eye his face twisted into a sneer and he lifted his tankard in mocking salute. Sev simply gave a snort and returned to her notes, but Erin scowled back as hard as she could. Cullen paid no heed, however, and turned back to his companions with a derisive laugh.
Even with the rumble of other voices in the common room, Erin's sharp hobbit ears could hear their conversation, if she listened closely.
"Who is that?" the tanner asked.
"Sevilodorf the trader woman," Rathard replied.
"She lives up at The Burping Troll," Cullen added. "Consorts with orcs and the like, you know."
Rathard frowned. "Now, Cullen, I don't know if that's the choice of words I'd use."
"Would you prefer I sweeten them?" Cullen gave a knowing grin before taking a sturdy draught from his tankard. Lowering it he said, "She trades with the creatures, she talks with them, they say she can even go to their lairs with complete impunity. Now what normal woman does that?"
"Didn't your father keep an orc?" the tanner asked.
"The same as we keep oxen or horses. I certainly would not associate with him beyond work, and heaven forbid I ever visited one of his ghastly lairs."
A theatrical shudder clenched Cullen's shoulders and the tanner chuckled.
"Aye, it's hard to fathom anyone who would seek the creatures out, no matter how tame they might seem. And for a woman to do so…" The tanner did not finish the thought but grimaced as he took another bite of his supper.
"It's unnatural," Cullen stated.
Forgetting that she was eavesdropping, or perhaps not caring, Erin shot straight out of her chair. "Why, YOU -!"
CRASH-CLANGLE-CLANGLE-CLANGLE
Every head in the place snapped towards the source of the din, which proved to be by the common room's back door. There lay a gangling, dark-haired young man flat on his back, the last of several bowls and tankards jangling to stillness at his feet. Over him stood Pansy, with an empty tray in one hand, the other fisted on her hip and pure frustration on her pretty face.
"For pity's sake!" she exclaimed. "You should know better than to burst in a door like that! You're lucky those were empty, or you'd have scalding hot soup all over you!"
The youth sat up carefully - and a tankard rolled from his lap with a jarring clank. Blushing to the roots of his hair, he became flustered between trying to gather the spilled crockery and picking bits of carrot off the soup-and-ale spattered front of his coat.
"I'm s-sorry, miss. I'm very - I truly - I didn't - uh -."
"Oh, here!" People began chuckling as Pansy flounced to kneel beside him, where she whipped a towel from her apron. "I'll get the dishes; you use this to clean yourself up. Then go sit down before you really hurt yourself."
"Yes, mistress. I'm very sorry. I'm -."
But Pansy was already up and swiftly gathering dishes back onto her tray. With a sigh, the youth began wiping at his coat, and conversation about the room resumed.
"Well," Sev observed, "That's one way to make an entrance."
"Poor man," said Erin. "He did the same thing at the baker's cart today, at the horse sale."
Sev's blue eyes widened. "He did?"
"Yes, he walked right into the cart." The hobbit leaned closer to whisper, "I think he's accident prone."
"You don't say."
Both watched as the young man stood up, peered warily all around, and aimed himself very precisely towards an empty table. Perhaps today's adventure was simply in observing the various oddities of people, Erin reflected, and then remembered the man with the strange eyes.
"Oh, Sev, I met a most peculiar man today. Are you through with your lists? Because if you are, I thought we could get some tea and maybe a bit of cake, and I'll tell you about him and all the people I saw today."
"All the people?" A smile quirked one side of Sev's lips.
"Well, not all of them, but the most interesting ones. One man had green eyes - actual green eyes are not very common, are they? Anyhow, he looked like some sort of gentleman, but he was a little peculiar, you see, and -."
With indulgent patience Sev settled herself to listen to the hobbit's merry chatter. Although both had seen the very same places and most of the same people all day, Sev knew it was simply her diminutive companion's habit to re-hash a day's events, and perhaps a little extra dessert would not be a bad thing.
xxx
Deerham
After the evening meal, Darien and Horus sat with Lord Goldur, Captain Gethrod and Tilmith. Horus had been allocated a room for the night, and it seemed the innkeeper's wife was rather taken with her 'exotic' guest - the judge complained amiably that his travelling companion had the best room in the tavern, the one normally reserved for himself.
Darien laid his map out on the table for Goldur to point out the location of the coal miners.
The guard captain watched and listened with interest. He finally said, "You can only visit so many places, Darien. Go to the miners by all means, but why not also ask guards and rangers to send you their reports, then you can concentrate on the more unusual situations. The king's men may be relied upon to give an unbiased account of happenings in their areas."
"The authorities did not want to be compromised by my investigation," Darien explained.
"Nor will they be. That you receive copies of any documents involving orcs will not compromise anyone. Leave it to me. I take it that your base for this purpose is The Burping Troll. I can circulate the suggestion that relevant reports are sent to Captain Halbarad."
With this assurance, Darien agreed willingly to the plan. He felt less isolated now, having gained assistance from a judge and the King's Soldiers, and with a well-trusted comrade at his side. The small group spent the remainder of the evening exchanging news and listening to Lord Goldur's entertaining tales of unlikely trials and hearings that he had presided over. Thus Darien's last night in Deerham passed in pleasant companionship and good humour.
xxx
Henneth Annûn
Warg had dozed the afternoon away, occasionally awakened by the sounds of travelers on the nearby road. Entertaining herself with thoughts of how those passing by would react if she made herself known to them, she chuffed softly and returned to her slumbers until the winter sun faded from the sky.
After stretching, her bones popping loudly as the twilight deepened into darkness, the huge canine shook her massive head and set out upon the course she had determined would bring her to the boundaries of Henneth Annûn without notice. Though Warg's eyesight was keen, her sense of smell was even better, allowing her to locate prey from almost a mile away. For now, however, she merely catalogued the enticing scents of deer and rabbit. Hunting was for later, after she had settled the matter of enlisting assistance.
As she trotted through the dark brush parallel to the road, she picked up the scent of the dairyman's herds on the northern edge of the village. Giving a small sigh of regret that she had long ago promised Celebsul that she would regard the animals belonging to men as off limits, Warg continued past the tightly shut barns, trying to find comfort in the thought of the pony biscuits Sev would distribute the next day.
Crouched at last under the thick hedges lining the King's Road where it met the lane west of the village, she waited for what seemed an endless parade of men to pass. Her ears pricked up as she listened to their talk about the horse auction that had taken place that day. Wondering briefly if such an event would cause a delay for Sevilodorf, she darted across the road and into the ditch on the other side. She snorted softly at the slimy water she found there and shook a wet paw with irritation before crawling up the slippery slope to vanish into the underbrush. Perhaps, she would have been better off going the long way round.
Reaching the banks of what the villagers liked to call a river, Warg turned west for a short distance before joining the shadows of a row of sheds cobbled together from bits of cast off lumber. Not a single line was to plumb, and several looked as if a hard sneeze would cause them to tumble into the silver stream that ran by. Though heavy with the scent of orc, nary a one of the rickety structures was occupied, and Warg settled against the farthest most shed to wait, a shadow among shadows.
From her vantage point could be seen a dimly lit rectangle of an open doorway, through which burst the high-pitched shrieking laugh of a human female. Not once did the unseen woman laugh, but again and again, and the sharpness of the sound caused Warg to wince and close her eyes tightly. A mashed pup didn't make a yowl like that - and supposedly this was a human feeling happy. Moments later a chorus of off-key voices, several which seemed to know only one word out of every six, replaced the laughter, and Warg stifled a groan. Much more of this torture and she would force lover boy to come up with a bucket of haggis regardless of the bargain she had struck.
Thankfully for sensitive ears, the choir members stopped singing and began to quarrel. While the sound of breaking crockery and smashing chairs would not be music to the ears of the proprietor, it was a vast improvement by Warg's standards.
Suddenly from the dimness of the doorway, a misshapen figure lurched clutching a large pot closely to its chest. The aroma wafting up from the pot would turn even the strongest of stomachs, apparently composed of what had once been soup plus rotten cabbage and rancid pork, all obviously aged beyond human tolerability but nectar to an orc. It also served to disguise the scent of the warg until the bearer of this malodorous burden was almost on top of her.
Nostrils flaring and the contents of the pot sloshing precariously close to the rim, Corbat the orc, stopped in mid step. After glancing back at the doorway, the creature peered into the shadows and whispered harshly, "I's smells ya, I does. What'cha doin' this close ta town?"
"Share your dinner with me, and I'll tell you," replied Warg quietly.
Corbat considered the deal with regret. This was the first time in a month he'd gotten the pot all for himself. Usually he had to share its contents with three others, leaving him always on the edge of hunger. Tonight, Lorgarth and the other two orcs who lived here behind The Black Cauldron were off doing some job for the owner, Drath, and that grim man, Margul. Still, one warg was better than three orcs. Maybe she could be convinced to hunt down a rabbit or two to bring back later that night, as there was no way he would be able to escape the tavern for longer than Drath figured it would take him to eat.
"Jus' makes sure ya shares," Corbat said, and carried the pot into the shed farthest from the tavern.
There was no need to light one of the stubby candles as both orc and warg were well able to see clearly by the faint gleam of starlight. Corbat filled a battered tin bowl and set it on the floor, then he searched out a bent ladle and applied himself to the job of eating as much as he could directly from the pot, before Warg could ask for seconds.
Lifting the last goblet of fat from the pot and tossing it casually into his mouth, Corbat belched juicily before speaking.
"T'aint safe fer ya ta be 'ere."
Warg grinned wolfishly and said, "Not getting scared of the humans are you, Corbat?"
"Things've changed since ya come last." Corbat was uncertain how to explain the difference in the village.
Ears pricked with interest, Warg replied, "How's that?"
The orc tugged at the iron hoop dangling from his ear in confusion. He'd never had to do any thinking on his own before the war and was frequently in a state of almost panic at the lack of direction his life had now. Things were somewhat better since Lorgarth had found him and brought him to this place. The food, though not always enough, was no worse than he had had in the pits of Minas Morgul; and though the man, Drath, often gave orders that confused him, Corbat found comfort in the familiarity of his outbursts of rage.
"Hard ta explain. Sum folks be nicer, others be meaner."
Warg added this bit of information to what she already possessed and decided that perhaps she would be earning her fee from Anardil after all.
"Can you name the meaner ones?" Warg asked.
Corbat frowned, and shifted uncomfortably. He hated to disappoint Warg, for that might mean she wouldn't go hunt him a rabbit to munch on later tonight. But he was forced to admit that most men looked alike to him, and unless he had reason to know them he seldom learned their names.
Warg sighed. She should have known this was not going to be an easy job. She should have just considered a month of hobbit-served haggis as sufficient and gone back to licking the floors clean. At least with that job, she got to sleep on the warm hearth instead of under a pine tree.
"CORBAT!" an angry roar cut through the night.
"Comin', Master Drath," Corbat shouted and gathered up the empty pot. Motioning Warg to stay behind, the orc lumbered out of the shed and to the backdoor of the tavern.
"You give me that," Drath ordered, "and you take this message over to The Whistling Dog and deliver it to Master Cullen."
Corbat's yellow eyes widened in fear, and he crouched down before the towering ham-fisted tavern keeper, stammering, "I … I …cain't go there, Master Drath."
Drath raised a fist and clouted the orc alongside the head. "If that's where I say you'll go, you'll go, or get out now and don't come back!"
Struggling to control the impulse to attack, Corbat huddled close to the ground and whimpered. "Wouldn't do no good for me ta go to there. They won't let me in."
"You'll just have to stand in the street and howl until Cullen comes out," Drath mocked, and then roared, "Now get your lazy carcass up and get going!"
In feeble protest Corbat shook his head. "But Master Drath, I don't know who Master Cullen is. I'll give it ta the wrong un."
"Margul's boy, you idiot!" Drath thundered. "Surely you know who Margul is!"
Mention of Margul's name was sufficient to energize the orc to at least attempt the task. The man's cold silver eyes reminded him of the moonlight shining on the walls of Minas Morgul. Corbat would do anything to keep those eyes from looking his way. Practically grabbing the folded scrap of paper from Drath's hands, the orc headed toward the road.
"Hold up there!" Drath barked, and Corbat nearly dropped in his tracks. "Can't have you going off looking like that. Give The Black Cauldron a bad name you will. You got grease hanging from your eyebrows. Go wash your face in the river first." He waved a thick arm toward the water, and disappeared back into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.
Corbat stood frozen with indecisiveness. Which order was he to obey first? A soft scratching drew his attention, and he saw Warg lifting her muzzle to him from the shadows.
Following the animal to the river, Corbat hissed, "What'll I do? They don't allow orcs in The Whistling Dog, but if I don't take the message that Margul feller will be after me."
"Is he one of the ones who got meaner?"
"Nah, he's alus been mean. Freezes your insides ta look at 'im." The orc shuddered at he splashed water on to his face, being careful not to get the note wet.
"Do what the man said. Stand outside and howl. Someone will come out." Warg stopped. "The Whistling Dog…you said?"
"Yeah," said Corbat sorrowfully, wishing that Lorgarth was here to tell him what to do.
"If you'll deliver a message for me, I'll bring you a brace of rabbits later."
Even the offer of a meal of fresh rabbit was not enough to overcome the orc's surge of terror. "Ya don't know Master Margul's boy, do ya? Are ya one of his?"
"Not Margul's boy. Another one."
For a moment Corbat was relieved, then panic threatened to overwhelm him once again. Mournfully, he wailed, "How'm I supposed ta find 'im?"
"Easier than you think. He'll be the one who comes out when you howl for this Cullen, or I'm a hobbit."
'Ya aren't an 'obbit," said Corbat in confusion.
"I know that," Warg sighed. It was so difficult having a sense of humor with most orcs. "Just tell Jasimir that … that the person he had dinner with in the kitchen at the Troll would like to meet him. Tell him to come here as soon as he can."
Corbat's eyes glazed over. "I can't remember all that. "
"Yes, you can." Warg insisted and forced the orc to repeat the message several times.
Finally, she sent him on his way muttering 'dinner in the kitchen, dinner in the kitchen' repeatedly to himself. Sighing, Warg shook her heavy head and settled herself to wait. It was truly a marvel how these creatures had managed to be the terror of civilized Men for so long. Sometimes she suspected there were unseen handicaps inherent to having only two legs.
xxx
Corbat slunk from building to building, shadow to shadow, much like the alley cats whom he startled into desperately scrambling escape. However, he had no mind for any creatures but humans and his fear grew with every step. The Whistling Dog did not allow his kind, he knew that, and a vague memory teased just out of reach, that its owner had in fact been a soldier which gave him even less reason to love orcs. Not only that but Rangers went there, tall, grim men with eyes like steel blades and he had seen those eyes in the Bad Times and never ever wanted to face them again.
Last but not least, however … was the miserable quandary of how he was supposed to deliver not one but two messages, to two different human boys. Granted, one was paper and one was words out loud, but what if he mixed them up? Cullen was paper, Jasimir was words - but the orc was supposed to howl and that would bring Jasimir out first, and somehow that would get the paper to Cullen … Corbat's head was beginning to hurt.
Only too soon the windows of The Whistling Dog beamed in cheery squares ahead, spilling their light onto the cobbles out front. The orc avoided that light, however, and slunk next to the building and crouched between the wall and an empty wagon. It was much quieter here than at The Black Cauldron, the voices that drifted through the windows rumbling in easy conversation that only occasionally was punctured by hearty laughter. Corbat could not hear one broken plate or a single argument. That did not make him feel in the least welcome.
Jasimir and Cullen, Cullen and Jasimir … he clutched the now-wrinkled note in his grimy paw and tried not to imagine Master Margul's icy gaze. How was an orc supposed to find anyone in this place? Stand outside and howl, Warg had said …
And so he did.
Corbat walked out into the center of the cobblestone yard where he tilted back his head, filled his lungs, and howled as loud as ever he could. He yowled and he howled and he howled and he yowled, and he swayed back and forth as he howled some more. Doors slammed, voices shouted, dogs wailed, cats screeched, babies cried and two pregnant mothers spontaneously went into labor.
Amidst all the racket, the front door of The Whistling Dog opened to spill a long golden triangle of light. Then into it stepped, not a squad of Rangers with steely eyes and cold blades, but merely a lad as Warg had predicted. His yellow stockings and vividly checked waistcoat were in direct contrast to the plainness of the apron wrapped around his middle. The youth also wore very puzzled expression. Corbat fell silent, and every owl in Henneth Annûn flew away.
"May I help you?" Jasimir asked, and his query seemed unnaturally loud in the echoing stillness.
"No," Corbat replied. Then he winced and held out the note. "Cullen," he stammered. "An' dinner in the kitchen at the Troll wants to meet ya."
xxx
It took some patience and quick thinking for Jasimir to both convince the town watch, who had appeared in a virtual stampede of drawn weapons, that nothing was amiss, and to convince Corbat to divulge his message with relative coherency. After a lot of coaxing, repetition and a warm leg of roast goose, the youngster finally discerned that the note was for Cullen and that Warg was behind The Black Cauldron waiting for Jasimir. Delivering the note would be a snap, but how was he to escape to meet the warg?
Remembering the disconcertingly intelligent gleam in her yellow eyes, not to mention the sheer, mind-numbing size of the great wolf-creature, Jasimir further wondered what she could want with him. Alone. In the dark. Behind The Black Cauldron. He swallowed and shook his head.
"Don't be a baby," he muttered to himself. "She lives with hobbits, for goodness sake. She can't be that dangerous."
xxx
Not until the last of the pots and pans were scrubbed to his father's satisfaction had Jasimir been able to effect an escape from The Whistling Dog. Yawning widely and muttering complaints about having to get out of bed at dawn to assist Reynulf with another baking, he stumbled up the back stairs toward his room in what he hoped was a convincing display of weariness. Clambering out the window and dropping to the overhang above the kitchen required only minutes, but slipping through the streets without being seen took slightly more time than usual, as the town watch seemed to be everywhere. Something about a howling orc, it seemed. Avoiding them proved simple compared with evading the more difficult-to-spot forms of two of the Rangers stationed in Henneth Annûn; but Jasimir congratulated himself that he had managed to do both.
Now, however, came the more difficult part; convincing himself once more that going into the shadows behind the most disreputable tavern in town to meet a warg was an intelligent thing to do. Forced to come the long way around in his efforts to avoid discovery, Jasimir passed close to the building where he knew Margul kept a second story room. What message had been sent to Cullen? It must have been from Margul, but in the hullabaloo created in front of The Whistling Dog, Jasimir had lost the opportunity to read the missive. Cullen had simply taken the note and tossed him a copper for its delivery before whispering a message into Sira's ear and departing. Whatever the note said, Sira had been in a foul mood for the rest of the evening and cast harsh looks at the table where the hobbit and the Rohirrim trader sat finishing off a small tray of pastries.
"Drat," Jasimir exclaimed softly as he halted near a clump of nettles growing along the river's edge. He had forgotten to tell Sevilodorf about Cullen asking about her.
"You bring any of that lamb stew with you? Though it smells like it could use a bit more sage."
The coarse voice from the shadows shocked Jasimir straight up in the air, and he nearly choked on his own gasp. "Great stars!"
The chuffing sound of the warg's laugh did little to restore his dignity, but Jasimir held back his initial impulse to shout at the warg when he caught sight of the gleaming greenish eyes of an orc behind her.
"Warg, that is not polite!" he hissed, glancing about for any other unexpected company.
"So? I'm a warg. Since when has anyone expected me to be polite? Heh heh heh." Then leaves stirred unseen as both sets of glinting eyes flickered. "Come on, let's get out of sight and then we'll talk."
With some apprehension Jasimir pushed aside bare twigs and stepped onto a small path along the river. As his night vision sharpened he could see Warg slinking before him, as large as a small bear in the shadows, and the crooked silhouette of the orc slouching ahead of her.
"Who's that with you?"
"Corbat," she replied.
"Oh! The one who woke up the whole town howling?"
Warg turned and lazily pivoted and dropped her haunches to sit, the orc sinking to his heels beyond. "Yes, well, he thinks in rather straight lines."
She did not elaborate on that, and so Jasimir warily crouched to take a seat, his hands finding dry grass and cool earth here near the river's edge. Beyond a tangled screen of bare shrubs he could hear the water's gurgling passage. There really was nobody within sight. He wondered if there was anyone within hearing.
"What did you want me for?" he asked. And prayed he would like the answer.
"Well, Corbat here had some interesting things to say."
Moonlight glimmered silver in the warg's disconcertingly steady gaze. It really was not normal for a dog to look a man square in the eyes. Then again, dogs could not talk, either.
"What kind of things?"
Warg shifted in what seemed to be a shrug. "Mainly that there are new scents on the wind, here. Mean people getting meaner. And who is Margul's boy?"
Jasimir found himself fumbling with that unexpected tangent, but then replied, "Cullen, Farmer Tiroc's youngest son."
"Hm. But he works for this Margul? Why is he not home working with his father and his pack? And who is Margul?"
Jasimir sighed. "I don't know. To either question. Cullen all of a sudden seems to have money from working for Margul, but I have no idea what he does. And Margul … I don't know what he does, either. He just seems to have money. And he feels slithery."
"Like a snake," Corbat's rough voice grumbled. "Cold eyes."
"A very well-dressed snake," Jasimir echoed.
Warg made a soft sound that could have been sniffing or perhaps was chuckling, then fell silent a moment. The boy sat patiently, listening to the hidden river's gurgling voice, as he pondered how very odd it was to be sitting in the dark with a warg and an orc. A pity he could not tell anyone - but then who would believe him?
"You know Sevi is in town, right?" Warg finally asked.
"Oh yes, I've spoken to her several times."
"Good. Then you will watch that she doesn't get in trouble, right?" Warg lowered herself to a reclining position, forepaws crossed as she peered off into the shadows. "There are things … changing. I feel it like new weather coming in, but I can't find the scent of it."
"I know. There's a lot of talk in town, especially what with that Lord Darien taking up for the orcs and all."
Warg snorted. "A lot of foolishness, if you ask me. He never asked the orcs what they want. That seems to be something about people who are in charge of things - they always want to be in charge of something more."
Jasimir was not sure how to reply to that, and so he did not. With a sigh, Warg continued.
"Back to what I was saying. You will watch that Sev does not find trouble?"
"Yes."
"Good. I do what I can out here, but … heh heh heh, people tend to get a little silly if they actually see me."
A vision of a pony-sized warg strolling though the streets of Henneth Annûn sparked a grin on the boy's face. "Yes, I think they would."
"If you see anything, if you find anything and need help, you'll tell Lorgarth and he'll find me."
"Lorgarth?"
"Yes, he's the orc pack-leader here. You really don't want to know how hard it is to send a message through Corbat."
Remembering the ear-splitting howl in the yard of The Whistling Dog, Jasimir replied, "Well, I know how hard it is to receive one."
"Ay," grumbled Corbat. "I give the message."
"Of course you did, Corbat," Warg said in soothing tones - or as soothing as her growling voice allowed. "But isn't it much easier to let Logarth do the thinking?"
"Uh … yeah."
"My point. Anyhow, Jasimir, I'm trusting you to use your ears, cub. Sev cannot see all things."
"I'll be watchful," Jasimir promised, for this was a duty he was more than glad to take on. For one thing, it meant he had even stronger reason to keep snooping around whatever mischief Cullen and Margul were up to.
Then Warg rose, suddenly a massive shadow standing head-and-shoulders above the boy still seated in the grass. "I'll be waiting for Sev when she's ready to go home. You can tell her that. But remember - if you sniff something out, tell Logarth. Not anyone else. I don't trust the humans around here. They are not of the pack."
Whether or not she trusted him was a question Jasimir decided would be best left unspoken. "I will."
The great animal turned - and was gone. Not a twig snapped or a branch rustled to mark where she had passed. Jasimir's breath caught in his throat as he realized he was alone with Corbat's misshapen form. However, the orc simply clambered to his feet and without a word shambled away into the dark. Only then did the boy realize it was actually quite chilly out there, and his warm bed suddenly seemed the best place to be.
xxx
TBC ...