"Yes, he came to see me. While the others all stayed safely hidden, he came out to greet me. He remembered. If it hadn't been for someone throwing in that horrid head…"
"I worried what might have happened," said Jones, "when you reached the battlefield. I was a coward and waited. I should have come out to meet you, but I was afraid that my coming might trigger some reaction, that I might do something that I shouldn't. I started to come down to meet you, then I came back…»
"But there was nothing to harm us," Cornwall said. "It was horrible, of course, but there was no danger. The only ones nearby was this gang of trolls and goblins and other little people…»
"My friend," said Jones, "I am glad you thought so. The belief there were only trolls and goblins may have helped you through it. With no wish to frighten you, I must tell you there were others there."
"What others?" asked Sniveley sharply.
"Hellhounds," said Jones. "A slavering pack of Hellhounds. As well as the little people, they've been with you ever since you crossed the ford."
"Hellhounds?" asked Cornwall. "There were other than human bodies on the battlefield. The ones with tails and fangs."
"You are right," said Jones.
"I knew of them," said Sniveley quietly. "They are a part of our tradition. But I have never seen one, never knew anyone who had." He explained to Cornwall. "They are the enforcers. The executioners. The professional killers."
"But so far," said Cornwall, "they have let us pass."
"They will let you pass," said Jones, "if you continue as you have. They've not made up their minds about you. Make one wrong move and they'll be down on you."
"And what about yourself?" asked Cornwall. "Are they watching you as well?"
"Perhaps," said Jones. "They did at first, of course, and they may still be watching. But, you see, I've built up a marginal reputation as a wizard and, aside from that, they may consider me insane."
"And that would be protection?"
"I have some hope it might be. I've done nothing to disabuse the thought, if indeed they have it."
"There's someone coming up the road," said Sniveley.
They all turned to look.
"It's the Gossiper," said Jones. "He's a goddamn pest. He can scent food from seven miles away and a drink of beer from twice that distance."
The Gossiper came stumping up the road. He was a tall, lean figure, wearing a dirty robe that trailed in the dust behind him. On his shoulder perched a raven, and from a strap slung across one shoulder dangled an oblong package that was encased in sheepskin. He carried a long staff in his left hand and thumped it energetically on the road with every step he took. He was followed by a little white dog with a limp. The dog was all white except for black spots encircling each eye, which made it appear he was wearing spectacles.
The Gossiper came up close beside the table and stopped in front of Cornwall, who swung around to face him. Now that the man was close enough, it could be seen that his robe was very worn and ragged, with gaping rents, through which one could see his hide. Some of the more pronounced rents had been patched, somewhat inexpertly, with cloth of many different colors, but sun and dirt had so reduced the colors that they blended in with the mud color of the robe. The raven was molting, and a couple of loosened feathers hung ragged from its tail; overall the bird looked moth-eaten. The little dog sat down and, with his good hindleg, fell to scratching fleas.
If the Gossiper was human, he was barely human. His ears rose to a point, and his eyes were strangely slanted. His nose was squashed across his face, and his teeth had the look of fangs. His grizzled hair, uncombed, was a writhing rat's nest. The hand that grasped the staff had long, uneven, dirty fingernails.
He said to Cornwall, "You be the scholar, Mark Cornwall? Lately of Wyalusing?"
"That is who I am," said Cornwall.
"You are the leader of this band of pilgrims?"
"Not the leader. We are all together."
"However that may be," said the Gossiper, "I have words of wisdom for you. Perhaps a friendly warning. Go no farther than the Witch House. That is as far as pilgrims are allowed to go."
"Beckett wasn't allowed to go even that far."
"Beckett was no pilgrim."
"And you are sure we are?"
"It's not what I think, Sir Scholar. It is what they think. I only speak their words."
"And who the hell are they?"
"Why, fair sir, must you pretend to so much innocence? If you do not know, there are others of your party who are not so ignorant?"
"You are thinking about Oliver and me," said Sniveley. "I would advise you to be careful of your words. I, as a gnome, and Oliver, as a goblin, here stand on home ground. We can go anywhere we please."
"I am not so sure," said the Gossiper, "you can claim that right. You forsook the Brotherhood."
"You still have not answered me," said Cornwall. "Tell me of the 'they' you talk about."
"You have heard of the Hellhounds?"
"I know of them," said Cornwall.
"The Chaos Beast, perhaps. And He Who Broods Upon the Mountain."
"I have heard of them. In old travelers' tales. No more than bare mention of them."
"Then you should pray," said the Gossiper, "that your acquaintanceship becomes no closer."
Cornwall swiveled around to look at Jones. Jones nodded tightly. "He told me the same thing. But, as you know, I am a coward. I did not go beyond the Witch House."
He said to the Gossiper, "How about a beer?"
"I do believe I will," said the Gossiper. "And a slice of meat when it should be done. I have traveled far, and I hunger and I thirst most excessively."
21
A full moon had risen above the jagged horizon of the trees, paling the stars, filling the glade with light. The fires burned low, for the meal was over, and out on the grass between the camp and road the little people danced in wild abandon to a violin's shrilling music.
For once the food was eaten, the Gossiper had unshipped the sheepskin bundle he carried and, unwrapping the sheepskin, had taken out a fiddle and a bow.
Now he stood, a ragged figure, with the fiddle tucked beneath his chin, the fingers of his left hand flashing on the frets, while his right arm sent the bow skittering on the strings. The moth-eaten raven still maintained a precarious perch on the Gossiper's right shoulder, hopping and skipping to keep its balance, sometimes climbing out on the upper arm, where it clung desperately, uttering dolorous squawks of protest at the insecurity of its perch. Underneath the table the little lame dog slept, replete with the meat it had been thrown by the festive feasters, its tiny paws quivering and twitching as it chased dream rabbits.
"There are such a lot of them," said Mary, meaning the little dancing people. "When we first arrived, there did not seem so many."
Jones chuckled at her. "There are more," he said. "There are all of mine and most of yours."
"You mean they have come out of hiding?"
"It was the food that did it," he said. "The food and beer. You didn't expect them, did you, to stay lurking in the bushes, watching all the others gorge themselves?"
"Then Bromeley must be out there with them. The sneaky little thing! Why doesn't he come and talk with me?"
"He's having too much fun," said Cornwall.
Coon came lumbering out of the swirl of dancers and rubbed against Hal's legs. Hal picked him up and put him on his lap. Coon settled down, wrapping his tail around his nose.
"He ate too much," said Gib.
"He always does," said Hal.
The violin wailed and whined, sang, reaching for the stars. The Gossiper's arm was busy with the bow, and the hopping raven squalled in protest.
"I don't quite understand you," Cornwall said quietly to Jones. "You said you never went beyond the Witch House. I wonder why you didn't. What are you here for, anyhow?"