And any living being that would aid those evil entities, knowingly or unknowingly. Hrarfa, Fraax, Sistha, Hnaf, Ficken.
As usual, his kirai yielded nothing.
Rath tried again.
Ysk.
The salty taste returned to his mouth, an echo of common blood. Rath rose, shook the dust of the road from his garments, and followed the sound once again.
Achmed dragged his mount to a stop, twisting his face away from the back and shoulders of the woman who rode on the horse before him, swathed in a cloak of mist from which a foul stench was emanating. “Hrekin,” he said sourly. “Rhapsody, for the sake of everything that is holy, or unholy even, what is that repulsive smell?”
“Oi think ya got it right the first time, sir,” said Grunthor merrily. “Children is one of them things what tastes better than it smells.” Rhapsody chuckled. “If you even lick your lips within an arm’s length of him, I’ll cauterize your intestines with Daystar Clarion—don’t think I won’t, you child-eating lout,” she replied. Achmed exhaled loudly in annoyance. “When I offered to let you ride with me, it was because your husband was concerned you would fall off on your own in your weakened state,” he said, turning to keep his nose from the area of stench. “You did not warn me that your child would make a fine catapult shell—better than rotting garbage or dead fish.”
“Do you want to stop so that I can change him?” Rhapsody asked, opening the folds of her cloak, sending Achmed writhing away again, covering his sensitive sinuses. The tiny child was sleeping deeply, his black lashes a fringe on the rosy face barely visible in the light of the moon. “I know he smells bad, but it might be best if we just let sleeping children lie.” The Three fell silent and exchanged a glance. Rhapsody’s comment had inadvertently served to remind them of the dire-ness of their situation. Long ago a poem had proclaimed a prophecy of three sleeping children, each one known indiscriminately as the Sleeping Child.