Douglas Niles - Circle at center

Ulfgang was anxious to look into the matter of the rambunctious dogs, so he and Tamarwind decided to head into the country the morning after their arrival in Argentian. The Lighten Hour found them already descending from the lofty arkwood tree to start through the twisting streets of the elven city. Before they’d taken a hundred steps they were hailed by a familiar voice and they saw Deltan Columbine hastening to join them. The poet was dressed in traveling clothes, leather tunic and breeches, with a pack slung over his shoulder. A small harp and a curved silver trumpet were strapped to his back.

“The city’s been wearing on me,” he admitted. “And, hearing you talk yesterday, I got to thinking about the hill country. Do you mind if I come along?”

Tam welcomed his friend’s company, and Deltan fell comfortably into step with the trio as they passed a pair of towers marking the place where Argentian merged into the vast, surrounding forest. A minute later they were in the thick woods, and dog and elves relished the renewed freedom of the traveler.

“It’s been years since I’ve been outside of Silvercove, at least for more than a few hours,” Deltan remarked, drawing a deep breath. “I had forgotten how refreshing the forest can be.”

“Our homeland is a wonder,” Tam noted, “but I myself am certainly glad to get away now and then.”

They swung easily along, and Tam found the faster pace strangely exhilarating after the measured march of the elven delegation. By noon they had reached the first of the pastures, broad, rolling fields where the trees had been shorn away. It was here that the inherently hilly nature of Argentian became visible, with each successive meadow rising higher in the distance. Here and there walls of piled stone crossed the heath, making oddly geometrical patterns. The nearest cows were on a hillside beyond a narrow, sparkling stream.

“But it’s not the cows we’re looking for-it’s field rabble,” declared Ulfgang sternly. Tam got the feeling that the dog was reminding himself of his task. Ulf’s luminous brown eyes lingered lovingly over the cattle, and when the small herd wandered over the horizon and out of sight he uttered an audible sigh.

“No shepherds with the herd,” Deltan observed.

“That’s the problem, I imagine,” suggested Ulf. “The rabble hounds are always going to look for chances to run in the fields-but the shepherds should be keeping them out!”

“How are you going to solve the problem?” Tam wondered.

“We’ll have to find some dogs-shepherds or rabble, it doesn’t matter-and then we’ll learn what’s going on,” Ulfgang declared grimly.

They decided that the best way to look for unruly dogs, or anything else, was to get a good vantage, so the trio set out through the meadows, climbing from one pasture to the next. Tam and Deltan scrambled up a rock wall while Ulfgang sprang right over the barrier. The grassy loam on the other side formed a soft cushion, gentle on their feet even as they made their way steadily uphill. Here and there they worked through a grove of aspen or pines, and once they circled a small grotto where a tiny waterfall spumed through the clear air.

Deltan was puffing and red-faced, but sternly insisted that he could keep up. “Don’t wait for me,” he said between breaths. “It’s just city lungs.”

Finally breaking onto a rounded hilltop that domed above the surrounding pastures, dog and elves spotted several small herds of cows and horses, some so distant that they were mere brown spots on the terrain. But they saw no sign of any other dogs. After catching his breath, Deltan took some paper and charcoal from his pack, and sat with his back against a boulder, sketching the rural landscape. Later he played his horn, which he called a flugel, and from which he coaxed some pleasant and melodious tunes.

Tam took a short nap on the soft grass, then reached for the cheese and sausage he had brought, which he shared with his two companions. Finally the Hour of Darken was upon them, and the sun slowly began to recede into the heights. Twilight fringed the woods and fields beyond the hills, and here and there lights sparkled into being, each a glow marking a village or hamlet of Argentian.

And they heard the sound of frantic barking, a harsh echo rising from the valley behind their rounded summit. They crossed the hilltop at a trot, and even in the shadows that darkened the vale Tamarwind could see a gray shape writhing deliriously on the ground. Ulf inhaled, then shook his head violently, as if to clear an odor from his nostrils.

“Horse dung and a silly bitch,” he sniffed contemptuously. “I don’t know what they smell in it.”

Tam couldn’t detect any odor, but he trusted the dog’s superior nose. “Can you ask her about the shepherds?”

“Hey, you down there!” Ulfgang barked. His voice was sharp and piercing, and the other dog immediately ceased her wiggling dance. After a moment she rolled onto her belly and gazed fearfully up the hill.

“You floozy!” shouted the white dog sternly. “Now, I want you to clean yourself off and get up here. I’m going to talk to you.”

In a few minutes the bitch, who was a short-haired hound with long, droopy ears, came hesitantly up the hill. As she came into sight of the pair, she dropped to the ground and crawled toward Ulfgang. Her jaws gaped, and she uttered several sharp, plaintive barks.

“No… I understand,” Ulf replied in a deep woof. “But tell me, where are the shepherds who should be keeping you out of the fields?”

The hound whined something that caused Ulf to sit up straight, ears pricked as he looked at Tam with concern. “That is alarming-they’ve been gone for a long time, and they’re chasing deer, she says.” The white dog turned back to the bitch. “Where? Where are the shepherds?”

Again she barked, and Ulfgang followed her gaze. “In the direction that is neither metal nor wood,” he said slowly. “And far away.”

Tam followed the direction of the dog’s look, then turned to meet Ulf’s eyes. Left unspoken was the understanding that tickled each of them with a tremor of alarm.

For that was the direction of the Greens.

Natac studied the image on the wall, and moved his body through the exact maneuvers performed by the man he was watching. The subject of his study was a lightly dressed warrior, a man from the place called the Orient who used his feet and his hands as weapons. Now he was training, dancing alone through slashing kicks, lightning punches, and a variety of leaps and spins.

Mirroring every move, Natac kicked his foot into the air, higher than his head. Next he spun on the ball of his other foot. With his back to the moving picture, Natac worked from memory of the precise form, executing a sharp forward kick, switching feet to repeat the thrust with his other foot, then spinning once more with a roundhouse kick that brought him again into view of the man from Earth. As he expected, he matched precisely the cadence and routine of the other warrior.

The man in the image turned, and Natac had the uncanny feeling that the fellow could somehow sense his presence. When the fighter bowed formally, Natac returned the gesture.

Only then did Miradel puff out the candle and gather the scraps of wool into a basket, saved for the next viewing.

Natac’s heart was pumping, and a sheen of sweat covered his skin, plastering his thick hair to his scalp. He felt wonderfully vibrant.