He crouched low expecting to hear a howl of alarm at any second, but after moments passed with no outcry, he ventured to peer around the edge of the rocks.
Creatures fashioned out of nightmare sat in a large circle around a fire, or something more or less like a fire, because while it burned and gave off light and heat, it wasn’t the familiar yellow-white of a bonfire, but an alien silver-red with flickering flashes of blue. Jim had only seen the wolf-riders at dusk, but now he saw them illuminated by this fey fire, and the sight was unnerving, even for a man who considered himself immune to any surprise. The creatures looked like humans in form, having a head, arms and legs, but they lacked features and, from what Jim could see, clothing. Their surface seemed to be an ever-changing, rippling fabric or fluid, but nothing that could rightly be called ‘skin’, and as he had seen before, a faint wisp of smoke or steam would coil up from the surface now and again. And the creatures they rode, the ‘wolves’ hunkered down at their side, tongues lolling, were also otherworldly. Their eyes visibly glowed, and Jim knew from the first encounter he had had with them that this wasn’t the result of reflected firelight. They were eating something, though from this distance Jim couldn’t tell what it was. Then one of them tossed something in an arc above the fire to a companion and Jim felt his gorge rise as he recognized what could only be an arm. The arm of a human, elf or goblin, he couldn’t tell what, but it was not the limb of an animal.
Jim judged the size of the camp and tried to calculate a way around it. There were huts at a distance from the fire, fashioned from something as alien to him as was everything else he associated with these beings. They were round, with flat tops and looked as if they had been made from massive discs of some featureless stone rather than from cloth, leather or wood. There were no doors or windows he could see, but from time to time a figure would emerge directly through a wall or vanish into one.
The most disturbing thing about the entire tableau was the silence. There was no talking, no laughing, not even the sound of heavy breathing. He knew they were capable of sound, for he had heard their shrieks or battle-cries earlier that day, but now there was only an unnatural silence. However they communicated, it wasn’t through what Jim thought of as normal speech.
Jim peered around trying to find the flying creatures the elves called ‘Void-darters’. If they were flying around the area, he wanted to know before he tried to skirt the village.
As quietly as he could he edged around the encampment, trying to keep sight of any movement that might betray an unsuspected trap or an unexpected encounter. After he was nearly opposite to the position at which he had begun, he saw what could only be a cage, fashioned from what appeared to be the same material as the huts. Inside it, movement revealed the whereabouts of the flying creatures. He felt a small surge of relief. These alien creatures were either supremely confident or stupid, for there was nothing like a sentry or any defences posted. If he knew what would kill them, Jim could have engineered an assault that would have them all destroyed within minutes.
He continued to edge his way around the camp until he reached a rise above it, then he hurried along the trail towards what he hoped was a pass through the peaks and down to the anchored ships.
The sky to the east was visibly lightening and Jim knew that dawn was less than an hour away. He felt a sense of relief for he had been hunkered down on the east side of the peaks unsure of which way to descend. The path he followed had cut through a gap at the ridge, but on the eastern slope had quickly narrowed until he was faced with the certain knowledge that he risked falling to his death until he could see better. He was barely above the tree-line so when he looked down all he could make out in the low light from the setting moons was a sea of tree-tops. He knew that somewhere down there must be a way to the shoreline, but at this point it was foolhardy to move without better light.
Patience was a learned skill for Jim Dasher, who by nature tended to the impetuous and rash, but over the years he had harnessed those qualities and directed them. Now he was decisive and quick to act, without thoughtlessness. And right now he needed to think.
The inheritor of a legacy of service to the Crown and to the common people of Krondor, he had discovered early in life that one doesn’t often get choices as to when difficult decisions must be made. Life was rarely convenient.