at least twice as tall as he was, disappearing among the hairs.
I ought to call everyone, he thought. But they'll run around and shout and give one another orders and trip over things, and then it will have long gone. But I've got to do something. Otherwise we'll soon have a statue that goes ping when it should go "Hello".
He found Roland, and quickly put his bridle on. There was no time for the saddle. And then he led the horse, very quietly in the direction of the jingling.
The termagant was so old that he could not remember a time when he'd been young. He could dimly remember when there had been other termagants, but he was strong then, and had driven them out.
Later on there had been a people who had worshipped him and built a temple for him to live in, thinking that he was some kind of a god. They had worshipped him because he was so destructive, which is what often happens, but that sort of religion never works out in the long term; after he had turned many of them to statues the ones that were left had fled and left him in his temple.
He had no company now. Even the wild creatures kept away from the temple. In vain did he wander abroad and call out to his people in the south. There was no answer. He probably was the last termagant in the Carpet.
Sometimes he went to find some company. Anything would do. Just some other living things. He wouldn't even eat them. But it never worked. He only had to get near and they'd get stiff and cold and unfriendly for some reason.
So he tramped back to his ruined temple, his tail dragging behind him. He was almost at the door before he smelt the smell, the forgotten smell of company.
Snibril had reached the ruined temple just before. He felt Roland's hooves trot over hard wooden paving. Around him, lit by a faint glow, he could see fallen walls, littered with statues. Some were holding out boxes and bowing low, some were crouched back, hands to their eyes. There were small wild animals there, too ... unmoving.
In the centre of the temple there was a ruined altar, and that was the source of the glow. On it and around it were piled treasures. There were stones of salt and black jet, boxes of clear varnish and red wood, carved bone rings, crowns of bronze, all heaped anyhow.
By the treasure was another statue. It was a small warrior, hardly half Snibru's height. Magnificent moustaches hung down almost to its waist. In one hand it held a sword and round shield, in the other a necklace of glittering salt crystals. Its face was turned up in an expression of surprise. A fluff creeper had crept across the floor to him, giving him a necklace of living red flowers.
Snibril tethered Roland to a pillar, and shuddered.
Someone else had tethered their mount there before him. It still stood there. It looked like a pony, but it was no larger than a Munrung dog, and had six legs.
Snibril could have picked it up in both hands. There it stood, wearing a thin coat of dust. Roland lowered his head and sniffed at the still muzzle, puzzled. Snibril padded over to the mound of treasure and stared in awe. There were even coins there, not Tarnerii, but large wooden discs bearing strange signs. There were heavy swords, and chests of carved grit, set with salt gems. He stood and stared, and saw the warrior out of the corner of his eye.
Hand reaching out ...
That was why he had come. And the termagant had found him.
There was a jingling noise. Snibril saw a reflection in the statue's polished shield. It showed something scaly and very nearly shapeless.
It's in the doorway, Snibril thought. Right behind me ...
But if I turn around ...
He unhooked the shield, holding it up so that he could see over his shoulder.
The termagant jingled. Around its leathery neck were chains of varnish and red wood. Every claw was aglitter with rings. Bracelets were threaded on the scaly tail. Every time it moved its big beaked head it sent a little tinkling noise echoing round the temple.
It peered at the altar and
I ought to call everyone, he thought. But they'll run around and shout and give one another orders and trip over things, and then it will have long gone. But I've got to do something. Otherwise we'll soon have a statue that goes ping when it should go "Hello".
He found Roland, and quickly put his bridle on. There was no time for the saddle. And then he led the horse, very quietly in the direction of the jingling.
The termagant was so old that he could not remember a time when he'd been young. He could dimly remember when there had been other termagants, but he was strong then, and had driven them out.
Later on there had been a people who had worshipped him and built a temple for him to live in, thinking that he was some kind of a god. They had worshipped him because he was so destructive, which is what often happens, but that sort of religion never works out in the long term; after he had turned many of them to statues the ones that were left had fled and left him in his temple.
He had no company now. Even the wild creatures kept away from the temple. In vain did he wander abroad and call out to his people in the south. There was no answer. He probably was the last termagant in the Carpet.
Sometimes he went to find some company. Anything would do. Just some other living things. He wouldn't even eat them. But it never worked. He only had to get near and they'd get stiff and cold and unfriendly for some reason.
So he tramped back to his ruined temple, his tail dragging behind him. He was almost at the door before he smelt the smell, the forgotten smell of company.
Snibril had reached the ruined temple just before. He felt Roland's hooves trot over hard wooden paving. Around him, lit by a faint glow, he could see fallen walls, littered with statues. Some were holding out boxes and bowing low, some were crouched back, hands to their eyes. There were small wild animals there, too ... unmoving.
In the centre of the temple there was a ruined altar, and that was the source of the glow. On it and around it were piled treasures. There were stones of salt and black jet, boxes of clear varnish and red wood, carved bone rings, crowns of bronze, all heaped anyhow.
By the treasure was another statue. It was a small warrior, hardly half Snibru's height. Magnificent moustaches hung down almost to its waist. In one hand it held a sword and round shield, in the other a necklace of glittering salt crystals. Its face was turned up in an expression of surprise. A fluff creeper had crept across the floor to him, giving him a necklace of living red flowers.
Snibril tethered Roland to a pillar, and shuddered.
Someone else had tethered their mount there before him. It still stood there. It looked like a pony, but it was no larger than a Munrung dog, and had six legs.
Snibril could have picked it up in both hands. There it stood, wearing a thin coat of dust. Roland lowered his head and sniffed at the still muzzle, puzzled. Snibril padded over to the mound of treasure and stared in awe. There were even coins there, not Tarnerii, but large wooden discs bearing strange signs. There were heavy swords, and chests of carved grit, set with salt gems. He stood and stared, and saw the warrior out of the corner of his eye.
Hand reaching out ...
That was why he had come. And the termagant had found him.
There was a jingling noise. Snibril saw a reflection in the statue's polished shield. It showed something scaly and very nearly shapeless.
It's in the doorway, Snibril thought. Right behind me ...
But if I turn around ...
He unhooked the shield, holding it up so that he could see over his shoulder.
The termagant jingled. Around its leathery neck were chains of varnish and red wood. Every claw was aglitter with rings. Bracelets were threaded on the scaly tail. Every time it moved its big beaked head it sent a little tinkling noise echoing round the temple.
It peered at the altar and
Similar Books
The Participants
Brian Blose
Deadly Inheritance
Simon Beaufort
Desert of the Heart: A Novel
Jane Rule
Torn in Two
Ryanne Hawk
Reversible Errors
Scott Turow
Waypoint: Cache Quest Oregon
Shauna Rice-Schober[thriller]
Feast On You (Werewolf, Erotic, BBW, Romance) (The Turning)
Kinsey Jamison
One False Step
Franklin W. Dixon
Pure
Jennifer L. Armentrout