creatures stepped out into clear view, forming a line behind
the cuscus. They were an odd assortment, from the more
familiar rats and mice to bandicoots and phalangers. There
was even a nocturnal aye-aye, who wore large, dark
sunglasses and carried a short, sickle-shaped weapon.
Their clothes were on the ragged side, and their boots
and sandals showed signs of much usage. Altogether not a
prosperous-looking bunch, Jon-Tom decided. The presence
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Alan Dean Foster
of so many weapons was not reassuring. These were not
kindly villagers out for a daily stroll.
Still, if all they wanted was something to eat….
“You’re welcome to join us,” he told Hathcar. “There’s
plenty for all.”
Hathcar looked past him, to where Mudge was laboring
with the cooking. His tongue licked black lips.
“You are kind. Those of us who prefer meat haven’t
made such a grand catch in many a day.” He smiled as
best he could.
Jon-Tom gestured toward Roseroar. “Yes, she’s quite
the huntress.”
“She sizes the part. Still, there is but one of her and
many of us. How is it that she has been so successful and
we have not?”
“Skill is more important than numbers.” One huge paw
caressed the hilt of a long sword.
Hathcar did not seem impressed. “Sometimes that can
be so, unless you are a hundred against one lizard.”
“Sometimes,” she agreed coolly, “but not always.”
The cuscus changed the subject. ‘ ‘What seek you strang-
ers in this remote land?”
“We’re on a mission of importance for a great and
powerful wizard,” Jon-Tom told him, “We go to the
village of Crancularn.”