slitted windows and triangular doorways bespoke a time
and people who had ruled the world long before the
warmblooded.
230
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
231
“Sulolk used this place,” murmured Drom as he trotted
inside.
Distant shouts of outrage came from behind them,
deciding the tigress. She bent beneath the low portal and
squeezed in.
The single chamber beyond had a vaulted ceiling that
enabled her to stand easily. There was more than enough
room for all of them. Mudge was admiring the narrow
windows, fashioned by a forgotten people for reasons of
unknown aesthetics but admirably suited to the refugees’
present needs. He notched an arrow into his bow and
settled himself behind one thin gap.
Jon-Tom took up a stance to the left of the opening,
ready to use his steel-tipped staff on anyone who tried to
enter. A moment later he was able to move to a second
window as Roseroar jammed a massive stone weighing at
least three hundred pounds into the doorway, blocking it
completely.
“This is a good place to fight from.” Drom used a hoof
to shove the cooling roast from his horn onto clean rock.
“A small spring flows from the floor of a back room.
Cracks in the ceiling allow fresh air to circulate. I have
often slept here in safety.” He indicated the damp grass
growing from the floor. “There is food as well.”
“For you,” admitted Jon-Tom, watching the woods for
signs of their pursuers. “Well, we have what’s in our
packs and the roast we saved.” He glanced to his right,
toward the other guarded window. “You shouldn’t have