He shook his head.
236
Alan Dean Foster
“No, it’s not good enough, Parsh. I’m sure they’ve got
a guard up, and I won’t send any more of the boys against
that otter’s bow. No, we have to bring the unicorn out
somehow, far enough so we can get a clear shot at him. By
himself, if possible.”
The rat spat on the ground. “That’s likely, isn’t it?”
“You know, there may be a way.”
Hathcar frowned at the wolf. “I was only half-serious,
Brungunt.”
“I’m wholly serious. All we need is the right kind of
bait.”
“That blow you took in Ollorory village has addled
your brains,” said Parsh. “Nothing’s going to bring that
unicorn out where we can get at him.”
“Go on, Brungunt,” said the thoughtful Hathcar.
The wolf leaned close. “It should be done when most of
them sleep. We must watch and smell for when the stallion
takes his turn as sentry. If they post only the one guard, we
may have a chance. Great care must be taken, for it will be
a near thing, a delicate business. Bait or no bait, if the
meddler senses our presence, I do not think he can be
drawn out. So after we set the bait we must retreat well out
of range. It will work, you’ll see. So powerful is the bait,
it will draw our quarry well out where we can cut off his
retreat. Then it won’t matter if he bolts into the woods.
The important thing is that we’ll be rid of him, and the
ones we really want will be deprived of his advice and
aid.”
“No,” said Hathcar, his eyes gleaming, “no. I want
that four-legs, too. I want him dead. Or better yet, we’ll
just hamstring him.” He grinned viciously in the dark.