248
Alan Dean Poster
riding him, they might yet overtake that prick Jalwar and
his whore of a helpmate Folly.
They made rapid progress westward, but still there was
no sign of their former friends.
When they finally found themselves on the outskirts of
Crancularn itself, Jon-Tom found it hard to believe. He’d
half come to think of the town as existing only in
Clothahump’s imagination. Yet there it was.
Yes, there it was, and after too many close calls with
death, after crossing the Muddletup Moors and the Glittergeist
Sea and innumerable hills and vales, he was more than a
little discouraged by the sight of it.
The setting was impressive enough: a heavily forested
slope that climbed the flank of a slowly smoking volcano.
The town itself, however, was about as awe-inspiring as
dirty, homey Lynchbany. Tumble-down shacks and ram-
shackle two-and three-story buildings of wood and mud
crowded close to one another as if fearful of encountering the
sunlight. A dirty fog clung to the streets and the angular,
slate-roofed structures. As they headed toward the town, a
familiar odor made his nostrils contract: the thick musk of
the unwashed of many species mixed with the stink of an
open sewer system. His initial excitement was rapidly
fading.
Massive oaks and sycamores grew within the town
itself, providing more shade where none was required and
sometimes even shouldering buildings aside. Jon-Tom was
about to ask Drom if perhaps they might have come to the
wrong place when the unicorn reared back on its hind
hooves and nearly dumped him and Mudge to the ground.