ful. Everythin’ local we’ve swallowed ‘as been edible,
even if it’s tasted lousy.”
“Lucky yo,” said Roseroar. “No game at all fo me.
Ah find mahself reduced to eating not just weeds, but this
crap. Ah declah ah’ve nevah been so bored with eating in
all man life.”
“Boring, tired, tasteless.. .don’t you see what’s hap-
pening?” Jon-Tom told them.
“You’re gettin’ worked up over nothin’, mate.” The
otter was lying on a mound of soft moss. “Settle yourself
down. ‘Ave a sip o’ somethinV
“Yes.” Roseroar slipped off her swordbelt. “Let’s just
sit heah and rest awhile. There’s no need to rush. We
haven’t seen a sign of pursuit since we left that town, and
ah don’t think we’re likely to encounter any now.”
“She’s right, mate. Pull up a soft spot and ‘ave a sit.”
“Both of you listen to me.” Jon-Tom tried to put some
force into his voice, was frightened to hear it emerge from
his lips flat and curiously empty of emotion. He felt sad
and utterly useless. Something had begun to afflict him
70
Alan Dean Foster
from the day they’d first set foot in the Moors. It was
something more than just boredom with their surround-
ings, something far more penetrating and dangerous. It
was a grayness of the heart, and it was digging its
insidious way deeper and deeper into their thoughts, kill-
ing off determination and assurance as it went. Eventually,
it would ruin their bodies as well. The skeleton was proof
enough of that. Whatever was into them was patient and
clever, much too calculating, it occurred to Jon-Tpm, to be
an accident of the environment.