But it soon became clear that the Queen’s edict didn’t seem to faze the native folk any. Our peasant guide never blinked an eye when I told him our destination. And, along the way, I saw many a local lad in the forests with bow in hand. Made sense, of course—who was going to stop them from poaching the Queen’s game? Game wardens had been banned, too.
The only problem with the whole trip came at the end. Late in the afternoon, when—by my estimate—we weren’t but a few miles from the Abbey, our guide ordered Oscar to stop the coach. Greyboar and I climbed out to see what the problem was.
“This is as far as you can go,” he pronounced. “Across that little bridge”—he pointed to a span over a small creek, just a few yards ahead—”and you’re on Abbey land. Can’t take a coach on Abbey land.”
Greyboar frowned. “What’s the problem? You’ve already broken the Queen’s writ, coming this far.”
The guide sneered. “Piss on the Queen’s writ.” He thought a moment, added: “Piss on the Queen.” He thought a moment more, added: “Piss on the whole Royal Family.”
“Then what’s the problem?” I asked.
“It’s the horses,” explained the guide. “They’ll bolt if you try to get them to cross the bridge. On account of the snarl scent.”
“Snarls?” This came from me. I’ve met a snarl close up, I have. And while the great monster was pleasant enough, once the wizard’s apprentice quieted her down, it was still one of those experiences you’d like to keep in the “once in a lifetime” category.
“Sure, snarls,” said the peasant. “The Abbey’s land is packed with ’em. Forest snarls, to boot. They don’t never bother the local lads, mind you, as long as they keep their poaching off the Abbey’s land. But woe betide the man who crosses that line!” Here he launched into a long and gruesome tale regarding the various fatal mishaps encountered by local yokels over the years who’d made the mistake of trying to fill their larder on the Abbey’s land.
“O’ course,” he concluded, “the snarls got a little sloppy about enforcing the rule, after the Seventh Cavaliers went in. And after the Third Royal Regiment—well! For a few weeks there, you could poach anywhere to your heart’s content. Skin a deer right under a snarl’s great snout, you could, the monsters were so fat they couldna hardly walk. But they’ve slimmed down since, and the rule’s been back in place for years.”
“What about us?” I demanded. “How are we supposed to get to the Abbey, mobbed by forest snarls?”
“Oh, you won’t be bothered, long as you stay on the road. Lots of local folks been up to the Abbey, over the years. They make most of what they need for themselves, do the Sisters of Tranquility, but still and all, there’s always the odd tidbit now and then. But whenever we make a delivery, it’s always got to be on foot. Horses’ll panic as soon as they cross the bridge. Mules and ox teams, too.”
Well, there was nothing for it. I paid the guide and he ambled off, back down the road. As soon as he was out of sight, we gave Hrundig the signal. After he and the Frissaults climbed out of their hiding place, we started unloading the luggage we’d actually need for our stay at the Abbey. Most of the stuff we left with Oscar and his friends. I also gave them enough money to buy whatever food supplies they’d need while they waited for us to return. I wasn’t even my usual tightfisted self about it.
That done, we set off toward the Abbey. Within a minute or two, we’d crossed the bridge and were into the heart of the forest.
Not happy, I wasn’t. Not happy at all. The road wasn’t bad, actually, for a dirt road. But still and all, it was a two-hour hike. And I believe I’ve made my sentiments regarding this sort of mindless exercise clear enough.
But the worst of it was the snarls. Sure, and you didn’t really see them much. Masters of camouflage, your snarls. It’s amazing, really, you’d never think creatures of their size could keep themselves so invisible. But they can, except for the odd glimpse of a vague motion, a rustle in the woods, and so on and so on and so on and so on and so on and so on. Lots and lots of rustles, there were.
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