blew away on a west wind, so that the full moon shone upon the land.
‘Too much krrf,’ the mercenary who had sold himself for a Hell Hound sighed.
‘Hell Hound’ was what the citizenry called the Prince’s Guard; as far as Tempus
was concerned. Sanctuary was Hell. The only thing that made it bearable was
krrf, his drug of choice. Rubbing a clammy palm across his mouth, he dug in his
human-hide belt until searching fingers found a little silver box he always
carried. Flipping it open, he took a pinch of black Caronne krrf and, clenching
his fist, piled the dust into the hollow between his first thumb joint and the
fleshy muscle leading to his knuckle. He sniffed deeply, sighed, and repeated
the process, inundating his other nostril.
‘Too much damn krrf,’ he chuckled, for the krrf had never been stepped on – he
did not buy adulterated drugs – and all six and a half feet of him tingled from
its kiss. One of these days he would have to stop using it – the same day he
laid down his sword.
He felt for its hilt, patted it. He had taken to calling it his ‘Wriggly-be
good’, since he had come to this godforsaken warren of magicians and changelings
and thieves. Then, the initial euphoria of the drug past, he kneed his horse
homewards.
It was the krrf, not the instructions of the lightning or any fear of Vashanka,
that made him go by way of the harbour. He was walking out his horse before
taking it to the stable the Hell Hounds shared with the barracks personnel. What
had ever possessed him to come down-country among the Ilsigs? It was not for his