Thieves World 7 – The Dead of Winter by Asprin, Robert

The donkey stood there for a while shaking, then looked hungrily over at the

next nearest food, a downhanging willow with oddly dark leaves.

The willow began to weep….

The road down was a steep one. That alone would make return difficult, if the

slope on hell’s far side were the same. But Mriga knew there would be other

problems, judging by the sounds floating up through the murky darkness. Dim

distant screams, and howls of things that were not only dogs, and terrible thick

coughing grunts like those of hunting beasts all mingled in the fumy air until

the ears ached, and the eyes stung not just from smoke but from trying to see

the sounds’ sources. For once Mriga was glad of the sharp ozone smell that came

of the lightnings crackling about Siveni’s spearhead; it was something familiar

in the terror. And even if the lightnings were burning blue, they were better

than no light at all. Ischade seemed to need no light: she went ahead sure as a

cat, always with a slight smile on her face.

The way wasn’t always broad, or easy, no matter what the poets said. After a

long, long walk down, the sound of their footsteps began echoing back more and

more quickly, until Mriga could put out her hands and touch both walls. “Here is

the strait part of the course,” said Ischade. One after another they had to get

down on their knees and crawl-even Siveni, who grumbled and hissed at the

indignity. Mriga was used to dirt and had less trouble; though the dank smell,

and the way the cold, sour clods of earth seemed to press in against her, made