by Peter Harris
Chapter Twenty-two
Into the Badlands
In the dead of night, three visitors came to the foot of Barachthad’s cliff, where the pool reflected the many-coloured stars like watery gems. Their leader did not care about the beauty of the reflections; he was there to follow a trail. He scanned the cliff-face, then bent down to examine the rock on which Shelley had lain. The other two tall dark figures huddled around the rock, feeling it to pick up any subtle vibrations. Three bulldog-like creatures, their bulbous eyes gleaming in the starlight, grunted and snuffled at their feet. Their tongues, rough like a cat’s, but sharp as a rasp, and long as a dog’s, lapped the cold water.
The trail of the anklebiter was cold, and the Dagraath sniffed around the boulders in growing frustration. But the leader of the Trackers jumped, bird-like, to a lower boulder. He had seen a tiny impression in the moss. A faint hum of hornets came from the thorny basket on his back as he stood a second in thought. Then he raised a hand, wiggling a claw to beckon them on, and they began to work their way down the hill, towards the stream called Pebblebrook.