kept licking those foul chops as she bent over young Torchyld’s magnificent body showed what those hideous teeth were for.
“Ye cave be where I store my food,” she’d told them. She would sate her dreadful hunger on that great, handsome frame, then hang up the rest of them like sides of beef in a butcher’s warehouse, to be dripped on with the stalactites until she got hungry again.
Well, Peter was damned if he’d let himself or any of his comrades provide chops and cutlets for that ten-titted horror. But how in Sam Hill was he going to stop her? She was enormous now, bigger than Stott, bigger than Torchyld; so big he couldn’t see how the tiny hut held her.
Then he realized they weren’t in any hut. They were still in the cave. The hut had been a mere contrivance of thatch and wattles: stage scenery for the pathetic old-woman act that had lulled them into feeling safe enough to get drunk on her hell-brew. No wonder she’d fed them that line about not venturing beyond the cowhide. They’d have found nothing outside but more rock. Great God, would they ever get out? Would it be kinder to let her kill them all quickly? No, damn it, such a death was unthinkable.
Cerridwen, or whatever she was, had gone on to Tim, curling her snout in scorn at his puny frame. She turned to Dan, nodding and cackling over his stately height and impressive poundage. Then she looked thoughtful.
“Perchance ’twould be wiser to save this one for a rainy day,” she mused aloud. “He be comely of countenance”—Stott did in fact somewhat resemble a particularly majestic and distinguished porker—“and he be courtly in demeanor. ’Tis long since I last took a consort. Sometimes I find myself missing Lord Mochyn. But he did make a sumptuous pot roast. Ah, decisions, decisions. No matter, I can think about that later. First, to enjoy ye young giant Dwydd sent me. I suppose I ought to drop her a thank-you note. He will roast nicely. Or should I tear ye living flesh from ye quivering bones with my razor-sharp fangs, let ye blood roll down my chin, and hark with pleasure to his shrieks of agony until he hath nothing left to shriek with? As for that one in ye corner,” she cast a disparaging glance at Peter, “not much to go to ye table with, but better than rabbit stew, methinks!”
Then at least it probably had been a rabbit in the pot. Peter found a tiny drop of comfort in that. Perhaps it was the last drop he’d ever have. Did the bitch have to keep licking her chops so avidly? Was there no way out this nightmare?
Peter stole furtive glances from under his eyelashes, spying around for anything that might conceivably be used as a weapon. No use trying to tackle that monster with his bare hands. She’d have them chewed off to the armpits before he could get them around her throat. His only chance was in guile. He’d never felt more guileless in his life.
Then his glance fell on the harp Torchyld had flung into the corner behind the bench. It was no sort of weapon, but it was better than nothing. While the monstrous creature had her back to him, gloating over Torchyld, Peter snaked out his hand and grabbed the harp. It jangled. There was only one thing to do now, and he did it.
“A hog he would a-wooing go,
“Hi-ho, says Rowley.”
Peter was no singer, he’d never twanged a harp before in his life, but that was beside the point. Bards were supposed to have the power of song over the birds of the air, the beasts of the field, the minds and the hearts of men. Did this thing have a mind, or a heart? No matter. At least he might distract her long enough for the others to wake up and make a run for it, though God only knew where they could run to. He sat up on his haunches, swept his hands back and forth across the strings to make as much noise as possible, and bellowed on.
“O bury me not on the lone prairee.
“These words came low and mournfullee
“From the pallid lips of a sow who lay
“On her dying bed at the close
“Ye cave be where I store my food,” she’d told them. She would sate her dreadful hunger on that great, handsome frame, then hang up the rest of them like sides of beef in a butcher’s warehouse, to be dripped on with the stalactites until she got hungry again.
Well, Peter was damned if he’d let himself or any of his comrades provide chops and cutlets for that ten-titted horror. But how in Sam Hill was he going to stop her? She was enormous now, bigger than Stott, bigger than Torchyld; so big he couldn’t see how the tiny hut held her.
Then he realized they weren’t in any hut. They were still in the cave. The hut had been a mere contrivance of thatch and wattles: stage scenery for the pathetic old-woman act that had lulled them into feeling safe enough to get drunk on her hell-brew. No wonder she’d fed them that line about not venturing beyond the cowhide. They’d have found nothing outside but more rock. Great God, would they ever get out? Would it be kinder to let her kill them all quickly? No, damn it, such a death was unthinkable.
Cerridwen, or whatever she was, had gone on to Tim, curling her snout in scorn at his puny frame. She turned to Dan, nodding and cackling over his stately height and impressive poundage. Then she looked thoughtful.
“Perchance ’twould be wiser to save this one for a rainy day,” she mused aloud. “He be comely of countenance”—Stott did in fact somewhat resemble a particularly majestic and distinguished porker—“and he be courtly in demeanor. ’Tis long since I last took a consort. Sometimes I find myself missing Lord Mochyn. But he did make a sumptuous pot roast. Ah, decisions, decisions. No matter, I can think about that later. First, to enjoy ye young giant Dwydd sent me. I suppose I ought to drop her a thank-you note. He will roast nicely. Or should I tear ye living flesh from ye quivering bones with my razor-sharp fangs, let ye blood roll down my chin, and hark with pleasure to his shrieks of agony until he hath nothing left to shriek with? As for that one in ye corner,” she cast a disparaging glance at Peter, “not much to go to ye table with, but better than rabbit stew, methinks!”
Then at least it probably had been a rabbit in the pot. Peter found a tiny drop of comfort in that. Perhaps it was the last drop he’d ever have. Did the bitch have to keep licking her chops so avidly? Was there no way out this nightmare?
Peter stole furtive glances from under his eyelashes, spying around for anything that might conceivably be used as a weapon. No use trying to tackle that monster with his bare hands. She’d have them chewed off to the armpits before he could get them around her throat. His only chance was in guile. He’d never felt more guileless in his life.
Then his glance fell on the harp Torchyld had flung into the corner behind the bench. It was no sort of weapon, but it was better than nothing. While the monstrous creature had her back to him, gloating over Torchyld, Peter snaked out his hand and grabbed the harp. It jangled. There was only one thing to do now, and he did it.
“A hog he would a-wooing go,
“Hi-ho, says Rowley.”
Peter was no singer, he’d never twanged a harp before in his life, but that was beside the point. Bards were supposed to have the power of song over the birds of the air, the beasts of the field, the minds and the hearts of men. Did this thing have a mind, or a heart? No matter. At least he might distract her long enough for the others to wake up and make a run for it, though God only knew where they could run to. He sat up on his haunches, swept his hands back and forth across the strings to make as much noise as possible, and bellowed on.
“O bury me not on the lone prairee.
“These words came low and mournfullee
“From the pallid lips of a sow who lay
“On her dying bed at the close
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