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Slaves, Krog knew. The remnants of some human village
ransacked by slavers. There were many such groups
roaming the countryside in these days - slavers and their
prey. Small groups like this, usually, though sometimes the
groups came together in large camps, to trade and to export
their prizes to distant markets. Those, the big groups, he
enjoyed most, but now he was tired of waiting.
He studied them; his cunning eyes counted their
shadows in the dusk below. The slaves were grouped just
beyond the little fire, but it was their captors he watched
most closely, marking exactly where each of the armed ones
settled around their fire. Experience had taught him to deal
first with the armed ones. He carried the scars of sword and
axe cuts, from times when armed humans had managed a
slash or two before he finished them. The cuts had been
annoying. Better, he had learned, to deal with the weapon-
bearers quickly. Then he could finish off the others in any
way that amused him.
For a long time now, ever since the beginning of the
strangenesses that some called omens, humans and other
small races had been wandering into the territory that Krog
considered his - the eastern slopes of the Khalkist
Mountains. Chaotic times had fallen upon the plains
beyond, and the people of those plains were in turmoil.
Krog knew little of that, cared less. Every day, humans and
others were drifting westward toward the Khalkists, some
fleeing, some in pursuit. . . and they all were sport for Krog.
Below him on the slope, the humans' campfire blazed
brightly, and the humans gathered around it
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