Two of the foot soldiers followed them around the side of the house, apparently intending to guard their officers even in the mayor’s backyard. Norvin’s house fronted the nearest of his fields, with a low stone wall separating the dog pen and kitchen garden from the mayor’s herd of prize cattle. Colonel Meda paused when the garden shed came into view. She stooped down, peered inside, then turned slowly and took aim at Krim. Meda’s glare was enough to send the mayor’s wife scooting for the back door.
Alembord drew her back around by saying, “They’re the spitting image of Dama.”
Norvin asked, “Who?”
“Hyam’s wolfhound.” Meda smiled at the dogs pressing tight against the fence. “She had the same white streak down the length of her.”
“Aye, that’s right. She does.” Norvin smiled at the memory. “She’s one of my finest. Dama, you say? Interesting name.”
“It means blood ally in Elven.” Meda put a hand through the fence, allowing the dogs to sniff her. “Alas, Dama is no more.”
The words pushed Norvin back a step. “Elven, did you say? And Dama . . .”
“Died protecting us from . . . a fiend. I myself owe my life to one such as these.” Meda turned away from the dogs and the memory both. “Our lady wishes to acquire them all.”
Norvin was clearly still struggling to catch up. “But . . . I regret . . . three are claimed.”
Meda did not actually grip her sword. Instead, her hand merely dropped to rest upon the jeweled hilt. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear. The Lady Shona will purchase all eight. You need but name your price.”
Norvin must have seen something in the officers’ gazes, for he merely replied, “No doubt my other buyers can wait for the next litter.”
“Excellent. The Lady Shona will be most grateful. The wolfhounds are now to be in the exclusive care of Lady Dally.”
“In . . . Yes, yes, of course. But she’s not . . .”
Meda cut off his comment by turning to Dally and saying, “I hear you have the gift of communication.”
“Aye, mistress.”
“You may address me as Colonel,” Meda said, but not unkindly. “But my friends call me Meda.”
Dally had no idea what to say, so she remained silent.
Meda pointed her chin at the dogs. “Which are you close to?”
“If you mean, which do I . . .”
“Bond with,” Meda offered. “Speak to without words.”
Dally gestured at the pen. “These here.”
“What, all of them?”
“Well, the mam, she can be a bit difficult. And the sire is getting on—he sleeps much of the day. We don’t really . . . But all the eight pups . . .” She stared through the gate. “They’re my friends.”
Meda said to the wide-eyed Norvin, “Be so good as to open the gate.” When that was done, she said, “Show me.”
It was easy enough, for the dogs were very attentive now. They had the unique intelligence and sensitivity of silver-backs, and so when Dally reached out, they were already prepared to accept her. She drew them over to various points around the rear garden. She reached, she smelled, she listened.
Finally she said, “You’ve got more troopers stationed along the main road between here and your compound. And others scouting the forest perimeter. Some of the horses are shying away from taking the paths. They smell . . .”
Meda and Alembord closed the space between them. “What do they smell?” Meda asked.
Dally released her hold and blinked as the world returned to the limited focus of human eyes. She replied, “The fiends.”