Enemies? The squirrel's tail danced. Yes, these were the scents of enemies. And yet the dream from which he'd just woken was not one of enemies.
Pytr's tail switched impatiently, then slowed to a considering wave. FRIENDS?
WELL, IT'S HARD TO EXPLAIN. IT'S… I SMELL THE DOG AND THE FOX, THE FALCON AND THE PANTHER. AND MY NOSE TELLS ME TO BE AFRAID. BUT… IN MY MIND I DON'T SEE THE BEASTS THE SMELLS ARE SUPPOSED TO SHOW ME. I… I DON'T KNOW HOW ELSE TO EXPLAIN IT.
Pytr wondered then if maybe the squirrel WAS CRAZY. He sighed and left his place by the window. He gave Rieve wide berth and leaped to the table. WHAT DO YOU SEE IN YOUR DREAMS, THEN, SQUIRREL?
I DON'T KNOW. I DON'T SEE ANYTHING THAT I CAN TELL YOU ABOUT FOR SURE. I JUST DON'T SEE A DOG. OR A FOX, OR THE REST OF THEM. WHAT ABOUT THE MAN?
The squirrel sighed. I DON'T KNOW HOW I KNOW THIS, PYTR, BEING A SQUIRREL AS I AM, BUT I HAVE A FEELING THAT FRIENDS ARE COMING.
The long, eerie howl of a dog cascaded through the night. The hackles rose on the back of Pytr's neck. A fox's sharp yipping followed, and a falcon wailed high, then low. The panther was silent, but Pytr knew he was near.
Pytr rose, back arched, tail swollen to nearly the width of the squirrel's. Rieve was on his feet, his back to the fire. His fear scent, sour and urgent, filled the room.
LET US HOPE, SQUIRREL, THAT THESE ARE FRIENDS, INDEED. THOUGH IF THEY ARE, I WILL TELL YOU NOW THAT YOU HAVE SOME VERY STRANGE FRIENDS FOR A SQUIRREL.
Part of the squirrel agreed completely. Another part, however, the part that dreamed memories he knew he shouldn't have, laughed happily.
The falcon descended on a dropping air current and caught the tree's bare branch neatly to perch. He spread his wings, his dark eyes flashing, and screamed an imperious challenge.
STURM! the fox thought, stretching his sharp-toothed jaws in a grin of acknowledgement. Behind him he heard the shepherd dog, Flint, just drifting down the hill. That path would take him right into the cottage's dooryard, shadowed now by night and trees. To his left and ahead, around the far side of the cottage, rumbled the low growl of the panther. Caramon was in place. It occurred to the fox — Tanis — that it was a very good thing that Caramon had eaten well before the change.
The fox tested the air carefully, identified the scents of his companions and of those within the cottage. Man-scent was strong, and so was the smell of cat and squirrel.
Squirrel. His mouth began to water in spite of himself. Squirrels, he knew from some heretofore untapped well of information, tasted nearly as good as rabbits. Tanis shuddered and shook himself.
He caught man-scent again, this time from a hill behind him. That scent he knew well, though he had only recently come to recognize it: Raistlin. Light and sweet, the small scent of a wren hovered near. All were in position.
WREN, he whispered, though to any who heard it might only have been the soft pant of a fox pausing to rest in his night hunting.