Chapter Eight
Paul saw the big cattle-slaughter site first and cried out in shock and dismay. The whole clearing was covered with blood and gore and strewn with bones. In the middle of it all was a large, burned patch of grass and several rude spits rigged over forked branches planted in the earth.
“Sorry, Paul, looks like we’re not saving any steers for you,” Hunter said, patting the lad on the shoulder. He looked around and felt his heart begin to beat a faster tattoo. Besides the wreckage of Dahlia’s herd, there were footprints all over in the dried blood, as well as reeking pellets of freely scattered goblin dung.
“Fancy camp,” Chekwe said, nodding towards the spits.
“How can you tell it’s fancy?” Paul asked.
“They don’t always make a fire,” Chekwe explained. “Fire is big mojo. Ta
