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alive in front of his eyes. He would wake in a cold sweat, jerk up to a
sitting position, then force himself to lie back down, sweaty and cold in his
sleeping bag. When you're on your own, you learn to take what sleep you can;
Ian could force himself to fall asleep, if not to stay sleeping.
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So it took him a moment to realize that this scream wasn't from a dream, but
from something or someone else.
He leaped out of his blankets in the predawn light to see Hosea stagger back
from something, some thing
Ian couldn't recognize in the gray light before dawn. It was the size of a
huge man, and vaguely man-shaped, but it was covered with a mat of what could
have been thick locks of greasy hair or horribly long, greasy wattles of
leathery flesh.
It shook its massive head to clear the wattles from its eyes, and lunged for
Hosea again, thick arms reaching out for Hosea's face or head.
I'm no hero, Ian thought. The only thing to do was to run, maybe grabbing his
things, better not. Only an idiot would stoop to pick up a sword by the hilt,
fling the scabbard aside with a quick swing, then charge on
whatever-thehellitwas, sword in front of him, shouting at the top of his
lungs.
Ian's shouts were incoherent, even to his own ears, as he stumbled toward his
gear, ignoring the way cracks and ridges in the hard stone surface cut through
his socks and into his foot, then scooped up his sword and scabbard, flinging
the scabbard aside with a quick swing, bringing the sword back into line, into
an ideal line, as he ran at the creature.
With a deep growl, it threw Hosea aside as though he was a rag doll, then
turned toward Ian.
He had no chance. He would have to run away, and hope that he could run faster
than it, that Hosea wasn't badly hurt enough, hoping
He lunged, in perfect extension, realizing at the last moment that his
fencer's reflexes had betrayed him, that he would barely touch the beast's
chest with his sword tip, that instead of being run through it could merely
stop and bat his sword aside with one of those massive arms, and then it would
be upon him.
But his muscles and nerves followed the familiar path, and as the sword tip
touched the creature's chest, clouds of smoke erupted from the point of
contact, as though the thing was a huge, smoke-filled weather balloon that had
been pricked.
It screamed, and raised a hand above the sword, ready to slap it aside, but
Ian had already remised, and executed as gorgeous a thrust as he ever had in a
real match, this time bringing the tip of his blade into the monster's lower
belly, again rewarded by a smoke spume.
This was too much for whatever it was; clutching its massive hands to its
belly, it fled down the road, leaping off into the thick brush a few yards in.
Crashing sounds diminished in the distance.
Hosea had propped himself up on his rucksack, one hand cupped tightly over the
dark stain spreading across the right side of his waist. His trousers were
bloody and torn in several places, and there were scratches all over his face
and what Ian could see of his chest.
Ian knelt next to him, fumbling with the strings of Ho-sea's rucksack. "Is
there a first aid kit here?"
"No time," Hosea said. "It's not the cuts; they can hurt me, but will do no
more than that. It's the poison its saliva is poison, and it always licks its
claws before it attacks."
Well, Hosea knew more about this thing than Ian did. "What was that?"
"A wicht, perhaps that's the best name for it, or a bergenisse. A bergenisse.
They used to be all over the mountains in Vandescard, but I had been given to
understand that the last one had long since died, at least here." The foam of
spittle at the corner of his mouth was red.
Hosea's fingers spasmed over the wound on his hip. "And it burns, it bums."
"What can I
do?"
Ian asked, desperate.
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"Harbard's Ferry Harbard's wife is a healer, and he has some of the skill
himself." Hosea tried to rise to his feet, but his knees started to shake and
to wobble; Ian got one of Hosea's arms around Ian's shoulders and helped him
to his feet.
"I shall walk as far as I can," Hosea said. "I may well be able to walk far
enough."
With that, his eyes rolled up, his eyelids rolled down, and he dropped to the
hard stone limp and lifeless, only a slow pulse at the base of his throat and
the slight flow of oozing blood at his hip indicating that he was alive.
Ian knelt next to him. He would have to bind the wounds first.
Ian had to keep it simple.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Rest for three breaths.
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