The gray tabur stopped licking at the blood. It snarled and moved. In seconds it was on Spinner’s branch, crawling faster than Spinner and looking like it could close the gap before Spinner reached the other tree.
Haft had stopped climbing when he saw the cat follow Spinner. Seeing the gray tabur gaining on Spinner, he yelled at him to hurry.
Acrid sweat flowed from Spinner’s armpits, drenched his body, arms, and legs. He pulled himself along faster. The other branch had been level with the one he was on, but now it was four feet above his head because of the combined weight of him and the cat. He pulled himself forward another foot and his branch dipped farther. He glanced back again. The cat had reduced the distance almost by half. Spinner lunged forward and almost lost his balance, but managed to wrap his arms and legs tightly around the branch and hold on. The branch bounced wildly from the sudden movement.
“Hold on, Spinner!” Haft shouted. “That almost threw the cat. He stopped coming after you.”
Spinner looked back. The cat wasn’t any closer; it was looking down, as though reassessing its situation. Then it looked at him again, growled, and inched forward.
Spinner pulled himself forward again. He was close enough to reach out and grab the other branch, but the vertical gap had increased to five feet. He’d have to stand to reach the branch, and the one he was on was swaying too much for him to think he could do that without falling off.
“There, below you!” Haft shouted. “You can jump onto that one.”
Haft was pointing at a branch six feet below and a few feet to the side. Spinner looked. He was sure he could swing down onto it. He glanced back at the cat to see if it was close enough to make the same jump, and almost jumped himself without looking to see where he was going to land—the cat was almost within a paw’s reach of his foot. Spinner pulled his feet in close, looked down, and swung off the branch. His momentum carried him the few feet to the branch below, and he let go and fell the short distance. His legs straddled the branch and he fell forward onto it, wincing at the sudden pain in his groin.
Behind him the branch whipped upward from the loss of his weight. The gray tabur screamed as the sudden movement dislodged its hindquarters. It hung by its forelegs, and the branch creaked in protest.
Spinner scrambled to the trunk of the tree while the cat clawed and pulled, trying to scramble back onto the swaying branch.
“I’ve got an idea,” Haft shouted. “We’ve got to get him out of the tree. Do something to knock him down.”
“Do what?” Spinner gasped back. He could not reach the branch the cat was on, so he couldn’t shake it. He saw Haft then, dropping from branch to branch to the ground. Spinner couldn’t guess what his companion had in mind.
The gray tabur continued to scream and scrabble. The branch continued to creak ominously.
Haft reached the ground, picked up Spinner’s staff, then looked up and yelled, “Do something! Knock the cat out of the tree.”
“What can I do?” Spinner yelled back. “I can’t do anything.”
“Wouldn’t you know it?” Haft muttered. “I always have to do everything myself.” He found his crossbow, then stood with his back to the fence. He aimed carefully at the moving cat’s shoulder, then pulled the trigger. But the cat and the branch were both moving so much that his quarrel only nicked the skin of the cat’s foreleg inches above a paw. The gray tabur screamed again and swatted, as though at an insect that had stung it. But that removed one paw from the branch, and the cat plunged down toward the ground. It swiped and clawed at each branch it passed, but couldn’t hold on to anything. But each branch it hit slowed its fall enough so that instead of crashing to the ground, it landed hard enough only to be stunned.
Haft nocked another quarrel as the cat was falling and shot it again as soon as it hit the ground. He nocked a third and glanced that one off the gray tabur’s shoulder before it could lift its head and give it a shake. He was starting to nock a fourth quarrel when the cat sprang to its feet and roared at him. He dropped the quarrel and crossbow, picked up Spinner’s quarterstaff and planted one end on the ground next to his foot. The gray tabur charged, and Haft wondered if what he’d had in mind was such a great idea after all. But it was too late to change his mind.
The instant the cat’s forefeet left the ground in its final leap, Haft dropped forward to one knee and angled the quarterstaff toward its onrushing chest.
The gray tabur had only an instant to look surprised before it slammed into the end of the quarterstaff. The force of its leap kept it moving forward, but the quarterstaff acted as a lever to lift it over Haft. Still holding the staff, Haft was thrown backward and rolled.
The cat’s angry scream when it struck the fence was almost drowned out by the hungry chitter of the imps. The cat screamed and struggled, but the imps held its fur, pinned its head and neck.
Awestruck, Haft got to his knees and watched as the imps killed the cat. Its legs and head and tail thrashed uncontrollably, its body spasmed, its eyes rolling wildly. Blood gushed through holes rent in its skin, bits of fur flew into the air, and white bone began to appear through hide and bloody flesh. The manic chittering of the imps as they gleefully ate the living cat seemed to fill the world until there was no room left for any other sound.
After a few moments the cat moved no more and the imps chittered less as they settled down to feast.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
If Haft hadn’t already been on his knees he would have dropped to them in relief. He sagged backward to sit on his heels. He shook so hard he barely managed to keep himself sitting upright. Shivering, wide-eyed and gape-mouthed, he sat for a moment, staring at the remains of the dead cat, moments ago so threatening. Masses of flies were already buzzing around the animal’s remains.
Haft was snapped out of his reverie by a weak voice behind him:
“Haft, help me.”
Spinner had climbed down to the lowest branches of the tree, but the last drop was higher than he was tall. Crimson still flowed freely from the gash in his calf. Clearly, he was weakened by the loss of blood.
Instantly, Haft leaped to his feet and ran to help Spinner. Gently, he lay him at the foot of the tree and tied a length of creeping vine around Spinner’s calf above the gash, to slow the flow of blood so he could examine the wound. But he’d forgotten that other people were nearby.
A gruff voice shouted something, and Haft twisted around. Most of the Skragish border guards were clustered on the other side of the fence. Some of them were looking at what remained of the dead cat. Some, including the one who spoke and seemed to be the leader, were looking at him. Others were glowering to one side.
The Skragish leader—he had to be the leader, Haft thought, since he was the one addressing him, and he was the only one with a large, purple rosette on his left shoulder—spoke gruffly again. From his bearing, Haft assumed he was a sergeant.
He couldn’t understand the man’s words, but guessed he was being asked who he and Spinner were. Something was bothering him . . . The Jokapcul! Haft looked sharply to his right, where some of the Skraglanders were gazing. Seven Jokapcul were arrayed in a line there. Three of them had lances leveled at him and Spinner. The other three, alternating with the lancers, held swords at the ready. Their officer stood to their side, his sword at rest, growling orders at them as they advanced. Haft recognized the plumed officer from the day before. He didn’t see the demon spitter.
“More trouble, Spinner. Can you stand?” Haft slowly rose to his feet and felt about for his axe. He didn’t have it; he must have dropped it when he went for the tree he climbed to get away from the cat. He still had his knife, but it wouldn’t do him much good against six men armed with swords and lances.
At his side, Spinner also stood, and drew his knife. Haft gave him a quick glance. Spinner’s face was wan and he was unsteady on his feet.
“Anybody over there speak Frangerian?” Haft asked the Skraglanders without looking at them. The only rep
ly was the Skraglander sergeant, who said something that sounded to Haft like: “You’re not with them, are you?”
“How about Ewsarcan?” Haft asked in his native tongue. No answer. “What about Apianghian?”
The sergeant said something to one of his men, who turned and ran to the nearby cluster of cottages.
The Jokapcul ignored the Skraglanders. They grinned wickedly as they closed on Spinner and Haft. They didn’t stay in a straight line as they advanced; the ends of their short line moved faster than the middle, so that when they reached the two Marines they would form a half circle around them.
Haft didn’t want them to get caught with their backs to the tree. He knew that what little chance they had would vanish if they couldn’t maneuver. “Our weapons are nearer the fence,” he said softly. “Let’s try to go over that way and get them.” He thought they could defend themselves if they had their weapons and the fence was to their back. Then, having something at their backs might help.
“I’m with you,” Spinner said. His voice was so weak Haft wasn’t sure he’d be able to fight.
They stepped away from the tree and sidled toward the crossbow and quarterstaff.
The Jokapcul officer barked, and his men moved sharply in unison to position themselves to block the fence. The six soldiers then began advancing again. Their outermost men were almost level with Spinner and Haft; it looked like they were going to curl around and form a circle around the two.
Everyone stopped when a huge voice boomed out from the fence, “Somebody over there speak Ewsarc?”
Standing on the other side of the fence was the biggest man Haft had ever seen. He towered over the Skraglanders, who themselves were big men. A huge sword dangled lightly from his right hand. He wore a jerkin of white fur. His knee-high boots were fashioned from some tough hide, iron plates lashed over them with rawhide strips. The wrist covers on his gauntlets looked big enough to serve as breastplates for the Jokapcul, and the gauntlets themselves were bigger than most men’s helmets. His own helmet was a heavily braced tub; massive horns sprouted from the helmet’s top.
As startling and remarkable as his size and accoutrements were, one thing was even more startling and remarkable about the giant. He was leaning down with one elbow on top of a fence post; the wrist of his sword hand rested lightly across the deadly fence’s top strand.
Haft had to swallow a couple of times before he could find his voice to speak to this apparition. “I do,” he finally croaked. He swallowed again and his voice came out stronger and clearer. “I do. I’m Ewsarcan.”
“What are you doing here?”
“We’re Frangerian Marines. We managed to escape from New Bally when the Jokapcul took it. We’re trying to get home.”
“Well there, little brother,” the giant boomed, “for people trying to get away from the Jokaps, that’s some strange company you’re keeping over there. Why, where I come from, those little Jokaps aren’t considered good for much but pounding on.”
“You’re right about that. But they’ve got us outnumbered and we don’t have our weapons. We could use some help.”
The giant shook his head. “You’ll have to come over here, then. These are border guards. They aren’t allowed to cross the fence or go through the gate.”
“I already figured that,” Haft said. He was looking around for his axe. He saw it, beyond the lancer on the right of the Jokapcul line. “But what about you? Is there any law that says you can’t come over?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, the last time I was in Bostia, the duke himself told me never to come back.” He looked at the border guards and added, “And I am a guest of these fine gentlemen here. Now, you could say that if I violated the rules they live by, well, I’d be unduly abusing their hospitality.”
By then the Jokapcul officer had gotten over his initial startlement at the sight of the giant and realized, even though he couldn’t understand Ewsarcan, that the giant was just leaning on the fence and talking. As long as he stayed on the other side of the fence, he was no threat—though the fact that he could lean on the fence without being killed was threatening in itself. He growled an order at his men. They hesitated and looked back at the giant. The officer barked at them. Their heads snapped forward and they resumed their advance.
“On the other hand,” the giant said, “I never did much care to do what dukes and such tell me to, and I do like a good fight. Especially against Jokaps. Besides, anyone who doesn’t like Jokaps, well, he’s got to be a friend of mine.” Bellowing a war cry that startled everyone and silenced even the forest noises, the giant bounded over the fence and in a stride was on the Jokapcul. Two of them went down with the first swing of his sword—a lancer decapitated and a swordsman split nearly in two.
Haft yelled a battle cry of his own and in three steps was on the startled lancer to his right, inside the swing of the lance. His knife flashed twice and the enemy soldier crumpled at his feet. He dove beyond the bleeding corpse and came up with his own axe. He charged the nearest Jokapcul and chopped deeply into the man’s side. He looked around as the giant cut down the sixth Jokapcul soldier. That left only the officer.
As soon as the giant leaped over the fence, Spinner quickly limped over to the startled officer and knocked him to the ground, then dove beyond him to retrieve his quarterstaff.
The officer scrambled to his feet with his sword raised en garde. He looked puzzled, as though wondering what Spinner expected to do with the stick in his hands; he didn’t seem to recognize the quarterstaff as a weapon. He found out about it almost instantly.
Favoring his wounded leg, Spinner was almost tentative when he swung one end of the quarterstaff at the officer’s head. The Jokapcul easily ducked under the swing then came up lunging with his sword, but had to turn his lunge into a parry when the back end of the circling quarterstaff came at his side. The officer turned his parry into a riposte, and Spinner dodged back, out of the way. Then he had to parry a slash. He tried to thrust inside the officer’s guard, but the smaller man was agile and danced aside. The officer came back with a flurry, and Spinner was barely able to fend him off before he managed to start twirling the quarterstaff as he had against the guards on the Sea Horse.
The officer laughed at the twirling piece of wood and danced about, keeping his blade away from the spinning quarterstaff and waiting his chance to strike. Suddenly, Spinner stopped twirling the staff and spun an end at the Jokapcul’s head. The man pulled his face out of the way and came back with a lunge of his own—a lunge that simultaneously parried Spinner’s back-end follow through. Now the officer advanced, slashing and thrusting, and parrying Spinner’s blows. He was, obviously, a master swordsman. Spinner concluded the man was just waiting for an opportunity to make his killing strike, and knew he had to do something first.
The officer came at him with another flourish and nearly broke through Spinner’s guard. As Spinner backed off, he stumbled. Instantly the officer was inside the arc of Spinner’s swing, and Spinner had to fall backward to avoid a sword thrust. The officer’s momentum carried him forward, and he tripped and fell over Spinner, who scrambled to his feet first, quarterstaff already swinging as the Jokapcul officer regained his feet. Head and staff met. The officer’s helmet flew off and Spinner’s backswing caught him full on the temple.
The fight was over. Spinner looked around.
All the Jokapcul were down. The Skraglanders were still on their own side of the fence. The giant was looking at Spinner speculatively. Haft was struggling to free himself from where he was pinioned by one of the giant’s arms.
The giant released Haft, who ran to Spinner and threw his arms around his chest, as much to hold him up as to congratulate him on beating the officer.
“I wanted to help you, but he wouldn’t let me,” Haft said. He glared over his shoulder at the giant.
The giant grinned back and said, “I knew your friend was smart enough to figure out how to beat that Jokap.” He winked. “Anyway, if I thought the J
okap was going to win, I would have evened the odds in your friend’s favor.” He flipped a throwing knife he had concealed in his huge hand, caught it, then slipped it into a recess of his cloak.
“He could have been killed,” Haft snapped.
The giant shook his head. “I don’t think so. Not a staffmaster. Certainly not one traveling with a man who carries the eagle rampant on his axe.”
Baffled at what the giant meant by a staffmaster, Haft looked at Spinner. And there was that business about the eagle on his axe again. Spinner didn’t seem to notice; he looked like he was about to faint from loss of blood.
“Now we have to get back to the other side of the fence,” the giant said. He bounded over the fence.
“Wait,” Haft called. “Why don’t the imps kill you?”
The giant looked solemnly at the remains of the cat sagging against the fence. “When they’ve killed something big enough, they take their time feasting on it and don’t bother anyone else who wants to cross their fence until they’re through. After that they’ll kill the next person or animal that touches their fence.”
“Then we better go now,” Spinner said, and pointed at the tabur. Sated imps were beginning to leave it. Quickly, the giant hopped back to the Bostian side of the fence, gathered their weapons and other belongings, and tossed them over the fence.
Haft climbed over the fence while the giant lifted Spinner over, then bounded back himself. No sooner were they on Skragish soil than the imps that had left the cat rushed toward where the men had crossed the fence.
A shout made them look toward the gate, where two of the Skragish border guards were shouting and pointing down the road. They heard the beat of horses’ hooves. The sergeant shouted a command at the two men on the gate, then snapped an order at the rest of his men. Everybody ran to the gate. Haft brought up the rear, with Spinner leaning on him.
In response to the shouted order, the two men at the gate picked up longbows and let loose down the road. One of them gave an excited shout, the other muttered an unhappy oath.
Demontech: Onslaught Page 9
