So he didn’t see what happened to the beasts that got past him. He didn’t see the arrival of the remaining bowmen, or the efforts they made to thin out the attack; he didn’t see the wall of defenders behind him crumble and fail as people panicked and fled and even men who knew how to wield their weapons went down.
On the other hand, he was one of the few people in a position to see that the wolves were only the vanguard of the attack.
No one else guessed that. No one else thought about it. The wolves were trouble enough. Cursing the folly which had taken them outside, women rushed back to their homes, hauling their children along behind them. Men dove into hiding. Flocks of chickens fled in a squall of feathers and fright, running crazily in all directions or battering their way heavily up to the rooftops. The whole west side of Houseldon was in disarray, instructions and defenses forgotten.
Suddenly, the street in front of Terisa and Geraden cleared, and they found themselves facing a beast with blood on its jaws and an arrow sticking out of its hindquarters.
The spines along its back made it look like a hedgehog of monstrous size. The double row of its fangs made it look like a great shark.
Terisa was reminded of riders with red fur and too many arms.
The wolf stopped, scented the air. Its eyes seemed to burn with the possibility of intelligence.
“It’s hunting us,” she said. At any rate, she thought she said that; she couldn’t tell whether she spoke aloud.
“When I push you,” Geraden whispered, “go for that house.” He nudged her slightly toward the nearest building. “Get inside. Close the door. Try to bolt it.”
The wolf began to snarl deep in his chest – a sound like a distant rumble of thunder.
“What’re you going to do?”
She must have spoken aloud. Otherwise he wouldn’t have answered.
“Same thing in the opposite direction.”
Automatically, she nodded, too frightened to do anything else.
As if her nod were a signal, the wolf sprang at them, slavering murderously.
Geraden hit her shoulder so hard that she stumbled and fell.
At least she fell out of the way of the beast’s charge. Trying frantically to bounce up from the ground, she jammed her legs under her, pounded up onto the porch of the house—
—whirled to see what was happening to Geraden.
He hadn’t made any attempt to do what she was doing. After pushing her aside, he had simply ducked. By the time the wolf checked its spring, landed, and came back at him, he was on his feet facing the creature, poised as if he intended to kick its brains out.
“Geraden!”
“Get in the house!”
So fast that she hardly saw it happen, he jumped sideways. The wolf flashed past him. She heard the savage click as jaws strong enough to crush bone tried to close on him. The sleeve of his jerkin burst into tatters.
But there was no blood. Yet.
Faster this time because its second charge had been less headlong, the wolf turned and went for him again.
If he had tripped, if he had missed his footing or misjudged the assault, he would have died. No one could do what he was doing, not for long. The arrow in the wolfs hindquarters wasn’t enough of a handicap. Nevertheless he dodged a third time – ripped himself out of the way, ducked and rolled, came to his feet to face the wolf again just as it gathered itself for another spring.
Blindly, stupidly, Terisa started back into the street to help him.
At that instant, a woman came out of the house in mortal terror. So scared that she could hardly control her limbs, she thrust a pitchfork into Terisa’s hands. Then she slammed the door behind her, slammed a bar into place against the door.
Terisa took the pitchfork without thinking. Wailing like a madwoman to distract the wolf, she leaped off the porch and did her utter best to spear the beast on the tines.
She missed. The wolf was too fast, too smart for her inexpert onslaught. When it came around at her, however, she was able to fend it off, almost by accident; it shied away from impaling itself on the pitchfork.
As if out of nowhere, the head of a cane whizzed through the air and cracked the wolf across the base of its skull.
Coughing a howl, the beast spun and hurled itself on the Domne.
Geraden yelped a helpless warning. Terisa froze, holding her weapon as if she had forgotten its existence.
The Domne couldn’t run or dodge. With his bad leg, he could scarcely hobble. But he had a cane in his other hand as well, and when the beast leaped at him he rammed the end of that stick down its throat.
At the same time, Geraden went past Terisa, tearing the pitchfork from her hands in one motion and hammering it into the wolf’s back with all his strength.
Spiked to the ground, the beast writhed for a moment, snarling horribly and spitting blood on the Domne’s boots. Then it lay still.
“Thank you, Father,” panted Geraden. “Glass and splinters! that was close. You shouldn’t take chances like that.”
The Domne balanced unsteadily on his feet. His face was white. Yet he contrived to speak calmly. “Someday,” he remarked, “you’re going to call me ‘Da.’ I think you’ll like it.”
Geraden shook his head as if he had lost his voice.
With one cane, the Domne prodded the body at his feet. “How many of them are there?”
“Enough to get past Tholden,” croaked Geraden.
Terisa had the vivid impression that she was about to faint. Fortunately, Geraden turned and caught her before her knees folded.
As the last wolf came over the stockade with an arrow in its heart, the bowman on the guardpost platform yelled, almost shrieked, “Tholden!” and Tholden gasped a curse because there was nothing else he could say while he retched for breath.
Half the pack had been slaughtered in front of him. Carcasses lay along the bottom of the wall, in piles on both sides of him, among the dead bodies of his people at his back. His axe was covered with blood; his hands and arms ran red; blood dripped from his beard and soaked his shirt. His eyes held a wildness of their own which bore no resemblance to the feral intelligence of the wolves. How many of them had gotten past him? He didn’t know. He didn’t know what the people of Houseldon were doing to defend themselves. He only knew that the bowman on the platform sounded frantic.
There was more. The wolves were only the vanguard.
Forcing himself into motion, he staggered to the guardpost, heaved his bulk up the ladder to the platform.
When he looked over the top of the stockade and saw what the bowman was pointing at, his first reaction was one of deflation, almost of disappointment.
Oh, is that all?
He was gazing across a hundred yards of open ground at a cat.
Just a cat. One cat. Nothing more.
The realization came to him slowly, however, that this cat was bigger than he was. It was at least as big as a horse. At least—
Then he noticed that wherever the cat put its paws the new grass and old leaves caught fire. It had already left a smoldering trail away into the distance, where the wolfpack had come from. And it was approaching – not rapidly, but without any hesitation – advancing as steadily and inevitably as a storm front.
“Tholden,” the bowman murmured like a prayer, “what is it?”
This was foolishness, really. Who was he to pretend that he could fill his father’s boots, that he could succeed as the next Domne? He didn’t understand anything about Imagery. The only real accomplishment of his life, from his point of view, was to figure out the best time of year and the best conditions to fertilize apricot trees. Unless he counted marrying Quiss, or having five children: his family was also an accomplishment that gave him pride.
“How many arrows do you have left?” he asked the bowman.
“None.” It was a question the man understood. “I’ll have to get them from the wolves.”