The Domne watched his people flee past him as if the sight made him want to throw up. He kept his voice quiet, however. “You’re the only Imager in the family, Geraden. How do we defend ourselves?”
“With mirrors,” Geraden snarled. Terisa thought he looked exactly like his father at that moment – so hard and horrified that he wanted to throw up. “Which we haven’t got.”
Then she caught her first glimpse of the firecat. Involuntarily, she took a step backward.
“Where’s Tholden?” she asked again. She was suddenly afraid that he was already dead.
Tholden was running for his life.
His shoulder wasn’t broken. If it were broken, it would have started to hurt before this. Nevertheless it remained numb; he still couldn’t use it. It hampered his balance, his gait. Because of it, he ran like a hunchback.
Ran between the houses and along the lanes of Houseldon as if he were terrified.
He had forgotten the wolves – forgotten them completely. His desperation didn’t hold room for any other danger. One of the houses he passed had had its door torn off the hinges, but he didn’t notice that. He didn’t hear the dying whimpers from inside, didn’t see the beast munching flesh in the doorway. He had no idea what was happening when the wolf left the infant it was eating and leaped at his head.
Because of his lurching gait, it missed his head. Yet its claws raked his back as it went by him.
That pain got his attention. He and the wolf wheeled to meet each other; as fierce as the beast, he faced its charge.
Slobbering blood, it sprang again.
He had no time for fear or forethought. In fact, he had no time for the wolf. Striding forward as the beast leaped, he kicked it in the ribcage so hard that he ruptured its heart.
Then he ran on.
His back bled as if it were on fire. Coughing for help, he ran toward the nearest wastepit where Houseldon accumulated fertilizer for the orchards and fields.
He didn’t have much time. The people fleeing along the street had scattered; Terisa, Geraden, and the Domne could see the firecat clearly now.
And it could see them: that was obvious. Its eyes were fixed on them as if at last it had recognized its true prey.
Well, of course. Stunned with fright and helplessness, Terisa had been reduced to talking to herself. Eremis wouldn’t trust random violence to kill them. And he must be able to talk to that thing. Otherwise how could he get it to do what he wanted? It might have attacked the champion instead of the Castellan’s guards. He probably gave it a description of the people it was supposed to kill.
Uselessly, she wondered what kind of description the firecat would understand. Could Eremis really talk to it?
“Terisa.” Geraden had a hand on her arm; he shook her. “Terisa, listen to me. If that creature is after me, you can get away. You’ve got to get away. Get out of here – get out of Houseldon. Go north. To the Termigan. Maybe he’s got some glass you can use. At least you can warn him. He’ll protect you.
“I’ll try to give you as much time as I can.”
“Thanks.” What was she talking about? She had no idea. “I appreciate that.” Words seem to come out of her mouth without passing through her consciousness first. “What if it’s after me? How are you going to get away?”
“An interesting question,” the Domne put in dryly. “Let’s discuss it later, shall we? Start running, both of you. If it’s engrossed in destroying Houseldon, you might both get away.” Abruptly, he started to shout, cracking his command at them like a whip. “I said start running!”
Both Terisa and Geraden nodded.
Neither of them moved.
She began to feel the heat of the fire on her face. The firecat was so close now that she could have hit it with a rock. It wasn’t in any hurry – but it was definitely coming straight for them. Its eyes stared malice; its tail lashed the dust.
She and Geraden and the Domne stood their ground as if they had lost their minds.
And the firecat stopped. It regarded them warily. They acted like they weren’t afraid of it. Why was that? Terisa had the odd impression that she knew exactly what the cat was thinking. Why were they standing there as if fire and fangs couldn’t hurt them? What kind of danger did they represent?
Beyond question, she had lost her mind, even if the men with her were still sane. While the firecat studied them all, she waved her hand at it and said, “Scat. Go away.” She could feel her hair growing crisp in the heat. “We won’t hurt you. If you go away.”
Good. Brilliant. Instead of retreating, the creature crouched to spring.
Unexpectedly, Minick arrived at the Domne’s side. In spite of his apparent haste, he didn’t seem to be breathing hard – didn’t seem to be breathing at all.
Each of his strong, brown hands carried a large wooden bucket.
Water, Terisa thought. Good idea. Too bad it won’t work. The firecat certainly hadn’t been hindered by the snow when it had attacked Castellan Lebbick’s men.
Precisely, as if he were following an elaborate set of instructions, Minick set the buckets down beside him.
Gasping and blowing as though his chest were about to burst, Tholden came into the street. He nearly ran up against the firecat’s flank; the heat must have been tremendous.
He held one of the watertubs hugged in his arms.
Full of water, it must have been far too heavy for any one man to lift. Nevertheless he supported it alone, staggered out into the open without help; there he let the tub thud into the dirt.
That dull, hard sound distracted the creature. Dancing aside as daintily as a kitten, it turned to see what he was doing.
“Now!” Tholden croaked hoarsely.
Reaching into his watertub with both hands, he scooped a load of sheepdung into the firecat’s face.
The hard pellets hit the cat’s whiskers, cheeks, jaws, eyes.
Hit and stuck.
They were fueclass="underline" they burned hotly. But they didn’t fall away, as water and wood and even iron fell away. They clung to the creature’s fur and flesh.
With a scream, the firecat did a complete backflip. Immediately, it began to scrub at its face, trying to dislodge the fiery pellets.
In an instant, its forepaws were covered with fire.
Minick was a little slow; even in an emergency, he couldn’t act without his usual care. On this occasion, however, he was quick enough. Before the cat could turn, he stepped forward and splashed its back with the contents of his first bucket.
More sheepdung.
This time, the creature’s scream seemed to come from the marrow of its bones. It wrenched itself around in a circle and rammed its burning side into the dirt to extinguish the fire of the pellets.
Abruptly, five or six more men rushed into the street, carrying buckets and baskets and pots of sheepdung; they hurled more fuel into the cat’s flames. Stooping to his tub, Tholden shoveled up great handfuls of pellets. Minick emptied his second bucket at the mounting conflagration.
Then all the men had to stop, had to draw back. The creature had begun to burn so hotly that they couldn’t get near it. Terisa put up her hands to protect her face.
With a sizzling noise like the shriek of meat on a griddle, of hot iron in oil, the firecat died horribly, consumed by its own blaze.
Tholden staggered, stumbled to his knees; his scorched and beardless face gaped at the charred carcass.
Slowly, the Domne limped around the circle of heat to his eldest son. Minick, Geraden, and Terisa followed; they were there when the Domne put his arms around Tholden’s bloody back.
“As I said,” the Domne murmured in a voice congested with pride and pain. “The right man for the job.”
Before Terisa could think of it, Geraden left to go get Quiss.
Quiss took care of her husband grimly. Like the Domne’s, her emotions were too strong – and too mixed – to let her be calm about Tholden’s condition.