There.
The cannibal sentry was still standing upright, silhouetted against the evening sun as clearly as a cardboard cutout. Havel flexed his fingers before taking up the bow again. A deep breath, and a quick trained effort of will to empty his mind as he exhaled.
Now.
Havel rose, feet stamping down into the archer's T. The powerful recurved bow came up, stave creaking as he drew to the ear-ninety pounds draw, horn and sinew and wood of the bois d'arc tree. The triangle-shaped arrowhead touched the outer edge of the riser, and he lowered his left hand until the head met the black outline a hundred feet above him. Instinct spoke and the string rolled off his fingers:
Snap.
The string slapped against his arm guard, and the arrow blurred out in a flickering shallow curve, the razor edges of the broadhead glinting as the slight curve in the fletching made the shaft twirl like a rifle bullet. Almost instantly came the flat heavy smack of steel striking flesh, a thick wet sound.
Havel was moving as the shaft left the string; he could feel that the shot was a hit. He covered the hundred feet uphill in a near-silent panther rush, already close enough to see the sentry pivoting, eyes wide in a filthy, hairy sun-scorched face, blood coughing out between his bearded lips in a bright fan of arterial red. The gray goose-feather fletching danced behind his left shoulder blade, and the point and eighteen inches of the shaft dripped red from his chest.
Havel dropped his bow and grabbed the man by the beard with his right hand, burying his left in the tangled hair at the base of his skull. A single wrenching twist, a sound like a green branch snapping, and the body jerked and went limp. He snatched up the spear-it was a sharpened shovel head on a pole-and lowered the body to the ground. Then he drew the arrow free with a single strong pull-he might need it-and hastily pushed the filthy carcass downslope behind him, wiping his gloved hands on the dirt.
The lice and fleas would be looking for a new home, and he didn't feel hospitable.
Eric and Pamela dodged the rolling body as they followed him and flattened themselves below the ridgeline. Havel stood in the sentry's place, leaning on the spear and studying the enemy camp. It wasn't far away; a little nook with a spring trickling down an almost-cliff and some cottonwoods-most cut down for firewood now. There weren't any tents, just arrangements of plastic sheeting and blankets propped on crudely tied branches, and some car seats and improvised bedrolls. A fair-sized fire was popping and flaring beneath pieces of meat on a grill that looked as if it came from a barbecue.
Even from here the stink was enough to make him gag, and he could see the swarm of flies on bits of bodies and casual heaps of human shit-one of the cannibals was squatting as he watched.
Nearby was the source of the screams. It was a half-bowshot away, but he could see that the woman-girl- was in her teens. An older man with shaggy mouse-colored hair and beard was trying to make her eat something, grabbing at her hair and pushing it towards her face; she fought with dreadful concentrated intensity, screaming when she broke free.
That never took her far, because her ankles were tied with a cord that gave her only about a foot of movement, like a horse-hobble. Several of the watchers were crowing laughter, but the man shouted angrily as she managed to rake his face with her nails. He hit her seriously then, and turned to pull an ax out of a stump as she slumped to the ground.
"Oh, I hate it when I have to be a hero," Havel said, tossing the spear aside. "And I'd have just as much chance of hitting her as him if I tried a shot at this distance. Here goes."
He cupped his hands to his mouth. "Hey! You down there! Yes, you, asshole! The Bearkillers are here – here to kill you all!"
The camp below froze like a tableau behind glass. Waxwork figures in some unimaginable future museum:
Evolution of the post-Change cannibal band, he thought crazily. : then burst into activity like maggots writhing in dung.
"Oooops," Havel said in a normal conversational tone as more and more of them appeared, crawling from their nests of cloth or from under the crude sunshades. "Guess they were more numerous than I thought."
They milled about, blinking, scratching. The bushy-haired man finished pulling the ax out of the cottonwood stump and pointed up the slope with it.
"Food!" he shouted. "More food-he came to us!"
The others took it up in a second, a confused brabble of voices rising into a shrilling scream. They surged forward up the slope towards him, waving axes and tire irons and clubs and knives and a couple of improvised spears like the one he'd been holding.
"Let them get fairly close," he went on, looking down at the white faces of his companions. "I don't see any distance weapons at all, but we can't afford to waste arrows. We're none of us what you'd call crack shots with these things yet."
He picked up his bow and reached over his shoulder for a shaft.
"And I really hope Will gets the rest of the A-list here quickly," he said.
"Haakkaa paalle!"
Havel shouted the ancient battle cry as he rose and lunged. The cannibal grinned with yellow teeth, throwing himself backward and rolling downhill in a ball with the haft of his ax held across his stomach.
As he went, half a dozen others popped up from behind boulders or bushes and threw a barrage of rocks. Havel ducked down and lifted his shield, swearing, keeping his sword hilt and sword hand behind the targe as the fist-sized missiles banged and rattled painfully off his mail and shield and helmet. If he lost the use of his right arm they'd overrun the Bearkillers in minutes.
"Yuk-hei-saa-saa!" Eric shouted behind him, from where he sat-a bone-bruise on the right leg left him unable to stand. "Ho la, Odhinn!"
Gasping, Havel spared a second to grin at him. "Well, we've all got our traditions," he said. "Keep an eye out for-"
The younger man's bow sounded, a flat snap through the clatter and shouting. A cannibal dropped her knife and fell, trying to drag herself off with the shaft through a thigh. The rest of the band ignored her in their hurry to dive for cover, which at least made it harder for them to throw rocks accurately. A hissing shout brought his head around completely; just in time to see the tip of Pamela's backsword nick through the tip of a nose as three tried to rush her.
That brought a squeal like a pig in a slaughter chute and panicked flight. The other cannibal attacking her dodged away with a shriek of terror as she repositioned in a spurt of dust and gravel, moving with terrifying speed and grace. The third ran into her targe and fell backward as if he'd rammed a brick wall; she killed him with a neat economical downward stab.
"Watch your own side, goddamnit!" she shouted as she moved.
It was good advice. A lump of stone glanced off Havel 's helmet with a dull bongggg sound, and he whipped his gaze back to his section, shaking his head against the jarring impact. Cannibals were bobbing up from cover to throw and then down again, and the little party had "How many arrows left?" he asked.
"Six," Eric said.
Couldn't tell he's hurting from the voice, Havel thought with approval. He really is shaping up good.
"Make 'em count," he said. "There are a lot more of them than I thought."
The rocks picked up again; the two mail-clad Bearkillers huddled back, protecting the more lightly armored Lars-son, moving their shields to catch as many of the heavy stones as they could. After a moment Eric shot; a miss this time, but a close one, and the enemy grew cautious.
"Four left," Eric said.
"I'm surprised they haven't run," Pamela said. "We must have killed or crippled more than a third of them."
"Nowhere to go," Havel replied, keeping his eyes busy. "Wolves don't eat members of their pack who're injured. Men do, men and dogs, and I think literally here. Also that spring down there is probably the only water they know about."