“Alexandra lost track of them herself, an’ said she was goin’ lookin’.”
“Shit. Oh, well, could be worse. Could be rainin’.”
The wind picked up, blowing into their faces, and the cold drops came more thickly.
Myfwany laughed. “You had to say it, eh, sweetlin’?”
“Sign!” John said sharply.
They fell quiet, leveling their weapons in a two-handed grip. The boarhound pack was in full cry not two hundred meters ahead, and then there was an enraged squealing sound. The dogs stopped. No fools they, Yolande thought, as the squeal sounded again, closer. No way of telling which way the boar would go, either. Wild pigs were omnivores, like people; much more likely to go looking for trouble than a meat eater like wolf or lion. She stamped the rough-soled boots deeper into the slippery leaf mold and emptied her mind, letting her vision flow. The tips of the bushes quivered against the wind.
“He’s breakin’,” she called.
“Got him,” John said, grin white against his tan.
He moved slightly forward from the line. The bushes tossed again, and the pig came out. He stood motionless, three-quarters on, watching them with tiny red eyes. The massive head was held close to the ground, and the curved tusks stood up like daggers of wet ivory. Bulky and bristling, the shoulders moved behind as weight shifted from one cloven hoof to another. The pink snout wrinkled as the animal tried to take their scent; an organic battering ram twice the weight of a heavy man, knife-armed, faster than a horse and many times as intelligent. The dogs bayed again, nearer; the shouts of the huntsmen ran beneath that harsh music, and the sound of their horns racketed from the trees. John leveled his spear and moved forward, dancer-light.
“Come on, you ugly son-of-a-bitch,” he crooned. “Get past me and you home free. Come on.”
The boar seemed to sink lower against the wet grass and heather of the forest edge. Then it moved, springing forward as if shot from a catapult, stumpy legs churning the leaf mold, and nose down to present nothing but weapon and heavy bone. Yolande’s breath caught as her brother took two swift strides forward, poised the spear, thrust. Another squeal, louder, full of pain and rage, blood bright under the wan sun and John was pushed back two bodylengths before he could brace the iron butt of the boar spear against the ground. The animal stumbled, and she could see its mouth wide open in a spray of blood and saliva; then it went to its knees for a second, but the hind legs were still pumping it forward. Mandy closed in to the side. Her spear lifted, body and weapon a perfect X across raised arms, braced legs. Yolande saw the point dip, then vanish into the boar’s ribs with a precise snapping thrust.
“Hola!” Yolande cried, and saw her friend’s rapt smile as she and the man pushed the beast backward, still fighting. Words formed in her mind; half-consciously she began to work them into form. Arms together/blood and love—
“ ’Ware!” Myfwany shouted.
Another boar had followed in the footsteps of the first; it broke cover, grunted uncertainly at the scent of blood, then angled around the struggle. Myfwany sidled off, and Yolande moved away from her, closing the beast’s escape route. She could see its eyes roll from one of them to the other, and a hoof pawed at the ground. Is it a little smaller than the other one? she thought. Maybe. Wotan, I hope so. Myfwany was beside her; unthinkable to flinch. Yolande could feel the coiled vitality of it, like raw flame. Then it was coming at her, bouncing off tensed hindquarters, and there was no time for thought of anything.
Keep low. From above a boar was all bone and leather and gristle armor over its vitals. She stooped, crouching, spear held underhand. The ashwood shaft was smooth on the sharkskin palms of her gloves, and the broad point seemed to follow a scribed curve to the juncture of neck and shoulder.
“Haaa!” she hawk-screamed, and the point bit. Then the weight of it struck her through the leverage of the spear, and it was like running into a wall at speed, like trying to stop a steamcar. “Ufff!” she grunted, and found herself scrambling backward. Then she went over on her tailbone, white pain flowing warm-chill across the small of her back. The spearhead was half-buried in the tough muscle and blood welled around it, but the beast was pushing her backward with her backside dragging, squealing ear-hurting shrill and hooking savagely at her feet as they dangled within striking distance of the tusks.
“Hold him, hold him!” Myfwany shouted, racing alongside and trying to find a target for a lunge.
“You fuckin’ try it!” Yolande was half-conscious of screaming.
The spearshaft wrenched her from side to side as the boar lunged and twisted, it was as if she was on the end of a ruler somebody was pounding against trees and dirt with negligent flicks of the wrist. With a supreme effort she threw her weight down on it, using the impetus to draw her feet back and up; the tusk clipped her heel, sending her body sprawling sideways. At the same instant the butt of the spear dug into the turf, caught in the crook of a root. The boar staggered, squealed again as its own momentum drove the razor-edged steel deeper into its body. Instinct brought its head around, as it tried to gore this thing that bit it. She could smell it, heavy and rank.
Myfwany moved up beside her, throwing herself forward. The wet metal gleam of her spearhead met the taut curve of the animal’s neck. The Draka went to her knees as jugular blood spurted down over the bar of the weapon and along the shaft, and the boar seemed to grow lighter. Yolande panted with a sudden joint-loosening rush of unacknowledged terror as the beast’s death tremor shuddered up the spear. It sprawled, toppled over on its side; the little savage eyes grew misted. She rose, feeling exhaustion and bruises for the first time, braced her foot on the animal’s body and tugged the spear free. There was blood speckled on her lips.
“Wuff.” Yolande leaned on the spear and hugged Myfwany one-armed. “Woof!” Her friend returned the embrace.
“You had me frightened for a moment, there, Yolande-sweet,” she said.
“I had me frightened,” Yolande replied, laughing with relief. Suddenly she broke free with a whoop and tossed the spear up into the air, then rammed it point-first in the earth and kissed the other heartily. “Makes you feel alive, don’t it?” she asked, when they broke free. She looked over to her brother. “Shouldn’t we be about findin’ the others? I could use a nice long soak an’ dinner in front of the fire.”
Frederick Lefarge swung a hand behind himself, palm down. Stop. Marya halted, then eased forward to follow the pointing muzzle of his assault rifle.
Ah, she thought. Barely perceptible at waist-height, a line of light. Laser light, only showing because of the mist; modern systems were selective enough to take that and not trip until interrupted by something more substantial. And beyond that at ankle height a camouflaged sensor clipped to a tree, capacitor detector. She went to one knee and swung her backpack around before her; it had been her responsibility to come ahead and cache their equipment. Not difficult to “lose” themselves in the woods, not when everyone else was following the sound of the dogs.
This would be the difficult part. She stripped off her gloves and flexed her fingers to limber them before assembling the apparatus. A light-metal frame to hold the clamps, so. Close the circles of wire around the beams, so. Her finger hesitated on the switch, then pressed. A modest green light flashed once on the black-box governor. Marya exhaled shakily, letting her palms rest on the cold damp leaves. She looked up, and the cold drizzle was grateful on her cheeks.