The largest one raises its snout and begins to laugh.
It is a demon sound.
The rest of the pack joins in, a mad cackling chorus.
The first attack comes from behind and is meant to test her. She swings the spear, raking the ground but missing the animal by a wide margin. It sinks into the grass, laughing.
The others laugh, as well.
They are enjoying themselves.
You go first they seem to be saying. No, please. I insist.
A charge for her flank: she swings, making contact with the side of the spear. The animal yelps and bolts, and in its wake come two more, one for her leg, the other leaping at her throat.
She screams and stabs and slices and moments later an animal lies whimpering, its belly leaking offal, one leg scrabbling as it tries to push itself to safety.
She limps to it and kneels and drives the spear through its throat, silencing it for good.
She yanks the spear free and stands, her arms running red.
The leader growls.
They’ve underestimated her.
They all come at once, from every direction, and soon she has been punctured and bitten and clawed insensate, no longer feeling pain but a numb disappointment that she should fail so ingloriously, to such inglorious adversaries. It’s not like her to go without a fight.
She fights.
She takes another creature and a third but they are too numerous and too coordinated, she can smell their fetid breath as she falls and pulls into a ball and they try to snap her spine through her neck and she flexes in terror as they must have known she would and snouts burrow into her belly which tightens in anticipation and she waits to die and then there is a howl, deeper and stronger than the howls of the beasts devouring her.
Instantly the air clears; instantly it refills with movement. A white cloud hovers over her, leaps over her, circles her; it snarls and lunges at her attackers, driving them back, laughing, into the grass, until the last of them is gone and she is alive.
Their cackles fade.
Quiet panting.
She uncurls.
Aside from the two she killed, a third beast lies savaged, its head nearly torn off.
Beyond it, a familiar shape stands watching her.
Abel’s sheepdog, its mouth smeared with gore.
She reaches for it with a trembling hand.
It trots forward and licks her bloody palm clean. Stands back.
She struggles to her feet, steadies herself on the spear.
The dog crosses the clearing, pausing to make sure she follows.
The distance they travel ought to take no more than half a day. In her current state, it takes two. Her thirst never seems to abate, and she stops frequently to rebind her wounds. The smallest have already scabbed. Others sting in the open air but are dry.
It’s the gash on her leg that worries her. It continues to ooze blood as well as a greenish slime that reeks of rot. The pain roots into her flesh, knotting up close to the bone, an ache that expands and contracts in time with her heartbeat. Her skin burns, tender to the touch, and the swelling has climbed to swallow her knee, slowing her further.
Sensing that she is not well, the dog keeps its distance, walking far enough ahead to urge her on, close enough to ward off danger. It’s limping, too; one of the beasts must have bitten it. She tries to show how sorry she is for having dragged it into a fight. She apologizes, aloud.
It never betrays impatience. It never seems to tire, patrolling as she sleeps.
On the second day, it leads her to the rim of a new valley, a smaller, drier version of the place she grew up.
What it cradles transfixes her.
A massive complex of clay buildings stretches on and on and on, a rough tan rash cut at regular intervals by open passages allowing free transit from one place to the next.
Transit for the hundreds of people therein.
The dog barks and begins its descent.
The slope is severe and rocky and Asham is light-headed. Her wounded leg can bear weight for only a moment before agony shoots up through her groin and into her torso. She balances with her hands, reaching the valley floor with palms scraped raw.
The dog knows where it’s going. Otherwise, she would be instantly lost in the maze of buildings. Ranging from modest to grand, they reflect their inhabitants, who are young and old, fat and thin, diversely dressed, with skins milk-white or tar-black and every shade in between.
Their reactions to her are identicaclass="underline" they drop what they’re doing to gawk. What a spectacle she must present, filthy and half dead. As she limps along, a crowd collects behind her, their whispers a gathering storm of mistrust.
A man steps out to bar her way.
“Who are you?”
She says, “My name is Asham.”
More men appear beside him, each armed with a bone spear, similar to hers but made longer by the addition of a wooden handle.
“What crime have you committed?” the man asks.
“None.”
“Then why have you come here?”
“I don’t know where here is,” she says.
The people murmur.
“This is the city of Enoch,” the man says.
“What’s a city?”
Laughter. Asham’s leg pulses with pain. Her throat sticks to itself. She has not drunk in hours — a mistake.
“I was attacked by beasts,” she says. “The dog saved me and brought me here.”
“And why would it do that?”
“It knows me,” she says. “It belongs to my brother.”
Silence.
Then the crowd erupts, shouting at one another, at the man, at her. They surge forward to take hold of her, but the dog rushes to her side, barking and snapping, just as it did before.
The crowd withdraws, quieting to a resentful simmer.
“You speak truly,” the man says.
“Of course I do,” Asham says.
A smile plays at the man’s lips. He bows and stands aside.
The crowd parts.
The dog leads her on.
Nobody touches her, but she can feel them following at a distance.
The dog turns to a clay building of surpassing size and perfection. It is magnificent to behold, as are the two bare-chested men guarding its stepped entrance. The dog skips up the stairs, pausing to bark at her before disappearing through the doorway.
Leg throbbing, she limps forward. The guards cross their spears, blocking her.
The crowd that followed her is murmuring again.
“Please let me pass,” she says.
The guards do not bat an eye. They do not move a muscle, and there are a lot of muscles to move. She tries to peer around them, but they are broad as oxen and they shift to obstruct her view.
The dog comes wriggling out through the guards’ legs, barking.
A voice from behind them says, “Open, please.”
The guards slide apart to reveal a young boy dressed in clean skins. A bright yellow band encircles his head. A yellow flower hangs on a thong around his neck. His eyes are dark and curious.
The dog runs to Asham, wagging its tail and barking impatiently.
“Hello,” the boy says. “I’m Enoch. Who’re you?”
“Asham.”
“Hello, Asham.”
“Is this your dog?”
The boy nods.
“He’s very nice,” she says.
The boy nods again. “What happened to your leg?”
A clammy wave breaks over her. “I hurt it.”
“I’m sorry,” Enoch says. “Would you like to come inside?”
The interior temperature comes as a shock. She begins to shiver. The room is cavernous, littered with carved wooden stools and broken up by doorways that open onto darkness. Torches along the wall partially relieve the dim.
“I’ve never seen you before,” Enoch says. It’s an observation made without malice. “Where do you come from?”