7
The sky was already darkening and Fletcher’s stomach was cramping and gurgling, digesting nothing but the petal he had eaten a few hours ago. The team had been hunting all day, having been dropped off by Lysander several miles ahead of Sheldon’s path, but had found nothing. Now they had separated to cover more ground.
Fletcher had known hunger like this before, when winter had come early to Pelt and the mountain paths had been too icy for the traders to travel. Starvation had been staved off by hunting. Then and now, his senses were sharp, honed of desperation, but he was weaker and slower too. The difference was that in Pelt’s forests, a failed attempt meant another day of hunger. Here, it meant death.
Crouched in the shadow of a gnarled bush, Fletcher heard the thud of hooves in the damp soil nearby. Then a deep snort, and the soft rhythmic squelching of tissue being chewed to pulp. It was the first sign of life he had come across.
Fletcher dared to tread closer, placing one foot after another with care born of long practice. He dared not pull on his bow, for the creak of the string might give him away. Another step, and he pressed the arrow against the bow’s stock in case of clattering. Behind the thinning screen of the bush’s leaves, Fletcher saw his prey.
It was a hulking beast, as large as a buffalo and shaped like one too, with powerful shoulders, between which grew a mane not unlike a wild horse’s. It had a tufted tail that switched back and forth, a sign of agitation that left Fletcher uneasy.
As if it sensed it was being watched, the beast swung its head low and to the side, snorting and sniffing, misting the air with its mucus.
Protected by no more than a few leaves and twigs, Fletcher froze, hoping desperately that the beast had poor eyesight. It had small red eyes, after all, with a piggish head resembling that of a warthog, but with a pair of curving horns on its brow and tusks that were far more prominent. Its snout was stained with green around the edges and Fletcher could see a pile of nettles that it had been busy chewing on.
In that moment, he knew what he faced. This was no easy prey, though more high-level carnivores did hunt and eat them. But a human would be mad to attack one, even if he was starving and desperate. It was a Catoblepas.
The species ate only poisonous plants which few other demons would consume, and so their fodder was plentiful. It could gore an attacker with tusk or horn, whichever came first, but even these were not the demon’s most potent weapons. No, it was the green-tinged saliva of the demon itself where the natural toxins of the plants would concentrate. A bite was as good as a death sentence and its misty breath was so poisonous that it would blind any attacker, or kill any that inhaled it. And now it was staring at Fletcher with its red, piggish eyes, and was turning slowly, its muscled haunches bunching and flexing with every slow, deliberate step.
A screech from above echoed through the trees – Athena, attempting to distract it. The noise did little more than stimulate a flick of the Catoblepas’s ears. Ignatius had been left with Sheldon to protect Alice, half a mile back. The others were hunting even further afield. He and Athena were on their own.
The demon grunted, spraying a gout of steam from its nose. The moisture sizzled on the mulch of browning leaves that coated the ground.
Spells were not as effective against demons, and shields even less so, for the demonic energy that formed demons’ bodies was able to pass through them with ease. He thought of his pistols – they were both loaded, but the crash of gunfire might alert nearby shamans, searching in the skies above, of their presence. It would have to be the bow.
Ever so slowly, he eased back on his bowstring, taking the strain with his weakened muscles. He was bone tired, so much so that the arrowhead seemed to swim in and out of focus, twitching as the tendons in his arm clenched and locked. Inch by inch, the bow creaked back, until it was at full draw. Still, he did not fire, even as the monster scraped the ground with a hoof, its hunched back a round silhouette against the fading dusk light.
The beast’s head was enormous, but Fletcher had a decision to make. The skull was too thick to penetrate – only a direct hit in the soft tissue of its eyes would kill the beast. A difficult shot – even for the most practised archer.
Beneath, the broad chest presented an even larger target. The chances of an arrow passing its ribcage were better, but the beast might not die quickly. It could be enraged, charging him and goring his body to shreds before it collapsed. Then, as if it sensed his indecision, the Catoblepas bellowed and stampeded towards him.
Fletcher loosed the arrow, and the shaft jarred against his hand in flight. Cursing, he dived aside, landing painfully among the roots of a nearby tree. It was not a moment too soon, for the monster tore through the thin screen of branches a half-second later, snapping its jaws with fierce abandon.
There was blood on the soil; the arrow had lodged deeply in the demon’s belly, hanging from it like a macabre umbilical cord. It was a gut wound, the kind that would take hours to kill.
With a guttural roar of pain the demon spun around, seeking its tormentor. Fletcher froze, still as a millpond. The beast snuffled the ground, a long tongue lapping at the soil as if to taste his path. It could not see him, for he was deep in the tree’s shadow and the last light of the sky was almost gone.
Fletcher reached for another arrow, but his hands met air. He looked over his shoulder to see the ammunition scattered out of reach behind him, his desperate dive having unseated his quiver from his back.
He allowed his hand to stray to the handle of his khopesh. He did not draw it – the scrape of the blade in the scabbard would alert the beast. It would have to be in one motion, an all or nothing attack that would mean death for one or the other.
A hoot from above reminded him Athena was still there. He sensed her frantic desperation, and he knew Ignatius could too. Fletcher could feel that the little Salamander was running, but Fletcher had roamed too far ahead of Sheldon for rescue to arrive in time. Already the Catoblepas’s snout was finding his scent, slobbering and grunting over the damp ground in his direction.
He needed to turn it away from him. One breath, one fleck of saliva, could kill him in an instant. Athena could … no, it was too risky.
But the Gryphowl sensed his idea and suddenly she was gliding towards them. Fletcher ordered her to turn aside – he strained so hard that his eyes rolled into his head, but even as he wrested back control to turn her aside, Athena did the unthinkable. She folded her wings and dropped like a stone. There was a moment of blind panic, then she crashed into the beast’s side and flopped on to the ground. Fletcher’s mind received an order from Athena’s. Run.
The Catoblepas spun, spraying flecks of spit with a guttural bellow. They passed over Athena’s head, for she was flat on the ground, stunned by the collision with the beast’s barrel-like side.
Fletcher’s vision filled with the demon’s rear, its long tail whipping to and fro. He leaped to his feet and sprinted at the monster, drawing the khopesh from his scabbard mid-vault.
With a scream of anger he buried the blade deep into the Catoblepas’s spine and into the vitals beneath. His breath gusted out of him as he thudded on to the demon’s back. Only his grip on the sword’s handle kept him from falling off.
He could smell the raw, animal scent of the monstrosity below him as it bucked in agony. The wiry hair along its spine scraped against his hands as he twisted the blade, lurching to one side with every kick of the Catoblepas’s legs. A gout of toxic vapour was spewed into the air, but Fletcher was out of reach. He leaned on the blade with desperate abandon, until even the handle was buried halfway into the demon’s spine.
Then, with a soft, almost mournful lowing, the creature collapsed in a heap, and gusted its last, poison breath.
‘Athena!’ Fletcher yelled, sliding off the Catoblepas’s back on to the ground beside his fallen demon. One of her wings was crushed beneath the dead monster’s belly, but her eyes were open and full of life. With a snarl, he heaved against the corpse, spittle flecking from his mouth with the strain.
Athena managed to withdraw her wing, but Fletcher could feel her agony as she moved the delicate bones within, which had been fractured by the beast’s great weight. He released the body with a thud and kneeled to gather her into his arms.
‘Why?’ he asked, cradling her broken body.
She gazed back at him, the love in her blue eyes telling him the answer.