Demontech: Onslaught (11 page)

The border wasn’t blocked by a wall; it was secured by an imp-warded fence. Anyone who touched the fence would attract the imps, who would dash out almost faster than sight. These imps were smaller than a woman’s little finger, but they were numerous and, in their great numbers, could hold a bull fast to their fence while they ate its living flesh until nothing was left but bones and tatters of hide—they even ate the marrow from the bones. To Spinner and Haft, the safety represented by the Skraglanders was on the wrong side of that fence. The Jokapcul cavalrymen who were on their side of the fence were as dangerous to the two Marines as the big cat that was following them.

“Maybe the imps aren’t at home,” Haft said, gasping. “Maybe they’ve been released. Maybe it’s a dummy and there never were imps on this fence.”

Spinner realized he wasn’t the only one who could come up with maybes. He looked along the ground at the bottom of the fence. “I think they’re at home,” he said, and pointed. A squirrel’s tail, something that might once have been a badger, a hare’s foot, and several clumps of feathers lay on the ground a foot or so away from the fence.

Somewhere, much closer than before, the cat cried again.

Spinner readied his crossbow. They might have to fight the Jokapcul, or the cat might be on them before they could get to the other side of the fence. In either case, a few bolts from the crossbow would even the odds. Haft noticed and also readied his crossbow.

Sweat beaded Spinner’s brow. He looked at the fence. It was too high to jump over without touching the top strand. Spinner looked up at the trees.

“No good,” Haft said. “I already looked. None of the branches go over the fence, we can’t cross it that way.” His eyes searched the trees. “But we can climb one high enough to be out of reach of the cat and wait for it to go away.”

“Maybe,” Spinner said. “But maybe not. Cats can climb trees too. Only the very biggest can’t.”

Haft swore. “Maybe this cat is too big to climb trees.”

“The biggest ones wait for you to come back down.”

The cat cried again. Its voice was clear and they could tell exactly where it was. They turned back to the forest and Spinner paled. It was a kind of cat he knew from Apianghia. “It’s a gray tabur,” he said. They weren’t the biggest of the big cats, but they were probably the toughest. They were forest dwellers who had to deal with thornbushes and other sharp things, so their hides were thicker than those of other big cats. And they could all climb trees. Nearly as big as the two men together, the cat crouched only ten paces away. Iron-hard muscles rippled beneath the black-striped gray coat that rendered it almost invisible in the depths of a forest. It was staring at them. Its jaw worked and its tongue lapped between its teeth, as though it could already taste the men. Bunched shoulders twitched as its forepaws edged forward, bringing it closer to them, close enough for it to pounce.

“A couple of bolts to the chest ought to discourage it,” Haft said. “Maybe we’ll even kill it.” He raised his crossbow to his shoulder.

“No good; skin’s too tough. Shooting will just make it mad.”

“Right,” Haft said. “I forgot that about gray taburs.” But the look he darted at Spinner asked: Are you sure of that?

Spinner dropped his crossbow. Haft did the same.

The two concentrated their attention on the cat, tried to think of what to do once it made its move. Only a remote part of their minds noticed a change in the tenor of the voices at the border gate.

The cat continued to inch. Its jaw stretched wide in a yawn, but there was nothing sleepy about it.

“He’s about to jump,” Spinner said quietly. “As soon as he leaves the ground, we jump to the side. They can’t change their direction in midair. When he lands, he’s going to have to look at both of us and decide who to go after. That’ll give us a little time.”

“Right. Time,” Haft muttered. “A split second.” He had seen big cats in a circus once and knew how fast they could move.

The gray tabur sprang.

Spinner and Haft shoved at each other as they dove apart.

Spinner was right, the cat couldn’t change the direction of its leap. But it was very agile; it could and did change its orientation. By the time it reached where they had been, it wasn’t pointed straight ahead anymore. It was flying sideways through the air. The cat lashed out with all four claw-extended paws. One hind claw raked across Spinner’s lower leg and made a deep, three-inch-long gash in the calf muscle. A forepaw snagged Haft’s cloak and got caught up in it. The force of the swipe tore the cloak from Haft’s shoulders and sent him tumbling; he slammed against a tree. The cat landed off balance and on its side, hard enough to momentarily knock the wind out of it.

But the respite was brief. The big cat gasped twice and rolled back onto its feet. It cried again, a deep-throated roar. The gray tabur took only a second to shake its paw free from the binding cloak. Then it swiveled its head, eyes searching for its prey. It saw both of them. Haft, still supine against the tree trunk, was closer, and it bunched to jump at him.

“Climb!” Spinner shouted.

But Haft didn’t have time to scramble to his feet and leap for the nearest branches before the cat could get to him—and they both knew it.

Spinner, already on his feet, his bleeding leg ignored, hefted his staff like a javelin and threw it at the cat. The staff hit just as the gray tabur was raising it forepaws off the ground in its leap. The blow staggered it and sent it sprawling to the side. By the time it regained its feet, both men were up in trees. The cat roared out in anger and frustration.

“Go up and get as far out as you can,” Spinner shouted. “If we reach branches too slender to hold the cat’s weight, it won’t follow us.” He mentally added,
Maybe.

Blood from Spinner’s calf flowed down his leg onto his foot and he kept slipping as he clambered up the tree. The cat looked from one to the other of the climbing men. The cat went after Spinner. In one bound it was in the branches. The cat slapped at the tree trunk, claws sinking deeply into the wood. A crimson smear was by the cat’s nose; it lapped it up and growled low, almost a purr of pleasure at the taste. The cat looked up at the clumsily climbing man and followed slowly, pausing to lick at every splotch of blood. It growled low as it went.

Thirty feet up, Spinner found a branch that allowed him to move toward a branch of an adjacent tree.

The gray tabur stopped licking at the blood. It snarled and moved. In seconds it was on Spinner’s branch, crawling faster than Spinner and looking like it could close the gap before Spinner reached the other tree.

Haft had stopped climbing when he saw the cat follow Spinner. Seeing the gray tabur gaining on Spinner, he yelled at him to hurry.

Acrid sweat flowed from Spinner’s armpits, drenched his body, arms, and legs. He pulled himself along faster. The other branch had been level with the one he was on, but now it was four feet above his head because of the combined weight of him and the cat. He pulled himself forward another foot and his branch dipped farther. He glanced back again. The cat had reduced the distance almost by half. Spinner lunged forward and almost lost his balance, but managed to wrap his arms and legs tightly around the branch and hold on. The branch bounced wildly from the sudden movement.

“Hold on, Spinner!” Haft shouted. “That almost threw the cat. He stopped coming after you.”

Spinner looked back. The cat wasn’t any closer; it was looking down, as though reassessing its situation. Then it looked at him again, growled, and inched forward.

Spinner pulled himself forward again. He was close enough to reach out and grab the other branch, but the vertical gap had increased to five feet. He’d have to stand to reach the branch, and the one he was on was swaying too much for him to think he could do that without falling off.

“There, below you!” Haft shouted. “You can jump onto that one.”

Haft was pointing at a branch six feet below and a few feet to the side. Spinner looked. He was sure he could swing down onto it. He glanced back at the cat to see if it was close enough to make the same jump, and almost jumped himself without looking to see where he was going to land—the cat was almost within a paw’s reach of his foot. Spinner pulled his feet in close, looked down, and swung off the branch. His momentum carried him the few feet to the branch below, and he let go and fell the short distance. His legs straddled the branch and he fell forward onto it, wincing at the sudden pain in his groin.

Behind him the branch whipped upward from the loss of his weight. The gray tabur screamed as the sudden movement dislodged its hindquarters. It hung by its forelegs, and the branch creaked in protest.

Spinner scrambled to the trunk of the tree while the cat clawed and pulled, trying to scramble back onto the swaying branch.

“I’ve got an idea,” Haft shouted. “We’ve got to get him out of the tree. Do something to knock him down.”

“Do what?” Spinner gasped back. He could not reach the branch the cat was on, so he couldn’t shake it. He saw Haft then, dropping from branch to branch to the ground. Spinner couldn’t guess what his companion had in mind.

The gray tabur continued to scream and scrabble. The branch continued to creak ominously.

Haft reached the ground, picked up Spinner’s staff, then looked up and yelled, “Do something! Knock the cat out of the tree.”

“What can
I
do?” Spinner yelled back. “
I
can’t do anything.”

“Wouldn’t you know it?” Haft muttered. “I always have to do everything myself.” He found his crossbow, then stood with his back to the fence. He aimed carefully at the moving cat’s shoulder, then pulled the trigger. But the cat and the branch were both moving so much that his quarrel only nicked the skin of the cat’s foreleg inches above a paw. The gray tabur screamed again and swatted, as though at an insect that had stung it. But that removed one paw from the branch, and the cat plunged down toward the ground. It swiped and clawed at each branch it passed, but couldn’t hold on to anything. But each branch it hit slowed its fall enough so that instead of crashing to the ground, it landed hard enough only to be stunned.

Haft nocked another quarrel as the cat was falling and shot it again as soon as it hit the ground. He nocked a third and glanced that one off the gray tabur’s shoulder before it could lift its head and give it a shake. He was starting to nock a fourth quarrel when the cat sprang to its feet and roared at him. He dropped the quarrel and crossbow, picked up Spinner’s quarterstaff and planted one end on the ground next to his foot. The gray tabur charged, and Haft wondered if what he’d had in mind was such a great idea after all. But it was too late to change his mind.

The instant the cat’s forefeet left the ground in its final leap, Haft dropped forward to one knee and angled the quarterstaff toward its onrushing chest.

The gray tabur had only an instant to look surprised before it slammed into the end of the quarterstaff. The force of its leap kept it moving forward, but the quarterstaff acted as a lever to lift it over Haft. Still holding the staff, Haft was thrown backward and rolled.

The cat’s angry scream when it struck the fence was almost drowned out by the hungry chitter of the imps. The cat screamed and struggled, but the imps held its fur, pinned its head and neck.

Awestruck, Haft got to his knees and watched as the imps killed the cat. Its legs and head and tail thrashed uncontrollably, its body spasmed, its eyes rolling wildly. Blood gushed through holes rent in its skin, bits of fur flew into the air, and white bone began to appear through hide and bloody flesh. The manic chittering of the imps as they gleefully ate the living cat seemed to fill the world until there was no room left for any other sound.

After a few moments the cat moved no more and the imps chittered less as they settled down to feast.

If Haft hadn’t already been on his knees he would have dropped to them in relief. He sagged backward to sit on his heels. He shook so hard he barely managed to keep himself sitting upright. Shivering, wide-eyed and gape-mouthed, he sat for a moment, staring at the remains of the dead cat, moments ago so threatening. Masses of flies were already buzzing around the animal’s remains.

Haft was snapped out of his reverie by a weak voice behind him:

“Haft, help me.”

Spinner had climbed down to the lowest branches of the tree, but the last drop was higher than he was tall. Crimson still flowed freely from the gash in his calf. Clearly, he was weakened by the loss of blood.

Instantly, Haft leaped to his feet and ran to help Spinner. Gently, he lay him at the foot of the tree and tied a length of creeping vine around Spinner’s calf above the gash, to slow the flow of blood so he could examine the wound. But he’d forgotten that other people were nearby.

A gruff voice shouted something, and Haft twisted around. Most of the Skragish border guards were clustered on the other side of the fence. Some of them were looking at what remained of the dead cat. Some, including the one who spoke and seemed to be the leader, were looking at him. Others were glowering to one side.

The Skragish leader—he had to be the leader, Haft thought, since he was the one addressing him, and he was the only one with a large, purple rosette on his left shoulder—spoke gruffly again. From his bearing, Haft assumed he was a sergeant.

He couldn’t understand the man’s words, but guessed he was being asked who he and Spinner were. Something was bothering him . . . The Jokapcul! Haft looked sharply to his right, where some of the Skraglanders were gazing. Seven Jokapcul were arrayed in a line there. Three of them had lances leveled at him and Spinner. The other three, alternating with the lancers, held swords at the ready. Their officer stood to their side, his sword at rest, growling orders at them as they advanced. Haft recognized the plumed officer from the day before. He didn’t see the demon spitter.

“More trouble, Spinner. Can you stand?” Haft slowly rose to his feet and felt about for his axe. He didn’t have it; he must have dropped it when he went for the tree he climbed to get away from the cat. He still had his knife, but it wouldn’t do him much good against six men armed with swords and lances.