His triumphant plans threatened to slip from his grasp. He stormed to his room, buckled on his old infantry saber, swept up his pike, and returned to the door. He braced himself to lift the heavy door bolt and paused.
He had heard the tales told by refugees fleeing to the city. Who had not, after all? They told of monstrous creatures and brutal slayings, and he had discounted them as exaggeration, thinking roving packs of wolves a more likely explanation. Graffas were tough beasts and did not frighten easily, however, and the clamor from the barn sounded like panic. He wavered, listening to the beasts bawl and hammer at their containment, feeling all his plans hanging in the balance. He set his jaw and lifted the bar, being as slow and quiet as he could manage. He would at least peek to determine the source of the disturbance, and if it was something as mundane as wolves, he felt confident he could drive them away with shouting and fire.
He set the bar aside and cracked the door an inch, putting his eye to the opening.
The night sky had not fully darkened yet, the hint of an ember glow still lingering on the western horizon. He had not dozed long, then. Straining against the twilight, he could just make out an indistinct upright silhouette at his barn door. He heard hacking and splintering, and saw the figure bow momentarily with the effort of prying at the door. Then it resumed cutting at the door. Anger flared within Gormin. Not wolves, then, but a man! Evidently he was not the last man to brave the wild pests and capitalize on the opportunity, after all. The rogue was doubtless after his draft animals, and that would cripple his plans. He was surprised at the reaction of the graffas, which did not frighten easily, but the sharp chopping sounds in the middle of the night must have unnerved them.
Gormin retrieved his lamp and held it in one hand while taking a firm grip on the pike with the other. This weapon had served him countless times in the infantry, and he had no qualms about using it against a bandit or a thieving neighbor. He pushed open the door and stepped outside onto the porch. He looked back at the dog, which remained in the middle of the room.
“Dog, come with me!” he hissed. “Wulf, with me!”
The dog met his eyes, curled its lip and did not move.
“Worthless cur!” the farmer snarled, shaking his head. He stalked toward the barn.
The hacking sounds had ceased, and the figure was nowhere to be seen. Gormin cast about with his lamp, expecting a sudden attack, but could find no one lying in wait. He approached the barn to inspect the damage. A few yards to the side of the main door, several of the wooden stakes had been pulled from the ground and flung aside, and a hole large enough to admit a man had been hewn through the barn wall. So the scoundrel was still here, had made it inside! A closer examination of the ragged edges showed a great deal of strength had been used, but little precision; there were stray marks and long splinters all about. A burly man, then, with scant experience using an axe, or perhaps in the grips of some kind of a frenzy. He would be cautious, but was undaunted. Strong men and madmen, they all died at the end of a pike just the same.
Struck by inspiration, he retrieved one of the uprooted stakes and propped it against the others still in place, stamping on the end to drive it into the ground and provide a solid brace. He stood back to admire his work. Far from sturdy, but it would suffice for the moment. The stake faced inward at the hole, and with any luck, the villain would flee the barn and impale himself in his haste.
Gormin contemplated the hole once more. He did not relish the notion of entering the barn this way, as the man could be waiting to ambush him. The front door, however, was heavily barricaded and would require several minutes to open, and he did not wish to reveal to the intruder the hidden mechanism he had devised to raise the inner bar from the outside. There was a splintering sound from inside the barn, and one of the graffas roared in anger or pain. Gormin tightened his grip on the iron-shod pike and ducked under his makeshift trap, through the hole and into the barn.
Once inside, he raised the lamp high, illuminating the interior of the building. His draft harness equipment was off to the side: the battered plow, the pull-behind gathering rake and basket, and more. Ahead were the stalls, many of them empty, while the broad brown backs of the remaining graffas, each as tall as a man, protruded above two of them. At the back wall was a ladder to the loft, which had served as the living quarters for some of the hired help.
What he did not see, however, was the intruder.
He cast light into the corners near him and peered around the equipment, but saw no movement and nothing out of place. He advanced to the unoccupied stalls, and lifted his lamp over their edges, but there was no one concealed within. As he neared the graffas, he heard a soft rattling sound, but he could not discern the direction and the meager radius of light revealed nothing. It struck him then that the graffas had fallen silent, except for labored breathing; they no longer bellowed or crashed against the walls. Gormin reached one of the graffas, and spoke to it in soft, soothing tones as he shone the lamp over its stall. The graffa was the only occupant, but something in the hay lining its stall caught his eye, glittering like a shower of rubies. It was blood, he realized with a shock. Tracing its path up the beast’s flanks, he found deep slices crossing its back, and the animal was shuddering and panting, its eyes rolling in terror. The slices did not look like axe marks, he judged, but rather were made by something longer and sharper, like a sword or a scythe.
Why would anyone break into his barn to attack his draft animals, rather than steal them?
He looked to the graffa in the next stall. It was not shuddering like the other. In fact, it was standing still, leaning against the side wall. Too still. He took slow steps toward it. There were no marks on its back. He peered over the edge of the stall, and a powerful stench struck him. As he brought the lamp near, he saw that its entrails and blood soaked the pad of hay beneath it, and viscous fluid was seeping under the door. The animal had been disemboweled where it stood and was dead on its feet.
Gormin threw his arm across his lower face to mask the odor. He continued to stare as he went numb inside.
The rattling sound came again, much closer and louder, seemingly from overhead. Gormin stumbled back a few steps and thrust the lamp upward. Clinging to the wall, head downward, was a creature the size of a man, but there the resemblance ended. It was glistening black, folded tight upon itself, its claws sunk deep into the timbers and its wide yellow eyes narrowed as it regarded him. It was covered in long, wicked spines that swept back along its body. As he watched, those spines lifted away from its sleek body, quivering in a rapid motion that produced the rattling noise he had heard.
Gormin backed away, keeping the pike leveled at the thing. Something nudged him in the back, and he stifled a shout. A quick glance showed it to be one of the handles of his plow. Keeping one eye on the creature, he hung his lamp from the plow handle and wrapped both hands around the haft of his weapon. The rattling noise ceased, and the creature dropped from its perch to land on the dividing wall between the two graffas, leaving bloody prints on the wall. The farmer could see its long black claws, each almost the length of a sword blade, digging deep into the wood on either side as the creature stalked forward. The spines along its body flexed outward and its shoulders rolled like those of a great cat as its low-slung head remained riveted on him. It sprang to the ground and stood on its hind legs like a man, studying him, and began to walk parallel to his position. Gormin felt a chill, seeing it walk upright thus, and he knew it to be the man-like form he had seen assailing the outer wall of the barn.