“It’s coming our way,” said Goryx, nervously licking his lips. He set down his spear and lifted his bow instead, carefully setting the arrow in place.
“No!” Atalanta shrieked, throwing herself into Goryx’s line of fire.
At that moment Urso crashed into the clearing, pulling up behind Atalanta.
“I don’t know how she knows it’s him,” Phreneus said to the others as Atalanta stroked the mound of muscle behind Urso’s neck. “Doesn’t one big crash in the forest sound just like another?”
Evenor laughed, more in relief than anything else. “Not to her.”
Atalanta could feel the tension in the bear’s body, and as he rubbed his muzzle against her ribs, she could hear the worry in his low growl. She turned to the men. “It wasn’t Urso who let out that roar.”
“If it wasn’t him, then what…” Demas began.
Looking at Atalanta’s drawn face, Evenor answered, “Something a lot worse.”
Urso suddenly stood on his hind feet and began sniffing the air. A menacing rumble sounded at the back of his throat.
“What is it?” Evenor asked.
“He smells something,” Atalanta replied, standing. “Something he’s smelled before.”
The bear continued his low grumbling.
“What is it?” Evenor asked, staring up at Urso.
“I don’t think he knows…” Atalanta whispered. But she did. Slowly she reached for her bow and arrow and stood up even more slowly. “But Urso came here to protect me.”
“Protect you from what?” Evenor asked.
Atalanta shook her head. “I don’t know either. But I suspect it’s what killed off game this winter and spring.”
Suddenly close by there was a sound of foliage being trampled aside. Trees shook, shivering from the top down all around them. Another roar shattered their ears.
“That doesn’t sound friendly,” Demas said.
“We should make a run for it,” Goryx cried, “while we still can.” In the fading light of day, his face looked pale and his eyes were wide with fear.
“That would make us easy prey,” said Atalanta. “And it’s a long way home in the dark though the forest.”
“Yes, we need to keep together so we can protect one another’s backs,” said Evenor.
“I don’t think,” Atalanta said softly, “that it’s after us. I think it’s after the deer.” She pointed to the carcass by the fire.
“Let it have the deer then,” shrilled Goryx.
“No!” Atalanta’s voice was firm. “The village needs the food.”
More sounds of crashing came from somewhere in the trees. Then, heedless of the humans, three rabbits and a doe trailing a fawn ran startled through the clearing, desperate to escape whatever menace was behind them.
Goryx edged away from the gutted deer, babbling. “Hide. Hide from it…” Then he turned and ran away from the sounds of the crashes, toward the shelter of the heaviest trees.
The others remained alert, spears in hand, but Goryx suddenly screamed, and they all spun around. All they could see were the bottoms of his sandals vanishing into the undergrowth as if he’d been snatched away by a giant hand. Then there was a wild thrashing in the treetops and finally a sickening sound of bone snapping.
“What is it?” whispered Evenor. “Have you seen this thing before?”
“No. Not entirely. Some of it. Its back. And its paw. Its huge paw. Whatever the creature is, it killed my father,” she said quietly. But there was no quiet in her belly. Her mouth was filled with the salt tang of anger and fear. She had her bow out, an arrow in place.
The three men and Atalanta edged forward to the spot where Goryx had disappeared. They rammed their spears into the greenery, trying to flush out the beast. But whatever had been there was already gone. Above them, branches on the trees suddenly started shaking as if in the middle of a storm.
Urso’s growl was as constant as summer thunder.
“Quiet, boy,” Atalanta said, her arm starting to tremble with the pull of the bow.
“I see him!” Demas shouted, and the three men plunged into the undergrowth.
Atalanta stayed back, tense and alert.
No sooner had her companions gone than a shape erupted into the clearing on the other side, something orange like a mountain cat, but much much larger. Atalanta turned the moment she heard it. The beast was bull high at the shoulder, with long upper fangs overhanging its lower lip, ears tufted in orange and gold, a shaggy mane, serpent’s tail, a large scar across one of its front paws, and a charnel house smell. And it had…
“Wings,” Atalanta cried. “I should have guessed it before now. Wings!”
Urso reared up and roared, part challenge, part fear.
The beast didn’t bother to answer. Instead it took one leap toward them and glared at Atalanta who faced it with her drawn bow.
There was a long pause as girl and beast stared at each other. Then the creature shook its shaggy head and backed away. Turning, it pounced on the gutted deer, and with a mighty sweep of its golden wings rose into the air with the carcass in its claws, and was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
VICTIMS OF THE BEAST
ATALANTA’S FATHER HAD ALWAYS said: “Trust what you see, hear and smell, just the way the beasts of the wild do. Don’t let your mind conjure fancies out of your fears.”
But now her mind told her such a thing as the winged lion could not exist. Yet her senses—what she’d seen, heard, and smelled—told her the creature was real. For a moment she was stunned into immobility, as if she’d been encased in a block of ice.
Sensing her confusion, Urso leaned comfortingly against her, almost pushing her over. It was only then that Atalanta found she could move again.
Evenor burst back out of the greenery, bow and arrow at the ready, and saw how shaken she looked.
“Atalanta, are you all right?”
“I saw it,” Atalanta said, scarcely breathing. She pointed at the empty space by the fire. “I saw the creature. It took the stag, picked the carcass up as if the thing weighed no more than a piece of straw.”
“What kind of beast was it?” Evenor asked, casting about for some sign of the creature’s trail.
“It was bigger than a bull,” she said slowly, “like a mountain cat but enormous. With claws, a mane, a scaly serpent’s tail…wings.” Her voice died away. She knew the description sounded absurd.
“Where did it go?” Evenor asked with an uneasy frown.
“It flew off,” said Atalanta. “That way.” She gestured to a spot above the trees.
At that moment Phreneus and Demas appeared, supporting Goryx between them.
Goryx was bruised and scratched and blood trailed from a wide row of tooth marks on his left leg. His eyes were glazed with shock and his lips twitched as though he were muttering wordlessly to himself. But—miraculously—he was alive.
The two hunters laid their stricken companion down by the campfire and did their best to dress his wounds, pouring water and wine into the bloody punctures.
“Did anyone see the thing that did this?” Phreneus asked. “I can’t believe the size of that bite.”
“I saw it,” said Atalanta. She repeated the description she’d given Evenor.
Demas shook his head. “Girl’s lost her wits,” he grumbled. “Must have been a mountain cat gave her a scare.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my wits,” Atalanta told him hotly. “I’ve seen mountain cats before. And killed them. This was no cat. Ask Goryx. He must have seen it.”
“I don’t think he saw anything,” said Phreneus, looking down at the wounded man. “I think his own fright is all he remembers.”
Goryx was twitching fitfully where he lay, which was making it difficult for Demas to wind a bandage around his injured leg.