I was saddle sore, bleary-eyed, and altogether overjoyed once again to touch down on solid ground. The day was warm, and the ever-present breeze of the plains moved around me, lulling me into a temporary amnesia. I had wanted to try the crossbow at least once before reaching the city, but instead, I lay back and stared up at the sunbeams that found their way through the swaying clusters of star-shaped leaves. The thought of sleep still frightened me, considering the fact that I might have carried the disease away from Weanu with me, but I finally closed my eyes.
I woke sometime later to the sound of barking, and even in my half cognizance felt a surge of disappointment to think that the dog had found me. Sitting up quickly, I turned around to check on the horse. The faithful Quismal was still where I had docked him, munching grass and swatting jade flies. I cleared my eyes and turned around, trying to get a bead on where the dog was. When I finally spotted him, he had crossed the creek and was standing on the bank some twenty yards away from me, shaking water from his coat. With nose wrinkled back and teeth exposed, he crouched down in front while the hair along the ridge of his back spiked up. His curled tail straightened as he began growling.
If he had seemed mad before, he now looked positively deranged. I reached slowly down next to me and grabbed the crossbow. "Good boy" I called to him. He continued growling and barking. Fd had quite enough of the benefit of his presence. He would be nothing but a liability to me when I tried stealthily to navigate the ruins of the city. My hands shaking, I lifted the bow and then grabbed an arrow from the quiver. Continuously speaking to him in as soothing a voice possible, I tried to pull the weapon's cord back. I moved the string about three inches and it would go no farther. My knowledge of the operation of crossbows was less than shallow, and having lived a life of relative ease, I didn't posses half the arm strength of a well-trained soldier. Quickly improvising, I brought my feet up to hold the cross of the bow in place and then, still gripping the string, leaned back. With this technique, I barely managed to hook the cord up over the firing mechanism.
Then Quismal whinnied and snorted, and I looked up to see Wood charging, his teeth bared, his tongue lolling, his eyes fierce. "Harrow's hindquarters," I yelled, and reached for an arrow. I had half a mind to forget the ancient weapon and scramble up a tree. He was five feet from me as I fitted the shaft into place along the barrel of the bow. I curled my finger around the trigger, lifted the stock to my shoulder, but as I aimed, I could see that he had already leaped. I gave a very unsoldierlike yelp of fear and, instead of firing, dropped the weapon and fell facefirst to the ground, covering my head with my hands. To my astonishment, he sailed right over me, snarling like some demonic creature of the Beyond. Before I could grab the bow and spin around, I heard another beastly voice join his with a sharp cry of pain.
In seconds, I was on my feet, the bow up against my shoulder, aiming at two forms that struggled on the ground only a few feet from me. Before I could clearly see what it was Wood had by the neck, I smelled the depraved bile scent of the Latrobian werewolf. Then the silver-gray coat, the half-human haunches and claws came clear to me. Gathering its strength, it stood on its hind legs, lifting Wood with it. With a cry of agony, it spun ferociously back and forth, whipping the dog free of its neck, a piece of which came away in a shower of yellow blood.
I pulled the trigger and the arrow shot out with a force I hadn't anticipated. The weapon fell from my grip, but still, I was able to follow the progress of the shaft as it caught the monstrosity square in the underside of its chest. There was more yellow liquid, more horrendous bellowing, and though I was frightened beyond measure, I actually cheered and gave a slight jump like a child who has just won a round of split the muggen. It was a momentary victory, for the instant the creature hit the ground, it began loping toward me on all fours.
Wood again came to my rescue, charging from where he had landed in the grass, and leaped onto the werewolf's back, burying his fangs in the top of its spine. They both went down again, rolling and slashing in the dirt. This gave me the time I needed to lift the bow, pull the string back while holding the cross down with my feet, and affix another arrow.
"Get off, Wood," I cried as I took aim again. The creature threw the dog down in front of it, struggled to its hind legs where it reached back a massive hand-paw studded with four-inch claws, and took a swing at my protector's head. That dog was insane, but he wasn't stupid—he slipped between the werewolf's legs, free of the blow. I aimed quickly for the chest again, fired, and the jolt of the bow lifted the arrow in its course, sending it directly into the thing's forehead. The werewolf stumbled forward a few steps on its hind legs and stopped suddenly. It stared at me momentarily with a pitiful gaze, as if recalling its lost humanity, and then its eyes crossed as it fell forward onto the ground. It continued to writhe, growl, spit, and chew the earth until I gathered my wits and bashed the remaining life out of it with the butt of the crossbow.
As soon as I was sure it was dead, I dropped the weapon and walked to the creek where I plunged my own head into the water. When my adrenaline had finally stopped pumping and my heart lost its hummingbird flutter, the real terror set in. I was elated to have come through the encounter with my life, but the face of the vanquished monster told me in no uncertain terms that this was only the beginning. The creature Wood and I had killed was not Greta Sykes, Below's original beast. It had moved somewhat more clumsily than she. On closer inspection it proved to be a male and had no headbolts as Greta had. Given Below's propensity for carrying all projects across the boundary of absurdity, I realized there could be an entire pack of these things guarding the perimeter of the city.
I was shaken, but the discovery of a second werewolf was an undeniable argument that the Master had to be stopped as soon as possible. Before moving on, I went to the saddlebag on Quismal's back and retrieved a handful of dried meat. I called Wood to me. He came quietly enough and sat at my feet. Kneeling down, I expressed my thanks to him, petting his head, scratching his chest, while I fed him the strips of meat. He panted and ate and made a face with his teeth showing as though he were smiling. When he had finished the meal, and there was nothing else I could say, I stood and went to fetch the bow and quiver of remaining arrows. I bent over to lift the weapon, and he ran by behind me and bit me on the rear end, pulling my trousers down. I turned to kick him, but he was off like a shot, streaking across the plain.
"Idiot" I yelled after him, and then turned to see that Quismal, savant of horses, had somehow undone his reins from the tree and was standing in the middle of the creek.
I spent a half hour fishing my mount out of the water before I was on my way again. We crossed the open expanse of the fields of Harakun, where so many historic battles of oppression had been waged by the forces of the Weil-Built City against the farmers of Latrobia. Thousands were buried in mass graves beneath the ground I traversed, their lives cut short by the Master's will and whim. There was an eerie sadness to the desolate plain, which, as I had read in school, had once been fertile ground. Now nothing grew there but a tawny-colored saw grass and an occasional gnarled tree, as if the deaths of all those souls had also killed the very earth on which they had battled. I was equally tense for the fact that there was little cover with which to block my approach to the walls of the City.