The Elves of Cintra (Book 2 of The Genesis of Shannara)

For the span of about five seconds, he froze, uncertain of what he should do.

Then he was on his feet and sprinting into the darkness, yelling back at the Croaks, intent on catching their attention and drawing them after him, away from his sleeping family. His ploy was successful. The Croaks stiffened and swung about as they caught sight of him. In seconds, they were after him.

He could not tell if any of the Ghosts had been awakened or were aware of his dilemma. There wasn’t time to stop and look; there wasn’t time for anything but flight. Besides, it didn’t matter. His first obligation was to act as their protector. His own safety was secondary and could not be considered.

For Bear, it had never been any other way.

He ran hard for a short distance, far enough so that he was safely away from his family. He was big and strong, but running for long distances was out of the question. When he stopped and wheeled back, he was already breathing hard and his forehead was coated in sweat. He watched the Croaks lumber toward him, bigger and slower than he was, but a whole lot harder to kill. He blew the first two to pieces at fifty paces, turned and ran some more. A hundred yards farther on, he wheeled back and fired again. He brought down a third, but the second blast missed its intended mark. The sound of the weapon’s discharge was earthshaking. One thing was for sure: everyone sleeping would be awake and warned by now.

He fired once more, catching another of the Croaks in the legs. He watched it tumble to the ground, disrupting the pursuit of the rest.

There were more of them than he had thought at first, and they were not giving up the chase.

He turned and began to run again, but he was tiring quickly now. He gained another fifty yards, coming up on the highway, a dark ribbon stretching away into the dark, its blacktopped surface glistening with a dust-covered slick.

Behind him, he could hear the growls of the Croaks. They were still coming.

He turned and fired again, killing another, and the flechette jammed. He hesitated, then braced himself as the remaining Croaks closed on him. It would end here. Not what he would have wished for, but for a good cause in any case. His blunt features tightened, and the muscles of his big shoulders bunched. Even though the barrel of the weapon was hot, he gripped it with both hands, holding it like a club. The Croaks growled and slobbered, spittle running from their ruined mouths, eyes mad and shifting in response to the disease eating them. They were covered with lesions and jagged scars, and the sounds they made were the sounds of wild animals. Bear had never faced this many alone.

Claws reached for him, blackened and sharp. He swung the flechette as hard as he could, and the closest attackers collapsed like rag dolls into the others. But the claws ripped his clothing and flesh, leaving ragged wounds that burned.

Bear backed away, taking a fresh stance.

And then the night exploded in streaks of red fire, and Panther and Sparrow surged out of the darkness, screaming like banshees and firing their Parkhan Sprays in steady bursts. The Croaks broke and fled before this fresh assault, less than a handful left as they disappeared into the night.

THE MIX OF GROWLS and yells brought Owl awake inside the shed. She was dozing, staying close to River and Fixit so that she could use cold compresses to help keep their fevers down. She was lying on the floor, close beside them, her wheelchair several feet away. At first, she just stared in the direction of the door, waiting to see if something more would happen.

Then she heard the booming discharge of Bear’s weapon and was hauling herself upright and into her wheelchair when Chalk burst through the door, eyes wide and frightened in his pale round face.

“Croaks!” he shouted in what appeared to be a failed attempt at a whisper. “Bear drew them off, and Panther and Sparrow went after him. What should we do?”

She rolled herself over to the door and peered into the night. The sounds of the battle were evident in the continued discharge of the flechette and the growls and cries that followed. But she couldn’t see anything.

“Where’s Candle?” She looked over her shoulder at Chalk, who mouthed wordlessly and shook his head. “Take me outside!” she snapped.

The boy did so, pushing her clear of the entry and into the darkness beyond.

She stared off in the direction of the battle, and then looked around for the little girl. No sign of her. She felt her stomach tighten with fear. “Go find her! Don’t come back without her!”

Chalk disappeared at a run, and Owl wheeled herself over to the discarded blankets and pallets where the others had been sleeping, calling out as she went for Candle. There was no response. She picked up one of the prods that the others had dropped in the excitement, laying it across the arms of her wheelchair.