Beneath, the broad chest presented an even larger target. The chances of an arrow passing its rib cage were better, but the beast might not die quickly. It could be enraged, charging him and goring his body to shreds before it collapsed. Then, as if it sensed his indecision, the Catoblepas bellowed and stampeded toward him.
Fletcher loosed the arrow, and the shaft jarred against his hand in flight. He dove aside, landing painfully among the roots of a nearby tree. It was not a moment too soon, for the monster tore through the thin screen of branches a half second later, snapping its jaws with fierce abandon.
There was blood on the soil; the arrow lodged deeply in the demon’s belly, hanging from it like a macabre umbilical cord. It was a gut wound, the kind that would take hours to kill.
With a guttural roar of pain the demon spun around, seeking its tormentor. Fletcher froze, still as a millpond. The beast snuffled the ground, a long tongue lapping at the soil as if to taste his path. It could not see him, for he was deep in the tree’s shadow and the last light of the sky was almost gone.
Fletcher reached for another arrow, but his hands met air. He looked over his shoulder to see the ammunition scattered out of reach behind him, his desperate dive having unseated his quiver from his back.
Cursing inwardly, he allowed his hand to stray to the handle of his khopesh. He did not draw it—the scrape of the blade in the scabbard would alert the beast. It would have to be in one motion, an all-or-nothing attack that would mean death for one or the other.
A hoot from above reminded him Athena was still there. He sensed her frantic desperation, and he knew Ignatius could too. Fletcher could feel that the little Salamander was running, but Fletcher had roamed too far ahead of Sheldon for rescue to arrive in time. Already the Catoblepas’s snout was finding his scent, and it was slobbering and grunting over the damp ground in his direction.
He needed it to turn away from him. One breath, one fleck of saliva, could kill him in an instant. Athena could … no, it was too risky.
But the Gryphowl sensed his idea, and suddenly she was gliding toward them. Fletcher ordered her to turn aside—he strained so hard that his eyes rolled into his head, but even as he wrested back control to turn her aside, Athena did the unthinkable. She folded her wings and dropped like a stone. There was a moment of blind panic, then she crashed into the beast’s side and flopped onto the ground. Fletcher’s mind received an order of her own.
Run.
The Catoblepas spun, spraying flecks of spit with a guttural bellow. They passed over Athena’s head, for she was flat on the ground, stunned by the collision with the beast’s barrel-like side.
Fletcher’s vision filled with the demon’s rear, its long tail whipping to and fro. He leaped to his feet and sprinted at the monster, drawing the khopesh from his scabbard midvault.
With a scream of anger he buried the blade deep into the Catoblepas’s spine and into the vitals beneath. His breath gusted out of him as he thudded onto the demon’s back. Only his grip on the sword’s handle kept him from falling off.
He could smell the raw, animal scent of the monstrosity below him as it bucked in agony. The wiry hair along its spine scraped against his hands as he twisted the blade, lurching to one side with every kick of the Catoblepas’s legs. A gout of toxic vapor was spewed into the air, but Fletcher was out of reach. He leaned on the blade with desperate abandon, until even the handle was buried halfway into the demon’s spine.
Then, with a soft, almost mournful lowing, the creature collapsed in a heap, and gusted its last, poison breath.
“Athena!” Fletcher yelled, sliding off the Catoblepas’s back onto the ground beside his fallen demon. One of her wings was crushed beneath the dead monster’s belly, but her eyes were open and full of life. With a snarl, he heaved against the corpse, spittle flecking from his mouth with the strain.
Athena managed to withdraw her wing, but Fletcher could feel her agony as she moved the delicate bones within, which had been fractured by the beast’s great weight. He released the body with a thud and knelt to gather her into his arms.
“Why?” he asked, cradling her broken body.
She gazed back at him, the love in her blue eyes telling him the answer.
CHAPTER
8
WHEN THE OTHERS EVENTUALLY FOUND HIM, he was still holding Athena in his arms. As Lysander helped drag the Catoblepas’s body to Sheldon, Fletcher began ministering to Athena’s wounds. He was glad to see she was not mortally injured, even if she would not be able to fly for a long while. Ignatius did all he could to comfort her, nuzzling her with his beak and lapping ineffectually at her injured wing, but his healing saliva could do nothing for broken bones and Fletcher could not risk the healing spell for fear of her bones setting crookedly.
He was tempted to infuse her and allow her to heal within him, but knew that her night vision would be needed soon—with the bloody carcass on the shell this would be the most dangerous night so far. No, they would have to do this the old-fashioned way.
With little hardwood nearby, he splinted her broken wing with the straight shaft from one of his arrows and strapped her wing to her side. She hobbled lopsidedly around the shell, miserable to be relegated to the ground. But she was not miserable for long, as their days of starvation were over and a feast was appearing before her eyes.
The carcass was butchered with their blades, separated into enormous haunches, cuts of dark flesh and piles of quivering organs. The intestines and other poisonous inedibles were removed carefully and buried some distance from their path, for the stench was dreadful and it would help prevent carrion eaters following in Sheldon’s wake.
The rest was carefully spread on the skinned pelt, which stretched so large that they could have made a tent from it.
Cooking the meat was essential, but they did not wish to start a fire directly on the Zaratan’s shell, for fear of hurting him. So, they piled earth high on the crest to insulate it and used the dry, punky branches that were scattered about the forest floor to start a serviceable fire.
The edible organs were eaten first, roasted over the flames on spits of greenwood that Fletcher had cut and shaved with his khopesh. Each had a different flavor: the liver dry and smooth, the kidneys rich and filling; even the heart was chewy but not unpleasant.
Herbivores Solomon and Tosk made do with foraging shoots from the forest around them, but meat eaters Lysander, Athena and Ignatius were ravenous and ate the lungs raw, even nibbling at the brain as they waited for their turn at the cooked meat. The sight of their bloodied beaks gorging on the unsightly flesh was almost enough to ruin Fletcher’s appetite. Almost.