I.ix
The arrow flies, but the skrag blurs on, barely grazed and nothing slowed by being hit. Daddy knocks and fires another arrow, but this one hits the ground in front of the creature. My hand stays uncertain against the dagger’s hilt, not knowing if I should toss my burdening satchel down, run for cover, throw a blade, or just plain cower. Before I can decide, the creature’s leaping at me, and I leap away—rolling onto my shoulder, back, and feet again, head jerking back for half a beat to see where we both landed. Skrag’s scrambling to turn back toward me, maybe five strides off. My satchel’s still swinging off my shoulder. Daddy pulls another arrow.
I push off the balls of my feet, run straight away from Daddy so he can get a clean shot, but I don’t hear his bowstring thwack and I hear a snarl. I turn back fast enough I almost lose balance. Daddy’s using his bow to knock away the skrag’s mouth. The creature’s jaw is open wide, thin teeth drenched with spit and hungering toward Daddy.
My left hand’s on one of the knives in my belt. My right hand fumbles along the ground until I paw a rock the size of my palm. I cock my arm back. “Hey!” I shout. Daddy and the critter both look toward me for a beat as I let the rock sail. The skrag bolts away, back into the bushes. The rock hits the ground short of where it was anyhow. Daddy pulls a few strides back and knocks an arrow.
I watch as the growth quivers, the creature darting quickly underneath, heading in my direction. There’s maybe ten strides between me and the growth’s edge, maybe twenty between me and where the skrag is now. I look around for a boulder or tree—something to give me better ground. The trees are tall here but far between. The closest is behind the bushes where the creature is scrambling toward me.
Daddy lets loose his arrow and it flies into the growth, but there’s no sound of pain to tell us that it hit.
The skrag comes out of the bushes and barrels towards me at a diagonal. Daddy knocks his bow again. There’s a dozen strides between the creature and me. I stand on the balls of my feet, ready to bolt but waiting so Daddy can get his shot. His bowstring’s pulled. I draw one of the knives, grip it firm in my right hand. The skrag’s seven strides off and Daddy lets his arrow fly. Six strides. The arrow flies true. Five.
There’s a squelch and thunk as the arrow buries into the creature’s back.
Four. The skrag’s not stopping. Three. Close enough I can smell the rotten musk on it. Two. Leaping toward me. One.
I push off my right foot to get an angle, pull the knife hard and fast in an arc from my hip to the full extension of my arm. The creature lands on its feet, body heaving, blood soaking fast into its fur. I’ve no sense if it’s lost its appetite, but I don’t hold still to find out. I bolt toward that nearby tree so I can get higher ground if I need to.
I jerk my head toward Daddy and then the creature. Daddy’s moving closer. The skrag is too. It’s closing in, maybe six strides off, its maw dripping bloody saliva as it pants on. It’s too fast for me. My body spins hard, satchel swinging out, as I stop full and spin back to face the creature.
The skrag’s eyes are pinned to me, but it seems thrown when I run toward it. It’s a stride off, opening its mouth wide to prepare for a chunk of my leg, when I dart to the side, pivot, and kick it hard on its underside. It flies through the air—over the bushes, crunching hard against the tree.
I try to find my breath. My dagger’s still clenched hard in my right hand. I keep my eyes at the shrubs in front of the tree, waiting to see if the creature plans to get up again. Even if it’s alive, it may finally be convinced we’re not a worthwhile meal.
“Liddy.” My dad’s voice is quiet. He’s maybe five strides off, moved close in his soft-step way.
I hear the ragged noise of the skrag—the sort of whining growl and moan that says his wounds have the better of him. But the bushes are still quivering.
“Liddy,” says my dad again, soft but urgent.
The bushes are coming alive with movement. I take a sharp breath.
“Liddy—” He’s not bothering for quiet now.
I see a skrag come out from the bushes and another’s tail whipping off to the side. Now it makes sense. There’s but three reasons a skrag will attack you outright. Hunger. Pack-hunting. Or … it’s protecting its nest.
“Run!”
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