Nearby,
one of the wardogs, a heavily-built mastiff, is going berserk. Probably was born berserk. Its handler, an
irritable old farmer, covered in cowshit from the waist down and, I’d say,
chickenshit from the waist up, is having trouble controlling it. I suspect he uses it to keep people off his
land, though I’m sure the state of his clothes would do that pretty well. Suddenly, the animal pulls free. The poor old wretch of a farmer, rivers of
sweat running down his face into his grizzled beard, beats it with his
cudgel. He kicks at it to keep it from
mauling him. As it runs around wildly,
Astryd screams and draws back into the crowd.
Right away, the animal is surrounded by a circle completely emptied of
people. It glares at everyone ominously,
eyes full of loathing. For a moment it’s
undecided. Then, without warning, it
lunges wildly at the fetlocks of Zel.
When the stallion rears, I’m almost hurled to the ground.
“Easy,”
I say. “Easy.” As if that’s going to make any difference.
As
the hooves come down, they lash out at the mastiff. Radulph mutters in my ear. “You are not my son.” I strain to listen and hold on to the reins
and Zel’s mane at the same time. The
wardog persists. Snapping. Snarling.
The stallion rears again. Comes
down again kicking furiously. “My son,
Vincent, is dead.” The growls of the
mastiff fire up the savage blood-lust of other wardogs, who add to the frenzied
yelping. “Of this I am sure. You have fooled my wife. Impostor.”
A
third time, the horse rears up and its hooves come down hard. This time solidly on the brute’s skull. “I know this,” says Radulph. “For I killed him.” There’s a moment of silence. The wardog slumps to the ground. For a few seconds, the hind legs twitch. Then it lies still. Forever.
A jagged crack across the skull.
Pink saliva trickles from its mouth.
Blood mingles with the dust.
A copy of The Reptile Wars is currently free to download from Amazon.
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