Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Annals of the Chosen 01 (57 page)

"They
have
teeth.
They
have
claws.
And
there
may
be more
of
them."

In
fact,
a
third
was
on
the
bench
at
the
front
of
the
wagon. One
of
the
pair
atop
the
wagon
was
now
staring
fixedly
at Breaker
and
the
Leader.

"Sword!"

Breaker
did
not
turn
around;
he
had
his
sword
in
his
hand and
was
watching
the
squirrels
closely.

There
were
more
leaping
up
on
the
bench,
he
saw— climbing
up
the
wheels
or
the
dragging
chains
and
making their
way
to
the
bench.
This
was
definitely
not
natural.
He began
to
run
as
best
he
could,
splashing
up
to
the
wagon.

The
squirrels
did
not
flee
at
his
approach;
instead
several
of
them
gathered
on
the
bench
and
turned
to
meet
him.

He
did
not
worry
about
killing
them;
he
merely
swept them
aside
with
his
blade,
knocking
them
to
the
ground— or
in
some
cases,
only
to
the
tongue
beneath
the
bench.
A small
part
of
his
mind
worried
about
those,
that
they
might bother
the
oxen,
who
were
still
standing
placidly
despite the
various
disturbances,
but
for
the
most
part
he
focused on
boarding
the
wagon
and
seeing
what
the
situation
was within.
He
clambered
hastily
over
the
bench
and
through the
door.

The
lanternlit
interior
was
a
scene
so
bizarre
that
Breaker had
trouble
comprehending
it
at
first.

The
Archer
lay
on
his
belly,
head
turned
to
one
side, breathing
in
harsh,
hissing
gulps—despite
the
healing
he was
obviously
still
in
pain.
The
others
were
still
crouched over
him,
but
most
of
their
attention
was
on
a
small
horde
of squirrels
that
had
climbed
in.

The
Beauty,
at
one
side,
was
fending
the
squirrels
away from
the
Archer;
the
squirrels
were
snapping
and
clawing, trying
to
bite
the
wounded
man's
legs.
In
the
gloom
of
the rear
the
Scholar
was
rummaging
through
the
packed
supplies,
looking
for
something—presumably
a
weapon
of some
sort.
The
Speaker,
wedged
into
a
corner
out
of
the
way, was
shouting
in
a
language
Breaker
had
never
heard
before, a
language
that
did
not
sound
even
remotely
human—that sounded,
in
fact,
like
a
squirrel's
chittering.

And
the
Seer
stood
to
one
side
by
the
Archer's
feet,
bent almost
double,
grabbing
the
squirrels
one
by
one
and
wringing
their
necks;
half
a
dozen
broken
little
bodies
already
lay in
the
bed
of
the
wagon.

Breaker
watched
her
method
for
a
second
or
two
in
astonishment;
her
hands
moved
with
a
speed
he
had
never
seen
in anyone
as
old
as
she,
and
unerringly
closed
on
the
animals' necks.
She
did
not
seem
to
be
aiming
at
where
the
squirrels
were
at
all,
but
rather,
on
where
they
were
going
to
be,
after they
had
attempted
to
dodge.
She
would
twist
each
head
and snap
the
neck
without
even
looking,
her
attention
already
focused
on
her
next
victim.