Battlesaurus by Brian Falkner Page A

“It has to be a raptor, but I have never seen Pieter so petrified.”
    â€œIt is the firebird,” Fran ç ois says. “We should have killed it at the waterfall, but we ran like skinned chickens. Now it has found us and seeks revenge for its eggs.”
    â€œYou did this!” Monsieur Delvaux cried, his eyes red and brimming with grief. “You brought this on our village!”
    â€œThis is not a firebird,” Monsieur Antonescu says, but nobody listens.
    There is heat in the group of men, and it is directed at the cousins, and Willem most of all.
    â€œWe left no trail,” Jean protests. “We walked only in the rivers and streams.”
    â€œSo it has been hunting the forest since that time, seeking out your scent,” Monsieur Claude says.
    â€œBrothers, you misdirect your anger,” Father Ambroise says. He holds up his arms, asking for silence and calm. He says, “Now is not the time for recriminations or anger. Kneel with me, brothers. We will pray for the soul of the daughter of our friend.”
    And so they pray, kneeling on the hard rock of the path, beside the rocky pool of dried blood.
    For some reason, when Willem closes his eyes, all he can see is the image of her breasts, pressed together by her arms after she opens the shutters to let in the morning sun.

 
    DEFENSES
    Tuesdays in the village are market days, when the traveling merchants from Waterloo and Brussels set up their carts in the village square. The market hall itself is home to the local merchants, including Willem’s mother, with a table of freshly baked breads and rolls.
    This Tuesday morning, however, customers are scarce. Word has spread quickly of the saur attack, and journeys that lead through or past the great forest are undertaken only if necessary. Gaillemarde is avoided. The square, normally bustling and busy, is all but deserted.
    The merchant hall, too, is virtually empty. Only a few of the produce stalls are open. The menfolk are busy rebuilding the defenses that protect the village, long since fallen into disrepair.
    A meat-eater is on the loose, and nobody will sleep easily until it is caught.
    The gaps in the saur-fence are being mended. Rotten spikes are being replaced. The tarred wood in the fire pits outside the fence, sodden and useless, has been dug out and teams of men now venture cautiously into the forest, cutting wood with which to replace it. Always in teams. Never alone. Always one man on watch, armed with sword or musket.
    Watch will also be kept by night, until the beast is caught. The church steeple, the highest building in the village, will be constantly manned, and the church bell will sound the alarm if anything is sighted.
    Swords, hoes, shovels, and other makeshift weapons are left at locations around the fenceline, and tallow brands dot the fence at regular intervals, ready for the night.
    The bird comes cartwheeling out of the forest in a flurry of feathers and leathery wings. Only as it lands, crashing into the reeds at the edge of the river, does Willem realize that it is not a bird, but a winged saur. They are common in the forest: not quite a bird, not quite a bat, but something in between. The larger ones have wingspans wider than Willem is tall, but this is a young one, barely more than a chick and no larger than a hawk. From the way it comes spinning down out of the trees, something is very wrong with it.
    Willem perches on the edge of the old stone bridge, just outside the saur-gate, his feet dangling above the water.
    Willem sits alone. Jean and Fran ç ois are in the forest with one of the cutting crews. Willem has offered to help, but was not needed. It is a job for big, strong men, and the building of the fence is skilled work. Nor has he been wanted as a guard. That requires skill with sword or musket, which he does not possess.
    He does not want to stay at home. Every time his mother looks at him he can see the disappointment in her eyes. He did