Demontech: Onslaught by David Sherman Page A

gatehouse. The ground to its side was open; the gate seemed more a symbol of a barrier than a real one.
    Spinner looked forward, looked back, judging distances. The cat cried again, closer still. He flinched. “The cat’s tracking us. If we run, we can reach the edge of the woods before the cat reaches us.”
    “What are we waiting for?” Haft took off through the forest, heading for what he hoped was an open border.
    Spinner ran after him, listening for sounds of the cat in pursuit. His staff was long enough and strong enough to blunt the cat’s attack if it leaped at him. While the cat was off balance, maybe Haft could get in close enough to injure it with his axe. Maybe. The big cats were fast and agile; even when knocked off balance they landed on their feet. Spinner wanted to get out of the forest before the cat reached them. Maybe it wouldn’t follow them into the sunlight. Maybe when they were in the open the Skraglanders would come to their aid against the cat. Maybe when they got out from under the trees they’d have time to aim and use their crossbows. Maybe a huge friendly bird would swoop down and carry them off to Frangeria. Spinner’s throat tightened and his breath rasped.
    Spinner was concentrating so hard on listening for the cat and considering all the maybes that he didn’t see Haft suddenly skid to a stop. He ran into him and the two fell heavily.
    Spinner jumped to his feet, both hands firm on his staff. He spun about looking for someone to strike—he thought Haft must have stopped to avoid an attack. His eyes took in everything. Then he saw what made his friend stop so abruptly.
    They were at the edge of the forest. Dotted with small clumps of trees as far as the eye could see, farmland lay beyond. A small cluster of cottages nestled under the nearest clump of trees. They heard the sounds of metal being hammered coming from there.
    Nearer at hand, twenty-five paces to the right and in front of them, was safety—the dozen milling Skraglanders. The Skraglanders grimaced and grumbled, scowled and shouted at each other, and, less frequently, they turned their scowls at the Jokapcul cavalrymen and shouted at them. The Skraglanders made themselves look as dangerous as they could. Spinner and Haft could hear their words now, but neither knew Skragish. Still, it was clear that the Skraglanders were discussing the horrid things they’d do to the Jokapcul cavalry should they prove so foolish as to pass through the gate.
    At the same distance from Spinner and Haft, but directly to their side, was the Jokapcul cavalry squad. The Jokapcul simply stood in their rank, their swords ready—and in their disciplined steadiness, looked more dangerous than the fierce-acting group they faced. Only one Jokapcul said anything; the plumed officer growled softly, reassuringly, from time to time.
    None of them had yet noticed the two strangers.
    Of more immediate importance, and the reason Haft had stopped so abruptly, was a simple fence a few paces outside the treeline. It stood as high as an average man was tall. Five strands of wire, evenly spaced from the top to near the bottom, stretched between wooden posts set five paces apart. Thinner wires zigzagged between the main wires. A box was mounted on each post, the kind of box that housed imps.
    The border wasn’t blocked by a wall; it was secured by an imp-warded fence. Anyone who touched the fence would attract the imps, who would dash out almost faster than sight. These imps were smaller than a woman’s little finger, but they were numerous and, in their great numbers, could hold a bull fast to their fence while they ate its living flesh until nothing was left but bones and tatters of hide—they even ate the marrow from the bones. To Spinner and Haft, the safety represented by the Skraglanders was on the wrong side of that fence. The Jokapcul cavalrymen who were on their side of the fence were as dangerous to the two Marines as the big cat that was following