He had never seen one like it before, and he didn’t know what to do.
It was so much bigger than the others he’d encountered. The heat and stink and fear were so much greater. It moved more slowly: it did not rush forward to hurl itself at him as the previous ones had. It crawled towards his horse, which was already in a total panic, twitching and trying to rear up – to get away. He struggled to hold her steady beneath him while he wondered whether he could tackle this one alone. Where was Arguril?
Dead, an inner voice told him. And you next.
He knew it was the terror speaking. Arguril mustn’t be dead. No. He couldn’t have failed that badly. He was starting to burn now, even through his cloak, while he tried to summon up the courage to wield his sword and attack the creeping thing. But his spirit shrank and shrivelled in its heat.
It had no head. It had legs, yes, to crawl, claws, yes, to grab, but no head, no reason, no compassion: only a demand for death. Where all the others had been charcoaled into midnight, he saw at this one’s heart a red glow burning.
But that is not its heart, he thought, it has no heart. It has only hatred. Paralysing, monstrous, overpowering hatred. He was pinned in the saddle by it. He could not move. He could not raise his sword.
The mare took his decision for him. She reared up, crashed down through the undergrowth, and ran.