Adrian Cross's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Adrian stood in the shelter's mouth with only a stone in his fist. The voices grew louder in the trees. I saw his knuckles whiten. One rock would not stop three men. He knew it too. His eyes moved fast across the ground, searching for anything sharper, anything that could hold them back. The striped animal stepped forward. It planted itself between Adrian and the trees. Its shoulders were broad, its coat bright orange and black. A low growl rolled from its chest. Adrian looked at it, then at me. "It stayed," he said. "It could have run. It stayed." He made his choice. He dropped to one knee beside the animal and pressed his bloody palm to its neck. "You guard her," he said. "With me." The animal did not pull away. It leaned into his hand. Its ears turned toward the voices, then back to Adrian, waiting. A man broke through the treeline. He carried a long knife and a coil of rope. Two more stepped out behind him. They saw the shelter. They saw me inside. The first man smiled and started forward. The striped animal launched itself across the clearing. It hit the first man at the chest and drove him down. The knife spun from his hand into the grass. Adrian ran for the blade. He snatched it up before the second man could reach it. Now he had steel. Now he was not helpless. The animal held the first man pinned, jaws at his throat, snarling. The second man raised his own club. Adrian moved between him and the shelter. He held the knife low and steady. "Come closer," Adrian said. His voice did not shake. "See what happens." The third man looked at the pinned body, at the snarling animal, at the blade in Adrian's fist. He grabbed the club-man's arm. "Not tonight," he said. They dragged their fallen friend back and vanished into the trees. The sound of their running faded. Adrian did not chase them. He stood until the woods went quiet. Then he knelt and cleaned the knife on the grass. The striped animal padded back and sat at his side, tail curling around its paws. Adrian rested his hand on its head. "We hold this place now," he told me. "The three of us." He turned the knife in the last of the light. Then his face changed. "They will come back. With more men. And they know we are here." He looked at the small shelter of mud and vines. "This will not stop a real attack. We need walls that stone cannot break. A door that locks." He was already picturing it. Not branches. A house. Somewhere no hunter could reach me at all.