They ran into the wolves six days along the detour, when they had almost reached the valley floor. Wolves. That's what Pilgrim called them anyway; what Johanna saw looked like gerbils.
They had just completed a kilometer stretch of easy going. Even under the trees they could feel the wind, dry and warm and moving ceaselessly down the valley. The last patches of snow between the trees were being sucked to nothingness, and there was a haze of smoke beyond the north wall of the valley.
Johanna was walking alongside Woodcarver's cart. Pilgrim was about ten meters behind, chatting occasionally with them. (The Queen herself had been very quiet these last days.) Suddenly there was a screech of Tinish alarm from above them.
A second later Vendacious shouted from a hundred meters ahead. Through gaps in the trees, Johanna could see troopers on the next switchback above them unlimbering crossbows, firing into the hillside above them. The sunlight came dappled through the forest cover, bringing plenty of light but in splotches that broke and moved as the soldiers hustled about. Chaos, but
… there were things up there that weren't Tines! Small, brown or gray, they flitted through the shadows and the splotches of light. They swept up the hillside coming upon the soldiers from the opposite direction that they were shooting.
"Turn around! Turn around." Johanna screamed, but her voice was lost in the turmoil. Besides, who there could understand her? All of Woodcarver was peering up at the battle. She grabbed Johanna's sleeve. "You see something up there? Where?"
Johanna stuttered an explanation, but now Pilgrim had seen something too. His gobbled shouting came loud over the battle. He raced back up the trail to where Scrupilo was trying to get a cannon unlimbered. "Johanna! Help me."
Woodcarver hesitated, then said, "Yes. It may be that bad. Help with the cannon, Johanna."
It was only fifty meters to the gun cart, but uphill. She ran. Something heavy smashed into the path just behind her. Part of a soldier! It twisted and screamed. Half a dozen gerbil-sized hunks of fur were attached to the body, and its pelt was streaked with red. Another member fell past her. Another. Johanna stumbled but kept running.
Wickwrackscar was standing heads-together, just a few meters from Scrupilo. He was armed in every adult member — mouth knives and steel tines. He waved Johanna down next to him. "We run on a nest of, of wolves." His speech was awkward, slurred. "Must be between here and path above. A lump, like a l'il castle tower. Gotta kill nest. Can you see?" Evidently he could not; he was looking all over. Johanna looked back up the hillside. There seemed to be less fighting now, just sounds of Tinish agony.
Johanna pointed. "You mean there, that dark thing?"
Pilgrim didn't answer. His members were twitching, his mouth knives waving randomly. She leaped away from the flashing metal. He had already cut himself. Sound attack. She looked back along the path. She'd had more than a year to know the packs, and what she was seeing now was… madness. Some packs were exploding, racing in all directions to distances where thought couldn't possibly be sustained. Others — Woodcarver on her cart — huddled in heaps, with scarcely a head showing.
Just beyond the nearest uphill trees she could see a gray tide. The wolves. Each furry lump looked innocent enough. All together… Johanna froze for an instant, watching them tear out the throat of a trooper's member.
Johanna was the only sane person left, and all it would mean is she would know she was dying.
Kill the nest.
On the gun cart beside her only one of Scrupilo was left, old White Head. Daffy as ever, it had pulled down its gunner's muffs and was nosing around under the gun tube. Kill the nest. Maybe not so daffy after all!
Johanna jumped up on the wagon. It rolled back toward the dropoff, banging against a tree; she scarcely noticed. She pulled up the gun barrel, just as she had seen in all the drills. The white headed one pulled at the powder bag, but with just his one pair of jaws he couldn't handle it. Without the rest of its pack it had neither hands nor brains. It looked up at her, its eyes wide and desperate.
She grabbed the other end of the bag, and the two of them got the powder into the barrel. White Head dived back into the equipment, nosing around for a cannon ball. Smarter than a dog, and trained. Between them, maybe they had a chance!
Just half a meter beneath her feet, the wolves were running by. One or two she could have fought off herself. But there were dozens down there, worrying and tearing at random members. Three of Pilgrim were standing around Scarbutt and the pups, but their defense was unthinking slashing. The pack had dropped its mouth knives and tines.
