(no subject)
“Oswald!”
The horrible black thing froze on all fours and swiveled back. The dark around it dissipated. Gwendolyn’s husband cocked his head.
“Yes?”
Gwendolyn landed beside him. “We mustn’t attack it head on. Look.”
She pointed with her spear. The local soldiers were trying their best, but it wasn’t enough. The great black bull lowered its steel horns, bunched its shoulders, and spun around, vanishing in a spinning blur of knives. Men fell.
“I see no difficulty,” said Oswald.
Gwendolyn shook her head. “We’ll be thrown, and it will destroy everything. Our priority is the town.” The town had begged for their assistance, after all. Seven days since the bull had come from the sea, and seven days it had run mad.
“Odd. My priority is to make it die.”
“Oswald.”
Her husband lowered his head. “What would you have me do?”
Gwendolyn ran and spread her wings, catching a salty updraft. “We must divert it to the cliffs. The lighthouse pass,” she called, diving ahead. “It will be too narrow for it to use its horns. I’ll lead it there!”
Oswald clasped his hand over his brow. “And I will follow,” he whispered, then surged, black and roiling again.