Spiral by Roderick Gordon, Brian Williams Page A

because they’d been hiding out in it for weeks. To sustain themselves, they’d eaten not just rabbit and any birds they could catch, but also fungi and the other abundant flora. In comparison to the Deeps, it was a veritable fast-food outlet. And, once or twice, they’d dined on the raw meat from a roe deer, the faint traces of which Bartleby had detected.
    Colly had left the ground with enough momentum to clear the felled tree when she saw something that didn’t fit.
    The glint of glass in a telescope. It was mounted on a tripod.
    And from behind the telescope appeared the Limiter’s skull-like face.
    A millisecond later she saw the flash of his scythe.
    With a warning meow, she arched her back and flailed her legs in a desperate bid to alter her trajectory.
    The felled trunk was in front of her. If only she could bring herself low enough to land on it — rather than go over it — she could use it to spring away.
    The Limiter had the scythe raised, ready.
    As he began to whip his arm to throw it at her, she heard Bartleby’s rasping growl. In order to save his mate, he’d attacked. In a blur of gray skin and bunched muscles, he cannoned straight into the Limiter’s back, his claws piercing deep into the man’s neck.
    But the scythe was already airborne.
    With a single rotation, the gleaming blade nicked Colly’s flank. Glancing off her, it continued for a few feet until it imbedded itself in a tree.
    It was only a superficial wound, but she still howled with shock.
    Hearing this, Bartleby became a whirling tornado of limbs. He wrapped himself around the Limiter’s head, raking at the soldier’s face with his hind legs. The Limiter was wearing some form of woolly hat, and Bartleby was about to bite down on it when the second Limiter thrust his scythe into the Hunter’s neck, at the base of his skull. It was a skillful and well-aimed strike, the blade severing the spinal cord.
    Bartleby let out a high-pitched wail that ended almost as soon as it began.
    Ended with a death rattle.
    The big cat was dead before he flopped to the ground.
    Colly knew what that rattle meant.
    She ran and ran, finding the tree they’d used to climb over the wall.
    She ran all the way back to the house.

    Parry was sitting at the kitchen table, peering through his reading glasses at a cookbook with a tattered and stained cover. “
Baste the joint every
. . . ,” he was reading but stopped when Colly shot in through the doorway, crashing against his legs as she hid under the table. “Bloody hell! Filthy moggies are after our food again!” he shouted, leaping up.
    Mrs. Burrows inclined her head, inhaling sharply through her nose. “No, that’s not it,” she said quickly. She immediately swung around from the work surface, flour sprinkling from her hands. “Not it at all,” she added, as she crouched down beside the Hunter. “She’s very frightened.”
    Wiping her hands on her apron, she gently touched Colly, whose skin was running with sweat. “What’s wrong, girl?” She caught the smell of blood on the Hunter. “Fetch me a clean tea towel from the cupboard, will you?” she asked Parry, who raised his eyebrows, then went off to do as he’d been requested.
    “What happened?” Mrs. Burrows asked the cat, who’d lowered her head between her paws. She was still panting from the exertion of the dash home.
    “Here you are,” Parry said, passing the towel down to Mrs. Burrows, who began to wipe the sweat and blood from the cat.
    “Something’s definitely wrong,” Mrs. Burrows said again, as Colly rolled onto her side with a whimper.
    Parry frowned. “Why do you say that?”
    “I just know it. She’s very frightened, and she’s been hurt.”
    “Badly?” Parry asked, getting down on his knees. “Let me see.”
    “It’s not serious — just some grazes and a small cut on her side,” Mrs. Burrows told him. “But something’s not right with her. I can feel it.”
    “Such as?” Parry said, as he watched her