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Mercenary captain, Prakash-Ken's eyes snapped open at the sound of terrified horses. He almost jumped out of his skin as a high-pitched scream rent the night air. Around the camp, sleep befuddled mercenaries scrambled for their weapons. Prakash-Ken's eyes swept to the far side of the camp seeking the sentry, but there was no sign of him.
Mouthing an obscenity, he screamed orders to the mercenaries milling about in disorder. “Devils take your eyes, you scum. Stop running about like a bunch of rabbits. Form a circle and keep your pigging eyes peeled!”
Prakash-Ken and his mercenaries formed a rough circle, weapons at the ready, and eyes wide as they peered into the dark. Some held torches aloft to help pierce the darkness.
Prakash-Ken licked his lips as his eyes flicked from left to right, gauging the readiness of his men. Despite his earlier bravado, the talk of demons had unnerved him, and the wide staring eyes and shaking sword-arms of his men suggested they feared some unearthly force was stalking them in the dark.
The mercenary captain's eyes widened in horror as a huge shape leapt out of the darkness, its jaws closing around the midriff of the man to his right. As the unfortunate man screamed his horror and despair, Prakash-Ken expected to hear the sound of crunching bones. But none came, as the out-sized hound swung around and bounded off into the night with its victim gripped high in its jaws.
“Hells teeth!” The curse burst from his lips; a mixture of dread, horror and shock. “They seek to carry us off to their lair! Steady lads, they are but beasts, not demons. Let's see how they like the taste of cold steel!”
Other huge shapes burst from the darkness, and in the flickering fire-light, Prakash-Ken saw these were like no beasts he had seen before.
The Bahktak slammed into the circle of mercenaries. Men screamed, swords, axes and maces hammered down. The half-moon overhead cleared the dark clouds, presenting a grim tableau of men and demon-beasts locked in struggle in the eerie silvery light.
But it was an uneven struggle. Ordinarily forged steel bounced off sorcerous hides, as hideous jaws closed around men, bearing them off into the night.
It was all over in no time. The clouds slid over the moon, leaving only the flickering fire-light of torches lying in the clearing, and spluttering camp fires trod underfoot in the struggle.
The moon cleared the clouds once again, its cold silvery light revealing discarded and broken weapons, together with assorted pieces of armour, saddles, and bedrolls lying abandoned in the now silent clearing. There were few bodies.
Prakash-Ken could scarcely believe what was happening to him. Held aloft like a week-old pup in the jaws of a were-beast, he was being carted off like a tasty morsel to be devoured in some loathsome lair. Some of the creature's fangs had penetrated his mail-shirt and punctured his skin, but there was little pain, though the beast's loping gait caused his teeth to jar.
Managing to twist his head, Prakash-Ken could see other beasts bearing similar burdens, bounding along. The incongruity of the sight – a pack of hell-hounds loping through the moonlit countryside, full-grown fighting men held aloft in their maws, forced an involuntary giggle from his lips.