felt stone under the soles of my feet, then cold, smooth metal. I passed some leaves, blown here by what wind, that his hooves had ignited. They writhed with worms of fire, glowing about my toes. And for moments the darkness filled with autumn.
I reached the corner, started around—
Facing me, he bellowed.
His foot struck a meter from my foot, and from this close the sparks lit his raw eyes, his polished nostrils.
His hand came between his eyes and me, falling! I rolled backward, grabbing for my machete.
His palm—flat this time, Hawk—clanged on the metal plate where I had been. Then it fell again toward where I was.
I lay on my back with the hilt of the blade on the floor, point up. Very few people, or bulls, can hit a ten-penny nail and drive it to the hilt. Fortunately.
He jerked me from the floor, pinioned to his palm, and I got flung around (holding on to the blade with hands and feet and screaming) an awful lot.
He was screaming too, butting the ceiling and lots of things falling. From twenty feet he flung me loose. The blade pulled free, my flute filled with his blood, and I hurled into the wall and rolled down.
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