On cue, the hazel and honey blur of him surged forward.
The sheep shrieked — a sharp, tearing sound that ripped through the air — and then a shadow filled Takala’s vision.

Flying?

No. No. No.
Not part of the plan.

The woolly mass came careening toward her, too fast, too heavy, Francis’s weight dragging it backward in a violent tumble. She twisted, scrambling to pull away, but the creature bucked and lurched with a speed that belied its size.

Move. Move!

As she scrambled to back up against the brush behind her, her paw caught. A root? Her gaze tore away to assess momentarily, but she was far too slow.

The world spun as the sheep collapsed, hooves thrashing, and one blow connected.
Not with the earth, but her.

A jagged, rending pain tore through her thigh, hot and deep.

Takala gasped feebly, but the breath didn’t come. Only a cold, sickening rush of pressure, the roar of blood in her ears.

Vision blurred.

Scents dispersed. The beast was gone.

She staggered, the ground tilting beneath her, and the cold, acrid tang of blood filled the hollow spaces where strength should have been. In a hoarse croak, she called for aid the only way she could.

"Francis..."