Hours later, Sarka sat on the floor with her back to the door, her knife trembling in one hand. Her need for something to drink had gone beyond mere thirst; water was all she could think of.
She had to go out. If she didn't while she still had the strength, she would die, and Sarka was not ready to die.
She pushed herself shakily to her feet, the knife in one hand and her water bucket in the other. She did not allow herself time to think. She pulled back the bolt and opened the door. The night yawned before her, dark and cold. The eye of the waning moon watched her as she took her first step out.
For a moment, Sarka stood listening, staring straight ahead at the stone-walled well. Then, she darted forward without daring to look around, her breath caught in her throat.
She gained the well and reached blindly for the rope. She put her knife between her teeth and hurried to fasten the bucket to the rope, then pushed it into the well.
She heard the bucket hit the water far below with a wet slap. It was the most beautiful sound she had heard in her life.
Sarka pulled at the rope to coax the bucket to take in water and sink. As soon as it did, she began pulling it up, hand-over-hand. The bucket swayed crazily on its way up the gloomy shaft, knocking against the sides.
She freed the bucket from the rope and took it in her left hand. She took her knife in her right and turned back toward the house, just in time to see the sandy blur of a thin, crazed animal streaking toward her.
Sarka screamed, dropping the bucket. Stumbling backward, she held the knife up in both hands. The cat leapt for her, its slavering jaws intent on her throat, but she fell to her knees and it missed, striking the well behind her with a crack of bone against stone.
It rounded on her, unfazed, and lunged again.
She brought up both arms instinctively and fell to the side, knowing it wanted her throat. If it could seize her there, she was dead.
The cat took hold of Sarka's left shoulder with hungry jaws. The fierce pain made her arm go limp; the knife almost slipped out of her fingers, but she tightened her right-handed grip at the last second and slashed wildly with the weapon, opening a long, angry wound over the wildcat's ribcage.
The cat's growl of pain reverberated through Sarka's very bones. Its hot breath tickled the burning wound its teeth had opened in her flesh. It refused to let go, and although the blood ran in a streak down its side, it jerked its sinewy neck in a killing motion, wrenching Sarka's shoulder viciously.
Sarka shrieked in pain and terror. She pulled her right arm back and stabbed in panic. The knife sank into the cat's shoulder, its back, its neck, but only after three strikes did the cat release her from its jaws, scrabbling backward over the dusty ground.
They stared at each other, both of them trembling, both of them panting, their chests heaving with effort and anger. Gray eyes met gold. They held one another's gaze, two animals desperate to survive.
Sarka's whole sleeve was soaked in blood. She could see the same flowing down her rival's shoulder. She raised the knife in warning, baring her teeth in a snarl, but she knew she would not frighten away this beast. She knew one of them would die, and she was the weaker combatant.
The cat shifted its weight, its tough muscles rippling visibly under its wasted pelt. With a ferocious cry, it reared up onto its haunches and leapt, striking out savagely with both paws as if acknowledging her as a rival instead of simply prey. Its curved claws were unsheathed with deadly intent, arcing down toward Sarka, and she could not roll away.
The claws slid down and through her face, dragging at her brow and sharp cheekbone and slicing into the flesh of her cheek with sickening ease. Blood obscured Sarka's vision in her right eye. Half her face was aflame with pain.
She knew she was going to die, and she was furious. She was crouched in a barren wasteland, alone in the dust with a rabid creature that would soon be pulling what meat could be had from her hard belly and arms.
Something in Sarka's mind snapped.
She made her own vicious leap, the knife held up in both hands, high overhead, and fell on top of the wildcat. She struck down crazily again and again, ignoring the animal's snapping jaws, which could not quite reach her throat, ignoring the back claws raking at her thigh, ignoring everything but the basely satisfying sensation of her metal fang, her only defense, sinking deep into the hard muscles of the cat's neck.