The ridge-sail came down without a cry.
Its membrane spread across the doorway, pale and broad as a laundress’s sheet, and then the sheet had hooks. One struck the lintel. Another scraped the stone beside Iven’s head. Beneath the thin wing a narrow body flexed, jointed legs closing toward the opening as a toothed mouth unfolded from its underside.
Iven braced the small shield against the doorpost.
Plate took the first impact. The wing slapped around its edge with a dry cracking sound, and something sharp punched through the leather over his knuckles. He pulled his hand clear before it caught bone. Behind him Kesh hauled Thessa away from the threshold. Ruka kicked the door inward, but the animal’s hooked limb held it open.
“Back room,” Iven said.
He kept his voice low enough not to turn six people into a scramble. The doorway gave him a narrow angle to defend. It gave the animal one narrow angle to attack through. He had plate, piston, spring and bell seated, the same four he had practiced before departure. For once he did not have to lose a defense to gain the movement he wanted.
He hit the hooked limb with piston strike.
