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After some time on the road, Caramon ran suddenly and
crouched in the brush. Tanis came and whispered to him.
"Clerics!"
Caramon snorted and repeated the word, but brushed
the feeder once with his hand. The feeder went rigid,
willing with all its mind that Caramon would draw his
dagger. There was a faint, wonderful scent in the air.
Several people on the road spoke. The feeder listened
intently to the strange yet familiar voices of the clerics, but
was distracted: Caramon was undoing the thongs that
bound the feeder in the sheath. The feeder twisted its
pommel-head around, trying to find free flesh to bite, but
the man's chain mail left no gaps.
Still, sooner or later he would take the feeder in hand.
Tanis cried, "Caramon! Sturm! It's a tra - "
Faster than the feeder could react, Caramon whipped the
dagger into his left hand and held it at guard, facing the
clerics. The feeder opened its mouth wide, aiming its fangs
at the underside of his thumb where the vein would be.
A cleric jumped forward and Caramon slashed him,
leaving behind a sickly green stain on the cleric's robe
following the line of the cut. There was a violent smell, and
Caramon gasped.
The feeder rolled helplessly in Caramon's hand,
overwhelmed and on fire with the taste
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