The admonition had no effect. The sorcerer held up his hands. The goats charged at them. Casiopea was able to move to the right and jump behind a table, putting it between herself and one of the magical beasts. This slowed down but did not deter the goat. It glared at her with its blind eyes, lowered its head, then rushed forward, shoving the table with brutal strength. Casiopea was thrust back, the goat pinning the table and her against the wall.
She could do little except watch the animal as it glared at her and tried to push the table harder, pressing her like an insect, sending splinters jumping through the air as it bored into the wood, into the wall behind her, and squeezed the girl. Casiopea thought she would die, her lungs would burst, for surely no one could withstand this and survive.
The goat, frustrated with the slow progress of such an endeavor, now attempted to chomp at whatever part of Casiopea’s body was visible and available. It happened to be the face, and if it didn’t bite off half a cheek, it was because she managed to lower herself a few centimeters, evading its maw, though this angered the goat, which kicked the furniture and squeezed her harder against the wall.
She could not scream. Her breath seemed to have escaped her body; it hovered in an empty space, and no plea of help rose from her lips.
Hun-Kamé shot forward and plunged his knife into the creature’s head and yelled a word. A ripple, a crack, ran down the goat’s head, and it split into two pieces, and those pieces jumped in the air, the knife jumping with them, and the wood split into more pieces. It dashed against the walls, dashed against the floor, shivering, twisting, and growing still.
Hun-Kamé pulled the table away and pulled Casiopea toward him.
She felt boneless, a flower with a broken stem, and if he had not held her she would have fallen to her knees. On the opposite side of the room she spotted the remains of the other wooden goat. She took a breath and pressed a hand against her throat.
“That knife, where has it gone?” Hun-Kamé said.
Before he could add anything else, he was shoving her away. Casiopea fell on her knees and watched as a long rope of fire whipped him, tangling around his limbs. Hun-Kamé ripped it away, but even as he did the sorcerer was rushing toward him. He was a man, old, his gray hair wild, and then in an instant he wasn’t. He had changed into the shape of a monstrous goat, as big as a horse, its black horns sharp, the hoofs heavy and shiny as steel, the eyes red. The goat snorted, opened its mouth, and out poked the tongue of fire, whipping Hun-Kamé and tossing him against one of the bed’s posts, snapping the post in two in the process.
Pain shot through her arm, and she curled her fingers into a fist, unable to rise to her feet. The pain cleaved her, it made her eyes water, and she watched the goat rearing up and smashing Hun-Kamé like a rag doll. But he’d said a knife. He’d said a knife, and she forced the fingers to uncurl.
“A knife,” she whispered and once she said it, it became the only thing that could matter, and the pain in her arm diminished. She ran around the room, tossing bits of furniture away even as she struggled to regain her breath. At last she spotted it in a corner, half hidden by a curtain, but when she stretched out a hand to retrieve it, the broken mouth of the wooden goat statue, which lay nearby, attempted to bite her fingers. Casiopea let out a loud yelp and used a chair’s leg to smash the chomping piece of wood, smash and smash until it did not move. She kicked it aside.
Her hand curled around the handle of the knife. Other bits of wood began to shake and tossed themselves against her body, trying to scratch and harm her. Casiopea blindly stabbed at the wooden remains of the goat, she kicked them away and managed to climb on a desk, shielding herself from the attack.
At this point the room was in more than shambles, furniture toppled and ripped to shreds, feathers from cushions spread upon the rugs. The Uay Chivo was stomping in fury, breathing out fire that scorched the god’s body and although it touched him and left no permanent mark, Hun-Kamé looked like he was out of breath. The goat pressed forward and gave Hun-Kamé a monstrous shove. The god lost his balance and fell on his back.
It was then that he caught sight of her and made a grasping motion.
The knife. She tossed it in his direction, and he caught it in his left hand. The goat was springing forward again, but Hun-Kamé jumped to his feet and as the animal reared its head back, baying, Hun-Kamé sliced a swift arc through the air, cutting, almost completely severing, the animal’s neck.
It was a feat of impossible strength for a man, and it was even more impossible that as the goat lay shivering on the floor, its blood seeping out through the enormous gash on its neck, it attempted to stand up and managed to kneel. A man, kneeling now, not a goat, but Hun-Kamé struck a second time, and the head was detached from the body.
Casiopea turned her face, the taste of bile and blood in her mouth.
When she looked again, Hun-Kamé had snatched the jade necklace from around the dead man’s neck, clutching it in one hand. A white, foul smoke lifted itself from the corpse. Casiopea coughed and her eyes watered.
The smoke had no face, but it did have a mouth, and the mouth spoke blistering words.
“You think you’ve defeated me, Xibalban? My lord will raise my bones before two nights have passed.”
“And we will be long gone by then,” Hun-Kamé replied.
“Ah, yes, run. Run to meet your destiny. But you may find yourself outmatched in Tierra Blanca, and I will be avenged, one way or another. Vucub-Kamé brings a new era with him; you are the dregs of the old one.”
“And you, meanwhile, are dead.”
The Uay Chivo’s mouth snarled, but it could not bite, it could not harm anymore, and as the blood of the sorcerer cooled, like diminishing embers, the smoke dissipated.
She jumped off the desk.
Hun-Kamé placed the necklace around his neck and turned to her. On his cheeks and forehead, on his hands were the black burn marks left by the goat, but they crumbled away in the beat of a heart, the skin flawless again. Yet he reached for her and leaned against her, like a man who has been injured in a nasty brawl, like she had leaned on him before.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“As well as can be under the circumstances,” he said, although he sounded breathless.
Casiopea nodded, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“You cut your lip,” he said.
“That explains the taste,” she muttered. She had no idea at what point that had happened. “It’ll go fine with the other bruises.”
“What bruises?” he replied.
His fingers grazed her lips, the lightest touch, there and then gone. She realized he was merely casting his magic, healing whatever cuts and abrasions she sported, no alternate agenda aside from this, but her heart leaped up.