When the dogs began barking at midnight, Ožeg was on his feet in an instant. As was almost always the case, he slept only lightly, so from his dream he jumped straight into full alertness. Long years of life in the border forests had taught him to be watchful. Borko and Tesák were furious. This was not a reply to a wolf's call from somewhere in the depths of the woods, nor a warning to the squirrels and martens in the trees around the farm. The angry barking could mean only one thing — immediate danger.
"Ožeg?" Duha sat up in bed and peered into the dimness."What's…?"A sharp gesture silenced her. She curled under the bearskin and watched in fear as the man knelt by the hearth in the middle of the room.
He thrust a handful of spruce twigs into the embers and blew on the coals a few times. Flames sprang up and shadows danced on the walls. Five-year-old Ljubka poked her head out from under the blanket. In the hanging cradle Vyško began to cry. Duha leapt from the bed, took the infant in her arms and pressed him to her bare breasts.
The dogs barked more and more wildly. From the pen behind the house came the terrified bleating of the sheep. Ožeg tore a wide strip of wood from the log by the hearth and stepped toward the door. The dogs' voices broke into painful whines. Ožeg cursed hoarsely, shoved aside the latch and yanked the door open. A gust of cold air whipped the flames. The man leapt over the writhing patch of light on the threshold and ran to the left, toward the sheep-pen. "Borko!" he cried. "Tesák!"
He was only a few paces from the pen when he tripped over something — barely keeping his balance. "Tesák?" he bent over the dark heap and reached where he guessed the dog's head should be. He felt only a sticky stump of neck.
He understood at once that he had grievously misread the situation. No bear or lynx, no wild animal, would have done this. Tesák's head had, without doubt, been severed from his body by a sharp blade. Ožeg looked up in horror and tightened his grip on the axe. "Kelgaar!"