Hunters Unlucky, Book 1 Storm

by Abigail Hilton

  “Oh, Storm, it looks like so much fun! But I don’t want to break a leg! Storm, show me how to do it!”

  Storm was laughing. “Alright, but you have to hold still. Come down to the ice…carefully! That’s right. Now, lock your legs like this. I’ll push you, and you can see what it feels like.”

  He’d seen siblings and even parents teach foals to skate this way. No one had done it for him, and he was curious to see how well Sauny would manage. Quite well, as it turned out. She squealed when he got them going fast, but as soon as she slowed down, she begged him to do it again. Sauny had begun to make tentative steps and pushing motions of her own, when Storm noticed a disturbance among the foals in his clique. They’d been playing older games out towards the middle of the river. Now, Callaris seemed to be having a standoff with another foal that Storm didn’t recognize.

  “Sauny,” he said, “why don’t you see if you can skate back to the bank? Carefully now! See where those foals are sliding down? It’s a fun game, and they look about your age.”

  When she’d gone, Storm moved rapidly towards the center of the river, occasionally rearing up for a better look. The group of foals around his clique seemed vaguely familiar. He caught sight of Valla, standing uncertainly behind Callaris, and he understood. Someone has challenged Callaris for his ru. Again. Valla was much too pretty for her own good. She had a particularly pleasant scent, and a season’s growth had only added to her appeal.

  There’s going to be a fight. While clique members were all-but-required to assist their leader in a fight for his ru, no such imperative drove them to assist lesser males. Friends often did help each other, and Mylo had helped Callaris drive off several other suitors. However, the rest of the clique had not gotten involved in previous fights over Valla. She did not hunt as effectively as Tollee, and it was the generally—though quietly—held opinion that her loss would be an improvement.

  So why are they all excited now? Storm could see Leep’s dark shape beyond Callaris, bristling hugely. Tracer was snarling, and even Tollee looked ruffled. Then he caught sight of the foal opposite Mylo, and at last the pieces fell into place.

  Kelsy. Someone in Kelsy’s clique had challenged Callaris. Not Kelsy himself, by the look of it, but one of his high-ranking subordinates. And the whole clique may fight, he thought, because we’ve got a score to settle.

  Storm knew that Mylo had been itching to have a go at Kelsy ever since the incident with Ally. It wasn’t so much that Mylo cared about Ally. The runt had been strange and simple-minded, but he didn’t eat much, and he had a good nose. His brother, Ishy, had been the best tracker in the clique and one of Mylo’s friends. Storm knew that Mylo credited Kelsy with Ishy’s decline and death because of what had happened to Ally. Mylo will fight, and he’ll make it personal.

  Storm’s heart was beginning to pound as he skidded to a stop among the onlookers. Callaris and Kelsy’s subordinate had begun to make feints at each other, but Mylo and Kelsy were the real attraction. Storm didn’t know what had been said before his arrival, but their blood was clearly up as they circled each other with hackles raised to their ears. They were both the same age—four years old, almost adults. Mylo had filled out in the last year and looked formidable with his torn ears and scarred muzzle. Kelsy was just as tall, but less massive and, Storm suspected, quicker.

  A strange, half-formed idea twisted unpleasantly in the back of Storm’s mind. Can Mylo beat Kelsy? Mylo looked fiercer, but nobody achieved Kelsy’s status without being able to fight. He demonstrated the fact an instant later by making a feint, catching Mylo off balance, and sending him heavily to the ice with a cracking hoof blow. Mylo was up again in an instant and managed a shove that almost knocked Kelsy off balance and tore out a mouthful of fur. But it was only fur and no blood.

  Behind them, Storm could see Callaris and his challenger snapping at each other—awkward because of the ice. The rest of the two cliques were bristling and growling, but not attacking, not yet. It looked to Storm as though Kelsy’s clique had shrunk over the last year. Probably because a lot of four and five year olds have found mates and gone off on their own. Still, he hoped they didn’t all fight. It might go ill for his friends if they did.

  Storm saw a speckling of blood on the ice. Kelsy had caught one of Mylo’s ragged ears and made it even more ragged. “Maybe you should have run away,” Kelsy spat.

  Storm felt a jolt. Was Mylo taunting him about me earlier?

  The terrible thought squirmed again. What if Kelsy kills him? Or wounds him badly enough that…that he can’t defend a ru? It was an unworthy thought, but Storm’s mind raced on. I can’t beat Mylo. I know I can’t. I’ve known all summer. But what if Kelsy does it for me?

  Stop! Storm ordered himself. Mylo let me join his clique when no one else would have me—even though I’m small and a strange color. I can’t wish this on him. He doesn’t deserve it.

  You’re not doing anything to him, answered the horrible, reasonable part of his mind. You’re just watching.

  “You’re a bully and a thief,” panted Mylo, “and so is your father.” He managed to land a solid kick to Kelsy’s shoulder, but Kelsy spun away as though he didn’t feel it.

  “At least he’s alive,” said Kelsy cheerfully. Storm could tell that Kelsy was winning, and he intended to win hard. Maybe he wouldn’t kill Mylo, but he was going to hurt him.

  In Storm’s mind, possibilities blossomed—Tollee, easily won from a crippled rogan, her rare smiles growing more frequent, days and nights together, a foal in spring to play with Leep and Tracer’s foals. He would bring up his own foal the way he wanted to bring up Sauny—with no secrets, and all the answers and all the skills he could provide. As Mylo staggered and Kelsy’s teeth drew more blood, Storm’s daydreams took wing. He hated himself, but he couldn’t help it. He was watching the birth of his own freedom. He was watching…alone.

  Storm felt a moment of vertigo. He’d been standing with a crowd of other foals. Now, he was inexplicably alone. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw running ferryshaft—not playing tag, but running hard for the bank. He realized that the screams ringing in his ears were not insults shouted between the two cliques, but cries of fear.

  Then Storm was running, too, because ferryshaft only ran like that for one reason. And then the reason was in front of him. Storm veered to keep from sliding into a cat, but another was looming over him, and then he was backing away into a frantic companion. The knot of ferryshaft around him were shoving and struggling, and everywhere he looked, he saw another cat.

  It’s happened, he thought, numbly. Just like it happened the first time I skated three winters ago…only this time, it’s happening to me.

  He looked over his shoulder and had to stifle a hysterical laugh. The creasia had scooped up nearly every foal from Mylo and Kelsy’s cliques. We were the ones not paying attention—the ones who ran too late.

  Kelsy looked truly frightened for the first time that Storm had ever seen. In a great stroke of irony, Mylo was leaning against him, gasping and bleeding, his eyes screwed shut. Leep had ended up on one side of Storm, Tollee on the other, and Tracer was behind him. They looked at each other wordlessly, breathless from flight and terror.

  Then Tollee’s eyes seemed to glaze. She turned her full attention to the creasia and bared her teeth. She wants to die fighting, thought Storm, die with some dignity.

  But there would be no dignity. There never was in the brutal moments after the creasia selected their victims. Those who fought hardest usually died worst. No one ever escapes. That’s the rule.

  Storm looked at the creasia pacing around them. The animals had never seemed so huge or so terrifying. So this is how it ends. No mates, no foals for any of them, no more playful springs or lazy summers. All the pain and struggle of winters past… It all came down to this—an ugly, meaningless death with his little sister watching. No one ever escapes. That’s the rule.

  One of so many rules.

  Storm felt as though the wo
rld had gone silent. He glanced at his friends again. He wanted a last look at them. As he did so, Storm’s eyes met Kelsy’s, and he thought Kelsy said something, although he couldn’t be certain. Then Storm looked at the creasia. Their pacing had slowed, as it always did just before they attacked.

  How important are the rules to you? Very important…I hope.

  Chapter 23. A Problem

  Sharmel counted again. Seventeen. “I thought I said ten.”

  An officer at his side squirmed. “The clutter got excited, sir.”

  “They always get excited.”

  “It’s not my fault,” said the other creasia. “The subordinates do the killing. Why don’t you talk to them instead of lashing at the officers?” He walked away stiff-legged.

  Sharmel sighed. Well, we can’t very well put them back. Easier to just cancel the next raid. He raised his head to give the attack signal, but it seemed unnecessary.

  One small, pale-colored foal had darted out of the knot of doomed ferryshaft, straight past Tharia. When this sort of thing happened, the subordinate creasia generally let their instincts take over. Tharia paced the foal for a moment before pouncing. However, to everyone’s surprise, the foal changed direction at the last moment, so that she missed by a paw’s breadth. She gave a small, frustrated growl and pounced again. This time, the foal changed directions so violently that Tharia’s back legs went out from under her as she tried to follow.

  Her companions, still pacing around the selected ferryshaft, snickered. Even Sharmel smiled. It was a comical sight, and Tharia did not often inspire comedy.

  She roared and charged after the fleeing foal. Sharmel couldn’t help thinking of a rabbit zigzagging under a hawk. Where did it learn to do that?

  And then it disappeared into the trees.

  Sharmel blinked. What just happened?

  Every creasia on the ice stood still for a moment, and then they were all roaring and snarling and calling after Tharia as she disappeared in pursuit of the rogue foal. The pacing ring around the trapped group of ferryshaft broke up as the clutter wavered in the face of this unexpected event. Sharmel knew he should tell them what to do, but he wasn’t sure himself.

  When was the last time a selected ferryshaft had managed to get out of sight of the clutter? Not in years! Humiliation replaced astonishment. They were like cubs, playing with a mouse in their own den. They were so certain that it could not escape that they’d been careless, and somehow it had walked right out from under their noses.

  We have to catch it.

  The whole clutter seemed to realize this at once as Tharia did not emerge from the trees. With a collective snarl, they charged after her, Sharmel on their heels.

  * * * *

  Storm ran. He did not think. He let his body do what it had done a hundred times before, and oddly, even as the creasia’s deadly paws dropped down beside him…and missed…and missed again—even as the cat roared behind him—he felt himself relax. Sound came back into the world.

  And then he hit a snow drift on the edge of the river. It was not high yet, for winter was still young, and Storm cleared it with a leap. He landed belly-deep and struggling. The cat jumped, too, and landed almost on top of him, but then Storm found the top of frozen crust. He was light, and he did not break through. The cat did, and he heard it crashing along furiously behind him.

  He could hear the rest of the cats calling from out on the river. Were they coming closer? He hoped so. Chase me. I’m the one who broke the rules. I’m the one you have to catch. Leave the others. Please.

  Storm was on a beaten path now, almost into the boulders. The running was easier, but it would be easier for the creasia, too. He thought the snow had given him enough of a lead to get beyond their sight among the rocks. Make them run by scent. The curbs taught me that.

  He resisted the urge to look back.

  * * * *

  Sharmel’s embarrassment was solidifying into anger. His clutter was not listening to him. These cats hadn’t chased a ferryshaft in so long that they had forgotten how, and their anger produced stupid mistakes. He’d shouted at them as they entered the trees to swing wide beneath the dense pines where the snow was shallow. If they’d done so, they could have easily flanked the foal, who’d bounded into a deep drift. Instead, they followed the ferryshaft and wasted precious time floundering through deep snow. Tharia broke the trail, and they’d all caught up with her by the time they emerged near the boulders.

  Sharmel had taken his own advice and was well ahead of his clutter as he followed the foal into the mazes. The animal changed direction immediately, laying a weaving path through the rocks. Sharmel barely managed to keep him in sight, even though he was right behind.

  I’ll catch him myself, thought Sharmel. I’ll make an example of him…and then I may have to make an example of this clutter!

  He could almost hear Ariand laughing: “Sharmel’s raiding party spent half the morning tramping around the boulder mazes chasing some foal!”

  Sharmel gritted his teeth. If the foal would just stop weaving and give him a clear pounce… He’d gotten a better look at it now. The foal was male, small but not as young as he’d first thought…and an odd color.

  Then, to Sharmel’s delight and relief, the foal started up a cliff path. The animal must not know that this path dead-ended a short way up. He’s just a panicked youngster, thought Sharmel, and now this little exercise is about to end.

  Sharmel slowed, secure in his confidence, as he followed the foal up the trail. Will he beg for his life when he realizes he can’t escape? Is it possible that some other ferryshaft trained him to do this? Could he be coerced into giving names? Sharmel slowed a little more, wanting to give his subordinates time to catch up. Perhaps, he reflected, I should let them do the killing after all. They were so excited that only the sight of blood was likely to cool them.

  Sharmel caught sight of the end of the path. Oddly, the foal wasn’t slowing down. Does he plan to make an end of himself before we can? Sharmel bounded forward.

  However, they were approaching the end of the trail faster than the cat had judged, and with one final leap Storm cleared the path and hit the sheep trail. He gave a triumphant whoop and sped away, bounding as effortlessly as a wild ram over the narrow thread of rock.

  Sharmel skidded to a stop, panting and blinking. The idea that the foal might escape had never occurred to him. He had expected ridicule for even allowing such a thing to trouble him. But this... There was absolutely no excuse for this!

  As he stared after the ferryshaft, he noticed the color again—really noticed it for the first time. He watched until the foal disappeared, probably into a cave, and then turned with a grimace to deal with his oncoming clutter. A moment later, a long, wavering howl made Sharmel bristle to his tail-tip. He knew then that he would be running all night, pushing for Leeshwood and home. He needed to report this. Arcove, I think we have a problem.

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  Intelligent Species of Lidian

  Ferryshaft

  Creasia

  Curbs

  Telsheesr />
  Lishties

  Ely-ary

  About the Author

  Abigail Hilton is a traveling nurse anesthetist who sometimes lives in Florida. Abbie has spent time in veterinary school and done graduate work in literature. She loves audio books and most of her work is available in audio, as well as paper and ebook. You can connect with Abbie on Facebook, Twitter, or her website at abigailhilton.com. You can also send her email at abigail.hilton@gmail.com.

  For my brother, Hughes,

  who read the first draft when it was still warm from the dot matrix printer.

  Special thanks to other people who helped with this book, including:

  Jeff McDowall

  Amy Watkins

  Mistie Watkins

  Sarah Cloutier

  Rose Spinoza

  Lucie Le Blanc

  Bess Gutenstein

  Caitlin Thiele

  Books by Abigail Hilton

  Hunters Unlucky

  Storm

  Arcove

  Keesha

  Teek

  Treace

  The Prophet of Panamindorah

  Fauns and Filinians

  Wolflings and Wizards

  Fire and Flood

  The Guild of the Cowry Catchers

  Embers, Illustrated

  Flames, Illustrated

  Ashes, Illustrated

  Out of the Ashes, Illustrated

  Shores Beyond the World, Illustrated

  The Complete Series (Not Illustrated)

  Eve and Malachi, Illustrated Children’s Chapter Books

  Feeding Malachi

  Malachi and the Ghost Kitten

  Other Books

  Crossroads: Short Stories from Panamindorah, Volume 1

  Secret Things: Short Stories from Panamindorah, Volume 2

  Table of Contents

  Size Chart

  Chapter 1. Hunter’s Moon

  Chapter 2. Twelve Years Later

  Chapter 3. The Grass Plains

  Chapter 4. Pathar

  Chapter 5. Dream the Future