by Paul G Mann
must swop positions every hour or so, the fool in his camp would be hoarse if they didn’t.
The last one still in hiding posed a small problem, he wasn’t looking at the camp the same as his friends; he was looking away from camp, probably for sign of Fred. At least this one had some sense Fred thought as he made his way camp side of him and crept up close enough to grab him by the mouth while stunning him at the same time with a blow to the head. Hog tied like his companions Fred made his way back to his pack, shouldered it and with noise enough to stampede a herd of cows he made for the camp.
He knew the man waiting for him, not well enough to be a friend but enough to be pleasant to in ordinary circumstances. With a smile as wide as a horse’s backside he made a show of greeting him with warmth and friendship; even though the man began to tremble as his accomplices failed to attack an unsuspecting Fred, as had obviously been planned. Enough of the pleasantries Fred turned on the man without warning; grabbing him by the throat he lifted him of the ground with his powerful arms and demanded answers from him.
‘I said why are you waiting in ambush for me?’ Fred growled, even though the wretch couldn’t move or barely breathe suspended as he was some six inches off the floor. His eyes that seconds before explored the undergrowth surrounding the camp looking for his friends now began to bulge as the lack of oxygen from Fred’s death grip about his windpipe began to have an effect. Seeing this Fred opened his hand, relaxed his grip and let his choking and spluttering victim fall to the floor in a heap, face puce red from a lack of air.
Relieving his victim of weaponry, Fred took a rare steel knife off his victim and held it to the fools’ throat. A steel knife, something very rare on this heap of rock they called home proved to Fred that whoever wanted him dead was willing to pay for it and pay well. He watched as his victim began to show signs of life once more; his breath was more even and the puce colour had reverted to a healthy pink.
‘I won’t ask again’ Fred said quietly. ‘I will just push this knife into your throat and get the information I need from one of your cronies. Now talk. Who sent you to kill me?’
‘We weren’t sent to kill you just capture you and take you to East Harbour.’ He replied with a sulk in his voice while rubbing his throat where Fred had gripped him.
‘I haven’t been to East Harbour for fifty years or more, who there would want me so bad they send four idiots like you to catch me?’ Fred grinned at him. ‘Besides I know you Billy Johnson, you’re from Haroldstown not East Harbour.’
‘I’m sorry Fred,’ Billy replied, fear of the big man who still loomed over him evident in his voice, ‘but word came with the last traveller that the residents of East Harbour wanted you and a substantial reward was promised to anyone who brought you there. We just thought…’ his voice trailed off as he shrugged his shoulders with resignation.
‘Thinking is not one of your strong points then.’ Fred said sarcastically. ‘Go and get your cronies Billy and come back here. Untie them gently I want the rawhide strips, and remember, one stupid move by any of you and it will be your last. GO,’ he hissed through clenched teeth.
East Harbour was over five hundred miles away across some rough terrain. It would take at least two months to get there and that providing the weather stayed fair. What Fred had to consider was would the journey be worth it? He doubted he was in any danger; the four buffoons who had tried to ambush him must have misread the message. If the residents wanted him it was clear to Fred’s thinking that his services as a hunter would be wanted rather than his head for any dirty deeds he may have done the last time he was there. He couldn’t think of any, but fifty years was a long time and long enough for any indiscretion he may have made to be long forgotten or forgiven.
By the time he had made his mind up to travel north to East Harbour Billy was leading his three henchmen in to Fred’s camp. Sheepishly they shuffled forward and stood in front of him.
‘Weapons and footwear’, Fred stated. ‘In a pile; there!’ He pointed to the ground four feet in front of him.
Four crossbows with full quarrels of bolts, three stone knives, a stone tipped spear and four pairs of roughly made sandals lay before him.
‘Where is your camp equipment,’ he asked.
‘Ready for travel under a fallen tree half a mile over there,’ Billy replied pointing southwards.
‘Pick up your weapons, leave the crossbow bolts here except one each and go collect your equipment, then my friends head south to Haroldstown; if I see you again I promise to kill you, nice and slow so you suffer. Leave your sandals here, barefoot you will be less inclined to try and follow me, now go.’
Fred watched as they scrambled for their weapons complaining as they did so about no sandals. He never flinched, just starred at them until they eventually got his message and with more than one furtive glance back, hobbled on bare feet as best they could out of the camp.
He broke camp and was ready to move in under ten minutes. With about four hours of daylight left he knew he could put some three or four miles in, that would be three or four miles away from the four idiots that had tried to ambush him. Not that he thought for one minute they would follow, but it paid to be careful; the miserable existence that most people endured on this planet was enough to drive even the most honest to commit criminal and malicious acts given the right circumstances.
As he made his way across country to East Harbour the Hunki played on his mind. No one he ever spoke to knew where they came from or how they got here. All that was known for sure was the Hunki were in some way responsible for everyone else being on the planet. It had been some time since their last hunt and it bothered him whenever he crossed open countryside that they could come out of the sky without sound or warning to chase their human quarry. What happened to the unfortunates who were captured didn’t make for nice thoughts. Fred had observed with his own eyes how a young woman had been decapitated, speared and roasted over an open fire, the flesh cut from her body to feed the hunters. Even he with his life hardened mind towards death shuddered at this evil memory. His progress was slow; the constant look out for Hunki warriors and the miles he added to his journey by avoiding open land would put weeks on his trek; not something he wanted but something that had to be for him to ensure his survival.
The Hunki liked to hunt in the open and selected the villages and hamlets surrounded by open countryside as their favoured hunting grounds. They were not averse to hunting in the forests but avoided the trees whenever they could. There was too much cover for the human prey under the trees, too many hiding places that a resourceful human could use to his or her own advantage. In the trees a human had a 50/50 chance of survival; the Hunki weapons would make short work of a hiding human if found, but the hunt took longer for the Hunki and was not as successful as an open country hunt; their weapons didn’t have the range under the trees that open land gave them. It was far safer for a human under the trees; not a guarantee of safety but a lone wandering human under the tree line was usually left alone by the Hunki in favour of an easier kill in open ground.
A week into his journey and the good weather turned to rain, heavy rain that would soak him and his belongings if he didn’t find shelter. He was in open country when the rains began and despite the fact Hunki rarely hunted in the wet he quickly altered his course to take him into the trees some five hundred yards to his right. The tree canopy would be thick at this time of year, thick enough to allow the rainwater to run harmlessly away from the tree trunks and give him shelter as it soaked into the ground. He was in luck; a hundred yards in from the tree line, native trees mixed with those from Earth; the large leafed natives giving excellent shelter as they fought for light alongside the huge Earth pines the Hunki had introduced and let seed the forests.
Climbing the slender native tree to the first branches, he used his new steel knife to cut four huge leaves. These he used as a makeshift cover for him and his travel pack; cut from the tree they would be good for about three days before they
began to deteriorate, three days of dryness under the tree canopy was better than none out in the open. He settled down to wait and with a Ripper claw in one hand and the steel knife in the other he began to shape and carve a knife blade from the claw to pass the time.
The rain lasted for about six hours. Satisfied it had abated for the day he set the pack on his back, discarded all but one of the native leaves and using the other as a makeshift umbrella till he cleared the trees he set off once more on his trek north to East Harbour. He had roughly two hours of good daylight left and he wanted to put them to good use. At least the rain delay in the woods hadn’t been a complete loss; he now had enough fresh rainwater to last him a week without having to search for a steam to replenish his supplies.
He set himself a brisk pace; one fast enough he knew would stop anyone following him, not that he expected to be followed but his cautious nature was instinctive and had served him so well in the past he never questioned his instincts anymore. The grasslands began to give way to shrub and scrub as he neared a low range of rolling hills. He hoped to find shelter in the hills, it had been a long day and he would like to set a fire without unpacking his gear.