by Matt Laney
Does she sleep with that stuff on?
Does she sleep?
I lean on one elbow and find myself in the Kahn’s bed, a canvas tarp stretched between four posts, covered with antelope- and deerhide blankets and silk pillows.
I arch my back, stretch, and yawn. “Who sent you here?”
“His Majesty . . . your grandfather.”
I swing my feet over the side of the bed and wiggle my toes. If it is the ninth hour, only one hour remains to choose a slaycon and begin the long trek to the Border Zones.
“Thank you,” I say. “You may go.”
Anjali doesn’t budge. Her brow is furrowed like a plowed field, as if she’s working on a tough problem from the Science of Numbers. There’s something she wants to say, and I don’t want to know what it is.
“The young firewing . . .” she begins.
My heart drops. I’m not doing this. Not now.
“What you said, the things we saw,” she gushes. “I can’t stop thinking about them.”
“Try to forget about it, Anjali.”
“Does it happen every time? Things appearing? Creatures getting left behind?”
I flick my tail as a silent affirmation.
“Can you forget them?”
I take her point. The truth is I’ve gotten good at forgetting. It’s the only way to keep from going completely insane. She’s lucky it was only a firewing. The fiction might have featured a draycon. Draycons make slaycons look like mosquitos. There’s no use explaining any of this to Anjali.
“You’d better go,” Anjali advises. “Captain Sariah and her quadron are waiting for you at the castle gate.”
As I brush by her, Anjali grabs my arm. What now?
“Do you have one of these already?” She opens her hand to reveal a green pellet, like a large cocoon.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“It will mask your scent. Swallow this and the slaycon won’t smell you at all. There’s no better way to sneak up on them. Don’t take it until after you’ve entered the Border Zone. The effect only lasts a few hours.”
I consider the pellet resting in the gray skin of her palm.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Leo. Lots of younglings use these in the hunt.”
“Did you?”
“Well . . . no.”
“Then why should I?”
I take the green bundle, just to end the pleading look on her face. Like everyone else, she knows the odds of survival are stacked against me.
“Strength and truth, Leo,” she says in farewell.
“Strength and truth,” I repeat, and pocket the pellet.
Returning to my den, I change into fresh leather leggings and strap on my chest plate, which is fashioned into outstretched wings, the symbol of the Kahns. It was forged for me from the last bits of metal found in the Great Mountain. Most of our metal was used in the construction of the Border Zone Fence, and there is almost nothing left for new tools, weapons, or armor. The chest plate’s polished metal is a striking contrast to my golden-brown fur and way too flashy for a slaycon hunt. Still, Grandfather wants me to wear it whenever I’m in public, which isn’t often.
A large raven is perched on my balcony, black wings tucked, watching me. I ease onto the balcony and he flaps away in fright.
The sun hangs low in a hazy sky, spreading yellow rays over our realm. From this perch I can see well beyond the city, past the meat farms dotted with livestock, to the forest. Above the tree line, watchtowers poke up from the Great Wall, keeping a steadfast eye on the Maguar’s land.
I look down into the city, expecting to find the usual smattering of Singas moving about cobblestone streets between homes, taverns, shops, and courtyards.
Today the main road extending from the castle gate to the city square is packed with Singas. Thousands of them. Soldiers struggle to keep the mob in order.
Of course slaycon hunts happen frequently, but rarely does the fate of the throne hang in the balance. All of Singara has come to look upon their next Kahn or to behold the prince for the first and very last time.
I may have stopped breathing, because my next breath is a deep and hungry one. I can’t let all these Singas down. I can’t let Grandfather down.
Anjali’s scent-masking pellet is still nestled in the pocket of my discarded leggings. Could that leafy thing be my salvation? I step back into my den and rummage through the leggings like a thief searching for a jewel and transfer the pellet to the pocket of my new leggings.
I strap on a utility belt and a water bottle hanging beside my bed. If nothing else, the belt makes me look rugged and ready for action.
I bound down the leaping platforms to the central hall on the main floor. The central hall is a tribute to the castle’s builders, with its marble columns, golden wall patterns, and carved doors leading to the feeding hall, throne room, armory, battle laboratories, and storage rooms. A crack, large enough to slip your fingers into, runs down the middle of the hall floor. The crack was created by an earthquake during the Great War just before the battle turned in our favor.
I hop back and forth over the crack, zigzagging to the castle’s main doors. I’m so focused on my footwork, I crash into a guard.
“Excuse me, Lord,” the soldier says, as though he has caused the collision. He scoops something off the floor. “Did you drop this?”
It’s the green pellet Anjali gave me.
I stuff the pellet in my pocket. “Thank you,” I mumble, and slink past him.
Sariah’s quadron waits in the courtyard. A quadron is a group of four warriors, one being the captain; it makes up the basic unit of our military force.
Four quadrons make a company.
Four companies make a brigade.
Four brigades make a battalion.
Four battalions make a legion.
Quadrons train to fight as a single body and defend one another to the death. It is a fearsome and wondrous thing to behold an experienced quadron in action, fending off attackers from every corner, wordlessly responding to one another’s movements as though their minds were fused together.
In addition to pieces of armor attached to their legs, arms, shoulders, and chest, soldiers carry several blades: a short blade attached to the upper back along with a circular aero-blade, a long blade worn at the hip, and a dagger or two strapped to the upper leg. The rank of each soldier is shown by the armor color on the upper arms. Captains, like Sariah, wear blue.
Sariah’s quadron have dark red cloaks about their shoulders, hoods pulled low over their brows. By their height and bearing I identify them as Biku, Mavrak, and Jimo. Captain Sariah looks grim. That’s not unusual, but she appears especially thoughtful this morning.
“My prince,” she begins, “no doubt you have seen the rather sizable gathering of Singas beyond the gate all the way to the city square. We have a brigade of soldiers out there, and you can trust my quadron to do whatever is necessary to deliver you safely to the square.”
Sariah observes my trembling whiskers. “Mobs are fickle, Leo, lacking in reason. On top of that, Tamir has many followers who believe he should be the Singa-Kahn after your grandfather. Some beyond this gate will praise you, and others may do just the opposite. I advise you to ignore them both and stay true to your course.”
If that was supposed to make me feel better, it didn’t.
I edge closer to the gate, and the quadron takes up positions around me, Jimo in the lead, Mavrak and Biku at each side, and Sariah at the back. Jimo’s nose is less than a meter from the gate.
“Open!” Sariah shouts up to the gate master. Gears click and chains rattle as the doors groan to life and separate. A shaft of sunlight pushes through the gap.
Sariah rests a hand on my shoulder, and I hear a blade sliding out of its scabbard. For a heartbeat, I’m terrified she will stab me from behind. Is she among those who believe Tamir deserves the throne?
Sariah’s purr in my ear puts that fear to rest.
“Don’t worry, d
ear one. Take a breath. Try to relax. We will have you in front of the Keeper in no time.”
Great.
Being stuck in a Border Zone with one hungry monster is bad. Dealing with the oddball Slaycon Keeper and choosing from several of her caged monsters in the city square is not much of an improvement.
Or so I hear.
Since Grandfather keeps me in the shelter of the castle, I never actually witnessed the ritual of slaycon selection. I’ll have to rely on Kaydan’s instructions.
When the opening is wide enough for the five of us, Sariah gestures to the gatekeeper, and the doors grind to a halt. I’m suddenly possessed by the urge to spin on my heel, run back into the castle, and bury myself in bed. But that would be as good as surrendering the throne to Tamir and accepting a life of banishment among the outcasts beyond the Great Mountain.
“Forward,” Sariah commands.
We step into the brightness of day on the other side of the gate. My legs feel like lead posts, making it hard to keep pace with the quadron. Besides that, thousands of eyes are fixed on me. It’s going to be a long walk to the city square with all of those stares boring into my pelt. Behind us, the doors roll shut, sealing off any hope of retreat.
“Steady,” Sariah whispers.
As if on cue, a surge of energy enlivens the crowd. There are shouts of praise that morph into cheers, rising into an explosion of voices. Bodies flood the road. Some are weeping and bowing; others scowl and shake their fists at me.
We’ve been outside the gate for less than a minute and already things are unraveling.
In a swirl of metal and cape, Jimo leaps into a combat stance, bares his blades, and roars so loudly, I want to cover my ears. Mavrak and Biku respond in kind.
The mob freezes.
Behind me, Sariah lifts her voice. “Good citizens of Singara! Loyal subjects of Raja Kahn, who brings peace and prosperity to the Pride! We mean you no harm and we trust you harbor no ill will toward the prince. Like all Singas on the first full moon after their thirteenth birthday, he will go to the city square to select a slaycon from the Keeper. Like all young Singas he will hunt the creature in one of the Border Zones against the Great Wall. Like any other young Singa he will emerge victorious or not at all. Or be sent into exile. The laws of nature will decide. You survived the hunt and served in the Royal Army in your time. Do permit this youngling to prove himself worthy of the same honor.”
Sariah studies the crowd, heightening the sense of drama.
She’s good at this.
“Because if you do not, my quadron will carve a path right through you until we reach our destination.”
The image is gruesome, but Sariah speaks as if she were merely predicting a change in the weather. The sea of bodies withdraws, and the road empties out. The three soldiers stand down but do not sheathe their blades.
“Forward,” says Sariah.
And we are off again.
We pass the block of military housing outside the castle and Sariah says, “We’re going to pick up the pace, Leo. Be ready.
“Stride!” she barks, and the quadron accelerates, moving as gracefully and swiftly as a waterbird glides across the surface of a lake. I’m sprinting to keep up, feet slapping the cobblestones in contrast to the hushed footfalls of my protectors.
Occasionally, I feel Sariah’s breath on my neck or a hand urging me onward. The crowd on either side of the road becomes a blur of color and sound.
Too soon we arrive at the edge of the city square, a one-hundred-meter space marked off by a low wall. At the center of the square is a towering statue of Sayzar, the first Singa-Kahn, only a cub when he claimed the throne over two hundred years ago. It was Sayzar Kahn who proclaimed the slaycon hunt as the law for all young Singas, so it is fitting to begin here. In those days, the ritual hunt took place in a vast pit at the edge of our realm. The creation of the Border Zone Fence along the Great Wall provided a series of larger, more natural arenas for the hunt. Today Sayzar’s pit is used as a garbage dump.
The crowd pours in and around the square. Expectant faces peer out of windows and from every balcony in view. Even the rooftops are packed.
At the far end of the square, the Slaycon Keeper surveys the crowd with delight. Next to her is my trainer, Kaydan, and beside him is Galil, the Pride’s chief scientist. To their left are four carts, each supporting a huge boxlike object, three meters high and five long, covered by a canvas tarp. The boxes are slaycon cages. The Keeper has brought these four from the hundreds of slaycons under her care. To their right is a table full of tools and weapons. I will choose from among those, too.
Sariah and her quadron fall back, leaving me to step into the square alone, a step that will put the whole bloody event into motion. As if guided by someone else, my feet pass over the threshold of the square, and I cross the stretch of empty space to the Slaycon Keeper, hoping she will be quick about this.
Not likely.
The Keeper’s eagerness sickens me, so I focus on Kaydan and Galil. Kaydan’s expression is as hard as the armor strapped to his shoulders, arms, and legs. Galil is dressed in a white robe. His plump face is set with eyes that twinkle.
When I am only a few paces away, the Slaycon Keeper bows and bellows more to the crowd than to me. “Good morning, Prince Leo, grandson of His Majesty, Raja Kahn, who brings peace and prosperity to the Pride! Today is the first full moon after your thirteenth birthday, the day of your hunt. By sundown you will prove your place among the Pride or . . . you will not! You have several choices before you. The first is the most important: Will you hunt or will you choose exile?”
Some younglings, only a few, to be sure, choose exile right away rather than face a day locked in a Border Zone with a famished monster.
I don’t blame them.
If I weren’t the heir to the throne, I would be very tempted to choose a life among the outcasts, on the other side of the Great Mountain.
Thousands of ears strain to hear my reply. I struggle to get the word out, knowing how bad this looks. I close my eyes and think of Grandfather.
“Hunt,” I whisper.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear that, Lord Leo,” the Keeper yells to the crowd, cupping a hand to her ear.
“I will hunt,” I repeat, louder.
“He will hunt!” the Keeper shouts, and the crowd roars its approval.
The Keeper turns to Galil and asks the traditional question of the Royal Scientist: “Is this young Singa fit to hunt? Is he ready to kill or be killed?”
Another formality, another piece of ceremony, but there is a reason to question my readiness. Galil, for his part, answers without hesitation.
“He is.”
“Excellent!” says the Keeper. “Let us proceed! There are four slaycons before you, Lord Leo,” she says, motioning to the covered carts. “They have all been denied food for half a moon.”
In other words, these monsters are dying to eat.
“All but one are experienced hunters,” the Keeper continues, giving me a wink.
Meaning all save one have a well-developed taste for Singa flesh.
“The one you choose will be transported to a Border Zone, where you will engage it in claw-to-claw combat!”
Everyone knows this already. She’s just lathering herself up with the sound of her own voice. Every word steals time from the hunt.
“You will have until sundown to make a kill, cut off the slaycon’s tail, and present it to your family, your grandfather, that is, and—”
“Stop wasting time!” I shout, startling even myself. Out of the corner of my eye I see Kaydan’s mouth spread into a smile.
The Keeper is stunned. “Very well, my lord, very well!”
With a flourish, the Keeper pulls a rope, causing the coverings to fall away from all four carts at once. Now it is obvious that the boxes are sturdy metal cages, each holding a slaycon. The beasts screech and hiss and roar at the sight of so many Singas. The crowd recoils as the Keeper draws closer to her monster
s.
“There, there now, my darlings,” she coos, as though the beasts were cuddly pets and not dreadful demons. To my astonishment, the Keeper reaches into a cage and pats the snout of the beast within. The slaycon whimpers and sways its tail.
“You see, Lord Leo, they are gentle creatures if you know how to approach them. Aren’t you, my pretty pets?” The Keeper beckons with her tail. “Come. Make your choice!”
The Keeper drops back and I approach the first cage. Its stench overwhelms me. When I am a meter from the cage, the beast leaps as though it could break through. I pounce back. The old metal bars arrest the slaycon but do little to dull its enthusiasm. The creature presses itself against the cage, thrusts out a foreleg, and swipes furiously.
“Oooooh, he likes you!” says the Keeper, and laughter ripples around the square. “That one is called Storm, and you can see why. He has defeated more Singas than any of my other slaycons.”
Someone in the crowd begins to sob, perhaps remembering a son or daughter fallen to the brute.
I move to the next cage. This slaycon is smaller. It watches me, head tilted, a forked tongue flicking from its mouth. When I am close enough to touch the cage, the slaycon sinks into a crouch, its haunches pulsing with anticipation. I growl at the creature, but the slaycon just sits there, inspecting me.
“This one I call the Professor!” the Keeper cries. “She likes to study the movements of her prey, waiting for just the right moment to strike.”
I circle the cage. Without a sound, the slaycon shifts, matching me step for step. The glint in her eyes creeps me out.
I turn away to examine the next slaycon.
The third monster is fat and lies on one side as if glued to the floor by its own bulk. Yellow teeth, broken claws, and a maze of cracks running through its hide suggest this is an aged and tired beast. The Keeper gives words to my thoughts.
“That one looks too old to participate in the hunt, doesn’t he, Lord Prince?” She waves to the crowd as if to pull them closer. “Perhaps every one of you believes this old, overweight challenger would be an easy kill. Perhaps you think the creature should be put out of his misery, but you would be wrong. This one is named Quicksilver!”