by Matt Laney
The name floats like a leaf on a quiet pond before being dunked by a sudden wave of laughter. The Keeper grins. She’s enjoying herself way too much.
“Would you like to know why he is named Quicksilver?” Without waiting for an answer, she produces a rabbit from a burlap bag sitting unnoticed on the ground. The rabbit kicks and struggles to get free. “Observe!”
She hurls the rabbit over my head into the cage. With blinding speed, Quicksilver launches up, snatches the rabbit from the air, and swallows it whole in less than a heartbeat’s time. Now on all fours, the slaycon is massive and fearsome. It considers the crowd hungrily for a moment, then yawns, slumps down, and burps.
No one is laughing now.
“Do not worry, Master Leo!” the Keeper says merrily. “That one could eat a herd of deer and still have room for dessert. Have you made your choice?”
“There is still the fourth,” I remind her.
“Right you are! Right you are!” the Keeper crows. No matter what I say, she finds a way to work it into her routine. “I think you will be very interested in this one, sir!” She strides alongside me like a slimy seller. “She is young and small and not as terrible as the rest, doesn’t even have all of her adult teeth yet. Her history is a sad one, I’m afraid. Her mother was killed by a young hunter two years ago, and now she is an orphan.”
The Keeper bends low, whispers, “She’s a lot like you.” Then she hollers to the crowd, “This one I call Baby. If chosen by the prince, it will be her first hunt!”
This slaycon shouldn’t be here, even if she was handpicked to improve the odds. Baby crouches in the back corner of the cage, head low, eyes bouncing from me to the Keeper to the crowd. I suppose the Keeper is trying to do me a favor, but the sight of the frightened little creature makes me nauseous.
“Prince Leo, son of Raja Kahn . . .” The Keeper stops in midsentence, catching her error. It’s an unfortunate blunder. Everyone knows the Singa-Kahn is my grandfather and not my father. A few Singas, sheltered and hidden in the horde of bodies, take the opportunity to comment on my family background.
“He is the son of nobody!” someone jeers.
“A royal bastard!” calls another.
These insults are not only offensive to me, but a sign of our divided domain. I look back, hoping to find Sariah’s quadron springing into action to search out the name callers, but they too are lost in the crowd. To my relief, the Keeper ignores these taunts and carries on, more anxious to continue her performance than to preserve my dignity.
This time, I’m all for it.
“Leo, grandson of Raja Kahn, make your choice!”
“Choose! Choose! Choose! Choose!” chants the sea of spectators.
I consider my options one last time. Baby is a wobbly little thing. If any slaycon is deserving of death, it isn’t her.
That leaves Storm, the Professor, and Quicksilver.
“Choose! Choose! Choose! Choose!” thrums what might be the whole Pride of Singara by now.
The choice comes easily. I move to a slaycon cage while the beast within sizes me up, a wild fire raging in his eyes.
“Choose! Choose! Choose!”
I raise my arm and point. The chanting stops. Disbelief washes over the crowd.
The Keeper is equally undone, head shaking. “No, Your Majesty. No.” Clearly this was not the choice she anticipated.
“I choose Storm!” I say to remove all doubt.
The Keeper is truly off her game now, and it’s clear I will have to keep things moving. The sun has climbed higher in the sky, a glaring reminder that time is running out.
“Take the slaycon to the Border Zone. I will select my gear now.”
I don’t look at Kaydan or Galil as I pass. If their faces show anything close to the shock on the Keeper’s face, my one seed of hope will be crushed.
I make for the table covered with weapons and tools: blades of various sizes, bows and quivers of arrows, spears, shields, armor, helmets, ropes, hooks. I am permitted three choices from this table and no more. The armor is too big for me, and most of the blades are too heavy and cumbersome. The bow might prove useful, but I don’t have the strength to pull an arrow back far enough to penetrate a slaycon’s hide.
I select a dagger and a crudely made slingshot. The dagger won’t extend my reach by much, but it won’t slow me down. The slingshot will increase my reach and, with a good shot, might slow Storm down.
And the third item? Where is it? The one thing that could change the equation of battle between me and the slaycon. The one thing that could prove more useful and deadly than any blade or arrow. Yes, there, on the ground behind the table: the sack that held the rabbit only moments ago. If it works the way I hope, it will work on any slaycon, so why not put the biggest Singa slayer permanently out of business and protect future hunters from this brute? If my experiment fails, at least no one will remember the bastard grandson of Raja Kahn as a coward.
I attach the blade in its scabbard to my belt along with the slingshot, tuck the bag into the back of my leggings, and spring across the square, feeling the blade and slingshot slap against my legs.
“Fascinating choices, Leo,” Sariah says as I arrive at the other side.
“Just get me out of here, Sariah.”
“Right away, Lord.”
“Is Grandfather still in the city?”
“The Kahn is on his way to Border Zone Eight, next to the zone appointed for your hunt. He will stay there to await the outcome.”
Sariah guides me to the royal carriage waiting outside the square. The carriage is hitched to a team of two karkadanns, large four-legged creatures who move with surprising speed, given their bulk. Bearing the royal sign of the Singa-Kahn, they snort and stomp the ground with heavy hooves, anxious to power away from the mob.
We exit the square. The crowd parts and permits the royal carriage to pass. Karkadanns have that effect. Few are foolish enough to get in their way. I lean against the plush interior of the vehicle, grateful to be alone.
It’s a ninety-minute journey to the Border Zone. Sariah drives the team of karkadanns, and her quadron rides two in the back and one next to her in front. The karkadanns spirit us all out of the city, through swaths of countryside, past quarries, mines, and farmland, until we reach a military outpost. These little forts are stationed along every road leading from the city to the border region. The karkadanns are given water and grain while Sariah’s quadron chats with the warriors stationed here.
I stay in the carriage to avoid questions from these soldiers. Watchtowers rise up over the tree line from the Great Wall. From this short distance they are tall and imposing, not at all like the sticks they appear to be from the castle.
When the karkadanns have had their fill, Sariah guides the carriage back to the road leading to the forest, the last piece of land between the outposts and the border region.
The familiar feeling begins. My brain tingles, my heartbeat quickens, a rushing wind fills my ears as my stomach turns—a wad of fiction is about to drop into my mouth and swell up like a balloon. This time, alone as I am in the carriage, I’m free to let the words and the vision come without fear. I lean back, open my mouth, and the sickness streams out.
Once there was a great hunter with a trusted servant who had a habit of saying “How fortunate!” at every opportunity. In times of blessing or sorrow, the servant would say, “How fortunate!”
The characters and the scene burst into view, filling the interior of the carriage: the hunter in his grand house, preparing for a day of hunting, and his servant offering the standard comment. It’s all here, a three-sixty waking dream according to the words of my possessed mouth.
The hunter and his servant went hunting together. As they pursued a deer, the hunter’s left foot got stuck between two rocks and was badly injured, so badly his foot had to be removed.
After the hunter’s foot was taken away, the servant inspected the bloody stump and said, “How fortunate!”
The hunter was furious. “How can you say that? There is nothing fortunate about losing a foot! You are a useless and heartless servant! Get out of my sight!”
The servant, of course, responded, “How fortunate!” He left the employ of the hunter and found a new job as a teacher in town.
Some months later, the hunter went hunting again, assisted by a wooden peg attached to the bottom of his left leg. On this occasion he wandered too far from his own land and was captured by the enemy. The enemies stripped the hunter in order to roast and eat him at their ritual feast.
Naturally, the hunter was terrified, especially when the enemy chief came forward brandishing a blade. The chief inspected the hunter from head to foot, marveling at his fine teeth, his well-fed body, his smooth and silky hide. But when he discovered the hunter’s false leg, he said, “He is missing part of his leg and therefore he is unworthy to be served at our feast.”
Instead of using his blade to cut the hunter’s throat, the chief sliced the ropes that bound the hunter and released him. As the hunter hobbled away, he found himself saying, “How fortunate! How very, very fortunate!”
Returning to his grand house, the hunter sent for his old servant. He recounted the whole terrifying ordeal and said, “You were correct. It was fortunate that I lost my foot. Because I was missing one foot, my life was spared! It was very fortunate indeed! I was a fool to dismiss you.” Then the hunter said, “Yet there is still one thing I don’t understand. Why did you say ‘How fortunate!’ when I sent you away?”
The servant answered, “For those who seek Alayah, who is the greatest good of all, good fortune can come from anything if you are patient enough to find it.”
“And has that good fortune been revealed to you?” the hunter asked.
“Yes! Had you not dismissed me, I would have been hunting with you the day you were seized. And since I have both of my feet, I would have been roasted and eaten right after you were set free.”
“You are correct, my friend! That was fortunate! Please accept my apology and return to my side and serve me for the rest of my days.”
The servant returned to the hunter’s home and never stopped saying “How fortunate!” and the hunter never tired of hearing it.
The story ends, as does the vision, fading like steam. I close my eyes and waggle my tongue, making sure it’s under my command once more.
Trees pass by the carriage windows. The air is cool, laced with the scents of moss, leaves, and pine.
It’s true what Tamir said last night. I’ve been this far out of the city only a handful of times. Nothing in this forest is familiar.
I recall the servant’s words: “For those who seek Alayah, who is the greatest good of all, good fortune can come from anything if you are patient enough to find it.”
Patience has never been a strength for Singas. We like to reach scientific conclusions based on the evidence in front of us. If I end up in the belly of a slaycon, that will be more than enough evidence to prove that this fiction, however charming, is nonsense.
I open my eyes and yelp.
The hunter from the story lounges opposite me. He is a Singa, dressed in light armor and fine green robes trimmed with gold. The bottom of his left leg is supported by a wooden peg.
He is in the halfway state: ghostly, phantasmal. I can almost look through him to the velvet seat of the carriage.
Over time, I’ve learned to ignore, chase, or dash away from these apparitions. Since we’re both sitting inside the royal carriage, running is not an option. Ignoring him won’t be too easy either.
“You’re not real,” I say, more to myself than to him.
The hunter laughs. “Not real? I’m as real as they come!” He slaps his chest and stomps his peg leg on the carriage floor. The thump on the floor is muted, proving he’s not fully here, not as solid as I am.
“We’re going hunting, yes?” he asks.
“Not we. Me. Go away.”
“Why would you send me away? You are the one who brought me into this world. I am here to help you in any way I can!”
“The only thing you are going to help me do is lose my tongue!”
The hunter frowns and shakes his head. “Oh, dear prince. Haven’t you figured out how this works? The story brings us here and we are yours to command!”
I glance at his wooden leg. “No offense to you and your . . . injury. But I don’t think you could keep up with me.”
The hunter sighs. “Ah! You think I am not fit to hunt. You think I will slow you down, yes? Every battle is an equation of reach multiplied by strength and speed. Survival of the strongest and all that?” he adds with mock seriousness.
“You are not even solid,” I argue, leaning forward and pushing my hand directly into his torso without much effort. “You are only an apparition, a phantom. How much help can you be?”
The hunter watches with amusement as my hand enters and exits his chest. “That is easily remedied, Lord. You have the power. Just say my name and I will be solid and visible to one and all! I can be of great service to you.”
“I’m sure you are a fine hunter, but I’m supposed to do this on my own. Please just return to wherever it was you came from.”
“I can’t do that. I can disappear for a time, but only you can send me back.”
That’s what they all say. They all want me to “send them back” in exchange for helping me.
“I don’t know what that means.”
The hunter winks at me. “You don’t have to know—you only have to be willing, yes?”
I fold my arms and frown.
“Then I guess I’ll be stuck here, with all the others. You will remember my name, won’t you? If you need help, speak my name.” He draws forward, and I flatten myself against the carriage wall. “My name is . . . Oreyon.” His breath is sweet and flowery, like a spring breeze. “Will you remember?”
I nod, just to end this encounter as quickly as possible.
“How fortunate.”
And he is gone.
Chapter 5
To defeat your enemy, you must first defeat yourself.
—Sayings of the Ancients
he carriage jerks to a stop.
We’re here.
Border Zone Seven.
Sariah opens the carriage door. “We made good time, Lord. You have at least six hours of daylight to make your kill.”
The sun is overhead, that brief moment at midday when there are no shadows.
The Border Zone Fence, stretching for many kilometers from the sheer cliffs at the seacoast to the Great Mountain, is a series of iron poles, eight meters high. The top of each pole is sharpened and curved inward like a claw. A metal net hangs on the inside of the poles.
Nothing gets in. Or out. Unless you have a key like the one dangling from Sariah’s belt. Each two-kilometer section of the Border Zone has a small locked gate, just big enough for a Singa to duck under or for a slaycon to slither through.
The Great Wall and Border Zone Fence prove Grandfather’s genius. It was he who led the victory against the Maguar. It was he who designed the Great Wall and the inner ring of Border Zones to ensure they would never again invade our lands. Even though I’m about to be locked into one of these cages with a hungry monster, I’m proud of Grandfather and the many years of peace he brought to Singara.
The fence came at a tremendous cost. It drained the metal from the mines of the mountain, which is Tamir’s main criticism of the Kahn. Tamir believes the fence should be dismantled and the metal repurposed for advancements in the Science of Weaponry.
“The slaycon is already here,” Sariah says, fitting a key into the lock.
It’s true.
Storm’s scent is abundant. I estimate he went through the gate less than half an hour ago.
The lock clicks and the bolt retreats, allowing the gate to swing open on its hinges.
“Remember your training, Leo,” Sariah counsels. “These beasts are clever, but your greatest weapon—” She concludes by
tapping the side of her forehead. “I will wait for you here.”
I gape at the landscape beyond the fence. I’m struck by how beautiful it is.
And how lonely.
“Do not forget the tail,” Sariah adds.
I glance behind me. How could I forget my tail?
“Not your tail, Majesty. The tail of the slaycon. You must cut it off and carry it out as evidence of your kill. No living slaycon will easily give up its tail.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“And if it pleases Your Highness, you might unsheathe your blade before entering.”
With a hand that trembles as much from embarrassment as dread, I pull my dagger from its scabbard. The metal, old and worn, still flashes in the sun. Although the blade is nearly the length of my arm, it looks like a dinner knife compared to the weapons strapped to Sariah.
I swallow and dip through the door into Border Zone Seven.
The gate clangs and locks behind me. No doubt an experienced slaycon like Storm knows the sound and what it means: dinnertime.
I wonder if Storm is watching me from an unseen roost, camouflaged by shrubs or nestled in a cleft of rock. Or maybe he’s exploring the open terrain, marking his territory with squirts of hot yellow pee. Slaycons probably enjoy the hunt as a chance to escape the confines of the Keeper’s cages and have a good meal out after playing with their food.
All is silent except the buzz of insects and the creak of branches stirred by the afternoon wind. Wildflowers bend and sway. The clouds are plumes of white against a cobalt sky.
I push deeper into the zone, stretching out my senses and steering clear of anything Storm might use as a hiding place. My claws extend and retract from my fingertips, pulsing with my waves of anxiety.
In a clearing, I spot a dark mass, half covered by tall grass. A mist of flies hovers above it. The wind shifts, and I catch the stench of decaying flesh. I close in, sweeping the flies away. A few more steps and the scent’s source is revealed: a rotting, tail-less slaycon corpse, slain by a young hunter. I could stay here and be safe from Storm if I wanted to. There’s little chance he would come to investigate this place. I can barely stand it myself.