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The Spinner Prince

Page 5

by Matt Laney


  Pushing on, I delve into the woods. Three ravens erupt from the branches of the outermost tree, calling and screeching like a bunch of excited cubs.

  Something spooked them.

  I part my jaws to taste the air, eyes scanning the area, ears swiveling about.

  No slaycon except for that decaying mess behind me. Wherever the living monster is, he isn’t here.

  After an hour or so of wandering, my ears prick at the hum of moving water. My nose agrees. A river or a stream is up ahead. The promise of water prompts a memory from my training.

  Slaycons do not like water. Slaycon hunt theorem number eight. We Singas are not too fond of water either.

  Nevertheless, I run. The canopy of tree cover thickens, plunging my surroundings into shadow as the temperature dips to something like nightfall. Then I see the river, carving its way through the forest floor. My pace quickens, feet thumping full tilt, announcing my whereabouts to every creature within a hundred meters.

  The riverbank is lined with boulders draped with green moss. Light filters through the trees in long golden bands. The river’s water is swift, and at least five meters from bank to bank.

  And there, on the opposite bank, is the slaycon.

  My blood runs as cold as the river.

  How did he get over there?

  Storm’s tongue laps water into his mouth, eyes pinned to his prey. He saw me long before I saw him.

  One point for the monster.

  I have the advantage of the river between us, but Storm is downwind, which means he can smell my fear wafting over the water.

  Storm goes on drinking, untroubled by my arrival.

  I untie the water bottle from my belt and dunk it into the river. When it’s full, I harvest smooth stones from the riverbed and drop them into the bag. Storm never takes his eyes away from me.

  When I have collected about twenty stones, I remove two from the bag and fit one into the leather pouch of the slingshot. With a single motion, I raise my arm, pull, aim, and fire. The bands snap. The stone whistles through the air just over Storm’s head, shattering on a boulder behind him.

  Storm turns toward the noise.

  Exactly what I was hoping for.

  I’ve already tucked a second stone into the shot pouch and fire again. This time the stone sails across the water and pounds the brute in the snout.

  A hit but also a miss.

  I was aiming for his eye. A half-blind slaycon would make my day much easier.

  Storm recoils and whimpers with the impact. He shakes his head, snarls, and charges straight into the river.

  This isn’t supposed to happen.

  Storm is up to his stomach now, holding his tail and head high to stay balanced in the current. Water batters his side and swirls around his shoulders.

  I fit another stone in the sling.

  Before I can pull back and aim, Storm vanishes under the surface and does not return. The river rolls on as if he was never there.

  Seconds pass.

  No bubbles appear.

  No churning of water from a desperate beast.

  Nothing.

  Hope blossoms in my chest.

  Could it really be this easy?

  Could I kill a slaycon simply by luring him into the river and letting him drown?

  Will that even count?

  How will I fish him out to prove he is dead?

  These questions are eclipsed by a new and less comforting thought: What if this beast can actually swim? What if he’s underwater, paddling his way to my side of the river?

  I return the slingshot to the bag, grab my dagger, and point it at the river. Nothing moves or changes beyond the bits of twigs and leaves riding the current. If Storm surfaces in front of me, I will have the upper hand. While he heaves his bulk onto the shore, I will unleash a fury of blows with my blade.

  My battle plans are interrupted by a splash and a grunt. Downriver, Storm’s dark head bobs up and down, struggling to keep his snout above water. He crashes into a rock, bouncing him toward the shore.

  My side of the shore.

  Storm scrambles up the riverbank and collapses on the ground, exhausted. Silent as a shadow, I creep from tree to tree until Storm is only five meters away. Surely he knows I’m here and understands the danger. By the look of it, he’s too worn out from his underwater adventure to do anything about it.

  The distance between us shrinks to three meters.

  Then two.

  Storm’s coarse hair is speckled with drops of water, glistening in the sun as though he’s covered in diamonds. His tail lies on the ground like a fallen tree. His belly is white, hairless, and exposed. Except for his sides rising and falling with breath, he is as lifeless as the corpse I saw earlier. Soon he will be one.

  I swallow, preparing to pounce and bury my blade in his gut.

  One step, then another. I’m so close now, I can see the wrinkles on Storm’s stomach and the bones of his rib cage. I recall my lessons with Galil on the Science of Nature, specifically the design of animals, and envision where his heart beats beneath layers of skin and muscle. If I angle my blade right, I can puncture it with just one stab. Steady now.

  Storm’s haunches tremble. His tail blurs and I’m knocked off my feet. The blade flies from my hand. I hit the ground and roll away while Storm springs to his feet, fully recovered and preparing to strike again.

  The plunge in the river was a trick, a trap to lure me to him. How many young Singas has he defeated exactly like this?

  Storm positions himself over my blade, twisting side to side, chopping the air with the long reach of his tail. I leap and bend and dodge, appreciating all those hours in the training hall with Kaydan.

  I need to get Storm away from my weapon. The next time Storm’s tail swings, I run as if I’ve been shot from a catapult, bounding down the riverbank. My ears angle back to confirm Storm’s pursuit. His claws scrape earth and rocks as he springs from boulder to ground to tree stump. The forest to my left and the river to my right form a tunnel of green and bluish gray. Storm’s hot breath pulses on my tail. He’s closing in for a bite.

  I tuck my tail. A shadow covers me. Storm’s scent is overpowering, as if he’s right on top of—

  I drop and watch Storm sail overhead. This would be the perfect moment to strike upward if I had my weapon. Storm wastes no time regrouping for another attack. His haunches quiver and I know what’s coming. That blasted tree trunk of a tail is about to—

  Whump!

  The tail lands centimeters from my head and lifts again for another strike.

  I whirl and bolt back the way I came, heading straight for my blade.

  Storm gives chase, and this time he’s lagging behind, breathing hard. His dunk in the river must have cost him, after all.

  I return to the spot of our first tussle; my weapon blazes daylight at me like a beacon. I dive, grab the hilt, roll, and leap, expecting to find Storm bearing down on me.

  Yet Storm is nowhere in view.

  I strain my ears, combing the forest for the pop of a twig or the crackle of a leaf crushed underfoot. The scene is eerily quiet except for the warble of the river. The breeze carries no scent, save the aromas of earth and water.

  How could a slaycon just vanish?

  What’s his game?

  My feet fall back, moving upstream. Storm must be somewhere nearby, collecting his strength, waiting. Or he’s running away from the river to draw me into new terrain, into a different trap.

  “Show yourself!” I shout to the trees, a thousand unseen critters, and one slaycon.

  “Aren’t you hungry?”

  A bird calls, and its mate responds with a similar-sounding trill.

  “I’m right here!”

  I’m still backing up, stepping gingerly over rocks, through the mud.

  “You stupid, smelly hairball!!!”

  The next step lands my right foot in a narrow gap between two rocks. I yowl and tumble backwards, but my foot holds fast. My view is limite
d, and the fur around my lower leg and ankle feels ripped. I pull and heave and yank, which does nothing but deepen the gash and release a stream of blood into the darkness below.

  I picture my severed leg discovered in this very spot after Storm has devoured the rest of me. I imagine the news coming to Grandfather and spreading around Singara that the prince failed to make a kill because of a stuck foot. They would say it was meant to be, the expected outcome of nature stacked against me.

  Tamir, of course, would not mourn my death.

  The thought of that traitor and the searing pain of my leg makes me wail: “Aaaaggghhhh!”

  A muted roar sounds in the distance, echoing my cry.

  Storm.

  He sounds off again. Louder this time, which means he’s putting more air behind it or, more likely, he’s getting closer.

  I clutch my blade and dig at the base of the rock pinning my leg. When the rock is loose enough, I pull, and the mud releases my bloody leg with a belch.

  Scraps of skin and fur dangle from my leg. When I try to extend it or move my foot, a lightning bolt of pain shoots through.

  At least I’m free.

  There’s no way I can outrun Storm now. Standing and fighting won’t be easy. Can he smell my blood? My fear?

  I could really use some help, but I’m all alone out here.

  A name forms on my trembling lips, the name of the hunter. Or . . . Ori . . . What was it?

  “Oreyon!”

  Though I summoned him, the appearance of Oreyon startles me. He sits at my right hand, his fine cloak draped on the muddy riverbank. He is no longer a phantom, a quasi-physical apparition. He is real. Vivid. Solid. Completely in this world.

  “What took you so long!” he bellows. “Do you have any idea how aggravating it is to be invisible, floating around you all afternoon and powerless to do anything to help? It’s enough to drive us all insane!”

  “I’ve got a problem here.”

  “What? That?” He examines my bloodied leg. “That is fortunate!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can use your injury to lure the beast close to you. Slaycons can be lazy when they think the kill is certain. Let him draw near. And then use his confidence against him!”

  “Will that work?”

  “It is your best course, young prince. Unless you would like me to butcher the beast for you, which I would gladly do. It will only take a moment.” He grabs my blade and draws himself up.

  I tug on his arm. “No, I can do this.”

  Oreyon returns the blade to me, smiling.

  “I understand,” I say. “You can go now.”

  The hunter sighs. “There is much you do not yet understand, Lord. But I will go, as you command.”

  He does. And I am alone again.

  I remove the bag from my belt and dump out the contents. The stones tumble to the ground. The slingshot gets tucked into my belt. My foot goes back in the hole, which is much more spacious without the rock. I toss my blade three meters away, between me and where Storm is likely to approach from.

  I scream again and clasp my leg as if my foot were still stuck. I moan and whimper, playing the part of trapped prey.

  Storm slides into view, emerging from an outcrop of rocks, and slithers forward. He pauses over my blade, gives it a good sniff, and presses it into the ground with his front foot.

  I yank at my leg and claw the ground, trying to appear desperate. Despite my lack of experience in pretending, Storm seems convinced enough. He saunters closer, nostrils drawing in the aromas of my blood and fear. His eyes sparkle with glee. When Storm is only a meter away, his jaws part, revealing knifelike teeth dripping with venomous saliva.

  Almost there.

  Storm is so close, I can see the grime lining his gums and hear the rumble in his throat. His scent covers me like a moldy blanket.

  He twitches, preparing to strike.

  I grab the bag and pounce, limbs splayed out, ignoring the burst of pain in my injured leg. Storm’s jaws snap, but he’s too late. I now have four or five precious seconds before he can open his mouth again. Leapfrogging over his snout to his neck, I loop the bag over his head, yanking it all the way up to the ears, and pull the drawstring. Satisfied the bag is secure, I hop down. My injury screams with the impact. Storm writhes and shakes his head, but the bag holds. I reach for my dagger as Storm’s tail sweeps the ground and flings my legs out from under me.

  I should have anticipated that.

  I land in a heap and scamper on all fours like a panicky insect to my blade. I spin, dirty weapon in hand. Storm has gone off the attack, dragging his head along the ground in a failing attempt to remove the bag, whining like a wounded pup.

  It worked! He’s confused. Struggling. Defenseless.

  Easy to kill.

  I glide forward, noting the multiple targets available to me: the throat, under the forearm, the white of his belly. My body sizzles. For the first time my blade isn’t a burden, but an extension of my arm. With it, I will rip away this killer’s life.

  Is this how it feels to be a warrior? Ready and eager to take life? Confident of the outcome?

  Storm rolls onto his side. He rakes his head across the ground, but the bag clings to him like a determined parasite.

  Even better. Now the whole of his underside is facing me, a wide-open invitation to finish this with a single thrust into his black heart. Storm’s clawing at the bag becomes weak and labored.

  Goodbye, murderer.

  Had that thought never entered my mind, the hunt would have ended right there. I would have stabbed him as easily as puncturing a sack of grain. I would have secured my place among the Pride and cemented my path to the throne.

  Yet with Storm twisting on the ground, looking helpless and defenseless, I am moved with compassion against all logic and reason. Besides, making a kill like this would turn me into a murderer. Not that Storm would hesitate to do the same.

  But isn’t that the point?

  Isn’t that what separates me from him . . . or from the Maguar?

  I guide the tip of my blade to Storm’s exposed throat and sneak it under the bag’s drawstring. With a jerk the string is cut, and the bag loosens. Feeling the change, Storm pushes it off with his forelegs. In a heartbeat, he’s back on his feet, dazed and feverish.

  Without a second thought for the Singa who just spared his life, Storm charges, preparing to bite. I dodge, and my blade lands behind his head, lopping off an ear as I roll to the ground.

  Not exactly a death blow. Or a graceful finish.

  Storm howls, spins, and leaps. I dive under him and land a decent slice to his underside and another to his right back foot. Blood squirts onto my face and torso.

  Score two for me.

  I scurry back while Storm teeters about on his injured foot, snarling and hissing.

  My own ankle is throbbing, but it’s a sight better than his. I suspect Storm will be dead in a matter of minutes from the gash I’ve given him. I hobble away and climb a tree before Storm can take stock of my whereabouts.

  Turns out he’s still paying attention.

  Storm’s nose traces my scent to the base of the tree, where he collapses on his side, head angled upward. From my perch, it’s clear his belly wound is not as deep as I hoped.

  He’s down but clearly not done.

  I was foolish to jump into the first available tree. Now Storm will wait me out. Meanwhile, the sun is sinking. There are maybe two hours of daylight left.

  I wiggle onto a sturdy-looking limb and Storm crawls, matching me centimeter for centimeter. I slide back to the trunk to review my options. I have my blade and my slingshot, but no rocks. And no bag. Not that the bag-over-the-head trick will work twice.

  And I have . . . the pellet Anjali gave me!

  I had forgotten. I was supposed to swallow it as soon as I entered the Border Zone to mask my scent. Now it will do me about as much good as eating the bark off this tree.

  Maybe it isn’t completely u
seless.

  Holding the pellet and slingshot in my right hand, I loop my left arm around the branch. Heart pounding against my rib cage for the umpteenth time today, I slide off the branch. My legs and tail dangle for a terrifying moment.

  Storm perks up, his tail brushing the ground. As I shimmy my way down, he tries to jump, but his damaged foot will not cooperate.

  Storm balances on his good rear leg, stretching up the trunk with his forelegs. When I’m about a meter from his snout, I tighten my leg grip on the tree and fit the pellet into the slingshot. It’s an awkward position for a shot, but I can’t be picky.

  The pellet won’t do any damage. I only want to stimulate his jaws to snap shut. That will give me five precious seconds to jump down and finish him off before he can open his mouth for another bite.

  Slaycon hunt theorem number four.

  Problem is, his mouth is already closed, bared teeth guarding the entrance. I will have to tempt his appetite. I wiggle lower and allow my bloody right foot to dangle, still hugging the trunk between my knees. A drop of my blood falls.

  Storm’s eager mouth opens.

  Just what I wanted.

  I take aim and release the shot pouch. The pellet vanishes into the tunnel of Storm’s throat. However, Storm is too focused on my foot to notice or care.

  His mouth does not close.

  Instead he reaches higher, mouth agape, pushing himself up on his tail. His jaws snap, and I feel teeth puncturing my right leg.

  No!

  Triumphant, Storm lowers himself to the ground and waits.

  The new pain doesn’t last long. A tingling sensation climbs the length of my leg until it goes completely slack, hanging like a piece of meat. I grip the tree with my claws, but I know it is only a matter of time.

  I’ve lost. It’s over.

  In seconds, my waist is numb, and all feeling retreats from my other leg and torso. My arms become limp, and thoughts become foggy. My claws are all that’s left, and soon they too give way under the spell of the slaycon’s venom.

  Then I’m falling.

 

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