The Hunter

by Rose Estes

  Blinking to adjust his eyes and take in what little light was available, Braldt backed up against the ledge, knowing that it would provide the only protection available. The ledge was too high to permit an animal to drop down upon him. If he could edge as close as possible to the precipice he could only be approached from the front and the right, narrowing the odds somewhat. But as his fingers felt their way along the rock, the rock fell away suddenly several paces short of the edge of the plateau.

  Braldt whirled, wondering if his eyes had been tricked by the shadows, had missed the opening of a cave where some creature might even now be waiting to spring. There was no cave. What there was, what Braldt’s eyes had failed to find, was a slender trail that led along the edge of the precipice, flanked on one side by the steep rising cliff and on the other side by empty air. The trail was narrow, but it was wide enough for a lupebeast… and wide enough for Braldt to follow.

  2

  The ledge rose steadily beneath Braldt’s feet. As warm as it was during the day, the temperature fell swiftly when the sun went down, and the cold night air came out of the north and swept around him, cutting through his thin blue robes and chilling him to the bone. Worse than the cold, the wind ushered his scent before him, announcing his presence to any who might lurk in the darkness.

  The smell of water was stronger now, reminding Braldt of his own hunger and thirst. It had been two days since he had last eaten, and that had been a small ground squirrel eaten raw. His only moisture had been that which he was able to extract from the bitter, oily leaves of the ciba, a skeletal, thorny bush that grew in the dry red desert sands. But he put the thought from him, knowing that he could drink his fill after the lupebeast had been found. For now he concentrated on keeping his footing. The edge of the trail crumbled beneath his weight and the darkness of the defile yawned, waiting for his first and last misstep.

  Then, suddenly, the cliff fell away beneath his fingers and there was nothing before him but cold, empty darkness. Fighting down the panic, his questing fingers sought the solid comfort of the rock and found it curving away at a sharp angle to his left. The trail itself had ended for there was nothing but empty space beyond. Clinging to the rock and pressing his back hard against the cliff, he peered around the abrupt corner and saw that the trail resumed on the far side. Starlight and the rising crescent of moon revealed a fresh scar where a large section of rock had broken away carrying the trail with it.

  Braldt inched backward until he reached a relatively wide spot. He turned so that he faced inward toward the cliff and then retraced his steps. It would be tricky, but if he could retain his footing and straddle the open space, perhaps he could gain the other side.

  His fingers seized a bit of rock that seemed firmly bedded in the cliff, and placing all his weight on his left foot, he moved his right foot out over the broken trail, searching blindly for the other side, and found nothing. Sharp, stinging sweat dripped into his eyes and his stomach fluttered nervously. A rock stinger skittered toward him, head down, death-dealing tail coiled above its back, defying gravity. Braldt bared his teeth in hatred and flicked the creature away before it could inflict its painful sting. But where there was one, there would be more. Determined, Braldt moved to the very edge of the chasm and shifted his weight to the right, clinging to the rock by his fingertips as his feet desperately sought secure footing. Rock crumbled and fell beneath the weight of his foot and then held just as his numbed fingers could hold no more.

  He flattened himself against the rock and breathed deeply, feeling the cold night air rasp painfully against his dry throat, wishing that he could somehow quench his thirst. The smell of water hung heavy in the air, tormenting him. Lifting his head, he saw by the light of the swiftly rising moon that he was in a natural amphitheater, circled on all sides by steep walls of rock. At the base of the rock lay a large and black pool, which seeped from the rock itself and contained an image of the rising moon. More important for his purposes was a dark opening, a cleft in the rock, just ahead that could be the lair of the crafty lupebeast, for they were most cautious where they denned. Having no wish to meet the beast on the narrow ledge, Braldt crept forward on silent feet, once more gripping his weapons and trusting his footing to the gods.

  The cleft opened into the face of the cliff and disappeared into utter darkness, giving no clue as to its inhabitant. A rush of fetid air swept overhead, swirling about his head like a strong current, filling his nostrils with the stench of rotten meat and his head with shrill, piercing whistles. Bloodwings! Braldt crouched low, waving his short sword above his head, but he hideous things were gone, sweeping into the night in search of larger prey whom they would settle on and drain of their life’s blood, overwhelming the victim by the sheer weight of their numbers.

  Braldt watched them go with a shudder, knowing that he had been lucky, then turned his attention back to the cave, wondering if it was home to more than the bloodwings. The moon, rising majestically on its course, chose that moment to illuminate the mouth of the cave, revealing bloodwing droppings and numerous tracks imprinted in the dust, tracks of the lupebeast whom he had been seeking. Braldt raised his face to the Moon Mother and let her benedictions shine down upon him, knowing that she could safeguard him with her blessed presence only so long as he was within her radiant sight.

  Glancing upward one last time, taking courage from the siiver-white globe that was his god, Braldt crept through the narrow opening and paused, allowing his eyes to become adjusted to the darkness within. To his surprise he found that the cave was larger than he had anticipated, spreading away before him in all directions with a multitude of ledges and nooks that would provide comfortable dens to a score of more lupebeasts. The cave itself was well lit, for the brightness of the Moon Mother filtered down through numerous long cracks that dimpled the surface of the low roof, and he nodded to himself, comforted by this omen that his god was with him. The roof was obviously unstable and at some point in the near future, it would fall, but with any luck, the lupebeast would have no further need for its shelter.

  A long, low, rumbling growl filled the cavern, raising the short hairs on the back of his neck and turning him toward the sound. Braldt saw not one but five pairs of green eyes glowing at him out of the darkness! Crouching low, crossing the sword and dagger before him, he tensed for the attack, wondering bitterly how it was that he had failed to consider that the den might be shared by more than one beast.

  There was no more time for thinking for the beast was upon him, springing out of the darkness and landing behind him rather than before him at the mercy of his weapons.

  Braldt whirled and raised his sword as the beast sprang forward, paws extended, hoping to pin him to the ground. Braldt slipped to the side and lunged forward, trying to end the battle quickly for its companions would undoubtedly join the battle soon, dragging him down by sheer numbers. The lupebeast leaped aside as soon as it touched down, easily evading Braldt’s charge.

  Braldt and the beast circled, eyes locked upon each other, searching for a weakness. Braldt feinted left and the lupebeast countered, malevolent intelligence glinting in its eyes. It almost seemed as though the animal was laughing at him, toying with him before the audience of others who had not joined the fray but lay watching from a ledge like spectators at the games.

  The lupebeast darted forward and slashed at Braldt’s leg. Braldt sliced downward, but the beast was already gone, circling behind him and then dashing in to rip at the other leg before trotting away contemptuously with its back to him as though he offered no danger at all. Braldt felt the blood pouring down his legs, the pain burning hot along the edges. He knew that this battle could not be won by strength or power, but by cunning.

  Crying aloud as though he had been grievously wounded, Braldt allowed the dagger to clatter to the ground and then, clutching his leg, curled up in a pathetic fetal bundle, whimpering and whining in pain.

  The lupebeast circled suspiciously, sniffing the air as though sniffing out h
is intent for surely it had known that he was not seriously injured. Closer and closer it came, head extended, sniffing at him, almost touching him and then retreating to stare in puzzlement. Braldt shrieked loudly each time the beast drew near and made no move to reach for his dagger that lay in plain view. This at last seemed to convince the lupebeast. It gathered itself and sprang forward, striking Braldt full force. But Braldt was prepared this time and rolled onto his back, stabbing upward with his sword, stabbing upward with all his might between the legs of the beast, grim satisfaction filling his heart as he felt the blade pierce the thick sternum and penetrate the hard, fibrous muscle of the heart itself.

  Hideous shrieks erupted from the mouth of the beast as it flung itself backward in agony, its efforts serving only to impale itself farther on the blade. Mortally wounded, it slavered and bit at its body, rending its own flesh in an attempt to rid itself of the offending blade. Hot blood pulsed down upon Braldt with every beat of the dying heart, and he held the sword with grim pleasure, savoring each convulsion and utterance of pain, unaware that his lips were drawn back, bared in a grimace of a smile.

  And then it was done, with a final tormented shudder. The beast hung heavy and unmoving on the blade. Braldt flung it from him and scrambled to his feet, scooping the dagger from the ground, ready for the others that would surely come now. Blood poured down his body, drenching his robes, blood of the lupebeast and blood of his own from a score of long furrows inflicted by the dying creature’s claws. His legs shook with tremors of nervous shock as his body reacted to the great surge of adrenaline that had carried him through the initial attack. He fought it off, waving the blade before him, waiting for the next attack, wondering whether they would come at him one at a time or all in a rush. They did neither. The green eyes still glowed from the ledge, but now there were nervous blinks as well as low whines of uncertainty.

  There was something odd about the sound. Blade outstretched cautiously before him, Braldt approached the ledge. In the dim light that filtered in through the cracks, he saw what he had not seen before, the five sets of glowing eyes belonged to a litter of pups, lupebeast pups. As he advanced toward them they began to whimper and whine, shifting nervously from paw to paw, sensing that something was amiss.

  He dispatched four of the cubs swiftly, avoiding their snarling, snapping jaws, which, despite their young age, were still capable of inflicting painful bites. But the fifth pup made no effort to avoid him and stared up into his eyes calmly with quiet resolve. It would not follow its littermates into death crying and cringing. With the courage of a warrior it held its eyes even with his own as he raised his weapon and brought it down with a clang, turning the blade aside and striking the ledge at the last moment.

  Something in the young eyes held him, spoke to him in a language beyond speech. He could not kill the pup. Braldt was filled with confusion that he did not understand. How could he allow a lupebeast pup to live? It was unthinkable. And yet there was something about the eyes…

  Braldt cocked his head to one side and studied the pup, and it cocked its head and stared back. It might have been a trick of the light, but it seemed that the pup’s eyes glinted with humor and one corner of its lips tilted up with the hint of a grin so familiar that it nearly stopped Braldt’s heart.

  Artallo! Could it be? It was said that lupebeasts were dishonored warriors born again. But Artallo had never dishonored himself or his rank. Could it be that the spirit of his friend had somehow found its way into this small creature’s body?

  Braldt turned his back on the animal, his thoughts raging inside his head. He raised his dagger once but lowered it immediately, knowing that he would be unable to kill the creature. Disgust and anger pulsed within him as he crossed to the carcass and withdrew his sword, wiping the gore from the blade on the beast’s flanks. Only then did he take note of the heavy dugs and realize that he had slain a nursing female. He wondered briefly what the cubs had eaten while the shebeast had been away from the lair, for she had been gone for more than six moonsets. But the thought vanished when he saw that the pup had crawled down from the ledge and was sitting at his feet staring up at him expectantly.

  Braldt was shaken, his mind filled with conflicting thoughts. A silent voice urged him to take the pup and return with it, but another voice argued that the pup was a dangerous enemy and commanded him to kill it immediately.

  Braldt turned from the pup’s bright eyes and staggered toward the entrance, scarcely aware of the blood running down his legs or the numerous other wounds that he had sustained. The cool night air licked at his skin, bringing with it the clean scent of water, and he hurried forward, unthinking.

  Suddenly the light was blotted from view and a great weight struck him full in the chest carrying him backward into the cave, toppling him from his feet. He struck the ground heavily, the air forced from his lungs, and rolled to the side, more from habit and training than from cogent thought. Only when he heard the deep, rumbling growl did he realize that he had been attacked by a second lupebeast.

  Braldt reacted swiftly, bringing up his hands and seizing the beast’s neck, desperately attempting to keep its jaws from finding his own throat. The hot stink of its breath came full upon his face, all but gagging him with its foulness. Thick, clotted growls of fury came from the creature’s jaws and ropes of foamy drool looped across his face and neck. Flinging himself to one side, Braldt sought to throw the animal from himself in order to reach his sword, but the animal found its footing and dove forward, jaws snapping, seizing his upper shoulder in its teeth.

  Braldt felt the teeth sink through the heavy muscles and scrape the very bone itself. The pain was akin to being immersed in fire. Now the lupebeast was scrambling for a foothold and jerking him backward like some recalcitrant bit of dead meat. Braldt all but fainted from the pain. Darkness swept over him and explosions of red cartwheeled before his eyes as the taste of coppery bile filled his throat. Each time the beast tugged at his arm, the darkness came closer.

  The pain had him now, totally engulfing his mind from his body in a way that he did not understand. While his body was being mauled by the beast, his mind dealt with the problem. At least one, if not both, of the great curved incisors had penetrated his shoulder, as well as both rows of teeth at the front of the jaw. Those teeth pointed inward and back, which meant that they could not release their grip as long as his weight pulled against them. Therefore, so long as he was held by the beast’s jaws, it could not bite him elsewhere. In a manner of speaking, while it held him, it was helpless to defend itself.

  The logic of his thoughts progressed slowly through his numbed mind. Reaching across his body, under the throat of the lupebeast, Braldt drew his knife from its sheath and, forcing his arm to move, raised the blade. Things seemed to move in slow motion, taking two or even three times the span of time that they would take in real life. Slowly, inexorably, the knife came up, up, up, and then, at last, pierced the outstretched throat of the lupebeast, severing it, slicing through one, then both of the great arteries that lay on either side of the neck. Soon the beast ceased to growl, its voice box ruptured, and shook its head from side to side, jerking Braldt and his rag-doll body with it as it raged against the pain, feeling its life slipping away.

  The darkness came then and carried Braldt away on waves of blackness, its peaks tinged with crimson, and blessedly he allowed himself to slip beneath the surface into nothingness.

  It was that same pain that brought him back, depositing him on the shores of consciousness like some bit of storm-tossed jetsam. His shoulder was still anchored between the jaws of the dead beast, ripped and torn into a gruesome mess of shredded flesh. The dead eyes of the beast stared into his own and a carrion fly crawled across the unblinking surface.

  The air was thick with humming fat, blue-bodied flies. They swarmed in a solid mat over the clotted blood of the beast’s wounds, as well as his own. He could feel them moving, burrowing into his torn flesh to feed and lay their eggs that would be cem
ented in place by a mixture of mucus and feces. Disgust welled up in him, and bringing up his free arm, he tried to dislodge the lupebeast’s jaws.

  At the first move, the carrion flies rose up in a buzzing metallic-hued swarm, then settled again to continue gorging on the blood. He felt them squash beneath his palm as he beat upon the dead beast. The pain threatened to overcome him again, but he bit down on his lip, bringing fresh pain that held the darkness at bay. He pushed and pried at the jaws, at the clenched teeth, but they would not loosen their grip, held in place firmly by the rictus of death.

  Braldt felt around on the hard stony ground and found his knife. Slowly, and with great deliberation, holding the pain back by sheer willpower, he hacked at the lupebeast’s muzzle, chipping away at the bone until he severed the upper jaw completely. Only then was he able to remove the terrible teeth from his flesh. The pain was so great that again he was forced to give in to it and the darkness curled over him once more.

  The flies were crawling inside his mouth and exploring his nostrils when he wakened, and he spat them out like stones and staggered out from beneath the corpse of the lupebeast, which was beginning to swell and stink with putrefaction.

  His legs shook with weakness and he knew they would not carry him down the narrow, treacherous trail. The air was thick with the stink of the dead lupebeasts and the clouds of flies. Braldt moved back into the cool shadows of the cave, realizing that it was midday and dimly wondering how long he had lain unconscious. The passage of time did not matter, thirst and fever would kill him if he did not find some way of assuaging both.

  He could barely feel the rough ground beneath his feet; it almost seemed as though he were floating, bumping along beneath the ceiling, his feet a thousand leagues below. He looked down and nearly toppled over, so great was the distance to his toes. His arm was caked with blood and dirt and hung useless at his side, unfeeling. But his tongue, ah, his tongue was swelled to thrice its normal size and filled his mouth like a rock. A very dry rock.