Hunter

by Mercedes Lackey

  Then came a short stretch of hilly, rocky terrain where it would be far too easy to turn an ankle. And I was being shot at now.

  I felt something zing past me! Just a rubber bullet that I somehow hadn’t deflected? Or a real bullet? I didn’t have time to even think about it. The clock was running! Was I behind, or ahead? Then another water obstacle, this time a stretch I had to cross on floating logs.

  A rope hanging down into the trail warned me before I fell into the pit trap. I made a leap for the rope as the trap opened up underneath me, caught it, and swung myself over to the other side. Then came a three-rope bridge to get across as fast as possible while being shot at—I got hit twice by rubber bullets on that. I was just happy they hadn’t been real ones.

  Then a pit too wide to jump—I had to drop down into it, discover it was full of snakes and big bugs, recognize that they were harmless, and climb out on the other side.

  Then a single-rope traverse across another pit. Also while being shot at. Magic, this time, so nothing got through, though I got knocked around on the line a lot. By this time my breath was burning in my lungs, my hands were scraped up from the rope, I was bruised and battered, the clock was running, and I had no idea how long it was going to take me to get to the end.

  And dropping down off the rope was when I found myself on the edge of another drop, down into a round, flat area covered in nothing but sand. But it was ringed with people and guns, and on the other side was the flat, red, concrete slab that marked the end. It was surrounded by Elite Hunters. Oh, crap. This would be a great place to take me out. As in, permanently.

  Obviously, I was meant to run straight across there, under a hail of rubber bullets and magic. And probably there were all sorts of ankle-turning objects hidden under all that soft sand. Or maybe the sand was knee-deep.

  I launched myself off to the left, dropping down within inches of the Elite Hunter nearest me. Startled, he jumped back, then had to jump again and put up his Shield as all the guns started to fire in our direction. I drop-rolled, jumped to my feet, ran a few steps, still skirting along the edge of the sand where I was pretty sure the footing was good, drop-rolled again, shouldered one of the Elites aside when he got in my way, ran the last few steps full-out, and stumbled onto the red concrete—

  —where I bent over double, panting and exhausted. The clock was stopped…for now.

  The Elites all filed out of doors that opened up in the wall behind them, a door opened behind me, and the voice in the speakers said, “Trial One complete: Hunter Joyeaux passes.”

  But there was a tear along the top of my pack. Either I’d snagged it on something—or one of those rounds had been live.

  I ATE TWO of those food packets in the tunnel, and hoped like anything that I wasn’t going to need my Shield for a while. Now that it was over, I could hardly believe I’d gotten through that with as little damage as I had. I don’t think I’d ever gone full-out for that long before, and that was just the first Trial. I hoped the second one would be something that would at least let me catch my breath. And I tried not to think of the damage to my pack and what it might mean.

  I came out into another part of the stadium field. Ahead of me was a flat stretch of faux turf boxed in by walls.

  Then I knew what the next Trial was. And in this one, depending on who my opponent was, I might or might not have to be on guard for treachery. This was hand-to-hand combat, and the first opportunity for someone to arrange an “accident.”

  Now this was one of the Trials where I could be in trouble, besides being a chance for our unknown enemy to get his licks in. I could definitely fail out here, putting us back to square one.

  Hey, there was nothing in the rules that said I had to fight in my full pack, so I shrugged out of it, left it at the side, and stepped out onto the field. Or, more properly, into the field of combat. And that was when the armorer stepped out onto the other side himself, and I knew all I had to concentrate on was my performance.

  So the last time we did this little dance, I’d been caught off guard, and we were in a relatively small room. Nothing in the rules said I had to win this thing, either. I just had to avoid defeat for fifteen minutes. That might not work so well for someone who was strictly trained in offensive arts, but my Masters taught defense first.

  The speaker said, “Begin,” and the armorer came right at me, as I had figured he would.

  As far as the observers were concerned, I just stood there and let the armorer rush me. Then, somehow, I completely avoided his foot to my face, lightly brushed at his leg, and he ended up having to scramble to save himself from going arse-over-teakettle.

  It’s all energy and leverage. Your opponent supplies all the energy, you get off the line of attack and apply leverage at exactly the right time and place, and they send themselves flying.

  The difference between our first bout and this one was pretty simple; I was ready for him this time. I had plenty of time, and could give myself plenty of distance to see what he was going to do. And—and this is the important thing—remember, I wasn’t trying to beat him. When you are trying to beat an opponent, it puts you in an entirely different headspace, where you start to act instead of react, and where you start taking risks.

  The plan was working. The armorer was working up a heck of a sweat; I was actually getting some of my energy back.

  Finally a horn sounded, and the armorer aborted his attack, turning it into a deep bow, which I returned.

  “Well fought,” he said—then muttered under his breath, “You were holding back the first time!” Then he winked.

  I shook my head no, but I wasn’t given a chance to follow up on that, as one of the doors into the fighting space opened up and the speakers said, “Trial Two: Hunter Joyeaux passes.”

  I picked up my pack and headed for the door.

  This time it was only a door, leading into yet another section of the stadium floor, where the clock started again. I went cold, because I figured I was about to be shot at. There was a very good chance one or more of the things shooting at me was going to have a lethal load this time. Now was the time to get really scared. If someone was going to take me out, this was the time to do so.

  I did get scared; and then I used it. Fear is a natural instinct, and anyone who says it isn’t, and that you can get past fear, is lying. You can never eliminate it or get past it. But you can make it work for you.

  They called it the “Shooting Gallery,” which it kind of was.

  The speakers said, “Trial Three: begin.”

  I figured that I stood a better chance of not getting in the way of bruises or a lethal load if I took my time. But running would also leave me exhausted for the fourth and final Trial, the Magic Duel, which was going to need everything I had. Whatever other skills the Elites had, they had to be masters of magic.

  So I would be steady. Deliberate. Methodical. And above all, focused.

  I started my run between the two long lines of pop-up targets. The targets popped up and back down again a lot faster than I liked. Enemy, enemy, enemy—friendly! It was in no pattern at all, but I had to shoot every enemy or it would shoot me, and I had to avoid shooting any friendlies. By the time I exhausted the ammo for my rifle and moved on to my pistol, I had two more bruises to show. I tried not to think too hard about the fact that every time I missed an enemy target, the bullet that came at me could be a live round. I only got one more bruise when I finished the crossbow bolts, and the last target got my knife right between the eyes, and it was over.

  I stopped where I was. The clock stopped. The left-hand part of the Gallery parted, another door opened up beyond it, and the speakers said, “Trial Three: Hunter Joyeaux passes.”

  Was I going to be lucky? Were Josh and Mark right? Was it just too risky to make a try at me during the Trials? Had our enemies given up?

  Were these enemies only things that existed in our heads?

  I didn’t want to have to deal with this. I was all cold and knotted up inside. I
wanted to call the whole thing off, wanted to call Dusana to me and bamph out of there. But I couldn’t, because if I did, not only would I always be running, but the Mountain would be endangered, Uncle would still be vulnerable to whoever was using me against him, and I’d never get justice for Karly. Maybe Mark and Josh would be in danger too, since they had associated with me. This wasn’t just about me. It never had been, actually.

  I managed, somehow, to get myself moving. I shrugged out of my pack and left it with my discarded weapons. Nothing could go on to the fourth Trial but me and the clothing I stood up in. The only weapons I was allowed were those I already had inside myself. I forced myself to take those hard, hard steps through that door, into the dark tunnel, and finally, out into the light again.

  It was another sort of space of the kind where I had met with the armorer—but this time it was ringed with Hunters. Twelve of them, evenly spaced around the bounds of a circle defined by a band of red turf. Of them, I recognized only the armorer.

  Behind them, in another ring, were the packs, including mine. No distracting shapes and colors for my Hounds today; they were still holding to the greyhound and wolf shapes, with only the shifting shadows and glowing eyes to show what they were.

  But waiting for me in the center of the ring was someone I did recognize.

  Ace.

  I felt shocked—and oddly, not shocked. I knew Ace was something hot in the way of a Mage, and the rules said that the Elite—or anyone who was as good as Elite—could be the challenger in both the hand-to-hand and the magic rounds. Here I had assumed it would be one of the Elite. I really hadn’t considered that Ace would be good enough, but I should have. He wouldn’t have made it to number one on the leader boards and kept that position for so long on looks and flash alone.

  But why was he here? Was this a chance for him to exercise a purely personal grudge, because he thought my neglect had killed his brother, Paules? He could do that just by defeating me. Was he actually the enemy, the one who had slipped in the Vamp, or was it someone else? Or was he here because someone else was using him and his personal grudge?

  I planted all of my attention on him, and then the only thing I knew for sure was that, judging by the glare Ace was giving me, he really did wish me dead. Even surrounded by cameras and Elite, he looked as if he wanted to try to put me in the ground rather than on it.

  But he didn’t move, and neither did I, because a guy with slicked-back hair in a suit so white it glowed was stepping into the middle of the ring.

  “This is the last of the four Trials that will determine if Hunter Joyeaux Charmand attains Elite Hunter status,” he said, his voice coming amplified through the stadium speakers. Well, now I had a face to match to the voice. “This is the Trial of Combat by Magic.” Well, duh, everyone here knew that—but I guess that it had been long enough since the last Trials that the Cits’ little carp brains had reset and they wouldn’t remember, so for the benefit of the later viewing audience, it had to be said. Sure I had used magic in the other trials, but it had been entirely defensive. This would be offensive magic.

  “The rules are simple; each of you will expend his and her magic weapons on each other. You may not use any other form of weapon. If one of you should break the other’s Shield, you may use non-lethal hand-to-hand. You may not call in your Hounds for help or support. You may not get help or support from outside this ring. Do you both understand these rules?”

  “Aye,” I said first. Ace’s glare practically skinned me.

  “Yes,” he snapped.

  “The conflict will be over when one of you is unconscious, disabled, or unable to continue,” the referee—I guessed that was what he was—concluded. He walked out of the ring, and the twelve Elite formed their own personal Shields into one big Shield that covered the entire circle like a dome. Smart move; no point in letting a ricochet or a missed bolt take out five or six rows of seats.

  This was a fight with live, and living, weapons. There was no other way to fight a magic duel. There was no way to hold back, no way to abort a strike, and no way to use the equivalent of rubber bullets. That’s why it was so important for Hunters to get proper training. Your magic only had an on and an off switch. There was nothing in between.

  So this Trial would have had a slight chance of being lethal to one of us even if it was being fought over nothing more than my right to enter the Elite ranks.

  All I could see in Ace’s face was hate.

  I put up my Shield. He did the same.

  The referee walked off the field and the loudspeakers came to life.

  “Trial Four: begin.”

  WE CIRCLED AROUND each other, warily, neither of us ready to make the first move. I didn’t trust that what I’d seen of Ace was all that he could do. I also didn’t trust that he was assuming he knew all I could do. Magic is so very situational, and the problem with using it on the Othersiders is that you might not know what they are or are not going to be affected by. And of course, no sane Hunter would just take on a Folk Mage with straight-on magic. Our best weapons against Othersiders are, in some ways, the crudest: bullets, fire, arrows, artillery, missiles. So far I hadn’t yet demonstrated more than a third of what I actually knew. The big question mark, so far as what he knew of me, was—how much of what we were taught of magic on the Mountain was the same as was taught down here?

  Best to assume that everything was, I figured. My one and only advantage was Ace’s rage. It would make him impatient. The one thing I did know about him was that he really did not have a handle on how to channel his feelings, and giving in to all that anger was going to make him waste energy. Provided we were equal in strength, this fight might well come down to who ran out of steam first.

  There was something terribly unreal about this. Part of me was screaming away, deep inside. Sure, Ace was in a red rage, but would he really try to kill me? It’s one thing to want to kill someone, it’s something else to rain hell down on someone you know and see him start to bleed. It’s one thing to kill monsters, and quite another thing to kill a man. Happens, I have done both. And he might have too, and he might be ready to kill me. But that seemed totally impossible. This was someone I knew. Okay, we hadn’t gotten along all that well, but this wasn’t a Folk Mage, this wasn’t some shadowy unknown, this wasn’t even a scruffy misfit outside in Spillover. This was a fellow Hunter. I’d eaten alongside him, fought alongside him. We slept in the same building, did the same things. And part of me was convinced, even as the other part of me was shrieking inside, that Ace was only going to try to bully and humiliate me, maybe hurt me.

  And I couldn’t pay attention to either of those parts of me. Focus was all that was going to save me. Whether he was planning to murder me or not, this was still deadly serious, not a game, and I had to win it. I had to make Elite. That was the only thing that would buy me and Uncle more time to figure out together how to handle his enemies and mine, how to uncover who had killed Karly.

  Ace began the fight, as I figured he would, but he surprised me a little by doing something subtle. Subtle was not what I expected out of Ace, particularly not replicating my little “grinding” spell on the front of my Shield. I almost laughed—though it was more hysteria than confidence. Did he think I was that stupid that I wouldn’t notice? The moment it touched my Shield, to my Magic senses, he might just as well have painted a big red blotch there.

  And it was my spell, so I knew how to unravel it, which I did.

  Actually I am pretty good at unraveling spells; remember, they are processes, and not things, so all you have to do is find the place where all the components are meshed together, and give a little yank or a push, and the energy that makes the spell work in the first place then pushes on the wrong places, and that same energy makes it all fall apart. The Masters taught us how to do that, because often we found spells set out in fields and forests to work mischief on whatever human ran across them. Unraveling them was part of our job on the Mountain.

  Did Ace know how to
do that? Was there any chance he’d run across a spell trap, ever, inside the Barriers?

  I figured I would find out.

  Because I was also going to find the answer to a second question: did he know that you could put a temporary binding on a transient spell and an ongoing spell, link them, and fire them off both together? This was complicated magic, something you usually didn’t have to use against a mere Monster.

  I set up a barrage of three levin bolts in quick succession, and attached a little gift of my own on the second one. I had more than one way to get through a Shield or a Wall beyond grinding it or battering it down.

  With the bound spells set up for the left hand, pure transients to the right, I thrust out my hands at him, bam, bam, bam! in rapid succession. And the three levin bolts fired from my palms, like little meteors hitting his Shield squarely. The two from the right hand hit at the level of his face—meant to rattle him, since it was wildly unlikely anything would get through the Shield—but the one from the right hand “appeared” to glance off the top of his Shield. “Appeared,” because the real purpose of the levin bolt was to deposit its passenger on the top of his Shield, where he might not notice it working.

  There’s only one way to make Shields, and they are all alike. The only difference between a Shield a human makes, a Shield a Hound makes, and a Shield a Folk Mage makes is that sometimes—so I was taught—a very powerful Folk Mage layers several Shields, one inside the other.

  That didn’t matter here. Neither of us could do that.

  Now if, like the Masters, you have studied the processes intensively, you can introduce other spells to change a Shield. And you can teach your Hunters how to do the same.

  In this case, my little passenger was attaching itself to the process that created Ace’s Shield and changing it, so that the Shield would become harder—and more brittle. When I finally hit that Shield with a blow that shattered it—provided Ace didn’t detect my work and unravel it—I’d have an instant or two of time when I could get to him before he got another Shield spell working.