Hunters Unlucky

by Abigail Hilton

  At last, a creasia face appeared at the entrance—a tan and black animal with pale yellow eyes that stared moodily at Storm. “What do they call you, foal?” It spoke with the strange creasia accent that Storm remembered from the cub in the cave, but Storm managed to parse the words.

  “Vearil.” He did not know why he said it. The word just slipped out.

  Something about the cat’s face grew still. Before he could speak again, Storm continued, “I’m your ill-omen.”

  The cat blinked. “Well, I’m Ariand.”

  “Why should I care?” snapped Storm.

  “I just thought you might like to know the name of the animal who’s going to kill you.”

  Chapter 4. Trapped

  Storm had a suspicion that hiding in a cave from creasia would not be as effective as hiding in a cave from ferryshaft. He was right. The creasia were more patient.

  As the day wore on, and they did not leave, Storm became exceedingly sorry that he had not better planned his escape. What was I thinking?

  He had been thinking, of course, that he would save more ferryshaft, who would then be grateful and less inclined to kill him. He was already an outcast with little to lose…or so he’d thought. Now, watching the creasia pace while his thirst mounted, he began to appreciate the advantages of being merely an outcast. The little cave on the sheep trail began to seem luxurious.

  His current accommodation was no more than four lengths from front to back, with an uneven floor and walls. The ceiling was so low that Storm could not fully stand. Hardly any snow had blown into the narrow mouth, and no ice had formed on the walls, so there was nothing to drink. Storm did notice that the back wall was marked with one of the odd symbols that he had seen in the Great Cave and throughout the boulder mazes. He wished he knew what it meant.

  Ariand came to the entrance near noon, his muzzle dripping with snow melt. “Thirsty yet, foal?”

  Storm shut his eyes. After the morning’s frantic run, his mouth felt as dry as sand. He was hungry as well, though he knew he could go several days without food if necessary. Surely they will eventually get hungry, too, and leave. Storm had never heard of creasia hanging around ferryshaft territory for longer than it took to raid. With an effort, he mastered his misery and escaped into sleep.

  When Storm woke, he raised his head and listened. Not a sound. The fading evening light barely illuminated his cave. Storm sniffed the air. He could detect no scent of cats. His thirst returned, biting.

  Storm came cautiously to the entrance of the cave and looked out. Silence. Evening shadows. Delightful drifts of snow mere lengths away. Storm repressed the urge to scramble out and start gulping up mouthfuls. He thrust his head out and one leg, then hesitated.

  Silence. Not a bird trilled. Not a rat scampered among the rocks. He could not catch even a distant murmur of ferryshaft voices. Storm began to recoil.

  He caught a quick movement out of the corner of his eye, jabbed his hind legs into the lip of rock, and shot backwards just in time. The cat jabbed its paw into the cave and swatted, but Storm was safe for the moment.

  In front of the cave, the creasia were congregating again. They seemed relaxed and confident. One cat caught a rabbit and ate it where Storm could see. “Hungry, foal?”

  Storm watched with growing despair. His head had begun to pound. With no other options, he relieved himself in the corner of the cave. The strong odor of his own concentrated urine made him feel ill. Finally, Storm escaped into sleep once more.

  This time when he awoke the thirst was instant, acute. He struggled to his feet and felt a wave of dizziness. Not even moonlight broke the darkness outside. The moon must have already set. Storm could not hear any noises, but he knew the cats had not left.

  This is hopeless. All they have to do is watch the hole until I starve or go mad with thirst. Did I really think I could outwit them? I only escaped the first time because I was lucky.

  That thought made him laugh. I have never been lucky.

  Storm buried his aching head between his hooves. I should just make a run for it. I’m only getting weaker. Maybe I can outmaneuver them and get to the cliffs.

  This seemed unlikely. He couldn’t even escape the cave’s mouth without wriggling. They’ll rip me in half before I’m even out of the hole.

  Storm heard a grinding sound, and then he felt the wall behind him move. He leapt forward with a stifled yelp. Then, because he had nowhere to flee, he turned around. A section of the cave wall had vanished, leaving a dark, ragged hole. Storm held his breath, half expecting something terrible to emerge. After a few moments of perfect silence, Storm took a cautious step forward.

  He saw no hint of movement in the blackness. A current of cool air wafted gently from the opening, showing that it connected somewhere to the outside. Storm ventured closer and tried to peer in, but he could see nothing.

  He sniffed the incoming breeze. The air in the new chamber was fresh and damp, unlike the fetid stench of the cave. He could see now that it was a natural extension of his current cave—a tunnel. However, a large rock had created a false back wall. He noticed that the odd symbol was located on the rock. Could I have leaned against it? Is that why it moved?

  Storm had to stifle a hysterical laugh. Did I have a way out all the time?

  His ears pricked. Somewhere in the tunnel, he heard water. He took a step forward, but stopped. A strange scent drifted to him on the breeze. He did not remember having smelled it before, yet his fur stood on end.

  Storm glanced at the large rock again. Could I really have moved that by accident? And if I didn’t move it, what did?

  His head throbbed. It was difficult to think. What choice do I have? A moment ago, I was considering running from the cave, knowing full well the cats would kill me. This is a better gamble…isn’t it?

  Storm hesitated between the two openings. I have to decide soon. Outside, he could see the boulder mazes a little more clearly. Dawn was coming. If he escaped from another exit or tried a run from the entrance, he would need the darkness for cover.

  * * * *

  Ariand uncurled from a hollow in the lee of a boulder. He groomed himself, took a few mouthfuls of snow, and then trotted to the place where a sentry waited behind a rock. “Has he done anything?”

  “No, sir. He hasn’t stirred.”

  Ariand waved his tail. “He’ll stir soon or I’m much mistaken.” If he was smarter, he’d have made a break before now. We would still have killed him, but he might have put up a fight. At this rate, he’ll be too weak to even scramble out of the cave.

  If the foal actually died in the cave, Ariand would be disappointed, and his temporary escape was bothering Ariand more than he wanted to admit. Vearil. That can’t be his real name.

  Ariand started away and then changed his mind. “Perhaps I’ll have a peek before I hunt.” I wonder if I can get him talking this morning. I should have tried harder yesterday. Ariand approached the cave slowly. The foal’s extreme silence bothered him. He slunk to the entrance and raised his head over the lip.

  Ariand’s mouth dropped open. He tried to push his head all the way inside, although he could already see every corner of the tiny cave. The foal was gone.

  * * * *

  “He vanished. I have no idea how.”

  Roup noticed that Ariand did not quite meet anyone’s eyes in the council. His posture was defensive. No one spoke for a moment after he’d finished his story.

  “Are you sure you watched the cave all night?” asked Halvery. “The clutter had been awake all day. Perhaps a sentry dozed.”

  “I took sentry duty myself the first half of the night,” said Ariand, “and then left a rotation of four creasia. They had such short shifts, I don’t believe anyone could have fallen asleep.”

  “Well, he had to have gone somewhere,” said Sharmel. “You’re sure that there wasn’t another exit from the cave?”

  “Not that I could see. Of course I couldn’t get all the way inside… But the foal looked misera
ble all afternoon. I think that if he knew another way out, he would have used it.”

  “Not if he was smart,” murmured Roup. “Smart would pretend that he had no escape, wait until the clutter was complacent and mostly asleep, and then slip out the alternate exit. He’d be long gone by the time you started looking.”

  Ariand drooped. He said nothing.

  Halvery snorted. “It’s a foal, Roup, not a fox. And not a cunning ferryshaft with years of experience, either. Ariand, you had the longest shift. You probably went to sleep!”

  Ariand raised his head. He didn’t look at Halvery. He looked at Arcove.

  He thinks he might lose his clutter over this, thought Roup. After losing that fight with Treace...he’s wondering whether Arcove really wants five officers. Roup glanced at Arcove.

  Ariand had been the last officer added during the war. He hadn’t fought for the position. He came to us and said that he could drain the lake. Roup could still remember the gleam in Ariand’s eyes then—little bigger than a half-grown cub. Arcove gave him the cats to try. Afterward, they were his.

  Arcove stretched—a disarming gesture. Ariand relaxed a fraction. “Well, this raid has at least provided us with useful information,” said Arcove. “I wanted to know whether the entire herd is in revolt. From what you say, they are not.”

  “I disagree,” said Treace. “They have broken faith by not killing the foal. This must be punished.”

  Arcove’s tail twitched. “Perhaps, but that is not the same as revolt.” Treace opened his mouth again, but Arcove spoke first. “If they were in revolt, they would have torn Ariand’s hunting party to pieces. Do you really think that ten cats could defend themselves against the entire ferryshaft herd? They allow our culls because they have submitted to our rules. They fear us. Beware the day they don’t.”

  Treace grumbled something about cowards.

  Arcove continued. “As I suspected, the foal was inspired by his success to try again. On the first occasion, he may have been merely running for his life. There is no rule against doing such a thing. However, no such excuse can be made for this second occasion. He is now in clear defiance of the treaty. However…”

  “However,” said Halvery with a grunt, “he’s our problem not theirs.”

  “Correct,” said Arcove. “As long as Charder and the herd elders aren’t helping him, they’re under no obligation to assist us. The day we can’t take care of a problem like this is the day we are no longer frightening enough to rule them. Do I make myself clear?”

  There was a murmur of assent.

  Treace looked thoughtful. “You’re not even going to talk to Charder?”

  Arcove smiled. “Oh, I’ll talk to him. If he’s involved, I’ll know, but I suspect he isn’t. Did you get the information I requested?”

  Treace stood up a little straighter. He was an exceedingly graceful animal with pale brown fur and sharp green eyes. “The foal’s name is Storm.” He paused. “I don’t know why he called himself Vearil.”

  “I could hazard a guess,” said Roup. “It’s probably what the herd has been calling him. The ferryshaft put a lot of store by luck these days. Makes sense, when our culls are so random.”

  “Yes, but why would he call himself that?” asked Treace.

  No one answered.

  “He’ll be three years old in spring,” continued Treace.

  Ariand looked surprised. “I would have guessed two.”

  “Lovely,” grumbled Halvery. “Not only are we being bested by a foal; he’s also a runt.”

  “His father was killed by a raiding party before Storm was born,” continued Treace. “His mother’s name is So-fet. She mated with another male, Dover, and had another foal, a female called Sauny. Storm has been on his own since his first winter. He made a bit of a name for himself by escaping from bigger ferryshaft foals who tried to take his kills. His friends are all low-ranking orphans.”

  Treace paused. “From what I gathered, none of the ferryshaft regard Storm and his family as very remarkable. The herd seems to hold him in disdain. He does not seem likely to attract followers.”

  A murmur of conversation went round the council circle. Roup turned to Treace. “How did you discover all that?”

  “I caught a ferryshaft and told him that I would release him if he talked to me.”

  “And what did you do with him when you were finished?”

  “Killed him, of course.”

  Arcove spoke over the babble. “I think you all realize that we must make an example of this foal while the herd still ‘holds him in disdain.’ If we kill him soon, he will be merely a cautionary tale. Who wants the next bite at this animal?”

  “I do,” purred Treace.

  * * * *

  Almost as soon as Storm entered the tunnel, he smelled the water. He found it difficult to think of anything else, yet he forced himself to go slowly. The passage widened and sloped steeply downward. Storm could hear the clip-clop echo of his own hooves. The echoes seemed terribly loud, and he wondered if the cats could hear them outside.

  He could hear the water now, too. His mouth was so dry… Storm’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the extreme gloom, and he could faintly see the outline of another opening to his right. He followed the sound of the water and peered inside. Somewhere below, an underground stream rushed by in the blackness.

  Storm licked his lips. The stream sounded only a short distance away. The air in the new tunnel felt cool, but no breeze stirred his fur. This was not the way out.

  But when will I get another chance to drink in peace? A whole day had passed since he had had a drink, and he felt weak with thirst. Storm eased into the new passage. It was narrower and angled sharply downhill. He stifled a surge of claustrophobia and continued.

  Finally the tunnel opened up, and Storm found himself on the edge of what sounded like a large river. It rushed by in front of him, cutting its dark path through the stone to either side. Storm buried his face in the stream and gulped. Water had never tasted so sweet.

  As he drank, he became conscious of a faint greenish glow somewhere deep in the stream. It gave just enough light for his adjusted eyes to discern the outlines of his surroundings. Storm was beginning to puzzle over this, when there was a splash directly in front of him and a head popped out of the water.

  Storm gasped. Pale fur, huge blue eyes, something like a seal, but longer, uncoiling out of the water.

  Storm jumped back as the telshee darted forward. In a panic, he turned and raced up the passage. He heard a splash as the creature emerged from the water and the swish of its fur over stone.

  Storm pounded out of the tunnel and started back the way he had come. I’ll take my chances with the creasia. But he stopped before he had gone three steps. Storm blinked and stared in vain for the outline of the hole that led back to his rank little cave. He saw only a faintly glowing green mass strewn along the ground. He caught a glimmer of movement near the place where the hole should have been—white fur, gleaming eyes. They covered my entrance! Storm knew now what the strange scent must be. It was the scent of a telshee.

  Storm ran in the only direction left to him—down the unknown passage in the direction of the incoming breeze. All of the telshee stories that he had ever heard flooded his mind. He wondered how many telshees were in the tunnel. He wondered whether he would run headlong into smothering coils. He wondered whether death under creasia claws would have been quicker.

  Then, suddenly, the tunnel curved sharply upward, and Storm burst out onto open ground. He did not stop running until he had reached a cliff trail—not a sheep trail, but it would have to do. He climbed until dawn, whereupon he lay down on the rocky path, exhausted. He shut his eyes to rest…just for a moment.

  Chapter 5. Round 2: Treace

  When Storm opened his eyes again, it was midmorning—bright and cold and clear. He started to stand up, thought better of it, and lay back down. He didn’t think he’d actually climbed very high last night. His whole body ached, a
nd his head was pounding. He licked up the snow around him on the ground.

  Cautiously, Storm crept to the edge of the path and peered over. As he’d suspected, he was low enough for a clear view of the mazes and the cave that had been his prison. To his delight, the cats were still guarding it. His amusement when they discovered his absence could only be matched by his satisfaction when they left, going south in great haste. “Run home,” he murmured, “and tell everyone that you’ve lost again.”

  When they were gone, Storm made his way quickly down the trail. He caught a rat in its snowy runway among the rocks, and felt much better. He wondered what he should do next. Return to the herd? Find his clique? Try again to find his mother and Sauny?

  As he was debating, he ran into the last person he expected to see—Pathar, foraging alone among the boulders. Storm stopped when he saw him. He almost ran away, but hesitated. Pathar raised his head, saw Storm, and smiled. “So that’s why they left. I didn’t think they looked happy.”

  Storm swallowed. He felt a ridiculous urge to run to Pathar and put his head against his teacher’s shoulder, as he had when he was small. However, caution and dignity prevailed. “Do you want to kill me, Pathar?”

  Pathar cocked his head. “Why would I want that?”

  “Some of the other elders do.”

  Pathar gave a shake of his head. “You’ve survived twice. You’re the creasia’s problem now. I think the elders will leave you alone.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “No, Storm, I don’t want to kill you.”

  “But you won’t help me, either.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Has anyone ever escaped before, Pathar?” I need to know. I need to understand what I’ve gotten myself into.

  Pathar took a deep breath. “Not in the last fourteen years.”