Hunters Unlucky

by Abigail Hilton

  Hot breath stirred the hair above his ears. “Now,” murmured his attacker, “I’d like to talk to you, Storm Ela-ferry. I apologize for this rude greeting, but I didn’t think you’d stand still to be introduced.”

  The cat shifted his paw away from Storm’s face. Storm raised his chin a little, and the cat did nothing. Storm had an idea that the cat expected him to say something. Instead, he tried leaping to his feet. The cat’s weight was too much, however, even without its teeth pinning his head. He scrabbled uselessly for a moment before subsiding. The cat made a chuffing noise that might have been a laugh. “You’re smart enough not to waste your breath screaming, but you don’t have enough self-control not to waste your energy struggling.”

  “Easy for you to say,” snapped Storm.

  “If I was going to hurt you, I would have done it already.”

  “I get the idea.” Please get off me…before I really do start screaming.

  The weight was suddenly gone. Storm shot to his feet, stumbled, and almost ran straight into a boulder. His legs felt alarmingly wobbly. In that moment, he wanted to run out of sheer humiliation, but curiosity and his own shaking held him in place. Storm spun around to look at the creasia. It was sitting where he’d been resting—a male of average size. Its fur was tawny gold—glossy in the moonlight.

  Storm blinked. He was certain that he’d never seen this cat before—not during any raid. He would have remembered that fur.

  “Hello,” said the cat, “my name is Roup. I’d like to ask you some questions. What would it take to get you to answer truthfully?”

  Storm stared at the creasia. Charder said they would get better. Still… Halvery had been exactly Storm’s idea of an alpha cat. Roup was…not.

  “Do you have a raiding party?” he blurted.

  Roup beamed. “An excellent idea! I will answer your questions…truthfully…if you answer an equal number of my own.” As though as an afterthought, he added. “You don’t have to crouch over there. If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. You get tonight gratis. I do not promise I will not kill you tomorrow.”

  “Why didn’t you kill me just now?” asked Storm.

  “That’s two questions, and I haven’t even asked one. Yes, I have a raiding party. We call it a clutter. They’re off that way.” He jerked his head south. “They don’t know I’m here. You needn’t worry about them tonight. I didn’t kill you because I’d rather talk to you.”

  Storm opened his mouth, but Roup continued. “My turn. Who’s your father?”

  Storm looked long and hard at the cat. He was reminded of Treace trying to capture him with pretty lies. But this felt different. This cat had already had Storm’s head in its mouth for one thing. Storm thought about lying, but couldn’t think of a good reason to do so. “My father’s name was Alaran. That’s all I know about him. Cats killed him before I was born.”

  “And your mother?” continued Roup.

  Storm stiffened. I shouldn’t be playing this game.

  As though reading his thoughts, Roup said, “She’s in no danger from me. In fact, I’ll make sure no ferryshaft suffers for anything you say to me.”

  Storm sneered. “As though you could guarantee something like that.”

  The cat regarded him with honey-gold eyes. “I am, arguably, the second most powerful person on this island. So, yes, I think I can.”

  Storm stared at him. “You’re—?”

  “Who is your mother?”

  “She’s…she’s nobody,” Storm stammered. “Her name is So-fet. She was an orphan, raised by her rogan. She didn’t know her own parents. Why do you care if you don’t want to hurt her?”

  Roup’s mouth twitched up, and Storm knew that he’d asked the right question. The night was fully dark now, and Roup looked up at the stars. It was, Storm thought, a deliberately disarming gesture—carelessly exposing his throat. “Pretty night,” said the cat.

  Storm could hardly believe he was having this conversation. “Why?” he demanded. “Why do you want to know about my parents?”

  “Because you remind me of someone I once knew,” said Roup. “I thought you might be related, although I don’t see how. All of his offspring died.”

  “Coden,” whispered Storm.

  Roup didn’t look at him. “Yes. My turn. How do you know that name?”

  “I overheard Sharmel’s cats talking,” said Storm.

  Roup glanced at him, as though trying to decide whether he was lying.

  “They said they thought I was his ghost,” offered Storm.

  Roup grinned broadly. “They were saying that. None of the ferryshaft mentioned him?”

  “No. Who was he?”

  Roup considered. “He was a ferryshaft. He tried to turn the tide of the war and almost succeeded. After the war, it was feared that his name and memory would be a rally cry for rebellion. So, ferryshaft were forbidden to speak of him or to name their foals after him.”

  His voice sounded so sad that Storm asked, “Was he a friend of yours?”

  Roup’s expression changed to something that Storm could not read. “It’s not your turn,” he said softly. “Who trained you?”

  Storm hesitated. “I taught myself to run on the sheep trails.”

  “That’s not what I mean. You’re a small half-orphan, born to a young mother of low rank. Someone taught you survival skills. Who?”

  Storm said nothing. He badly wished he had not let himself be drawn into this.

  “If it’s a ferryshaft, he’s got nothing to fear from me,” said Roup patiently. “If it’s not a ferryshaft, I probably couldn’t touch him anyway.”

  Storm was surprised. “Oh, it was a ferryshaft. It…it was Pathar. But he doesn’t speak to me anymore. He certainly didn’t tell me about Coden.” Storm felt the desire to defend his old teacher.

  Roup quirked a smile. “Pathar? Well, that is odd. The old barnacle hardly takes an interest in anything anymore.”

  “Who did you think might have talked to me…other than a ferryshaft?” Storm was intensely curious now.

  Roup laughed. “Oh, that’s not fair. I’m asking you about facts. You’re asking me to speculate.”

  Storm grinned back. He felt silly, but he was enjoying himself.

  Roup’s tail twitched. “Any intelligent animal could have talked to you about the war—curbs, telshees, lishties, ely-ary…although the speech of ely-ary is difficult to understand if you’re not accustomed.”

  Storm realized in that moment, that Roup had been speaking in flawless ferryshaft dialect throughout their conversation. Storm had become adept at parsing the creasia accent, so that he hardly thought about it anymore. However, Roup was not speaking like a creasia. He was speaking like a ferryshaft.

  “About Coden—” began Storm, but Roup interrupted.

  “It’s my turn, and I’ll stop there. Thank you for humoring me, Storm. I think we understand each other a little better, and that’s never a bad thing.”

  Storm sat back on his haunches. He’d unconsciously moved forward, so that he was a comfortable conversational distance from Roup. His shaking had ceased. He fought down an absurd urge to invite the cat to come back and do this again sometime.

  “You’re a very strange cat,” observed Storm.

  “Halvery would agree.”

  Storm barked a laugh. “So he made it out of the river?”

  “Yes. Sharmel was extremely amused.”

  Storm tried unsuccessfully to imagine his tormentors in a state of relaxed amusement.

  “This truce ends at sunrise,” said Roup as he turned to leave. “In the future, I’d advise you find a less accessible place to sleep. That, or make yourself less…conspicuous.”

  When Roup had gone, Storm went to Sauny’s sleeping place and told her where to meet Kelsy in the morning. “I’ll be busy,” he said and hurried away before she could ask questions. Storm knew that he’d been given a reprieve, and he intended to use it.

  He found Valla, curled up alone in his old sleeping
spot. Storm felt a little guilty, although he was glad that she had not been present when Roup appeared. After a moment’s thought, he invited her to join Sauny the next morning. We’ll see how good Kelsy really is. If he can teach Valla to fight, he can teach anyone.

  He then spent some time hunting and browsing until he had a full belly. At last, exhausted, Storm started up the cliffs. He moved along his favorite local sheep trail until he reached a roomy cave. At this time of year, the cave even boasted a trickle of water. Satisfied that he’d put himself beyond the reach of even Roup’s dexterity, Storm lay down on the cave floor and slept.

  Chapter 16. Round 5: Roup

  Storm stayed in the cave all day, dozing fitfully, and lapping up water from the trickle that ran down the cliff. He watched the herd ebb and flow through the boulders below him. He wasn’t in a good spot to see the stream where he’d sent Sauny and Valla to meet with Kelsy. He wondered what they would say to each other and what they must think.

  Last night was beginning to feel like a dream. Did I really play question and answer games with a creasia? A creasia who talked like a ferryshaft?

  He waited for screams somewhere below, the thunder of hundreds of pounding hooves, the ripple of motion as every ferryshaft struggled not to be chosen. But nothing happened. It was simply a beautiful spring day. He even caught sight of a mother ferryshaft leading a wobbly, newborn foal from one of the birthing caves—a sign that the mother felt exceptionally safe.

  Storm wondered how long he should stay in the cave if no raid occurred. Since the spring thaw, he had been unable to cache meat for long periods without it spoiling. He thought, belatedly, that he should have found some way to store roots or grass. By sunset, he would be hungry.

  As the day wore on, Storm scanned the boulder mazes for creasia in a state of increasing frustration. Surely if they were down there, he would see them. Could I have dreamed the whole thing? Roup certainly seemed like a dream.

  As the shadows lengthened, Storm found himself facing the same dilemma as when Ariand had trapped him. If I go another day without food, I will become weak and slow. If I leave my sanctuary, I expose myself to attack.

  Of course, when Ariand had trapped him, he knew for certain that the creasia were waiting to pounce. In this case, he wasn’t even sure they were still in the area…if they’d ever been in the area at all.

  Storm made a decision. If I go farther up the cliffs, I will be able to see more of the boulder mazes. Once I know where they’re lurking, I can figure out how to find food while staying away from them.

  So he returned to the main path and proceeded up the cliff, keeping a careful eye on the visible portions of the trail, both above and below him. No one seemed to be following. He stopped frequently to look out over the boulder mazes. He didn’t see how anything the size of a creasia raiding party—a clutter, Roup had called it—could hide from an aerial view. They could be in a cave… But most of the ground-level caves were in use as birthing chambers, and Storm was sure that the appearance of a creasia in a birthing chamber would cause a visible ruckus. He began to relax. They’re not here.

  Storm was three-quarters of the way up now, and the light was waning. He felt very hungry, and he’d not encountered so much as a lizard on the trail. On an impulse, he decided to go all the way to the top, rather than risk descending in the dark on an empty stomach. He could find something to eat, then perhaps return to the cliff cave for the night.

  The light was still strong when Storm reached the top of the cliff. Indeed, it was much better than it had been on the eastern side of the cliff face. He was now too high to see details below. A cat could look much like a ferryshaft from this height, but he could tell that the herd was behaving normally.

  Storm went straight into the trees and began to browse, hungrily ripping up mouthfuls of spring clover. He realized in that moment that he’d never traveled to the top of the cliffs by himself. It would mean a night alone, away from the herd. Still, perhaps I should explore here more often…and along the higher cliff trails. A watcher on one of those trails could alert the herd to the approach of a creasia clutter long before a raid. A shout might not carry, but I think a howl would. Why don’t we do things like that? Storm snorted. It’s probably forbidden.

  It was twilight now beneath the trees, and Storm realized suddenly that it was also very quiet. It’s just that the daytime animals are going to sleep, he told himself, but his fur bristled. Then, in the stillness, he heard a bird call. It was not like any bird Storm had heard before—a sort of chattering sound.

  Storm turned in a slow circle. The chattering came again; he couldn’t tell from which direction. A question occurred to him that he should have asked much earlier. Would Roup expect me to go up the cliffs or down? With mounting dread, Storm raised his eyes into the branches of the tree behind him.

  A cat crouched amid the leaves. It chattered at him.

  Storm ran. He wasn’t sure whether it was the shadowy wood or the strange behavior of the creasia, but he’d never felt more frightened. He heard several muffled thuds as creasia hit the ground all around him. He wondered why the first cat hadn’t tried to drop on him, then realized that he was now running in the direction of the Sea Cliffs, with their steeper, infrequent, and unfamiliar trails.

  Stupid, stupid! You’re letting him drive you. He has anticipated your every move; you’re just reacting!

  Storm zigzagged around a cat as he emerged from the wood. Putting on speed that he hadn’t known he possessed, he pounded along the edge of the Sea Cliffs. Below and to his right, the ocean stretched endlessly, throwing back the faint light of the first stars. The rim of the sky glowed where the sun had set.

  Storm remembered, vaguely, that Kelsy had mentioned a trail in this direction. He gritted his teeth, determined to hold his lead until he reached it. Pain started in his side and chest, but he forced himself to run faster.

  Storm barely saw the trailhead in time. He darted sideways, nearly flipped over, and half skidded, half galloped down the path. Almost immediately he wondered whether he had made a mistake. The path was steep and narrow with loose shale that rattled under his hooves. Worse, the creasia dislodged stones in their descent, showering Storm on the back and flanks. Soon he was sliding more than running, and all the time the path grew narrower.

  Storm realized that he was about to fall. He drove his hooves into the loose rocks and forced his body sideways. By the time he halted, he had spun completely around so that he was looking up the cliff. He saw that the creasia had stopped some distance above him. Storm thought that he should have found this reassuring, but he did not. Apparently the creasia deemed the descent too precarious. And they’re right. But Storm had no choice.

  He glanced down. He had perhaps half the distance yet to go. I did something like this when Treace chased me. However, this drop looked steeper and higher. The stones slipped and shifted around his hooves as he stood and continued. Soon he was coasting more than walking.

  Roup did say that he didn’t want to kill me. Is this what he decided to do instead?

  One of his hooves caught on a stationary rock. Storm stumbled and thrust his back hooves into the ground, trying to regain his balance. Then a wave of sliding stones caught up with him, and Storm flipped sideways in a cloud of choking dust. He felt himself slithering over the cliff face. Then his head struck something hard, and he spiraled into blackness.

  Chapter 17. Seaside

  Storm dreamed of singing—strange voices crooning in a wordless, melodic hum. It seemed to him that he fell into the song and drowned—floating sightless in a place without light or air, only a song that was as thick as honey and twice as sweet. Then the singing faded, and he heard the familiar beat of the sea.

  Storm opened his eyes. It was night, without even a moon to light the sky. He lay with his hindquarters in a tide pool and his head on the sand…staring at a patch of white fur.

  Storm froze as a familiar scent filled his nostrils—like brine and deep earth. He
could not remember where he was or how he’d gotten here, but he remembered the smell of a telshee. Storm leapt to his feet and stumbled backward into flank-deep water. Almost immediately, he began to cough, gagging as he brought up sea water and a mouthful of grit.

  When he managed to open his watering eyes, Storm saw that the telshee had not moved. It was watching him from the edge of the tide pool with large, blue eyes, gleaming in the starlight. The creature had a dark, leathery nose, framed in dense whiskers, and a face somewhere between an otter’s and a seal’s.

  “Storm Ela-ferry.” The telshee’s disturbingly rich voice resonated against the rocks—probably female, though it was difficult to be sure.

  Storm said nothing.

  The telshee smiled—a horrible sight, full of teeth that belied its sweet voice. “You’ve come to us at last.”

  Storm swallowed. “No,” he croaked. He remembered—Roup, the cave, the cliff. “I fell.” This is stupid. I should run. But he didn’t think he could get away. At least my legs aren’t broken.

  “We’ve been watching you,” crooned the telshee, “for a long time. We’d like to talk. We could tell you things…so many things.” The creature moved a little nearer, and Storm swallowed. What he’d taken for rocks was actually part of its coils. The animal was impossibly long.

  Storm took a step back. “You should have thought of that before you tried to kill me in the cave last season.”

  The telshee cocked her head. “Kill you? My dear, we rescued you. You would have known that if you’d stayed to talk, but you ran away. I saved you again tonight; you would have drowned if I hadn’t pulled you out of that tide pool.”

  Storm took another step back. “Or maybe you just now saw me.”

  The telshee gave a sorrowful shake of its head. “The creasia have done a masterful job with your herd. You don’t even know who your friends are.”

  Storm thought of the strange tunnel that had opened at his back when Ariand trapped him in the cave. It had been the work of telshees, and it had saved his life. “If you’re my friend, why didn’t you talk to me in the tunnel?” demanded Storm. “You trapped me and attacked me!”