Hunters Unlucky

by Abigail Hilton

  The telshee looked uncomfortable. “Is that how it seemed to you? I didn’t have authority to speak to you. I wasn’t sure my king would approve. But I and my drove would never have attacked you, Storm. We’re on your side and always have been.”

  Somewhere in the distance, a cat’s call sounded. The telshee’s head swung towards the noise, and she growled. “I must go. The tide is rising, and at its height, our tunnels are not accessible. Come with me, Storm, and hear the answers to all your questions.”

  She moved back a little, and Storm discerned a low cave among the tumble of smooth sea stones, its mouth a darker shadow among the others. He was already shaking his head. “You must be insane if you think I’m going in there with you.”

  She smiled again, and her teeth flashed. “As you will. My name is Shaw. You’ll come to us eventually, I think.” Her voice faded as she melted back into the shadows around the mouth of the cave.

  Storm waited until he was sure she was gone. Then he turned his back on the cave and hurried away. He wanted to run, but he didn’t know where he was. The sculpted sea stone rocks were an alien landscape that he’d explored only briefly with friends. The changing tides added an additional level of complexity. Nothing looked familiar. But surely, the cats think I’m dead. Surely that call I heard was only a rally cry as they started for home.

  Moments later, however, another quavering cry assured him that Roup had not given up. The cats were definitely somewhere at the bottom of the cliffs. Storm growled his annoyance. He stopped briefly to devour something crunchy from a rock pool, then headed south. The only safe trails that he knew up the Sea Cliffs lay in that direction. I’ve got to get back to familiar territory.

  He wondered how long it would take the creasia to figure out that he’d survived the fall. He wondered if the scent of the telshee would detour them. Probably not. Nothing seems to detour Roup.

  Storm shivered when he thought of the way the cats had chattered at him from the trees. It’s a clever way to communicate near prey—no yowling, no creasia sounds, just an imitation-bird call. I wonder how many times I heard it before I realized that it was unnatural.

  Storm wondered, uncomfortably, whether the creasia would call to each other in the usual way as they ran along his trail. Probably not. He ran faster.

  * * * *

  Lyndi Ela-creasia moved like liquid shadow through the boulder mazes beneath the Sea Cliffs. She kept her part of the clutter together and did not call—not even in the chattering bird voices that Roup liked to use while hunting. Her cats were nervous. They’d all caught the scent of telshee near the place where they’d traced the ferryshaft’s fall. It had shaken them. Most had believed the ferryshaft dead, but the desire to retrieve proof had driven them, slowly and carefully, to make the descent to the beach.

  Roup never thought Storm was dead, though. He hadn’t said it, but Lyndi could tell. He was already planning his next move.

  But the scent of the telshee had shaken even Roup. He’d actually ventured a short distance into the sea cave—an action that horrified his clutter—in order to confirm that Storm’s scent could not be traced within. “The telshee may have dragged him out of the water,” he said at last. “Storm woke up and ran away from it. That’s all.”

  Liar, thought Lyndi without malice. You think it talked to him. You’re worried about what it might have said.

  But it couldn’t have said much, she reasoned. We didn’t take that long to come down the cliff.

  The rest of the clutter was more worried about where the telshee might be lurking, whether it had friends, and what they might do. No cat would willingly spend a night on the beach. But Roup’s clutter was Roup’s clutter for a reason. They were smart, and they did not spook easily.

  Roup had split the group of sixteen animals—sending Lyndi with five others south along the foot of the cliffs, and going with the rest in pursuit of Storm. Lyndi listened for cries of alarm or aggression—some hint that Roup had either caught his prey or the telshees had attacked. But she heard only the sigh of the sea.

  The waxing moon rose and improved visibility. It was halfway to setting when the clutter found what they were looking for—the foot of a cliff trail.

  This one looked more navigable than the last. A quick inspection verified that Storm had not passed this way yet. Lyndi allowed the others to relax and catch their breaths. She remembered what Roup had said before they split. “This will be an endurance race in the end, so take rest and food where you can.”

  She turned to the others. “We watch in shifts—two at a time. The rest can either sleep or hunt for food. If you hunt, travel in pairs.” They grunted their assent.

  Soon, Lyndi was lying across the foot of the trail a few paces from one of her subordinates. Everyone felt better with an escape route from the beach at their backs, and she allowed herself to relax a little. Roup knows what he’s doing.

  But she wished he hadn’t split the clutter—not with telshees about. Lyndi wondered, not for the first time, why they were really here. Roup doesn’t want to chase ferryshaft. He’s never wanted to chase ferryshaft. In the fifteen years since the war ended, Roup’s clutter had not gone on a single raid. When asked about it, Roup would respond, “Peace means peace.” They had been active during the war, though, often solving problems other clutters couldn’t solve.

  Arcove would rather take care of this foal himself, thought Lyndi. We’re out here because of Halvery. Lyndi ground her teeth. She dearly wished that Roup would just fight him. “Beat him once. Soundly,” she’d told Roup long ago. “Halvery will respect that.”

  “Why put anyone’s life in danger for the sake of my pride?” Roup asked.

  Lyndi didn’t have an answer, except that the situation caused dissent. Roup had been Arcove’s beta before Arcove won the leadership of Leeshwood. Arcove took it as a matter of course that Roup came with him. Unlike every other member of the council, Roup had not fought anyone for his position. Halvery had come along early in Arcove’s administration, and he made it clear that, while he had every faith in Arcove’s ability to rule the creasia, he did not feel the same way about Roup. Arcove sometimes spoke as though he had two equally ranking lieutenants but everybody knew who truly had his ear. It made Halvery furious.

  Roup’s unconventional behavior did not help. Arcove’s other officers ruled over hundreds of cats, from whom they selected clutters when they went on a war hunt or other extended expedition. Roup only maintained about thirty, along with an array of mates and cubs. His core clutter had varied little over the years. They knew each other well, and they worked together like a single organism.

  Their efficiency had impressed others during the war, but that was long passed. Now, it was only seen as eccentric, and it certainly did not garner the respect of cats like Halvery.

  Likewise, Roup’s choice to have only one mate. Arcove had five. Halvery, it was rumored, had nine. Roup’s devotion to a single female smacked of weakness to a cat like Halvery, who regularly tested himself against other males in fights over mates. Lyndi suspected that Roup’s choice to keep a female as his beta must also be viewed as peculiar, though no one had spoken to her openly about it in years.

  Females normally came and went from a male’s clutter as their fertility cycles permitted. It was a respected fact that female creasia made formidable fighters. However, once they reached breeding age, most females either established a den or joined an existing den as a lower-ranking member. They defended their den’s hunting territory from other creasia and reared cubs. They did not concern themselves with the world beyond the wood or even beyond their territory when the cubs were young.

  Creasia cubs typically needed their mothers for about three years. Depending on the availability of game and water, females might even nurse a second litter while the first were learning to hunt. However, mortality rates for cubs were high. Female creasia often found themselves unexpectedly between litters. When this happened, they might be included in a male clutter.

/>   However, females did not become ranking officers in a male’s clutter. Their presence was too undependable. Lyndi was an exception, because she was sterile. She did not know why. She had felt the mating instinct like all females at about six years of age and had joined the den of a male she fancied. However, she did not quicken.

  After three seasons and no cubs, the females there made it clear that she should leave. In vain, she pointed out that she helped to hunt and that she cared for their cubs. Her investment was thought insufficient to guarantee her loyalty. She was suspected of poaching game for a nearby den. The females whispered that she mated with every male she could find in hopes that one would quicken her, and any cubs that she produced would not be of the den’s blood. In spite of the three years she’d spent with them, Lyndi’s lack of cubs made her an outsider, not part of their family. At last, she left.

  For a time, she drifted aimlessly, poaching game from various hunting territories, risking reprisals, feeling lost and broken. She was in danger of becoming a rogue—the lowest ranking of creasia, usually short-lived—when Roup found her and offered her a place in his clutter. In truth, he had no real clutter—just a few hangers-on who were trying to impress Arcove. Roup was young, and he did not attract other creasia because of his odd behavior. Arcove, however, was a popular leader, rising quickly through the ranks of the council, and Roup was never far behind him. Lyndi watched and listened and kept her mouth shut. She performed so well that Roup soon made her his second.

  It didn’t take her long to learn to love him—her infuriating, inscrutable, soft-spoken leader. Because Roup’s clutter was so small, they operated almost like a single family—denning in one area and rarely fighting over resources. Lyndi helped hunt for any den that was struggling, and they accepted her, treating her like one of the unmated males.

  Lyndi fancied sometimes that Caraca—Roup’s mate—was jealous of her. She wasn’t sure why. Her relationship with Roup was purely in the role of officer. Caraca should be jealous of Arcove, thought Lyndi in rare moments of pique. But, of course, no one is ever jealous of Arcove…except perhaps me.

  * * * *

  Storm felt comfortable with his lead as he started south below the sea cliffs. He wished the moon would rise so that he could see better. Nevertheless, he could see the cliff face well enough, even by starlight, to watch for a trail. The ragged scar of a good, safe trail would be visible from the beach.

  Storm was not so vain of his lead that he felt comfortable running at the foot of the cliff. If he ran in a straight line, they could ambush him. Storm felt that the rocks and tide pools should have offered endless opportunity for subterfuge, if he’d only known what to expect around the next corner. However, he did not. He was reasonably confident that Roup and his clutter were equally ignorant of the terrain, so they could not capitalize on his mistakes.

  The moon rose. Storm was beginning to feel the effects of a prolonged chase at a time when he would have normally been asleep. He told himself that if he could only reach the top of the cliffs with a comfortable lead, he would lay a false trail and catch a few moments of sleep in a tree.

  At last, he saw what he was looking for—an irregularity in the cliff face that showed a trail. Gratefully, Storm turned his steps in that direction. He was so intent upon his goal that he almost didn’t check himself in time when he saw the cats lying across the foot of the trail.

  Fear forced all thought from his head as Storm executed an abrupt pivot and pounded back into the boulders. Behind him, he heard two sharp cries. They were answered an instant later by the creasia behind him—not so far to the north of him as he would have liked. Those at the trailhead are telling those chasing that they’ve spotted me.

  Will they try to block the next trailhead as well? Storm didn’t see why not. The cats could cover ground faster along the foot of the cliff than he could out here in the boulders. Storm wanted to lie down and whimper. More, he wanted to lie down and sleep. Instead, he thought, and as he thought, he ran.

  Chapter 18. Imitation

  By the time the moon set, Storm had confirmed the distressing truth. The creasia had run ahead of him to the next trailhead. He considered trying to loop back to the previous trail. However, he suspected that they’d left one or two cats to guard it, and such an attempt would cost him most of his lead.

  Storm was beginning to understand how a coordinated group of hunters could harry a single animal to exhaustion. Roup did not need to unravel all of Storm’s scent tricks at great speed. He just needed to unravel them methodically, and keep coming. Meanwhile, the cats traveling along the foot of the cliff reached the trailheads ahead of Storm and had time to rest. Storm had no doubt that they slept in turns. He also suspected that they had switched out with some of the pursuers, giving everyone a chance to rest—everyone except their quarry.

  Storm remembered something else—Roup’s bright-eyed alertness in the boulders the night before, the things the cats had said and done during other chases, the way they squinted in bright daylight. Cats sleep in the day, he surmised. The little oory cats do that, too. Night is their best time…and my worst.

  The sun had risen by the time Storm reached the third trailhead. He came only near enough to glimpse the waiting creasia before retreating. However, they must have spotted him, because he heard the now-familiar sharp cry, echoed moments later by the animals farther behind him. That means they’re sending more cats ahead of me to the next trail.

  Storm was weaving with exhaustion. Bruises from his fall had become a constant, dull ache. To make matters worse, he felt certain that he was approaching the headwaters of the Chelby on the far side of the cliff. Even if I somehow get off this beach, I’ll probably be in creasia territory.

  Water was a more immediate problem. The salty little animals he ate from the tide pools only made him more thirsty. He was sure that freshwater streams ran down the cliffs to the beach, but, unfamiliar as he was with the area, he’d stumbled over only one in the course of the night. Storm knew enough not to drink sea water, but he was tempted.

  Soon, I’ll just collapse on the sand. Then they’ll come and kill me. I should have followed that telshee into the cave.

  Stop.

  Storm stumbled to a halt, head drooping, tongue lolling. He was in the midst of running through a tide pool to hide his trail—a trick that would only slow Roup a little. What I’m doing is no different from running in a straight line in a blind panic. More complicated, but no different.

  Storm knew in his bones that he would never reach the next cliff trail. I have to get up this one. I have to.

  Carefully, he turned and doubled back along his own path. Storm wondered how many creasia were in the clutter. How thin are they stretched with cats left at three trailheads? How many are sleeping now that it’s day?

  Storm found a likely looking tumble of sea rock—sculpted by wind and tide—and wedged himself into a curve. His pale fur blended nicely with the grays and whites of stone and sand. He knew he was gambling, but he felt this was his best chance, so he shut his eyes and let himself drift into a light sleep.

  Storm dreamed of muskrat dens, hidden beneath the overhang of a riverbank. Except they were not inhabited by muskrats, but by telshees. He dreamed of underwater singing. He dreamed of birds that were not birds, but cats with wings, who chattered at him.

  Storm’s eyes snapped open. He was sure he had not been asleep for more than a few moments. The scent of creasia had woken him. They were passing barely two lengths away directly in front of him, flowing through the boulders along his trail. If even one of them looks my way…

  But none did.

  When they were gone, Storm rose on shaky legs. The brief nap had cleared his head. He thought he knew where he was. Something about the tide pools he’d passed recently seemed familiar. He had an idea…if he could only reach the top of the cliff.

  Moving quickly, Storm retraced his steps to the trailhead. He held his breath and peeked from behind a rock. As he had suspected
, only a single creasia stood guard. Storm wished, bitterly, that he knew how to fight and kill cats. His options were limited when even a single creasia presented an insurmountable obstacle. However, he suspected that now—dehydrated, exhausted, and battered from a fall down the cliff—was not the time to try to learn how to fight.

  Something else, then.

  Storm knew that he had only moments. Somewhere to the south, Roup would be realizing that his quarry had backtracked. Storm had sacrificed his entire lead for these few precious moments alone with this one cat at the foot of the cliffs.

  What would make him leave the trailhead? Storm was pretty sure that simply showing himself would not be enough to draw the cat away. An image from his dream leapt in his mind—cats with wings like birds…chattering. A trick. An imitation.

  Storm thought carefully, then drew a deep breath.

  * * * *

  Roup was a little disappointed. Storm was clearly an intelligent youngster with moderate cunning and a natural gift for evading pursuers. However, that flash of intuitive brilliance that Roup had detected during their conversation had been absent. The foal had done nothing that a fox or an oory might not have done. If he doesn’t come up with something better than that soon, we’ll be finished here.

  When the foal backtracked, Roup knew that he must be desperate. Will he try to fight one of the creasia at the trailheads? Roup thought it more likely that he would try to hide. However, that would be difficult on a beach that Storm obviously did not know.

  As Roup neared the trailhead, his curiosity mounted. Is Storm really going to trap himself between the guard and my pursuing clutter? And then Roup heard…something.

  He realized an instant later that his clutter was no longer around him. Roup stopped and looked back. They were frozen in place, eyes wide, bristling. Then he heard the sound of rapid footfalls coming towards them through the sandy rocks—a large animal running all-out. An instant later, Marakis shot into view. Roup growled. He was supposed to be guarding the trail.