The Hunt

by Frost Kay

  He snarled, his fetid breath washing over her face. She blanched when the lion swiped at her bicep, tearing through her skin with his razor-sharp claws. His eyes narrowed at the scent of her blood, truly lost to his instinct to hunt and kill.

  Her arms strained and in the back of her mind, Tempest realized she should feel more fear and pain than she actually was. A dull buzzing filled her ears and drowned out all the sounds around her. All she could see was the poor, starving beast above her. She pitied the creature. He was as desperate as she was.

  I’m going to die, but at least I’ll go out fighting.

  She mustered her strength and roared into the creature’s face once more, then kicked at the arrow lodged into his back leg with enough force to cause the lion to yowl and lunge away in pain—but not before he yanked Tempest’s spear from her grasp and snapped it in two. She crawled away, across the dusty arena floor, pure panic and adrenaline urging her to stagger to her feet.

  Blood dripped down her arm and back, the remnants of her shredded cape fluttering in the breeze. She pulled her sword from her scabbard and a wickedly long dagger from the sheath at her left hip that Dima had gifted her.

  She said a little prayer, thankful that Maxim had taught her to dual wield. Before she could talk herself out of it, Tempest grinned wildly and attacked the lion before her pain and terror froze her in place.

  Time slowed as Tempest closed the gap between herself and the lion. Sound faded in and out—the crowd screaming, and then only the sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. She palmed the blade and made a split-second decision.

  Please let this work.

  She slung her blade, and it struck true. Bile flooded her mouth as her dagger sunk into the left eye of the lion. He screamed a horrible sound—one she was sure would haunt her nightmares—and wildly clawed at her. Tempest ducked beneath what would have been a killer blow to her head, but, instead of darting away, she swung beneath him, slamming her sword upward into his neck.

  Tempest gritted her teeth and held on as the lion gurgled. He swayed, and she scrambled back as he collapsed onto her, his massive head on her chest. Her stormy eyes met his dulling amber ones. But sadness overwhelmed her, and she couldn’t find it in her heart to let the poor creature suffer. With a flick of her wrists, she ended his pain. A clean death.

  Several agonizingly long seconds passed, and the lion slumped against her, all light disappearing from his fierce eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” she choked out, tears thickening her voice as buzzing filled her ears.

  He didn’t deserve to die. Tempest stared at his still form, feeling like she’d just lost a part of herself. With care, she wiggled her legs out from under her opponent and pulled her blades free.

  She staggered to her feet and then fell to her knees, her bloody palms pressed against the earth. Tears threatened to burst free, but Tempest battled them back. She refused to give anyone else in the damn arena another part of herself.

  Tempest lifted her head, the chants of the people starting to make sense.

  “Tempest! Tempest! Tempest!” the people screamed.

  They were chanting her name.

  Sheer disbelief washed over her.

  She’d defeated a lion.

  And she’d passed her third test.

  I just became a Hound.

  Tempest

  Time halted, and the world turned watery at the edges. It was almost as if she’d taken a plunge into the sea—her senses had completely cut off from the surrounding universe.

  She slowly blinked as a shadow covered her, and Madrid’s handsome face floated above her. Vaguely, Tempest realized he’d pulled her to her feet, not that she could feel them. The people in the stands moved like undulating waves, their arms swaying back and forth in celebration of her victory.

  “Please welcome our Kingdom’s newest Hound!” Madrid’s deep voice bellowed.

  The ground lurched beneath her feet, but she managed to hold steady. Just barely. A dull ringing filled her ears, drowning out the screaming crowd as deep-red blood dripped down her pale skin and onto the dirt floor. A tremor worked through her body, and her hands began to shake. If she didn’t make it to the healer’s tent, there was a good chance she’d pass out. Tempest knew that was a bad thing, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care as Madrid put pressure on her wounded shoulder.

  “Bow,” he muttered underneath his breath.

  Painfully, she bowed again to King Destin, who was watching her with an unreadable expression that made the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end. He was her sovereign, and, yet, there was something she didn’t like about him.

  “Mother of Darkness,” Madrid swore. “Drop your gaze, Tempest, before the king notices your disrespectful sneer.”

  “Sneer?” she murmured, dropping her gaze nonetheless. Temp didn’t even know she was sneering. She needed to work on that.

  Her eyes grew heavier as Madrid escorted her from the arena and toward the healer’s tent. Tempest gagged as a sickeningly sweet smell greeted her, so cloying that she staggered out of Madrid’s grasp and banged her hip against a sturdy wooden table, jarring glass bottles. Her lip curled as she got a good look at the bottles. The ones from her Trial.

  “My dear—Tempest, just lie down,” Aleks soothed, apparently mistaking her imbalance for injury.

  It was probably both. She hurt and the world was tipsy.

  The man grinned at her, pride and delight plain as day on his face. Tempest couldn’t help but return the smile, even though her adrenaline was wearing off and the pain was really setting in.

  “You bested a lion, lass. A lion. You must be mad.”

  Tempest choked on a laugh, another tremor wracking her body as Aleks helped her to lie belly-down on a rickety cot. He had no idea how mad. She almost hadn’t made it out.

  “Whoever set it as the final task must be mad, you mean. Another few seconds and the beast would have broken my skull in two!” she joked, as she pressed her cheek to the cot so she could watch her uncle buzz around the tent as he gathered supplies.

  “And, yet, here you are, almost entirely in one piece.”

  He gently lifted the cloak from her back and a deep unpleasant throb worked its way up to her shoulder. His expression pinched and then smoothed out as he noticed her watching him. That wasn’t a good sign. Her back must be a bloody mess.

  “No worries. We’ll have you fixed up in no time.” He glanced at someone over her head. “Now hold still—Mimkia stings when applied directly to wounds.”

  A set of masculine hands on her other side pinned her arm and hip down. Her eyes widened.

  Oh Dotae, no. This is going to hurt.

  Tempest clenched her jaw and spoke through gritted teeth. “Can’t possibly sting more than a lion clawing through—oh, hell!” Her body bucked against the restraining hands. Tears flooded Tempest’s eyes, and she panted as fire licked up and down her wounds.

  “The worst is almost over,” Madrid’s deep voice rumbled from her right side.

  She slowly turned her head and stared up at the Hound master, not ashamed in the least by the tears dripping down her cheeks. Aleks had healed many men with Mimkia as she’d grown up, and most screamed bloody murder until they passed out. A small smile pulled her lips up a touch.

  “What are you smiling about?” Madrid asked, eyeing Aleks over her shoulder as the healer continued to work.

  “Just something one of my friend’s mums said once.”

  “What was that?”

  He was trying to distract her, and Tempest appreciated it. She hissed as Aleks probed her arm, but she forced herself to continue. “That men are babes when it comes to pain, and that women can bear almost anything.”

  Aleks snorted. “That’s the truth if I ever heard it. Many a man pass out when they experience pain, let alone witness a woman giving birth.”

  Madrid smiled at her. “There’s a reason why women bear the children. The all-knowing understood that we couldn’t hand
le such pain or such glory. We’re wicked, vain creatures as a whole. Could you imagine how men would act if they actually had the power to create life?”

  “Unimaginable. You lot are difficult enough to live with,” Tempest muttered as a needle pierced her skin. “So I need stitches?”

  “Only a few. The Mimkia will do the rest. Just a bit longer, Temp,” Aleks murmured softly. “Madrid, will you rub this over the lacerations on her other arm?”

  Tempest’s eyes drooped as she watched Madrid lift her arm and liberally slather a pale paste on her bicep. A tingling sensation ran across her skin and her aching bruises, scratches, and sore muscles disappeared.

  “That’s amazing,” she slurred, realizing her pain was completely gone. In fact, she could only feel pressure from Aleks working on her wounds. “So, this is Mimkia, huh? I understand why people fight over the stuff.”

  It was bloody glorious.

  Madrid studied her arm and glanced away, doing his best to turn into a stone statue. Tempest had wondered when he’d distance himself. He was a Hound, but being the Hound set him apart. And he liked it that way.

  “I suppose you’ve never had cause to use it before. It can be used to heal almost any injury, though it’s no good for fevers and sickness,” Aleks responded, breaking through her thoughts. “Which is too bad, because you sure could have done with a one-drug-heals-all approach to the multitude of illnesses you had as a child.”

  Tempest said nothing and allowed herself to drift, her weary body shutting down.

  There was something relaxing—nostalgic, almost—to have the man looking after her in such a way. Once more Tempest indulged the idea that he really was her father. He’d always been the one to look out for her practical concerns, the one to heal her, the one to make her eat even if she didn’t want to.

  You don’t need to know. Knowing he cares for you is enough. Who cares who your sire is?

  “Dotae be good, that was incredible!” Maxim exclaimed, his heavy tread giving away his excitement.

  Tempest’s eyes snapped open, and she turned her head, flashing a smile at her favorite uncle. He dropped to his knees and placed a kiss on her sweaty temple.

  “You did good, girlie. Real good.” Maxim glanced at her back and whistled. “He got you good, didn’t he?”

  “He tried.”

  Some of her uncle’s excitement melted away, revealing a glimmer concern. “When Madrid—” He shot an icy glare over her head, “—made the announcement, I swear my heart stopped.” His brown gaze dropped back to her face and warmed. “You fought as a true warrior today. Not many get to lay eyes upon a lion and survive to tell the tale.”

  She swallowed hard. She didn’t feel much like a warrior. Killing that lion had been self-defense, but it still felt wrong. The poor creature didn’t deserve to die like that. “Will you make sure the beast is buried? He was a worthy opponent. He shouldn’t be discarded like rubbish, and I can’t stomach the idea of using his pelt.”

  Maxim nodded. “By law he is your kill. I will do as you wish.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Maxim pulled away from Tempest and stood to roughly pat Aleks on the shoulder. “Fix her up quick, Aleks. We all need to be presentable in time for the celebration feast, and something tells me Tempest will not want to show up covered in blood and guts and—”

  “We get the picture,” Aleks said good-naturedly. He looked at Tempest. “Your servant friend—Juniper—is waiting in the barracks with an outfit for the evening, I believe.”

  Tempest’s stomach lurched in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with her Trial or the pain. “Do I really have to wear a dress?”

  Maxim laughed. “Really really. And who knows? You might actually like being a lady of the court now that you’re eighteen. For all we know, you’ll fall in love tonight and never pick up a sword again!”

  Madrid rounded the cot and all three of her uncles stared at her in silence and then simultaneously burst out laughing. Every member of the Hounds knew how ridiculous Maxim’s claim was—and Tempest most of all.

  “Never,” she sputtered, horrified. Not in a million years would she put her sword down for a man.

  Tempest fingered the ravaged purple cloak laying on the floor. They could laugh all they wanted, even play matchmaker, but she wasn’t having any of it. Her life was just beginning. The stained purple silk slipped through her fingers like water.

  Hell. She’d rather wear what was left of her ceremonial cloak than a dress. Her lips pinched. And if it was anything like the king’s gift that morning, Tempest was guaranteed to hate it.

  “It is a shame this has been destroyed,” she murmured. “I rather like it, now. Especially compared to a dress.”

  Aleks took the material from her and tossed it into the wicker bin. “I’m sure it can be replaced. Now, the Mimkia did its job. You won’t feel any pain for a few hours, so you’ll be able to get through the celebration feast tonight and fall asleep before the pain returns.” His light brows pulled together as he frowned disapprovingly at her. “Your wounds are sealed for now. Don’t get wild or you’ll ruin all my hard work.”

  He helped Tempest sit and the room spun. She pushed her left hand against the cot to steady herself.

  “Anything else, worried one?” Tempest asked sarcastically.

  Aleks rolled his eyes. “Get along to your room and clean up. Mimkia paste takes an hour or two to fully seal the skin, so keep it dry as long as you can before washing it off and binding the wound.”

  Tempest nodded, slowly getting to her feet and testing that she was strong enough to stand. Now that the heady, addictive rush of adrenaline was leaving her body, she felt like she might faint where she stood.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll keep it dry. Do you think I could get away with having a nap before—”

  “Don’t you dare,” Maxim cut in. “You and I both know that if you fall asleep that’ll be you out for hours and hours.”

  “Yes, and that would be the point…” No one would really miss her once they started in on the spirits.

  “You’re coming to the feast, and you’re wearing the damn dress, girlie. Now, get to it.”

  And here I thought becoming a Hound would give me more freedom. Lies.

  Tempest slowly skirted around her uncles who watched her like a hawk as she shuffled toward the entrance of the tent like an invalid. She paused and pulled herself together. It was time to put on a brave face for whoever might be lurking outside.

  “Hold your head high,” Madrid said.

  She cast a glance over her shoulder at the Hound master before pushing through the canvas flaps into the cold air, a smile upon her face.

  She had won today.

  She’d accomplished step one of her goal. If reaching step two involved wearing a dress and acting like a lady for the evening, then so be it.

  How bad could it be?

  “I’ve never seen such a conflict over whether everyone should be celebrating or not!”

  “Won’t stop anyone getting riotously drunk, regardless of their stance on the matter.”

  “What do they care, anyway? A Hound is a Hound. And Tempest more than proved herself today.”

  “Thanks, Uncles,” Tempest muttered into her wine, flushing furiously. She did not need to hear Maxim, Dima, and Aleks defending her right to belong in their ranks. She had won her position fair and square, the king had acknowledged her, and that was the end of it.

  Or so she’d thought.

  And yet, as she eyed the snickering gossipmongers who whispered among themselves in the feast hall, the attitudes of many around her were beginning to more than simply grate upon Tempest’s nerves. Going by the reaction from the crowd during her Trial, Tempest had assumed the people of the court were not strictly making fun of her because she was the first female Hound. They had been more than supportive in her fight against the lion.

  Which means they’re making fun of you for being you.

  Tempest
looked down at the silver dress Juniper had finally wrangled her into wearing. It was tight in the bodice and hung low on her shoulders, exposing Tempest’s collarbone and the top of her breasts. Split sleeves of white gossamer fell to her elbows. The skirt was long and sweeping and threatened to trip Tempest up wherever she walked.

  Though she knew the silver fabric perfectly complimented her hair and suited her skin well, wearing something so figure-hugging, revealing and outright unsuitable for moving about in made Tempest feel incredibly self-conscious. She hated anything that hampered her movements, let alone her breathing. She bowed her head, her gaze dropping to the indecent neckline again, and her lips thinned.

  One careless move, and she’d fall right out of the top.

  Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous, that’s what it was.

  It was probably a man who designed this dress. The bastard.

  She finished her goblet of wine with a sigh and allowed Maxim to pour her another.

  “If only I could have worn trousers,” she lamented, shaking her head at her own body. “There’s far too much fabric going on in all the wrong places. So restrictive.”

  Several women nearby were audibly shocked by the comment. They stared at Tempest, wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked, then tittered when a finely dressed man said, “If you want someone to make things less restrictive for you, my house is but ten minutes away from the palace!”

  Tempest’s cheeks grew even redder than the court ladies in all their rouge and lipstick. Dima stiffened to her right, and she placed a hand on his leg beneath the table to still him. He arched a brow at her.

  “I’m fine,” she muttered.

  Tempest winked at her uncles as she stood as gracefully as she could in a dress that threatened to suffocate her, abandoning her wine to the table.

  “I think I’d rather have ale,” she said in an undertone, rushing off before anybody could try and stop her.

  Tempest found that despite having been thrilled that she passed her Trial, no amount of excitement and pride could allow her to simply enjoy the evening’s celebrations. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy a party, but the people one spent it with mattered greatly. And no one in this room was her friend. She was either an oddity—which meant she was to be studied or to become the butt of the joke—or a conquest for a man who decided he wanted to tame the warrior girl, which was the worst of the two in her opinion.