by Alana Khan
I run toward the life-and-death struggle in the meadow. The one remaining mam’non is lunging at the male’s throat, while the stranger chokes the beast, his arms fully extended keeping those sharp, snapping teeth a few fingers breadth from his face. The animal gives a high-pitched yip as the male squeezes the mam’non’s neck more tightly. The two are so close to each other, so tightly entwined, I don’t have a good shot at the beast.
As the mam’non’s powerful jaw inches closer to the male’s throat, the male ducks his head and bites the mam’non’s throat. The beast yelps and scrambles to pull away, but the male’s jaw grips him firmly.
My arrow’s notched and aimed. I’m waiting for an opening to let it fly. The mam’non is in pain and enraged. He twists and gains purchase with his back feet solidly on the ground and his front claws pawing the male’s abdomen.
This gives me the perfect opportunity to shoot the beast. Three shots, one after the other—one to the flank, one to the shoulder, and a final perfect shot through its eye when it turns to see his attacker—me.
I run to the carnage in the tree-circled meadow, making certain every beast is dead, then reach the male’s side, not believing any two-legged being could live through such damage to his stomach.
His head is lolled at an odd angle, his eyes are closed, his skin is paler than when I observed him from the safety of the trees. But he still breathes!
The smell of the slaughter will attract every carnivore in the valley. It’s dusk; nocturnal animals love to hunt this time of day. We have to leave immediately.
I pull my knife, squat at the beast’s side, and skin him quickly. Placing the bloody side of the hide on the grass, I pull the male on top. Quickly cutting a chunk of meat from the animal’s haunch, I throw it on the male’s chest, grab the hide’s edges, and hurry toward my cave.
The male may be small, but he’s heavy and hard to pull even using the hide as a skid. It will be even more difficult when we’re off the grass and traveling over root-knotted terrain in the forest. In order to move him, I’m bent over, pulling the edges of the hide, walking backward, and dragging dead weight.
I stop from time to time, assessing the environment and our safety as well as gasping from exertion. I have time for few breaks—I need to reach the relative safety of the cave before full dark.
Every so often, the male moans, probably when I drag him over uneven rocks and his head thumps on something hard. At least those noises tell me he’s still alive.
For a while, the hide left a red trail behind us, but that was scraped off on the grass. Between the stranger’s exposed entrails, the chunk of meat, and the hide, I’m certain we still smell like blood. We can’t get to the cave soon enough. I fear we’ll attract the attention of brantin beasts.
The noises of the forest change: the ernock birds call to each other high in the trees. The light has almost disappeared; the shadows are long. The air is cooler and laced with humidity. Luckily, we’re almost there.
I breathe out in a huff through my lips and shake my head. I have no idea how I’m going to get him the last bit of the way.
“Stay strong, Aliyah,” I whisper. “You can do anything you put your mind to,” I repeat the words my Poppa has told me so many times.
The male’s clothes are saturated with blood—both his own and the mam’non’s. I cut them off and toss them on the hide. I’ll dispose of them in a few moments.
I know I should hurry, the sun is dropping like a rock, but I can’t tear my eyes from his tanned flesh. His powerful shoulders are wide and taper to a slim waist. His muscular thighs look strong enough to run all day. His body carries no extra fat, so I can see every sinew and tendon under his skin.
His face is peaceful. The nose and cheekbones resemble mine, unlike the people of my tribe. His teeth were pointed and sharp—I saw that in the meadow. My fingers itch to touch his skin.
“Hurry,” I scold myself. We need to make our way inside the cave.
Stepping behind his head, I lean down, slide my arms up to my elbows under his armpits, and heave him to a seated position. I scoot in front of him, lean down, and hoist him onto my shoulder. I can’t keep from grunting under his massive weight as I struggle to a standing position.
This is so physically taxing tears squeeze from my eyes, but I lumber to the mouth of the cave, teeth gritted against the pain. I make my way to the side wall where my bed of furs awaits, then ease him off my shoulder and onto the soft pile.
One quick check that he’s still breathing, and I run back to the ruined skin several hundred fiertos ahead. I grab the pelt and his dirty clothes, then hurry with the filthy bundle far from the mouth of my cave. I dump it, hoping it attracts every predator for mille’s around—it will keep them away from us.
I quickly complete other necessary tasks: I gather fresh water, add wood to the embers I kept warm throughout the day, and throw the chunk of mam’non into a rawhide bag hung over the fire to make broth.
After using the gourd dipper to trickle water into the male’s mouth, I hurry to the nearby stream once more with only moonlight to guide me. Nocturnal animals are enjoying their first drink of the day. We pose no harm to each other, so I take a quick dip in the chilly water.
Back on the bank, I pluck more of the huge, flexible leaves I use for clothes, and swiftly fashion my covering. I pick more so I can wash the male before I assess the extent of his injuries.
I was bent over him the entire journey from the meadow to my cave. I had the opportunity to see his injuries from a close distance. The mam’non claws cut deep and definitely tore open his stomach.
I’ve seen two tribesmen suffer deep wounds to the abdomen—both injuries far less severe than this male’s—and they quickly succumbed to their trauma. Trying to heal this male is a fool’s errand.
Link to buy Sirius on Amazon
Glossary
Drack—the perfect all-purpose expletive. It’s a noun, it’s a verb, it’s an adjective.
Felted—down to the felt of the gaming table—no chips, busted
Fierto—foot
Ince—inch
Minima—minute
Modicum—second
Rextan—acre
Copyright
Sextus: Book One in the Galaxy Pirates Series by Alana Khan
P.O. Box 18393, Golden, Co 80402
https://alanakhan.com/free-copy/
© 2019 Alana Kahn
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: [email protected]
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Cover by Elle Arden
