by Ako Emanuel
He was troubled. Not just because there had been three incursions made into his territory by inimical beasts since he had brought the girl to his abode. No, she herself bothered him. As the effects of the poison slowly wore off, and the closer she came to full consciousness, the more and more apprehensive he became, in fact.
Why...?
He swung more to the Este, gripping the spear tightly, quickening his pace. He had to get to them while they were still in the pack, before they separated and started circling. Once that happened, he might not catch them all before they breached the last circle of wards.
Why did her presence bother him more than the pack of blood-suckers that he trailed? She was an intruder of a different magnitude. She was a shattering spear of reality in the dream of his solitary life, a rude interloper reminding him that a larger world existed outside his tiny sphere of subsistence.
And how I don’t want to remember...
He caught a whiff of rancid blood and veered instinctively, just in time. The first lor’ugawu landed where his equine back had been, its red-tipped poison claws leaving great furrows in the ground. It turned to attack him immediately, springing with a swiftness that always surprised him.
The thing looked like a cross between a leech and a badly injured wuman. It was a sickly yellow-gray; it crawled on all-fours, and it had extra joints in fore-and back-legs. It had a loose spine like a cat, and long digits that ended in wickedly curved claws. But most terrible was the face, with straight, bristling hair, almost normal-shaped brow - but eyes with blood red scleras and no nose except for two long, jagged slits, and a round hole for a mouth that was lined with barbs. The tongue consisted of four tentacles with hollow teeth at the ends, that it used to drain its victims of blood.
It was fast - but so was he. He deflected the attack with the spear, blocking the claws with the shaft and sliding them away from him. Then he turned, sidestepping and whipping out with the hooked end. He caught the thing’s shoulder from behind and tumbled it away, into the nearest tree. He rushed in and aimed a savage kick to its head with his back hooves. The skull caved with a sickening crunch. It fell with bony gracelessness. He stepped on its neck and slit its throat before he left the vicinity.
Lor’ugawu were only dangerous in packs, when one had no warning. Not like the girl. She represented a different sort of a danger, a wild unknown in his life of routine complacency. Not like the other wuman hunters that stalked him from time to time. They were faceless to him, nameless, mindless things, dim blurs with no more higher-thought than most predators. But not she. No, she was in an entirely different class of danger than they altogether.
Scuffing his hooves in the loam he resumed his search for the rest of the pack. Adrenaline made his skin prick and sharpened his senses. The trees parted before him, hiding smaller plants in the folds of their buttress roots. He went cautiously - the blunt blades of the roots were big enough to hide the entire pack. The canopy only filtered in the most sporadic patches of light, and it played tricks with shadow and distance.
She was the most potent kind of danger to his turns of light - the unfamiliar.
He came upon them suddenly - six of them. They were gathered around the carcass of a rainforest deer that was still twitching. In the split instant that they paused in feeding to take in his appearance in their midst he harnessed the spear and unslung his tri-bow, notching three quarrels in as many heartbeats. The biggest of the beasts gave a blood-curdling shriek and attacked. He sighted and let fly as it leapt at his face. The impact of the three thick bolts seemed to completely cancel its momentum, and it dropped like a stone, its cry dying with it.
“That girl you hunt is more of a threat than you,” he said, the silver of his voice harsh and raw with the blood-song that began to rush through his veins. Battle heat rose in his brain, temporarily drowning out the raw, broiling confusion that gnawed at the core of his being caused by the girl. He pulled and aimed three more darts, and two more of the blood-suckers died as they sprang to drink his life, two arrows in the neck of one, and one arrow through the eye of the other. “Couldn’t wait for the prime kill, could you, you gluts. She is one and she is the more deadly peril to me than the lot of you.”
His taunts brought one more to its screaming end, the three quarrels thudding sweetly into the chest it exposed with its enraged leap for his throat. It fell and twitched beside the dead deer in lewd imitation.
Yes, the threat she represented went beyond the graceless spear-casts of inane blunderers using long-spears, weapons totally unsuited to the wilds of the rainforests, and beyond the brainless blood-hunt of these creatures.
The last two scattered for cover, going in different directions. He abandoned the bow in favor of the short sword and spear. He focused his mind, watching for telltales of motion, listening for faint rustles in the dead leaves. Their coloring somehow made them able to fade into the background, undetectable until they moved.
Motion - he threw the spear, not really aiming, and turned to meet the beast rushing in from the other side. Two working together under cover were worse than six in the open. The lor’ugawu hit the armor on his second back and he curvetted and bucked to throw it clear. But it was ready for that and bounced away while the other dove in for the kill from the curve of a buttress root. He dropped and stabbed, skewering it through the throat. The claws scrabbled at his armored forearms and its dark blood spurted, catching him on the side of his face. He shook his head and yanked the sword clear, turned to see the last coming in fast along the ground. He only managed to stab it through the shoulder, catching the opposite clawed hand-like paw that reached to rake his exposed face and upper arm. The lor’ugawu strained to get to him, pushing with its back legs, its sucking mouth inching forward as it twisted in the grip of sword and hand. The barbs around its mouth and the hollow teeth both could deliver a paralyzing venom. He twisted the sword, driving it deeper, but the monster seemed determined to take his life even as its own leaked, hot and fetid, down his gauntleted fist. The fanged tongue whipped out, missing his eye by less than a digit. Daring greatly, trusting that the wounded arm was useless, he let go of the sword and grabbed the disgusting appendage that extended from its mouth and stuffed it, fist, gauntlet, tongue and all, down its throat. The barbs closed on the armor and found no purchace as the thing began to strangle. Now it fought to get away, but he held tight to the wrist he had captured, pulling it closer, even. The injured arm flopped and jerked, but he had severed the tendons with his wild thrust and it could not raise it. He watched the back feet as the thing writhed and died in his grip. Its eyes rolled up into its head and slime seeped from its mouth, and its foul stench clogged his nostrils, gagging him, but still he held on grimly, his teeth set, till it moved no more. Then he pushed away and chambered to his feet, fighting the urge to empty his stomachs on the forest floor. He looked about at the carnage and let out a breath, spat, moved to make sure of each one. He stepped on each neck and pressed till it snapped, then slit each throat. The creatures were amazingly resilient, and he had once made the mistake of turning his back on one that he could have sworn was dead.
He made absolute sure of these. Then he bent slowly to retrieve his bow, spear and sword, and to pull the quarrels carefully from the dead creatures.
He piled the bodies in a cleared area that he scuffed with his hooves, lined the ghastly pile with stones, and set them afire, murmuring a short rite to contain it. Still, he watched it carefully. Fire was an uncertain thing, not easily contained. Once he was sure that the flames would not spread beyond the stone circle, he retrieved the carcass of the first and added it to the charring heap. Then he went to find a stream to wash in as Av sank low in the western sky, holding the spear in hand in case he met more trouble. His mind slowly cleared and he was able to ponder once more as the battle-fever left him.
Have these packs been sent after the girl? Three in ten turns was too much of a coincidence. She was a knot of puzzles. He had some ideas about where she came from
and why she was here, but he needed real answers. For if she was who and what he thought she was, then his clandestine survival was in jeopardy. Serious jeopardy.
For she was a person without a past or present. A magisterial mystery.
He knew this from her. He had learned during her delirium that the poison had an interesting side-effect - it made one tell the truth, uninhibited, undiluted. By using this he had found out quite a lot about her; he could ask her almost anything and she would answer in great depth and detail, though sometimes her sickness interfered with her ability to talk clearly. But any questions about her past or present circumstances, any thing that would reveal her identity or her purpose for being in the wild, or even her station in life, and she would babble nonsense, or stop speaking altogether if he became insistent. Her life was effectively hidden, even when he nudged her mind with his thoughts. Whoever she was, she had been conditioned not to betray her origin under any circumstances.
His hands gripped the spear shaft hard; he was unaware that he was no longer walking.
That she would not reveal her past, in itself, spoke volumes about her. It unequivocally marked her as someone important with important information to hide - or why bother?
She could be - his forehead furrowed as he struggled to recall terms and concepts from deep in his past, long locked away in hidden chests and covered with many folded tapestries of cycles since dust - a wealthy merchant’s daughter, or the daughter of a powerful Family or even a Tribal Heir. For only such as they, who possessed sensitive information, and who could be used as political levers and bargaining pieces if captured by an enemy, would need to conceal their identity.
The drying blood itched, reminding him that he needed to clean-up before going back to his home. He resumed walking, searching. He did not want another blood trail for other things to follow. He found the small stream with the cascade that he was looking for and waded in, to get to the spray of water coming down off the rocks of the fall. He did not resume thinking until he was clean of blood and able to turn to home.
She knew quite a bit about many things, things, he judged, that were beyond a commoner’s knowledge or a merchant’s or artisan’s need to know, which pointed toward nobility. She knew about the training of a warru and many trades and crafts and works, though she was obviously not of those classes. She knew about political machinations and maneuverings, which was close to the forbidden core of knowledge surrounding her identity, he had found out. This, too, pointed toward the ruling class. And the length and richness of her guinned hair and the quality of her clothing pushed her possible standing up to royalty.
But if that were the case, what was she doing here? And why were those things after her? Why was she so deep in the wild, lost in the heart of the unclaimed lons? How had she come to be so close to his home, without escort or following or protection, laying traps and hiding in trees? And what was she trying to catch that she would need such an elaborate trap for?
For he had found the trap, near the place where she had fallen. A trap so subtle, so devious, that it was pure chance that he had sensed it was there at all. He had dismantled the contrivance, studying it. And as its meaning and composition became clear under his probing thoughts, he had had to admire such a clever design. It had been a well-conceived thing, designed to make an animal go into heat. The poor beast then followed a false mating call to a carefully laid out net of ‘rita, set to spring upon the utterance of some word or at a gesture. It had been virtually undetectable. He had committed the principle to memory, for it was very effective - or it would have been, had it been sprung. It would have caught him, surely, if he had been its intended prey, for the gului fruit of the tree had had him totally entranced, covered with the scent of something wonderfully lush and feminine. Had it been set for him, it would have been the perfect trap set with the perfect bait...
He went cold inside as all the details clicked together into a frightening whole. The sounds of being stalked by a particularly skilled and persistent huntress. The sudden disappearance of that huntress, as if she had given up.
Given up a little too easily, he mused grimly. And then, two turns later, an irresistible call, a lure that he could not deny, a scent that drove him crazy with an irrational lust that had softly overcome his every instinct and had driven him to the place of the trap. The sudden appearance of the girl, fallen from the ferr’flambeaux tree. And the trap…
The trap that would have caught him, had the catch-phrase been uttered. The trap that he had not even known was there until after he had come back for her. The trap itself, made to hold something large and powerful, to hold that something still for a measured amount of time. Had the trap been set for him?
He thought about the gului.
The gului...
The gului had been painted with scent, a soft, luscious female scent that called to him, called to his male passion, to his desire. The fruit were fuzzy with red haze, a shimmer of steamy promises and aching sensations that would overflow his senses and take him to unknown heights of pleasure without end...
He had not connected this girl with the fruit or the pursuit. He had assumed that the trap had been for some other creature. Some other thing. Though its design fit him perfectly.
His hands tightened on the spear pole, twisting, flexing. He did not notice the hardwood bending. His steps quickened, taking him on familiar paths to home.
Why would she want to capture me? Surely - surely she was not hunting my hide like the others, seeking a trophy to spread on a shield of glory? Surely not to put a spear through my heart as I stood helpless in the trap’s rited bonds?
The spear creaked ominously, began to crack. Still he did not take heed.
Had tales of him reached the ears of the rich and idle, that one of them had come to try her hand at catching the ‘joumbi’ of the unclaimed lons? Had her fingers itched to feel his skin stretched taut, cured, preserved as a badge of her prowess? Would she have painted her face with his blood, and proclaimed herself a great huntress? He had found no weapon in the vicinity, but she who could lay traps of av’rita might also fashion weapons of av’rita... A glowing sword aimed at his unblinking eye?
The spear snapped in two. He eased his hold, finally, peeled throbbing hands from around the two pieces of shaft.
He looked up, feeling irked on top of cold rage, at the entrance to his house. He would have to replace the spear. The protective rite came down at his touch and he entered, going to the weapon alcove.
Had she meant to trap me? He could not believe that. He did not want to believe that. He could not afford not to.
If it were true, how many others would be after him, invading his home, sweeping through in such numbers that he would eventually fall victim to one of them? How many would come looking for this one unfortunate fortune seeker who would surely be missed? He took off the armor, weapons and harness, scowling.
But there were other, more poignant questions that pricked him as he cleaned and put away his gear.
Yes. Such as how she had known what type of lure would attract me? And how had she gotten so close to me each time, that I only heard her at the last moment? Just how much does she know about me? Could others follow her footsteps and lay another such trap? But perhaps most important - he stopped and stared at the wall - why didn’t she capture me when she’d had the chance?
There had been plenty of time from the moment he had stepped into the trap to the moment that the branch gave way for her to spring the trap. A few precious instants when he had been incapacitated, she could have had him - but nothing had happened. Why?
Unless the trap really was not meant for me?
He was at the door to the bedchamber before he became aware that he had moved at all. Though she was no longer in the grip of poison fever, perhaps she would still be subject to its effects. He would even force her with his thoughts if it came to that. But he had to know.
She seemed like an innocent child as she slept, incapable of doing wrong. B
ut he knew, perhaps more than others, that appearances could be and often were deceiving. He reflected soberly, as he settled beside the bed, that the appearance of a thing was generally designed to do exactly that - to wit, the deadly thrista nettle that she had fallen into, looking for all the world like any ordinary patch of nettle.
He placed his hand upon her forehead. She was still feverish warm to the touch. She responded to his touch, murmuring, pressing his hand close, moving toward him with boneless grace.
An involuntary smile curved his lips. He pushed it away, though, and with grim determination, he stretched his thoughts out to touch her with his mind, the contact making him gasp. Contact with her was always an - electric thing. A whispered suggestion. An act of imminence.
Ky’pen’dati, he whispered, leaning close. She answered with a slight smile and an inarticulate sound. She did not come to full consciousness; she seemed just below the edge of waking. He decided that that was perhaps best.
I need to know something, sweet one, he murmured, pressing gently. He felt her will giving way to him. A small crease appeared in her brow, and he felt her turn querulous. This was working better than he had hoped.
Why were you trying to capture me? He did his best to keep any edge from his voice.
A frown crossed her face. She muttered something unintelligible and began to turn away. He caught her hand and kissed her palm, lay it against his cheek, his anger in check. She made as if to pull away, but he held firm, forcing her to turn back.
Were you trying to - were you hunting me for my skin? The edge crept in, he could not keep it out.
Again a frown, accompanied by a faint head shake. No.
