How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the Last Mighty T-Rex

by Mark Paul Jacobs

  Quintar rubbed his eyes, ever haunted by the Supreme Yaakleader’s fierce glare and waving finger. “But the experienced amongst our guild understand the danger of late season hunts; they know well that paths amid the peaks can narrow to little more than a Yaak’s breast, and howling blizzards can sweep from deceivingly peaceful skies.”

  Beneath Quintar, the huge Yaak-beast shuddered. “You must never forget, young Yaakrider, carelessness can bring swift death.”

  Carathis’s image, swirling through Quintar’s weary mind, dissolved like a lake-fog struck by the rising sun’s warming rays. The Yaakman opened his eyelids slowly. Vast, snow-swept peaks towered before him, bathed in pale-red beneath Ellini’s crescent.

  Quintar stroked his sweat-gnarled beard and brushed unkempt brown hair from broad shoulders. He inhaled deeply while searching the deepening sky for bright-yellow Alberon, and he shivered anticipating winter’s approach— lonely Thermegan skimming the western horizon following cycles of bitter cold and snow piled higher than a man’s shoulder or a Yaak’s knees. He pulled his battered overcoat close and his longbow tight.

  Quintar felt the beast quake again. “Steady Shila,” he whispered soothingly, stretching his own cramped legs bound to a harness fastened to the Yaak’s hip. Beneath him, the Yaak-beast distributed her shaggy bulk over two powerful legs.

  Without warning and to Quintar’s bewilderment, the great beast turned her hunched neck from the clearing, raising her over-sized head and aiming saucer eyes toward the distant slopes. Quintar huddled close to the Yaak’s mass. He could feel her drawing deep breaths into her massive lungs.

  The Yaakmen studied the endless peaks upon which the Yaakbeast gazed— the great northern mountains disappeared beyond the clouds and Quintar’s familiarity. Shila thrust forth two strong arms— each the length of a man— flexing spindly fingers as if clawing some nameless and unseen foe.

  Moments later, the huge biped turned leisurely back to the clearing. Quintar shook his head. No man could ever understand a Yaak's thoughts, he mused.

  Quintar noticed three pig-creatures meandering near the forest’s edge. Glancing to Shila’s right, he located massive Anderro squatting several meters into the woods. Upon Anderro’s hip, Lenna pulled two arrows from his quiver. Quintar turned his eyes to Thimbar, crouching motionless near the forest’s opening below. Thimbar’s rider Enro returned Quintar’s glance with a fleeting nod.

  Quintar drew his bow and released his arrow, striking a pig’s breast. Lenna’s arrow thumped the same yelping animal a heartbeat later. A net jumped from the meadow’s floor near Thimbar.

  Shila and Anderro lumbered forward, flanking the zigzagging pigs. With surprising speed and agility, the Yaak herded the prey toward stationary Thimbar. Two pigs ran directly into the net— ensnared and thrashing— while the wounded creature skipped wide and raced from the clearing.

  Quintar caught Lenna’s eye. With a sharp tug on Shila’s hair, Quintar urged the beast past Thimbar and into the woods.

  Quintar held tight as Shila ambled through the forest drawing pig’s scent through flared nostrils. The ground sloped downward and the trees gave way to squat bushes. Shila plodded down a steep bank, slowed, and then finally halted.

  Quintar took a deep breath and pushed aside the Yaak’s mane. He peered out over a mountain stream ravine, strewn with huge boulders and uprooted trunks. Quintar’s prey lay convulsing beneath Shila’s three-pronged toes.

  Quintar pulled himself from his harness and hurriedly gutted the pig-creature. He tossed the entrails to gathering scavengers and secured the carcass to Shila’s side. He staggered to the stream’s edge, dipped his knife into the frigid water, and then glanced downstream.

  A dull metallic surface caught the Yaakman’s eye.

  He paused. Is my mind playing tricks on me?

  Quintar tossed icy water across his brow and brushed away the drops. He scanned the rocky riverbank again, spotting instantly the peculiar object buried amid roots at the stream’s edge. Instinctively, Quintar gazed upward and upon the barren cliffs overlooking the vale. The Yaakman pondered for a moment before shaking his head.

  Quintar trudged downward along the stream’s edge, ducking beneath tangled branches and pushing aside thick grassy reeds. Eventually, he stood before the clump. He reached out and guardedly stroked the object’s smooth surface, marveling at its flawless texture and wondering of its makers and its purpose. Quintar clutched some roots and pulled himself atop the knotted mess.

  He froze— a mesh of smashed compartments and jagged metal beams lay before him.

  Quintar lowered himself into the root-clogged jumble. He noticed a single undamaged compartment, about man-height, with dirt-caked walls and what appeared to be a circular entryway at waist level. He ran his hands across the entrance and then brushed green moss from a latch at the gateway’s center. Quintar rubbed his hairy chin. He grasped the handle firmly and turned. The door popped open, filling the Yaakman’s nostrils with a moldy stench. He crawled inside.

  Quintar’s eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness. In the shadows, he saw two unclothed human skeletons strapped to cushioned seats by the neck and waist. Metallic bracelets bound the skeleton's ankles and hands.

  He paused.

  Quintar pulled himself from the chamber and back atop the root-clump. He noticed Shila wandering along the rocky shallows. He leaped from the clump and hurriedly climbed into her harness. Without urging, Shila set off trampling through the reeds and up the riverbank. Quintar never looked back.

  Shila plodded back to the meadow where they’d begun their chase. Quintar noticed small, green furry rodents scurrying over the entrails of Lenna and Enro’s prey and winged scavengers lurking in the shadowy trees above Anderro and Thimbar. Below the stoic beasts, Enro and Lenna gathered their weapons.

  Lenna grinned broadly. “Quintar, have you ever seen such Chakra? Just another quarter cycle and—”

  “Daylight burns quickly,” Quintar interrupted. “And Alberon rises late tonight.” Quintar caught Enro’s steely gaze. “At sunrise, we return to Tyrie.”

  Lenna spat and sheathed his knife while Enro stroked his own gray beard. Wordlessly, Enro climbed atop Thimbar and Lenna mounted Anderro, and the two hairy beasts lumbered into the darkening woods.

  The meadow quieted.

  Quintar’s thoughts drifted while he watched scavengers pick the Chakra’s remains. He noticed a Great Thrikar circling against the ever deepening sky; its enormous wings unfurled and bulbous eyes shifting. The bird swooped over the bloody entrails, sending furry scavengers squealing and scattering. The Thrikar hovered for a moment and then rushed downward, snatching the pig’s head in sharp talons. Majestically, it whooshed skyward, carrying away its prize.

  Quintar sighed deeply. Shila sprung forward, carrying him away and into the forest.

  Quintar closed his eyes as the forest rushed by. Thimbar led the giant Yaak single file through the brush and woods. Quintar held tight to hairs on Shila’s lower neck while the strangeness of the object along the riverbank haunted him still.

  The three beasts ambled over a ridge and then descended the bank of a mountain stream. They followed the stream down a narrow, twisting path. Quintar listened to the splash of enormous feet through shallow water.

  Darkness overcame the forest and the trio of beasts slowed. Quintar noticed glowing campfires on the opposite shore.

  He thought only of rest.

  **********

  Quintar lay under his canvass shelter wrapped in woolen blankets. Ominous clouds moved from the north and both moons disappeared from the night sky. Quintar saw his warm breath by the campfire’s light. He drifted into a restful sleep.

  He was alone atop a high pinnacle where the air was clear and also quite thin. Above his head, fluffy white clouds rolled effortlessly towards a horizon with no end. The sky was a deeper blue than he had ever seen. But he could see no sun!

  A vast, green valley lay before him, sliced by a wide river, and cradled by s
teep slopes and rolling hills. To the north, the river split at a vast confluence surrounded by checkered farmlands. Below the river’s convergence on the river’s western shore, he beheld a congregation of homesteads bellowing white smoke and set upon tiers connected by a labyrinth of seven twisting roads.

  Quintar recognized the settlement of Tyrie: the greatest of three colonies that encompassed the lands of the Great Confluence. And the place he had grown to manhood.

  An odd-looking, gold and black Thrikar flew over his head and perched on a rock ledge beside him. “Behold,” said the bird to an astonished Quintar. The bird pointed its wing downward, toward the confluence’s farmlands.

  Quintar envisioned his youth nearly four seasons past: the towering figure of his father atop his plow, driving snorting Zampha-ox through fertile fields washed by spring’s massive floods. And his father’s smiling face as he lifted Quintar to hold its reins.

  “There will come a time when you and your brother will take over,” Quintar heard his father say. “Then you can teach your sons as I’ve taught you, and carry on our most honorable traditions. You will be the fifth, Quintar; you will be our fifth generation.”

  Quintar saw his young self, withdrawn and silent.

  Quintar recalled the first time he witnessed the brave Yaakriders emerge from the wilds on their mysterious beasts, their manner stern and their faces hardened from years of unimagined adventures in distant regions. He thought of nothing else since. He had become obsessed....

  He remembered the day he received the letter bearing the Supreme Yaakleader’s seal, and his great joy, followed by deep sadness. He recalled his mother’s tears on the day he left to begin his apprenticeship and his sister’s embrace. He remembered approaching his father working the fields, but the farmer wiped his brow and looked away, and Quintar could do little else but move onward.

  Quintar lowered his head, and then he scowled. “You have shown me nothing that I don’t already know, bird. Why torment me so?”

  The bird squawked. “You do not know all, Yaakrider. Many things of this world are shrouded in darkness. But if want to see, you must first let yourself fly. Do you wish to be blind forever?”

  Quintar furrowed his brow. “But I cannot fly, I have no wings. I’ll plummet to the ground to my death.”

  “You will not fall, if you search for the truth,” the bird cackled. Then the bird launched from its perch and flew away toward the eastern horizon. Moments later, it was gone.

  Quintar looked around, and to his astonishment, his arms became wings made of bright, multicolored feathers. He looked downward and beheld huge talons where his feet should have been. He moved his wings tentatively at first, but as he gained confidence, he flapped harder. Suddenly, he lifted from the ground.

  The feeling was like none he had experienced before. He felt a sense of exhilaration and freedom. He soared above the highest perch, above the highest mountain and down the valley of the Great River. He glided above the tallest trees, across green meadows and fields and over deep-blue lakes.

  “Look up there! The Thrimara,” the people of the valley cried. “He will make us see. He will show us!”

  “I am not worthy,” Quintar replied, with eyes downcast.

  “Lead us,” they said. “Or we will live forever in darkness.”

  “I will try. I can only try, but I can’t promise...”

  He flew out of the valley towards the distant eastern mountains and upon a strong updraft, spiraled into blue sky. When he reached the farthest mountain, he began to struggle; his wings felt like stone. He felt as if he were flying through water.

  He could go no farther.

  He looked down at his feet and gasped— his thin bird-ankles were bound with heavy metal rings.

  He plummeted, but he never reached the ground.

  Quintar awoke to the sounds of snoring Yaakriders. Dawn had not arrived, yet the camp glowed in a dull light. He propped himself up for a better look.

  A blanket of fresh snow covered the forest’s floor.

  CHAPTER 2 (The Yaakmen of Tyrie)

  Quintar pushed through throngs of swirling citizens and barking peddlers in Tyrie’s Central Marketplace just as the late morning sun peeked above the snow-capped peaks enveloping the Valley of the Great Confluence. He stopped and closed his eyes, allowing memories of the long hunt to evaporate, replaced by pungent aromas of roasting meats and boiling stews.

  “Looking for somewhere to spend your credits, good Yaakman,” a merchant bellowed, bowing curtly. With exaggerated grace, he waved his hand slowly over his wares. “Well, as you can see, I present the finest goods from all three of Tyrie's settlements. Perhaps you’d be interested in a nice wool coat, stitched by the finest seamstresses in the northern settlement of Norelda or lush furs gathered at outposts on the wilderness’s edge. I also have smoked fish, pulled from Lake Adair's crystal-clear waters and prepared south of the falls of Kahnor in the noble settlement of Adair.”

  Quintar grinned, running his fingers through freshly clipped hair. The Yaakman understood the merchant’s routine all too well. Seasons ago, he and Lenna had spent many a summer day playing amid the markets, getting into mischief or running errands for a credit or two.

  The merchant rubbed his chin. “Come, Master Quintar, there’s little reason to be coy. The markets have been buzzing for days with tales of your recent bounty. Most agree it was the finest Chakra-pig presented at auction in recent memory. Sadly, an unpretentious merchant like me could not dream of matching the highest bids.”

  “My humble regrets,” Quintar said teasingly.

  “Maybe you wish to treat your beasts to some tubers as tribute to their service. A gesture of good fortune, is it not?” The merchant turned, gathering a yellow-green root. “Just look at this fresh Charkur. Do your beasts not deserve the best?”

  “Farm-grown?” An all too familiar voice sliced through the browsing citizens. Even Quintar, if for only a moment, felt his heart flutter and his breath deepen. The man strode forward, parting the remaining market-goers like he bore a deadly plague.

  “Master Carathis,” the merchant stammered. “I…”

  “I asked whether this Charkur is farm-grown,” the Supreme Yaakleader said, stroking his neatly-trimmed mustache and grey-streaked beard. “I cannot state my question any clearer.” Carathis's green eyes never wavered from the beleaguered merchant. Carathis's brooding eminence was legendary amongst Tyrie's citizens, and it was said that only a man or women with great nerve could withstand the Supreme Yaakleader's deadly stare for more than a handful of breaths.

  The merchant swallowed hard, gathering his courage. “I can assure you this root is certified-grown by the farmers on the Great Confluence, Master Yaakrider. Fair-minded merchants are well aware of the statutes forbidding the collection of the beast’s wild feed.” He bowed.

  Carathis snatched the root and sniffed. He caught Quintar’s eye and then nodded. “Come, Quintar, let us walk together and away from these crowds. I have something of great importance to discuss with you.”

  The two Yaakriders strolled wordlessly through the bustling market, its cobbled streets congested with peoples of all status and dozens of carts filled with wares of every imaginable sort, drawn by shaggy two-horned quadrupeds. Quintar lagged a respectful half-step behind Carathis's brash presence, knowing well the Supreme Yaakleader's aversion to idle chatter.

  Carathis led Quintar out of the markets and across Tyrie’s lowest tier. Soon, they passed Tyrie’s Great Meeting Hall and Hall of Commerce and a number of large, private homes owned by Tyrie’s successful merchants and traders or political leaders or organizers of metalworker or mining guilds. Above them and to the west, the road twisted upward and the homesteads became more modest, constructed for a growing class of smaller merchants, tradespeople, weapon makers, carpenters, and builders. Quintar recalled that Druiden, master of Adair’s Academy of Knowledge and census taker, reported that over nine thousand humans now resided just below the Great River’s con
fluence.

  Beyond the buildings to the east, the sloping floodplain ended at the bank of the Great River— its blue-green water seeping gracefully southward.

  They continued up the road until the crowds thinned. Finally, Carathis turned to Quintar. “I have named you to represent the Yaakrider’s guild at this year's Great Council.”

  Quintar halted abruptly, his eyes widened. Quintar slowly shook his head.

  “Do you have any questions?” Carathis asked with a devilish smirk. “Perhaps a simple comment to pass our time? I have named you to one of the most prestigious positions in the lands, and you stand before me mute? I expected more of you.”

  “No Carathis, I am honored. Yet I can think of many Yaakleaders more senior and perhaps some more deserving.”

  “Quintar, you are always the humble man. But I have chosen you, and I alone have the only vote of consequence in this matter. And I do so with the authority granted to me by the bylaws of our guild.”

  Carathis and Quintar continued onward. Quintar took a few steps, digesting what he had just heard, asking finally, “When will the Great Council meet?”

  “Twelve days following Ellini’s full cycle, and, of course, after the members are assembled.”

  “Under a moonless sky? During the celebrations?”

  “Yes, a day chosen by Ruma himself. I guess he reasoned it would assure good fortune.” Carathis shrugged. “I don't bother myself with such trite, yet alas, it is his privilege to do so.”

  “Good fortune is always welcome,” Quintar said, “although never guaranteed.” Quintar rubbed his chin as the reality of his newly elevated status finally began to sink inward. He turned and matched Carathis's steely gaze. “I give you my word as Yaakrider of Tyrie that I will represent our guild with earnestness and dignity.” Quintar bowed slightly.