Prey

by D.A. Boulter

PREY

  D.A. Boulter

  Copyright 2011 D.A. Boulter

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any similarity to actual events or real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover: D.A. Boulter

  PREY is a short story from the Tlartox Universe. If you enjoy this short story, consider buying "Ghost Fleet", coming soon.

  D.A. Boulter can be contacted at dougboulter@gmail.com

  PREY

  By D.A. BOULTER

  Krin Tlento ran as if her life depended on it. It did. Though desperate, she made the most of the terrain, choosing paths for the difficulty they would present her pursuers. Her pace, though punishing, seemed to her the best compromise between speed and endurance.

  The tall grasses waved in the breezes that ruffled her silver-grey fur and cooled her slightly. She caught the sharp odor of the stalks, freshly broken by her passage, and fainter, from behind, the odor of the herd. It had sharpened; they were closer. She picked up her pace, her breathing labored.

  Krin felt the weight of the radio on the belt that crossed her chest, upper right to lower left. She wanted to drop it, yet a remote possibility existed and the radio remained where it was. The radio.

  Damn Parl Fren to a planet without prey.

  Topping a rise in the rolling prairie, Krin saw the tree. At the top of the next rise, it stood against the sky. That no one from her klatch waited beneath the tree, did not surprise. Instead it confirmed her growing suspicions. Her ears went back to the angle of disgust. Traitors: may they all go to Tlar with fur in disarray! Her lips curled back from her fangs and she slowed to a walk.

  The sun lowered, the breezes cooled, yet Krin still panted. She looked up, pupils slitted. A puffy white cloud crossed the deep blue. Unfortunately it would not pass before the sun. On a day when everything went wrong, she could not expect such relief. She blew air out through her nose in a short huff.

  Insects hummed in their endless ways, ignorant of the death about to visit itself on this prairie—her death. Pausing, Krin concentrated. Yes, she could feel the rumble of many hooves. The bulls came. She picked up her pace again, somewhat refreshed by her brief rest.

  The hunt should have been easy—no, not easy. It should have been straightforward. The barendi herd had been sighted, its position marked on the map; Krin and her back-up, Lar Telpin, had been set down at the tree designated as the retrieval point; and Krin had left early that morning for the challenge.

  She found the barendi herd further from the tree than marked. No matter. Krin had found them and made her approach, finally moving upwind to allow her scent to panic the herd. It had not panicked. Instead the bulls had gathered.

  Reminded of the bulls, Krin looked over her shoulder; no sight of them and she had covered half the distance to the tree. She would make it that far, at least. Air rasped in and out of her lungs. This climb would just about finish her. She allowed her thoughts to go back, to avoid thinking on how much she would like to stop.

  After finding the herd and making her approach, the bulls had gathered in defense. Out here, on the prairie, far from predators, they should have felt safe. They should have panicked at her scent, allowing her to take down her chosen prey, but they had not. Someone had stirred up the herd. Someone had alerted it.

  Someone. Parl Fren.

  The slope of the land slowed her to a jog and then to a walk. It would slow the barendi even more. She, however, neared the end of her endurance and the bulls could keep up their pace for hours.

  The bulls had come for Krin before she even got within range of her intended prey. She had time only to pull her sidearm and begin firing. Bulls had gone down, too many of them dead. She didn't want them dead. Bulls screaming in pain would do more to panic the herd than bulls down and dead. And then she ran.

  Her weapon hung heavy and Krin wanted to drop it as well as the radio. Yet she had one charge left and that one charge could mean the difference between life and death, the difference between vengeance and dying ignominiously on the prairie, a predator hunted down by her prey. The sidearm remained in its holster.

  A fresh breeze ruffled her fur. It came from ahead. Although welcome, it would blow her scent back toward the bulls. They were sure to find her now. A bellow in the distance confirmed that.

  Krin's side ached. Her chest heaved. She needed to rest; rest meant death. From the top of the rise, the radio might reach the ship. She had to make the tree. Krin stumbled on.

  The radio. She snarled, lips curling back, revealing the fangs. Second-in-command Parl Fren had personally handed her the radio, the radio with the off switch that didn't turn the power off, with transmit and receive buttons crossed. By the time she realized what had happened, the batteries were near to death. Parl Fren. Fren stood at the top of her list—should the unlikely occur and she survive.

  The wind rustled in the brilliant green leaves of the tree. Krin stumbled into its shadow, past the few rocks that littered the ground about it. With the coolness came relief. Her legs ached. Her body cried out for oxygen; her throat burned from mouth-breathing. Gratefully, she accepted support from the trunk, leaned against it and panted.

  Parl Fren, yes, but who else? Lar Telpin should have awaited her here, was as close to a friend as Krin had onboard ship—a captain's post couldn't afford friends. It hurt to think that Lar had betrayed her. If so, Lar would stand second on the list.

  More likely, Krin thought, Fren had taken her out. In that case, she would avenge Lar. The males wouldn't have the initiative to mutiny. They hadn't the speed and the females would cut them to pieces in a fight. They would follow whoever led. Parl Fren led now. No, she could expect no help from the males—not that they could help much against hunters, anyway.

  From the shade of the tree, Krin looked around. A higher hill stood some two hundred long paces to her right. Even had she the will and strength to climb it, such a climb would be futile. No tree grew on the summit to stand at her back. To its left and further away stood a grove of trees and relative safety. She eyed it judiciously. Maybe.

  Krin fumbled in a belt-pouch and pulled the almost dead batteries from it. Her eyes narrowed. The head of the first barendi bull appeared over the rise; time quickly ran out. Knowing the futility of it, Krin plucked the radio from her belt. One word, maybe two before the batteries would no longer power the transmitter. She plugged them in.

  "Assistance. Immediate." The radio failed. She doubted the signal would reach a quarter of the way to the ship. She dropped it to the ground.

  Krin Tlento put her ears back flat against her head, and backed up to the large tree. Her breath still came in ragged pants, but she was satisfied. The land sloped up to the tree, putting her pursuers at a disadvantage. Here she would make her stand.

  Her last stand, for she would not escape the barendi. Exhausted as she felt, they would run her down long before she made the ship. Before she made the ship, yes, but before she could make the grove? Her tail lashed at the tree behind her. She gauged the distances, her reserves. There remained a chance.

  She eyed the grove again and calculated. Possible safety yet, instead of making that final dash, Krin Tlento pulled a small brush from a pouch on her belt and began to groom, smoothing out her fur. Her chance of reaching the grove: perhaps one in twenty. One of the People did not take such a chance should it mean going to meet Tlar ungroomed.

  To be run down like a Quiron and trampled? Fren would love that. No, Krin was of the People of Tlar and she would go down with her claws bloody, her fangs deep in the throat of her prey. Decision made, her tail ceased its lashing. She watched as the bulls slowed at the sight of her, then stopped. More deliberate now, they began their advance, shoulder to shoulder.

  Quickly
, Krin brushed at the last errant tufts of fur. Her time grew short. The barendi slowed yet again and two big bulls separated and moved ahead. Krin felt the joy of impending battle welling up inside of her. She snarled. There would be sad songs sung in the herd tonight.

  The smell of dry grass and sun-baked earth lay light in her nostrils. An errant breeze carried the scent of the Barendi to her. She bared her teeth. She could smell fear! Intoxicated, Krin threw back her head and roared out her challenge and gloried as the two bulls hesitated momentarily. This was how it should be, claw and fang against hoof and horn. She reveled in the adrenal rush; she was Tlartox and the People of Tlar had long faced death with joy.

  Krin brought her sidearm up and steadied it with both hands, the smaller of the lead bulls in her sights.

  That bull crumpled to the ground and the others halted. Krin dropped the now useless weapon, dropped her belt and began to stalk the remaining lead barendi. The barendi snorted and pawed the earth.

  They charged together, Krin's leap carrying her over the deadly horns, her claws raking the bull's back. It screamed and the smell of blood inflamed Krin's senses. She sprang after the bull, claws tearing at its flanks. The mass of the barendi waited for the outcome of the fight—more fools they.

  The barendi moved, deadly fast, its speed augmented by anger and fear. She avoided two charges, landing a slash each time. She, likewise, avoided the third charge, but a lucky kick took her left leg from beneath her. And that was the beginning of the end, she knew.

  The other bulls, encouraged, began to close in. Her bull, confident in the kill, made its final charge. She rolled to the side then, with all the strength left her, leapt at it, burying her fangs in its throat, digging her claws into its neck and chest. The barendi bull bellowed and tried to shake her off. She held on desperately, working her jaws. Blood gushed from its neck and the huge bull fell, pinning her.

  It was the end. She felt, rather than saw, the other bulls closing in. 'Too late', she wanted to cry out, for even in death she had victory. Instead she maintained her grip on the dying bull. Of it, she would make sure!

  A vicious crack sounded, followed by a spang as a projectile ricocheted off a rock. A dull boom sounded in the distance. Another crack sounded and a bull screamed in pain. More cracks and the bulls left, running. As Krin slipped from consciousness she felt again the joy. She had made her kill and her klatch had come.