The Hunter (2 page)

Grunting with exertion, Braldt dug his fingertips into a thin hairline crack and pulled himself up, scrabbling for a foothold.
Inch by torturous inch, he crawled up the sheer face of the rock, cursing the lupebeast every step of the way. His body dripping
with sweat, muscles corded with effort, he dragged himself over the edge of the precipice and found
himself to be slightly more than two man heights above the narrow trail. The rocky plateau was marked by the imprint of claws,
silent testament to the predators who made it their stalking ground. Here they would lie in wait, choosing their victims as
they passed below and setting up the hunt that would so often end in death.

Plucking his dagger from its waist loop and drawing his short sword as well, Braldt began to stalk the lupebeast. The victim
would become the hunter.

The rock was smooth and gave no hint to the passage of the lupebeast, nor could Braldt be sure that the scrapes he had seen
were those of the creature he sought. But he could not allow doubts to assail him now. The beast had headed directly for this
place and here he would be found.

Braldt crouched behind an upswept pinnacle, one of the many fanciful designs that the cutting winds had sculptured out of
the soft red rock, and studied the landscape before him, his keen eyes of so startling a shade of blue picking out the sites
that a lupebeast might choose for its lair.

The rock was like a red ocean, frozen in midmove, undulating surfaces here, sharp peaks of waves there, and deep swells and
hollows in between. Possible hiding places were legion with gold and yellow and amber striations in the rock melding with
dark shadows and real sinkholes, confusing the eye still further. The place would be a nightmarish deathscape for those who
did not know its secrets.

Braldt isolated two likely lair sites, although he did not anticipate being so fortunate as to find his quarry so easily,
and plotted his course across the treacherous terrain, knowing that any number of other beasts could be lying up in the shadows,
waiting out the worst of the heat before the onset of dusk.

Keeping low to the ground, Braldt slunk toward the two dark openings in a craggy outcrop and did his best to present no clear
glimpse of himself. Briefly, he entertained the thought of waiting until nightfall, but then discarded the idea. If darkness
was beneficial to him, it would aid the
night creatures even more. Best to make his move now when the day’s heat had them slumbering in their chambers.

A sharp hiss at his side drew his immediate attention and revealed a red-banded rock viper coiled and ready to strike, its
tiny, hate-filled eyes glittering like bits of black crystal. Braldt’s hand shot out and seized the snake immediately behind
its head, immobilizing it, its mouth gaping wide and the hot sunlight shimmering on the clear drops of fluid that clung to
the tips of the five fangs. Knowing that even a single drop could fell him on the spot were it to touch his skin, Braldt snapped
the snake’s neck with his thumb and dropped it to the ground with distaste. He wanted to hack it to bits with his sword, yet
he knew that he could little afford the telltale sound.

Silently he crept on, alert now for the red-banded rock viper as well as its many deadly relations. Another pinnacle loomed
up before him and its shadow sheltered a sleeping merebear surrounded by the bones and hooves and bits of fur from its last
meal.

Braldt slipped past the creature, willing to permit it to live in order to accomplish his task. He was not deceived by the
childlike posture of the beast, twisted in its sleep with hind paws and rounded belly upturned, its head turned to the side,
and its muzzle wrapped in its forepaws. Its soft dense fur and short stature gave it the appearance of a cuddly child toy,
but Braldt knew that even though the pads and toes of the paws were pink and babyish, the retractable claws were sharp enough
to sever his head from his shoulders, and should it be awakened, there would be nothing cuddly in the red death rage that
would fill its eyes. The merebear was a fierce and relentless predator and Braldt was glad that it was not his quarry.

Two omnicats, slinky bodies twined around each other, peered at him over a ledge to his left and then withdrew hastily, spotted
ears plastered flat against their broad flat skulls, hissing hatefully as their amber eyes narrowed to slits. And then they
were gone with only a white tufted flick of a tail to show where they had been.

Braldt reached the mouth of the first cave that was
taller and wider than he had originally realized. The stink of the carrion cat hung heavy on the hot air and Braldt knew that
no other creature would share its quarters. A great accumulation of its offal was strewn before the opening, a disgusting
but effective boundary marker to its territorial claim. Mixed in the dung itself and everywhere in between were the grisly
remains of past meals, everything from beetles to bullocks. Carrion cats would and did eat anything that moved.

The second opening, some distance away and upwind from the carrion cat, gave no clue as to its occupant, but Braldt was not
so foolish as to enter in order to learn its identity.

He quartered the area, hoping to pick up some tracks or a scat, even loose bits of fur, anything that might tell him what
lay inside the dark opening. Finally, on the sharp rocks that formed the irregular opening, he found bits of black fur that
clung to both sides as well as the uppermost curve of the rock that was a full arm’s length above his head.

Braldt backed off swiftly, knowing that the cave housed one of the most dangerous of all beasts, the dread nightshadow, said
to be a cross between a cat and some larger beast, but none knew for certain for no one had ever lived through a nightshadow
attack and returned to tell the tale.

The sun was falling swiftly off to his right and shadows were creeping over the rock, precursors of the darkness that was
soon to follow, and the lupebeast still eluded him. The cold, calculating portion of his mind told him to retreat and to do
so quickly before the denizens of the rock wakened for their evening’s hunt. But the hot flame of rage that had fed his desire
for revenge since discovering Artallo’s body argued otherwise. He knew that if he left off now, he would never find the lupebeast,
and it would merely vanish and Artallo’s death would be unavenged.

Braldt did not possess Solstead’s calm logic, nor. Hafnor’s ability to separate out everything that was not important, leaving
only the kernel of the matter. Braldt was first and foremost a hunter, a killer, a warrior, and faced with the
wisdom of retreat, he chose otherwise, preferring to die rather than relinquish his revenge.

He used the shadows to his advantage, slinking from one dark patch to another, disturbing a meandering rock vole that peered
at him vaguely with minuscule eyes, rising up on its hind legs to wave hairless pink paws at him while scenting the air with
its long, sensitive probing nose. Scenting danger at last, it dropped to all fours and hurried away, waddling comically and
squealing softly to itself.

Braldt smiled, imagining the tale it would tell its mate, then chided himself for not killing the vole. Small as it was it
would have provided a mouthful of energy. But the small, dim voles and their earthen cousins had provided him with many moments
of cheer when he was young and alone with little cause to smile and he could not bring himself to harm them. They had far
too many other enemies who were willing to feed on their soft defenseless bodies for him to add himself to their numbers.

The ledge had been rising steadily underfoot and now it rose up before him, suddenly steep and unscalable, and swept toward
the edge of the precipice. He was left with nowhere to go except back the way he had come, or across the defile, if he could
make the leap.

Braldt had no wish to return, for the plateau would be thick with animals wakening and ready for the hunt. It did not seem
that he could scale the ledge, for exposed to the constant wash of the winds, it was smooth and unbroken without handholds
or footholds. Nor did it seem that he could cross the defile for it was more than two man lengths wide at this point, certainly
farther than he could jump.

As he was pondering the problem, the red orb of the sun fell behind the shoulder of the ledge; the shadows lengthened and
darkness descended with the finality of death.

Blinking to adjust his eyes and take in what little light was available, Braldt backed up against the ledge, knowing that
it would provide the only protection available. The ledge was too high to permit an animal to drop down upon him. If he could
edge as close as possible to the precipice he
could only be approached from the front and the right, narrowing the odds somewhat. But as his fingers felt their way along
the rock, the rock fell away suddenly several paces short of the edge of the plateau.

Braldt whirled, wondering if his eyes had been tricked by the shadows, had missed the opening of a cave where some creature
might even now be waiting to spring. There was no cave. What there was, what Braldt’s eyes had failed to find, was a slender
trail that led along the edge of the precipice, flanked on one side by the steep rising cliff and on the other side by empty
air. The trail was narrow, but it was wide enough for a lupebeast… and wide enough for Braldt to follow.

The ledge rose steadily beneath Braldt’s feet. As warm
as it was during the day, the temperature fell swiftly when the sun went down, and the cold night air came out of the north
and swept around him, cutting through his thin blue robes and chilling him to the bone. Worse than the cold, the wind ushered
his scent before him, announcing his presence to any who might lurk in the darkness.

The smell of water was stronger now, reminding Braldt of his own hunger and thirst. It had been two days since he had last
eaten, and that had been a small ground squirrel eaten raw. His only moisture had been that which he was able to extract from
the bitter, oily leaves of the ciba, a skeletal, thorny bush that grew in the dry red desert sands. But he put the thought
from him, knowing that he could drink his fill after the lupebeast had been found. For now he concentrated on keeping his
footing. The edge of the trail crumbled beneath his weight and the darkness of the defile yawned, waiting for his first and
last misstep.

Then, suddenly, the cliff fell away beneath his fingers and there was nothing before him but cold, empty darkness. Fighting
down the panic, his questing fingers sought the solid comfort of the rock and found it curving away at a sharp angle to his
left. The trail itself had ended for there was nothing but empty space beyond. Clinging to the rock and pressing his back
hard against the cliff, he peered around the abrupt corner and saw that the trail resumed on the far side. Starlight and the
rising crescent of moon revealed a fresh scar where a large section of rock had broken away carrying the trail with it.

Braldt inched backward until he reached a relatively
wide spot. He turned so that he faced inward toward the cliff and then retraced his steps. It would be tricky, but if he could
retain his footing and straddle the open space, perhaps he could gain the other side.

His fingers seized a bit of rock that seemed firmly bedded in the cliff, and placing all his weight on his left foot, he moved
his right foot out over the broken trail, searching blindly for the other side, and found nothing. Sharp, stinging sweat dripped
into his eyes and his stomach fluttered nervously. A rock stinger skittered toward him, head down, death-dealing tail coiled
above its back, defying gravity. Braldt bared his teeth in hatred and flicked the creature away before it could inflict its
painful sting. But where there was one, there would be more. Determined, Braldt moved to the very edge of the chasm and shifted
his weight to the right, clinging to the rock by his fingertips as his feet desperately sought secure footing. Rock crumbled
and fell beneath the weight of his foot and then held just as his numbed fingers could hold no more.

He flattened himself against the rock and breathed deeply, feeling the cold night air rasp painfully against his dry throat,
wishing that he could somehow quench his thirst. The smell of water hung heavy in the air, tormenting him. Lifting his head,
he saw by the light of the swiftly rising moon that he was in a natural amphitheater, circled on all sides by steep walls
of rock. At the base of the rock lay a large and black pool, which seeped from the rock itself and contained an image of the
rising moon. More important for his purposes was a dark opening, a cleft in the rock, just ahead that could be the lair of
the crafty lupebeast, for they were most cautious where they denned. Having no wish to meet the beast on the narrow ledge,
Braldt crept forward on silent feet, once more gripping his weapons and trusting his footing to the gods.

The cleft opened into the face of the cliff and disappeared into utter darkness, giving no clue as to its inhabitant. A rush
of fetid air swept overhead, swirling about his head like a strong current, filling his nostrils with the stench of rotten
meat and his head with shrill, piercing whistles. Bloodwings!
Braldt crouched low, waving his short sword above his head, but he hideous things were gone, sweeping into the night in search
of larger prey whom they would settle on and drain of their life’s blood, overwhelming the victim by the sheer weight of their
numbers.