The Hunt

 A gentle spring breeze rustled the leaves in the bowers, carrying with it cottonwood seeds so dense as to resemble snowfall. Squirrels chased each other along the branches, songbirds whistled and trilled, and a creek gurgled where its course sent clear water crashing over a little cataract. Amid the natural chorus only the keenest of ears could discern the progress of two sandal-begirt feet. For there was a stranger in the forest that day, a boy not yet a man and eager to ascend, several at a time, the imposing steps of manhood. Returning to the palace with a trophy worthy of his status would ensure that others saw in him what he already could so clearly. Here was Prince Neteth, last son of an impoverished house, heir to a barbarian nation, ready to go forth with brass greaves and cuirass, with spear thrower in his hand and a dream in his heart, to make the world his own.

A line of tracks wound through the mud, vanished, resumed on the other side of the stream. Each print was as long as a man's forearm with four long, hooked claws evident from the deep indentations they left in the soil. They were fresh; the prince followed, spear held loosely in his off hand. The reeds seemed to whisper to him. Light, mottled by its descent through the canopy, fell over him like a net. On all such prior excursions he had been surrounded by a pack of retainers who diligently kept the prince away from any danger or exertion. The freedom, the challenge, and the tense isolation of the hunt excited him now that he could rely on none but himself: one man's wits and skill against a beast superior to him in all else. One will to survive tracing a deadly orbit about another.

So intent was he on following the tracks that it was some time before he noticed how quiet the forest had become. He slipped a spear into the atlatl and crept forward. Even the constant hum of flying insects had vanished. Treading with agonizing care, he heard in its place a sound like a bellows, muted at first and growing stronger as he passed, one by one, intervening curtains of vegetation. The trees in this part of the forest were withered and split as though struck by lightning; the vines hung in tatters about pale, diseased underbrush and sweat stood on the prince's brow.

The beast revealed itself in intervals, for even in this dead grove the leafless branches were too thick to allow him to see clearly more than a few arm-spans ahead. There was a squat, powerful hindleg, saber-like talons, the armored ridge of the creature's back, the great trunk of its neck, and at last the head, which at that moment was turned away from him. If he aimed for the base of the skull he might pierce the hide there, break the spine, and be assured of a clean kill. Clean, but difficult: an expert's technique. He steadied himself, raised his arm, and thought once more of the joy with which he would be welcomed.

A branch snapped. The basilisk lifted its head and looked about, swift and alert as though he'd only imagined it sleeping. He opened his mouth to shout at whatever oaf had woken the beast, filled with a fury that took on a new dimension when an arrow struck his chest. The breastplate saved him, but he knew it would do little if he stood there gawking; this was no accident, not the work of a hopelessly incompetent retainer but a band in pursuit of rather different game. Prince Neteth dashed into the cover of an old willow just as the beast began to stir, filling the forest with the dreadful scraping sound of claws on dead leaves.

One of his assailants darted into view and was gone, little more than a shock of red and white, the thin line of a red sash like a trail of blood, and a wicker leer that lingered in the prince's mind. All about him was the cacophony of footsteps and the beast's exertions. Another figure revealed itself, this one loosing an arrow at the basilisk, and Neteth threw his spear in turn. It caught the man in the side, just below the ribs, and he fell screaming.

He followed a rut the creature had worn in the ground. Arrows whistled around him, denying the chance to hurl his second spear, and he discarded the atlatl in order to hold the spear in one hand and his dagger in the other. It was long, with a straight, heavy blade, as much a short sword as it was a knife. He called out to the bandits:

“No doubt you know who I am. I have come here to kill and am prepared to die. Do as you will!” With that, he rose to full height and cast the spear, which hit another man's mail-clad chest. He moved again without seeing if it went through. Now he had nothing but the dagger, himself, and whatever favor the gods chose to bestow upon him; while unsure of the last, the prince was supremely confident of the first two.

A bandit cried out in terror and another barked orders to group up and stand firm. The basilisk, Neteth thought, must have been playing havoc with them, and good riddance for ruining his hunt. Only the clash of metal against metal alerted him that something unusual was taking place. There was more shouting, and as he realized the bandits had given up their pursuit Neteth chanced a look at the fight.

Six of his foes were left standing amid many more dead and wounded. However, their tormentor was not, as he'd expected, the beast, but a man whose sword and armor were of a strange metal that looked like silver. It was a fantastically long sword as well, with a pair of hooks halfway down the blade. He saw their purpose soon enough, for the stranger turned his blade to catch a bandit's khopesh on one of the horns, then turned again to wrench it away. Then the stranger shifted his grip, one hand staying on the hilt while the other grasped the blade itself, and he struck the defenseless bandit with the sword's spiked, cudgel-like pommel. The remaining bandits decided they'd had their fill and fled in disarray.

Equal parts confused and awed by the encounter, the prince summoned his full measure of royal bearing and strode forward.

“Greetings, warrior. I've not seen your like before.”

“I'm not from around here. You can run home now; I don't think they'll be a problem anymore."

“I've no idea who you are to speak to me thus, but I am Prince Neteth of the First House, son of Pazugesar and heir to the throne of Ersetu.”

“I'm Tex. Nice to meet you,” he said and held his arm straight out, hand open as though he expected something.

“Tex... You wouldn't happen to be Tchkoan, would you?”

“Texan, actually.”

“That's what I said.”

“Buddy,” Tex said, “you ain't never heard of a place like Texas.”