“Yeah, MedMa said it’ll only take a little over a full moon to heal. But why do you car—”
“Good,” she says. “See you later.” And just like that, she’s gone too, leaving me scratching my head with my good hand. I want to chase after her, demand some answers to all her cryptic words, but I’m too scared about what she might say. That she’s involved with the Wilds, the Icers, or someone even worse. I kick a rock in the direction she left, half hoping it’ll hit her.
~~~
The tugs are restless.
They may not be the smartest animals, but they ain’t stupid either. As soon as the Hunters come into view they start stomping their cloven feet, bucking their monstrous heads, and milling about like a bunch of Younglings at a Learning social event. They know something’s up.
The massive beasts look like hair-covered boulders out on the field, their heads as big and round and wide as the rest of their bodies.
The tugs ain’t exactly considered sacred animals to my people, but they’re not far from it. I mean, without them we’d have died off long ago. Although I don’t particularly like the idea of the Hunters killing them, I know it’s necessary for our survival. After all, almost everything we have comes from them. At over two thousand pounds each, a single tug can feed an entire family for a year, from boiled liver to spiced jerky to stacks and stack of ribs and rump steaks. It’s always a welcome change from the chewiness of ’zard stew or bitterness of prickler salad.
Tug hides are used by the tanners to make leather for our moccasins, dresses for the women, britches for the men (and for Lara, I s’pose), hats, pouches, bedding, and most importantly, tent covers. There’re probably ’bout a hundred other uses for tugskin I can’t remember.
But it’s not just the skin we use. We use everything, which I’d learned by the time I was six. Their sinew, bones and horns are used by the weapon makers to craft bows, pointers, spears, and knives, as well as to make glue and tools. From tug hair we get ropes and stuffing for our pillows. Tails are used for paint brushes—like the one Greynote Giza uses—and decorations. We even use tug blaze. This is pretty raunch, but it works wonders on getting a cook fire started, although I can’t say it does much for the flavor of whatever you’re cooking.
So, yeah, the Hunt is important, ’specially the last one, ’cause if it don’t go well, then we starve.
From high atop the bluffs, I can see for miles and miles, the whole desert spread out ’fore me, like I’m sitting in the sky. I flop down well away from the rest of the Younglings—even Lara keeps her distance today.
A few of the tugs look up our way, toward the spectators, like they know something’s up, but they’ll have plenty on their minds soon enough to worry about us.
I watch as one of the monstrous tugs circles t’others, as if hurding them, trying to keep them from scattering, where they’ll be more vulnerable. Their strength is in their size and numbers. This particular tug must be a leader. With a thick layer of brown shag, a body the size of a boulder and six-inch-long horns that’ll impale you quicker’n a mosquito sucks your blood, the male tug can be deadly to even the most experienced Hunter. And this male tug is bigger’n most, a real biggin, with brains to boot.
Stay away from him, Circ, I think. Stay away from that biggin.
There are a few baby tug mashed together between a bunch of females who take their motherly duties very seriously, but still, there should be more tug calves. As we’ve been taught in Learning: the tug numbers are on the decline, which poses a major problem for us and for them.
The Hunters hold their position ’bout half a mile away, maybe a bit less. I see Hawk strapping on his final pieces of gear: thick leather shin and arm blockers, a wicked-sharp curving knife, a sachet of pointers and a tightly strung bow. Lastly, he picks up his spear. He’s ready. Like Circ, lack of confidence is foreign to Hawk. Either that or he hides it well. Despite being on the verge of charging into the middle of a bloody battle, the likes of which he ain’t never seen before, he manages to crack a joke to one of his friends.
A horn sounds and everyone, Hawk included, gazes at the Hunters. My father stands out in front, clad in a stained black leather tunic, a hollowed out tug horn to his lips. The future Head Greynote leads the charge. The horn is Hawk’s signal.
He takes off.
It seems to me that having the new Hunter run to catch up to t’others is a knocky tradition. I mean, all you do is tire him out ’fore he even gets to the starting line. I haven’t heard about many newbs getting killed in their first Hunt, but still…
I don’t like Hawk, but I don’t want him to die.
At first Hawk comes out a bit fast, probably ’cause he’s full of adrenaline and excitement and all that first-Hunt stuff, but then he slows a bit, settling into a light gallop. T’others await his arrival patiently, in formation, bangers in the front, shooters in the back, and slashers on the wings. Circ’s a slasher and, as usual, I spot him right away. We’re maybe a quarter-mile away up here on the bluffs, but I can see him as if he’s standing not two feet from me.
After three years, I’ve memorized everything ’bout him, from the way he stands, to how he holds the slasher-blade when he’s anticipating having to use it, to his pre-Hunt rituals, which he starts now, just as I’m watching him. First he squats and scoops up a handful of dust, letting it sift through his fingers until it’s just the right amount. He watches the grains of sand fall, gaining valuable information on wind speed and direction which’ll be vital in the event he hasta use the bow strapped to his back. The remaining dust is patted onto the handle of his slasher-blade to keep his hands sweat-free. When he regains his feet, Hawk’s nearly upon them. But Circ doesn’t panic, doesn’t rush the rest of his rituals, just calmly goes about them, as if the entire world is waiting for him. A cupped hand over his brow keeps the sun out of his eyes as he scans the tug hurd, looking for weaknesses. Then he checks and rechecks his equipment, making sure he has everything, that nothing’s loose. Finally, he assumes a runner’s stance, one foot in front of the other, knees slightly bent, head down.
Hawk reaches the Hunters at a dead sprint and the horn sounds again.
~~~
For me the eeriest part of the Hunt is the beginning. The Hunters charge the hurd, making no sound. Not a war cry, not a yell, not even a hiccup. Their feet barely seem to touch the ground as the hundred or so men and Younglings run on silent tiptoes. The hurd knows they’re coming, sure, but the silent approach lulls them into a trance. That is, until the bangers start banging.
Wielding short, stubby hammers and long, pointed spears, the bangers arrive first, prodding at the tugs in the forefront, sneaking in a smash with a hammer where possible. The tugs pretty much go wooloo, which is the point. They lose their cool, start to break off from the hurd, scatter. The only way to defeat a two-thousand-pound foe amongst a pack of two-thousand-pound foes, is to get him away from t’others.
But not all the tugs start running. The biggin does a bit of charging of his own, churning up durt and dust and plowing into the line of bangers, who, realizing they’ve got a fight on their hands, start to retreat.
Sometimes it’s better to be quick than lucky.
It’s something my father once said that stuck with me. That was back when he wasn’t such a baggard. I’ve always been quick on my feet, even if a bit clumsy, and my father taught me to use that to my advantage. Now, in the midst of the Hunt, being quicker’n the guy next to you is crucial.
Out of fifty or so bangers, about five ain’t as quick as t’others. The biggin tosses two in the air like feathers, only they don’t come down all floaty and soft-like; they come down like a rockslide, probably breaking half the bones in their bodies. T’other half are broken when the madder‘n-scorch tug tramples all over them on the way to his next mark. To take out the third and fourth Hunters, he just lowers his big ol’ head and butts them over, leaving nothing but carcasses and guts in his wake. For the fifth one, he has something special planned. To
the Hunter’s credit, he knows he ain’t gonna escape the biggin, and he turns to fight. But it doesn’t make one grizz of difference. His spear and hammer just bounce off the tug’s hide and he keeps on coming. With a deft flick of his neck, the monster tug gets under the Hunter enough to lift him up on his horns. The guy screams.
I look away when the blood starts spraying.
Stay away from him, Circ, I think again. This time it feels like a prayer.
Well, the shooters start shooting, and their pointers fill the air like a thousand lashes of rain running sideways in a winter wind. At least two dozen pointers pepper the biggin, sprouting out of him at all kinds of angles. He bellows, but I know it’s not ’cause he’s scared or hurt or surrendering. No, his cry is one of anger and defiance. Not on my watch, it says to me.
A banger with a death wish runs up and jabs his spear straight into the tug’s side, but it just breaks off before it penetrates more’n an inch. In a move so agile a burrow mouse would be proud, the tug twists itself around and kicks out with his hind leg, which catches the bold (or maybe wooloo) Hunter directly in the face. He goes down harder’n a sack of tug dung and lies still.
Enter Circ.
Somehow I knew he was coming, one way or t’other. It’s exactly the type of situation he can’t seem to stay away from. One that’s impossible. One that’ll challenge him to the very end of, or perhaps beyond, his level of ability.
He races in from the side, leaps on the biggin’s back with reckless abandon, slashing with his slasher-blade again and again as the tug leader bucks and kicks like he’s under attack by a swarm of angry soldier bees. Circ’s hanging on with one arm, jerking and cracking around like the business end of my father’s snapper. But he’s still stabbing, just a flurry of bronzed skin riding a monster tug whose brown coat is slick with red to match the sky.
~~~
It shouldn’t be possible for an animal that large to die, at least not from injury. But die it does, slowly at first, stopping its kicking, still snorting and huffing, but no longer fighting. It’s a strange sight: a tug the size of a Glassy fire chariot, walking and stamping his feet, with Circ on his back, like a pesky fly. I know there’s all kinds of other stuff happening all around him—like slashers finishing off their kills, a stampede of retreating tugs thundering into the distance, and apprentice healers rushing onto the field to attend to the dead and injured—but I can’t seem to pull my eyes from him.
Circ.
I don’t know why I worry ’bout him. He’s the most capable person I know, always coming out on top. In this case, literally.
Flush with the tug’s bloody body, he lowers his head to its ear, whispers something. The killing words: In the name of the sun goddess, I claim your body for the use of my people, the Heaters. You have died with honor, and your passing will save the lives of many. I send you to a better place, Warrior.
Circ wraps his arm around its neck, and is about to draw his blade across the biggin’s throat, when a blur swoops in from the side and smashes into him and the tug.
What the scorch? I think.
Circ loses his balance and topples off the injured tug, which suddenly has a bit of fight in him again, unloosing a bellow that sweeps across the field like a plague. I stand, straining to see who ruined Circ’s perfect kill. Hawk comes into view, stalking around the front of the tug, his spear raised to killing height. Beneath the tug, which is stomping and kicking again—not dead yet!—Circ’s rolling around, trying to avoid getting trampled. Hawk, the baggard! He’s going to get Circ killed!
Hawk thrusts his spear at the tug, but it ducks its head at the last second and the sharp point glances off one of its horns.
Then it charges.
Hawk dives to the side, narrowly avoiding getting gored. Circ’s sprawled out form comes into view. He’s clutching his stomach, like he mighta caught a glancing blow from a hoof, but clearly he didn’t get fully stepped on or kicked, ’cause he wouldn’t be able to stand after something like that. Other’n that, he looks okay. Still, I hold my breath until he gets back on his feet.
The tug turns and starts pawing the ground, staring at Hawk and Circ. The two that tried to kill him. Circ yells something, but I’m too far away to hear what. All I know is that Hawk glances back and nods. With three more years of experience—and a scorch of a lot more natural ability—Circ is the one calling the shots.
They run, the two of them, in opposite directions, circling the monstrous red-and-black-splotched tug. It turns one way and then t’other, bucking around like someone’s on its back. They’re confusing it. Who to attack? Which way to go first? It starts for Circ and then seems to feel Hawk’s presence behind it, so it whirls around and makes a move toward him.
The moment the tug turns its back on him, Circ makes a move of his own, a full out sprint toward the creature. He looks so small as he closes in on the girthy tug, ’specially ’cause of how far away I am. From here I can pinch him between my thumb and forefinger.
The tug stops again, as if realizing that the gig is up, that he’s been tricked. He twists his head to turn, but he’s too late. Circ leaps, lands gracefully on the tug’s back as if he’s tackling an opponent in feetball, hugging the beast around the neck. There’s a gleam of light when the sun goddess’s eye is reflected off the broad side of his blade as he slides it across the tug’s neck.
A normal tug would drop on the spot after a killing stroke like that, but this ain’t no normal tug. It’s a behemoth, prepared to fight even as the life drains from him. With Circ still on his back, he charges Hawk, who’s standing there dumbly. Now this is the good part.
Hawk runs off like a scared little Midder. On the way, he drops his spear, a couple of knives, and every last bit of his pride in a heap on the desert floor. As it turns out, his hasty retreat probably saved his life, ’cause that final burst was all the tug had left. It slows to a stop, dips its head, and, finally, by the will of the sun goddess and Circ’s unmatched ability—collapses, all strength sucked from its legs like venom from a scorpion sting. I sigh.
Circ’s safe, and he’s killed again.
I know the requirement to kill is necessary for our survival, but I don’t hafta like it. The tugs haven’t done anything to deserve such a fate. Like us, they’re just trying to survive, migrating hundreds of miles each year to find diminishing fields of wildgrass to feed their young. ’Fore we kill them. We only take what we need, yeah, but to them we take everything.
I once asked Circ what it felt like to kill a creature as large and full of life as a tug. “Terrible,” he said. “Take the worst feeling in the world and then multiply it by one hundred, and that’s how awful it is.” A single tear slipped from his eye, the first time I’d seen him cry since he was a Totter.
“Then why do you…” I started to ask, but I never finished the question ’cause I already knew the answer, and he never answered although he knew exactly what I was gonna ask. Why do we do anything we do? Why do girls get Called at sixteen? Why do the Hunters hunt? Why do the Greynotes meet and discuss trade arrangements with the Icers? ’Cause it’s the Law, which is our sacred duty to uphold, a requirement for our survival. We don’t hafta like it, just to do it.
It doesn’t have to be like this. Even after watching the vicious Hunting of the tugs, I can’t get Lara’s words out of my head. Who does she know? The Icers? It sounds wooloo, but who knows these days? We could potentially avoid the Call by sneaking into ice country. The Wilds? The thieving, sister-grabbing, feral freaks who ruined my life when they took Skye’s? I hope not, ’cause I consider Lara a friend and if she’s with them I’ll never be able to talk to her again.
A horn sounds and my head snaps around. It’s not the long blast to start the Hunt, but a short series of tones from somewhere atop the bluffs. A warning, from the watchmen. Not a frequent occurrence, but not unusual either. Sometimes the hunched, wiry Cotees’ll hear the initial horn, or smell the blood, and come to investigate. To a lone human, a large group of Cotee
s can be dangerous, but not to a fully equipped mess of Hunters.
I blink away the daydream and scan the desert, trying to find the gang of furry thieves who drew the alarm. I gasp when I see them. Not a single Cotee flecks the horizon.
Killers.
Chapter Eight
Not Cotees, but Killers. It’s a big pack, too—I try to count them but keep getting confused ’cause they’re moving so fast, flitting in and out of various formations as they rush toward the Hunters. Their movements are practiced. Professional. Twenty is my best guess. A big pack.
Four-legged, with fur as black as night, long, lanky bodies full of muscle and speed, and claws and teeth that can rip and tear through muscle, tendon and bone without discretion, Killers, as their name suggests, are the ultimate killing machines. They’re animals, like Cotees, but a whole scorch of a lot bigger and scarier—smarter too, always planning and plotting.
The spectators on the bluff, comprised of women, Younglings, and the few odd men who are too infirm to participate in the Hunt, are jabbering a mile a moment, some screaming, some waving their hands, all on their feet. Scared. Like me.
Circ.
The Hunters can see the Killers now, too, even from their lower vantage point, that’s how close they are. My eyes flick to the black death squad and then back to the Hunters, who are reassembling themselves, trying to form their own pack, but it’s clear they don’t know what to do. Never in broad daylight. Never so many.
My mind racing, I estimate the distance. At their current speed, the Killers are less’n five desert sprints away, as the crow flies, maybe less.
Circ’s down there. Will he be killed if I do nothing? I don’t know, but I can’t do nothing, it ain’t physically possible for me to sit and watch as he’s torn apart by rabid beasts.