Falkin
777 RC, Dragon moon 2nd Triface; Upper branches, at the Rider’s University, in the Heartwood.
Falkin trudged wearily up the last steps to his Uncle’s aerie, his fingers where blistered from his archery lessons but he had finally managed to hit the targets floating so peacefully in the lake. He opened the gilded door ignoring the lavish trappings his Uncle demanded. He hung his bow on the hook by the door, and leaned the only two arrows he had been able to recover from the targets, against the wall beside the door. Plopping down onto one of the leather and gold gilded couches in the front sitting room, Falkin sighed happily. These next two weeks would be well worth all the hard work he had put in the last few months. He had to complete all his training to his Uncle’s expectations. His heart had felt ready to burst when his Uncle ha said he was giving him two weeks before the ceremony that would select him as a new Eaglerider with no more instructors.
“Good you’re here.” His uncle said without preamble as he came through the door. “Are those the only arrows you have left?” He asked gesturing towards Falkin’s two remaining arrows against the wall. Falkin nodded standing up. “Well grab your bow and arrows, we don’t have a lot of time. I have a meeting with the senior council later tonight. He walked over to the double doors that led out onto Sirius’s perch. Falkin looked around eagerly this was one of the only places he had not been allowed to explore freely. There was no protective railing guarding anyone who wondered outside, just a 1,000 foot drop to the gathering square outside the dining room on the ground level. Sirius was preening his glossy feathers, his sword like talons dug into the tree trunk that had been mounted for him to perch on. His Uncle’s saddle and other flight gear was neatly stored on shelves and racks built under an intricately decorated lean-to, every inch of wood was exquisitely carved. Falkin watched excitedly as his uncle quickly cinched the saddle onto his partner. Falkin tried to see exactly what he did, but was ordered curtly out of the way. Once the saddle was properly attached to the 12 foot tall eagle, his Uncle leapt onto his seat and Sirius’s mighty wings snapped open. He flapped them once to settle all of the straps into place properly, his wingspan had to be nearly 30 feet Falkin marveled. Sirius bent low so Falkin could climb up more easily. He looked excitedly into the bright yellow sphere of his eye. Sirius seemed to glance away nervously at his interested regard.
He tried to ask his uncle where they were going, what had made him change his mind about giving rides, why he was bringing his bow. But before he could voice any of those thoughts he was flung back hard into the saddle and his stomach rose swiftly into his throat as they dropped like a stone. His heart beat like a drum against his chest as he was slowly lifted up off the seat by the rushing wind. He muffled a shout as he was slammed back into the saddle when they leveled out and soared back up into the sky. Seconds later they cleared the upper branches of the tree nearly three miles above the valley floor the spiraled higher and higher. Falkin’s ears popped as the air pressure changed. The clouds closed in around them as they flew still higher. Falkin was shocked at their texture. It wasn’t what he had expected at all, the white fluffy clouds looked warm and inviting from the ground. But as they flew deeper into the surprising darkness of the cloud the temperature continued to fall. All around him whirling gray fog was whisking past. He didn’t know what he had expected from the fluffy whiteness that had been so much a part of his life. But this cold whet grayness was certainly not it. With a crack of Sirius’s wings they burst from the top of the cloud. Falkin looked back and watched the clouds quickly cover any sign of their passage.
The sun burned down on them the coating of dew on his hair quickly burned off in the heat. Nothing was what he expected up this high, barely hovering the sun was like a fire burning bright over head. The tops of the clouds glared into his eyes unfiltered by distance. The brightness leached the colour out of Sirius’s glossy brown feathers. Up here the world curved gently away from them in all directions and Falkin could truly believe that it was a huge sphere that they all lived on. Before his eyes could finish thirstily drinking in all that he could see they were soaring away from the tree that towered above all else around it the very tops of its highest branches peaked through the tops of the clouds. On and on they flew, magnificent sights passing below gaps in the clouds too quickly for Falkin to study them properly. In what seemed like seconds they had flown for an hour, and Sirius began to slowly spiral down towards the ground so that their ears could adjust to the increasing pressure. The tree tops appeared from the bottom of the clouds, it was so much darker under the clouds that Falkin had to blink blindly for a few minutes until his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the forest floor. He glanced around they were in a small clearing in a old growth forest. No young trees struggled up between their elders, no brush choked the paths between the huge trees. He stretched gratefully before carefully setting his bow and arrows down on the moss covered ground. A small stream chuckled over its bed nearby, Falkin decided it was a perfect spot to camp.
He looked at his uncle’s saddle for any of the gear they would need for an overnight trip. But he saw non, his uncle simply sat in his saddle looking down at Falkin as he studied the clearing. A trickle of unease crept into Falkin’s thoughts.
“Well I had hoped that you would be slightly better prepared for a trip. But you forgot your pack, you didn’t bring anymore arrows. You didn’t even carry your knife with you to your lessons.” Falkin’s cheeks burned at his Uncle’s harsh words. He should have known better than to expect him to take his only living descendant out for a fun day of camping or fishing. “That way is north.” He said pointing over Falkin’s head, Sirius crouched to spring back into the air as Falkin stood stunned.
“Wait! You can’t leave me here like this! what about the ceremony? What about becoming an Eagle Rider?” Falkin shouted before his Uncle could take flight.
“I told you about this, don’t you recall?” His Uncle said coldly, Falkin tried to desperately recall any hint of being left stranded in the forest. “What do you think all of your lessons where for? What good are skills if you never use them? Its about a 155 miles back to the University from here, if you make a little over 10 miles each day you should make it back in time.” His Uncle braced himself again as Sirius crouched, preparing to spring into the air. Falkin ran forward and grabbed ahold of the great scaly legs and clung there.
“You can’t mean this Uncle!” he shouted horrified. Sirius shook him off, not looking at him as if he was embarrassed to be any part of the scene.
“If you are worthy of caring for an egg, than you can accomplish a short hike through the woods, it will give you a chance to practice what I have had you taught.” His Uncle said disdainfully.
“But you promised me two weeks off with no lessons!” Falkin yelled desperately.
“No, I said two weeks without instructors. As I said, it should take you about two weeks to make it back.” Thunderstruck Falkin slid to the ground to sit staring up at his uncle.
“Don’t be such a child, here take this,” he tossed his long boot knife into the grass beside Falkin, “Since you so foolishly didn’t bring anything. Also there are reports of a pair of lizca that escaped roaming the area so take that into consideration when picking your campsites.” This time Falkin simply let him fly away without a word of protest. Silently he picked up the knife from the grass and his bow. Dumb with shock his training took over, he noted that his uncle flew towards the North East. He knew that they had traveled south so the University had to lie in that direction. He took stock of all he had with him. One Knife, Two arrows, one extra bow string in his pocket, his bow, a thin summer weight silk under shirt, his sturdy canvas pants he wore for outdoor lessons, and his leather hiking boots. He patted down his pockets still staring North East. He had nothing else for his journey.
Checking the time, Falkin held his hand up to measure the distance until the sun reached the horizon, it was about four hand widths. So he only had roughly four hours or so until it was dark. Panic set in as he contemplated the approaching night miles away from anyone else. He had never been so alone before and the realization didn’t help him to think clearly. Fear trampled along at the heels of his panic as how truly unprepared he had let himself be taken away from all the tools he was used to having at his disposal.
Falkin shook himself and thought quickly, recalling his lessons. He remembered the rule of three, he could survive three minutes without air, three days without water, and three weeks without food. These facts calmed him and let him plan without panic. He weighed the pros and cons of leaving the meadow now, but decided to stay the night as he had not seen any sign of predators as they landed. Caution still guided his steps as he inspected the small stream for fish or some other kind of food he could take with him. He didn’t see so much as a minnow in the water and panic started to claw its way deeper into his mind. His stomach rumbled, he had never had to go without food. His uncle had firmly believed that a proper diet was necessary for proper learning.
He searched for something to make a container with, he would need a way to carry water if nothing else. He spotted a white birch growing along the stream a little way off. Smiling at his good fortune Falkin jogged over to the tree. It was a well established birch, several feet around.
Carefully he peeled off the flakey white outer layer of bark for tinder saving it for any fires he would make on his journey. The bark was loaded with oil that burned easily and wouldn’t get wet in his pockets. After stuffing all of his empty pockets with the precious tinder, he made three cuts in the tree trunk. The first he made was a long straight cut about a foot and a half long vertically splitting the trunk. Next he made cuts at the top and bottom of his first cut, cutting completely around the trunk. He carefully used a twig to work the large sheet of bark off the tree, careful not to damage the wood under the bark which would kill the tree. He cut strips off the large rectangular sheet to use for lashing his container together. Then he rolled the bark in to a long thin funnel shape, and folded the pointed end over several times lashing it closed with the strips he had cut earlier. Admiring his container, Falkin held it up to his arm, the whole thing was longer than his forearm and would hold at least a full days ration of water. He put the container aside in the shade so that the sun wouldn’t dry it out, it would hold up better to travel as long as the bark didn’t dry out. Glad to have some direction at last he checked the time again with his hand, only about 2 and a half hours till dark. He started looking around the field for any plants he could eat.
The first plant he spotted was the common dandelion, smiling at the bright sunny yellow flowers. Every part of them was edible, he used one of his arrows to dig up about 40 of the edible plants, roots and all. As the sun faded he washed them in the swiftly running stream. He spotted a couple of small crayfish basking in the fading sun filtering down among the rocks in the stream. The tiny lobster like crustaceans where welcoming sight to Falkin and his spirits rose knowing he wouldn’t go hungry that night. Falkin filled his birch bark water container and carefully grabbed the three crayfish he could find, putting them into the container to keep them alive until he cooked them later. Before he left the stream he washed off his dandelions and added them to the container of water.
Falkin slung his bow across his chest and gathered up his few arrows before heading into the tree line to look for a place to make camp for the night. He studied the trees carefully thinking about what he had been taught, location is key Ackard had always said. Aside from the normal criteria such as avoiding low spots, steering clear of standing dead trees, and such, proximity to materials can save you a lot of time and energy. Take the time to find a spot that feels right. With that in mind Falkin selected the spreading branches of a large pine tree on a slight rise separated from the forest by about 50 feet. As he walked through the waist high grass he startled a ruffed grouse into flight. He watched its flight into the darkening forest hungrily cursing himself for having his hands full. The sun was staining the sky with orange and red as Falkin pushed his way under the sheltering boughs of the pine tree. The ground was clear of grass and thickly carpeted with old dry pine needles. He quickly sat his water container down and ran back to the stream and searching in the sand soil as the light faded for a piece of flint he could use with his knife to make a fire.
Falkin, cleared a place for his fire. He made a slight depression in the dirt by scooping out the loose tops soil. Then he took some of his birch bark out and shredded it finely so it would catch a spark quickly. He snapped dry branches of the pine tree thankful again for the many convenient things it offered for his use. After he got the fire burning, he put some fist sized stones into the coals to gather heat. While he waited for the stones to heat he whittled a couple of twigs into tongs. After about an half hour the stones were hot enough, and he picked them up carefully. Dropping them one by one into his water container until the water inside was boiling. Then he fished the crayfish, now bright red, out and ate them still hot. He took the stones out as well and put them back into the fire to heat up again. He blew on his container of thin soup to help cool it as the stars came out over head. An ominous rumble in the distance made him peek out from under the sheltering branches. Thunder clouds were gathering on the horizon, Falkin stared at them too numb at his misfortune to care about his luck.
His dark thoughts finally settled on his Uncle who had left him there. Falkin ground his teeth at the thought of his Uncle blissfully sleeping in his comfy bed with a full stomach. He dug a shallow trench with his hands after his finished his crayfish and dandelion soup, and lined it carefully with the hot rocks from his fire before he blew it out since the night was warm enough not to need the fire for heat. He would never forgive his Uncle for this he thought angrily, He had let him think that all of his years of hard work, learning everything he was told to. Never stepping so much as a toe out of line, would finally be rewarded with some kind of affection. But no, he had simply been manipulated yet again, to believe his actions mattered to the man who had been inconvenienced by having to raise him after his whole family had died. Falkin didn’t notice the single tear of frustration that ran down his face as he lay his head down on a pile of pine needles, to catch as much sleep as he could manage before the rain reached his sheltering tree. He would make his Uncle pay for the years of abuse he had suffered at his un-caring hands that thought warmed him as he drifted off to sleep.
The rain started slightly after what seemed like only a few minutes, Falkin sat up immediately shivering as he was slowly drenched He cursed himself for not thinking about the rain penetrating his shelter. He shivered violently as he tried to strike a spark onto the damp birch bark, after a few minutes he gave up and tucked his hands into his armpits huddling as close to the tree as he could, he tried to stay warm. As his teeth chattered he was thankful that the late spring temperatures would keep him from freezing to death.
In the morning Falkin woke to the cheerful sound of bird song, groggily he stumbled out of his damp shelter. The sun was barely above the horizon, he cleaned his birch bark container and filled it full of fresh water. He got his bearings from the rising sun which was due east as it crested the horizon and aligned himself with a large hill to the North East. As he started off he picked another bunch of dandelions that he used as a plug to keep his precious water from sloshing out of its container. Grimly he warmed himself with thoughts of what he would do when he got back to the university.
That night he made camp deep in the woods, the trees overhead blocked out nearly all of the stars, he built a shelter by pushing leaves and pine needles into a five foot tall pile then crawling under them and making a small cave to keep in as much body heat as he could. He drank the last of his water in the morning, no bird song broke the stillness of the forest around him as the light slowly filtered in, this deep in the woods it was never truly day time, more like perpetual twilight under the spreading branches.
The next day he started out at a brisk ground eating trot, it looked awkward, knees slightly bent and hunched forward. A woodsmen’s lop it was called, bent knees allowed him to shorten his stride quickly if roots suddenly sprang up to trip him or if a hole appeared. Hunched over he could easily duck under branches or tuck and roll safely if something did managed to trip him, it also let him use his hands and arms to scramble up hills quicker than running alone. He had spent some of his sleepless night weaving some fern stems into sturdy cord. He tied knots in each strip until he had 10 strips each with 100 knots in it. He counted these as he hiked, keeping track of his pace, after counting off each of the knots on the 10 strips he had traveled roughly a mile. He made steady progress all day, ignoring his body’s demands for more food and water. When he stopped for the night he estimated he had covered a good 15 miles an impressive feat for a 12 year old in an overgrown forest. He catalogued the plants around him, looking for any that he knew where edible. Fresh greens were scarce in the gloom of the branches. The forest grew steadily older and the brush faded as the dappled light faded until the forest floor was mostly moss and lichen with the occasional clump of ferns.
He started out again keeping his heading of North East as best he could with no landmarks to guide him. Fatigue finally stopped him as full night fell. He collapsed exhausted under a tree and was quickly asleep with barely a thought to preparing a camp or safety, simply exhausted beyond caring he slept deaf to the emerging night sounds of the woods.
he awoke with a start his body screamed at him in pain, he hadn’t moved at all that night and every muscle was sore from his forced march. Grimly he stumbled to his feet and hobbled around as he drank the last of his water. He looked over his arms and legs noting his bruises and cuts, as well as the deep slash on his forearm, it had scabbed over and didn’t seem to be infected his first bit of luck in the last two days. As he studied his surroundings he stretched, loosening up and trying to ignore the first pangs of true hunger.
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On the barest whisper of wind, a terrible odor was discernible coming from over the next hill. It smelled the unmistakable order of death, rotten meat, the sharp metallic tang of dried blood and the sickly sweet of putrefying meat; warily he followed the smell for a closer look. The scene that greeted him when he got to the top of the hill made a cold sweat erupt out all over his body.
Below him was a small grassy field, two huge patches of blood marked the place where at least two moose sized animals had been killed. He couldn’t tell what had been attacked without going down to check the scraps of fur that littered the ground. No carcasses where visible, just blood soaked grass and loose fur. The loose fur was what made his heart beat like a hummingbird trying to escape his ribs. Only the big cats typically removed the fur from their kills, with their rasp like tongues before eating it.
The first twinges of pure terror prickled the back of his neck instinctively raising the hairs there; he had suddenly turned from abandoned boy, into nearly helpless prey. Barely tangible instincts long dormant in mankind sprang to life. Fight or flight warred inside of him as he desperately scanned every inch of forest he could see without moving anything but his eyes.
Only great cats and one other creature fed with such delicacy, the strange hybrid animal the Rider’s had named lizca, they were bred at the University and exported to only the wealthiest owners. There was little known about the species past, but it was their unique threat that worried Falkin now. He backed slowly away, his Uncle's last taunting words echoing in his head as he struggled to move slowly as his mind screamed at him to run as fast as he could.
“There are reports of a pair of lizca that escaped roaming the area so take that into consideration when picking your campsites.” He had said. Falkin ground his teeth in disgust at his luck, as quietly as he could, he edged around the grassy field, his bow in his hands with one of his precious arrows ready on the string. He checked the ground for tracks and the largest trees for tell tale scuff marks of passing clawed feet. Halfway around the clearing he found the drag trail of the lizca, it led straight up the trunk of the largest pine in the area. He checked the blood that had frozen oozing down the grooves in the bark, like melted wax it formed raised channels; the deepest parts of which were still sticky making the trail about a day old.
Silently Falkin faded back into the shadows of the trees, scanning the upper branches constantly.
He spotted the twitching tail of a full grown lizca near the top of the tree. The giant fur covered lizard was striped like a tiger, its six legs stuck out over the edge of the limb it rested on. The odd gecko like pads of its feet held it perfectly secure on the limb as they would on any surface. Its needle like claws where sheathed; only brought out when attacking. They didn’t need them for climbing as normal cats did; thanks to their gecko like feet. It regarded him with dead, slit pupil eyes. He watched it, frozen in place, and after sizing him up for endless seconds the lizca yawned exposing its huge crocodilian teeth. Sleepily it lowered its head back onto the branch and appeared to fall asleep. Falkin continued backing away keeping his eyes on the sleeping animal. After a few steps he started to lower his bow, and his ankle caught a root sending him tumbling down a slight hill. He landed with a crash in a tangle of dried sticks as an angry yowl echoed through the trees.
Falkin scrambled to his feet, he had tucked his bow into his stomach as he rolled to protect it. Above him loomed a smaller lizca, its tawny coat gleamed in the early sunlight. Falkin noted odd little details as the lizca sprang through the air in slow motion. His heart throbbed pumping energy through his veins; he saw an echoing pulse in the thick neck of the lizca. He felt the strength of his bow against his fingers as his arms drew the string back to his cheek. The feel of the breeze as he leapt back; barely escaping the swiping claws of the attacking lizca,
“Was this death?” he wondered past regrets flooding his racing thoughts, he released his arrow. The bowstring sang as he freed it, seeming to echo in the odd calm that had overcome him. The Lizca’s gaping maw swallowed his arrow, the razor sharp point bursting out of the back its head. The shaft shattered with the crackle of breaking glass, ending the odd silence in a waterfall of returning sound. Falkin’s ears filled with buzzing as he gasped for breath. His feet crackled as he regained his balance, he leapt out of the slight dip he had stumbled into. The ground was littered with dried bones cracked for their marrow and collected by the pair of lizca. He checked to be sure his arrow was beyond recovery, he pulled the steel arrowhead out of the dead lizca, covering his nose with one hand to protect it from the stink of the silent predator. He noticed it was a female, which were about half the size of the males, thankfully she didn't appear to be nursing any young he regretted having to kill her in defense, as he had no great love of hunting for anything other than food needed to survive.
He fled north, his steps spurred on by the knowledge of what was lurking behind him. As night fell he faintly heard a terrible yowl, part wolf cry, part screeching hiss that he had never heard before. He had sought shelter amongst the thinnest branches he could find. Miles behind him he saw a murder of crows take flight, shining opulent black against the complete emptiness of the overcast night sky, as something shook them loose from their night time perch. Falkin’s spirits plummeted as he realized what he had done. Lizca mated for life like swans. He had killed half of a mated pair, unlike swans that mourned their mate and pined away quietly heartbroken until they died, the lizca raged against their losses, the male had found its slain mate. Now it would stop at nothing to wreak its terrible vengeance upon whatever had stolen its partner away. Desperately Falkin weighed his odds of out pacing the enraged predator tracking him. No doubt following his scent trail through the forest as he expertly whittled a new arrow shaft from a tree branch. He did not like his odds, grimly he forced himself to slow his beating heart and calm his breathing so he could rest for a few hours. He would have to keep moving until he could find a place that gave him better odds. Falkin slipped into a soldier's slumber; not quite asleep; not quite awake, just resting his tired mind and body while still keeping watch around him aware of every movement and sound.
Panting for breath, Falkin dodged under bushes, sliding over the slick forest floor as rain pounded down around him. He had half drowned trying to stay in a large river; a full day he had spent floating down the river losing valuable time as he was carried Southwest, desperately trying to keep his bow and knife out of the water. He had lost all sense of time, hours and minutes blended into a haze of terror and pain. Nightfell, darkness only sharpened his senses, shadows felt more than seen, deeps and hollows snatched at him but his fear fueled reflexes pulled him back from the brink of disaster time and time again.
“I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up” Falkin thought shuddering for breadth, steam rose up from his feverish skin, flushed with hunger he held his side and started forward in a shambling loose kneed run. He looked uncoordinated and clumsy, but the short steps allowed him to double step if one of his feet lost purchase in the dim forest. Hunched over nearly double at the waist let him duck under most branches and scramble up unseen rises on all fours, he’d slide down hills in a smooth tumble, one leg stretched out in front of him to propel him in a spring over any unseen logs or rocks. Ackard would have approved of his efficiency; No one had ever taught him how to run like this, his mind was to fogged with hunger, fatigue, and fear to notice the effectiveness of his pace. Falkin gave no thought to such fleeting thoughts as his focus narrowed still further, tunnel vision allowed him to block out thoughts of pain and hunger, blackness hung at the edge of his vision amplifying the effect. He struggled to place thoughts in order as trees and rocks tumbled past, his hip crunched painfully into a boulder, he turned the jarring fall into a graceful spin and kicked a tree to straighten his body effortlessly without losing any speed. Dazzling star light ahead startled him, without slowing he took note of the ridge line approaching, trees gave way to bare rock and loose stone. With an effort he slowed his breathing, dropping his mouth open wide to clear his ears so he could hear any pursuit behind him.
In the cold harsh moonlight he caught his first glimpse of the colossal Star Oak that housed the Rider’s home in over a week; the colored lights looked Fey, like foxfire trickling down in sparks over the branches. Each flickering spark was a warm room filled with food to his hunger pinched thoughts sluggish to rise to the surface.
He stopped, shifting from one foot to the other to keep his muscles from tightening up, tingling made it seem like his legs were still moving; anger finally surfaced, blazing away the confusion and fog starvation had settled over his mind.
Thinking clearly for the first time in longer than he could clearly recall Falkin took stock of his position, as the moon rose from behind a taller hill to the East. He studied the trees spreading out below the small ridge he stood on. An angry howl behind him broke the night, greeting the moons arrival to illuminate his trail again. Without turning to look he tried to estimate how far off the Lizca was, half a day at most he estimated. For days now he had been harried by the pursuing lizca, he hadn’t been able to escape its relentless pursuit.
He was finally in forest he recognized from his longer hikes with Ackard. Anger at his uncle, at the injustice of his casual cruelness awoke his voice for the first time.
“Enough.” He whispered the first word spoken aloud since he had been stranded alone in the wilderness. A wordless screamed split the silent night like a thunderstorm, anguish and anger echoed back at his hunter, behind him the Lizca froze ears twitched at the sound.
Panting Falkin leapt over the edge of the ridge, anger made him feel lighter as he savored the weightlessness of falling before his feet slammed into the loose scree of fallen rocks sloping down from the ridge. Defiantly upright, he slid over the pebbles and rocks as they eagerly snatched at his tattered clothes trying to vainly to trip him, too cut and rend his already battered skin. His defiant grin looked ghoulish in the red moonlight as he sped into the more familiar forest on the far side of the ridge.
Sniffing silently at the bare stones, the Lizca whined deep in his throat at the faint smell of his lost mate still clung to his hated prey. Dim thoughts, nearly intelligent, hungered to rend and repay the anguish in his cold blooded heart. Puzzled he searched back and forth on the top of the ridge before catching sight of the freshly turned over stones leading down into the forest below. He roared hoarsely, lack of water and food robbing his cry of some of its strength but none of his rage. He wanted his prey to hear him, too tremble knowing what was just behind it.
Falkin stopped in his manic assembling of the trap he had devised. In the small box canyon that he had explored years earlier he was preparing for his best chance at survival. The canyon was sheer sided and narrowed to a choke point that he had to turn sideways in to get through. The bottom was level sand blown in by the wind over the millennium. He had left his boots useless and bloody at the mouth of the canyon, a trial too tempting to ignore. He had prayed to every deity he could recall from his theology lessons, desperate for any intervention. He most wished he would stumble upon a rider out on patrol but his luck hadn’t been that accommodating.
“And why should it?” He wondered disgusted, it wasn't as if Luck had ever smiled on him before. First his parents and siblings had been stolen from him by lucks cruel twin Fate, not once had anything but his own skill intervened on his behalf. Angrily he discarded any belief in anything other than himself as he worked to set his trap for his hunter.
Beyond exhausted, he sharpened the last of the wooden stakes, placing it point towards the mouth of the canyon, he rubbed some blood from one of his many cuts along the wall, leaving a trail deeper into the half-light of the canyon. Wooden stakes wedged into every crack would hinder the lizca from climbing on the walls to drop down on him; he had placed fire bundles along the top of the cliff soaked in pine pitch he had bled out of the forest just in front of the canyon. Secure for the first time in days, Falkin crouched in his trap, bait for the avenging nemesis he had earned; darkness deepened as clouds covered the crimson moon above him and time stretched into eternity as he waited.
“What a pathetic bit of bait I am,” Falkin thought as his pinched stomach stabbed him ruthlessly; he had been thin thanks to his latest growth spurt. He was beyond that now, emaciated from his long miles of running. Dehydration drew his skin even tighter over his sharp bones, hunger had finally honed his senses to an animalistic level few humans ever achieved; the woods suddenly grew quiet. Falkin flexed his muscles without rising to keep them loose. The muscles stood out like corded rope as he prepared himself; the carrion scent of death wafted to him on a scanty breeze. His hunter had finally arrived.
Now it would become prey; Falkin closed his eyes stretching his ears he heard the whisper of his prey climbing ghost like towards the top of the cliff to avoid his trap. His hand whipped out fast as a striking snake, he sparked his knife against the flint he held. Flames raced up the careful trench he had made along the wall devouring the pitch greedily; the edge of the canyon exploded into a dazzling flash of light and heat as the flames reached the tinder-dry bundles of pine needles and twigs. The Lizca reared back just before it was consumed by the flames, it fell heavily down the sheer rock wall and landed with a bruising thud on the sand of the canyon floor. Falkin slowly stood using only the muscles of his legs, rising fluidly like a dancer moving to the music of death. He dropped his knife and it buried itself point first in the loose sand beneath him. He drew his last arrow and stood balanced easily on the sand, bow held in perfect form, his breathing came steady as he sought his target. The lizca yowled as it rolled around frantically trying to gather its feet under it again after falling from the top of the cliff.
Its gleaming red eyes reflected the light from the blinding fire above them as the dust of its fall settled to the ground. Gaunt, its fur was matted and tangled, a far cry from the sleek predator that had lounged in the sun on that bright day so long ago. A red line ran the length of its snout and plowed a furrow through the fur beside its hate filled eye until it tore a sharp ragged hole out of one of its nimble ears. His last arrow had nearly been a perfect shot, but nearly wasn't nearly good enough as Ackard was fond of saying. With a howl of rage that rattled pebbles loose from the canyon, the lizca charged. All thoughts of stalking burned from its mind in its bloodlust of anger at finally seeing the killer of its mate.
Again time slowed as Falkin relaxed his grip on the string to his bow, the lizca churned up sand with its back paws; he had always found the way they moved unsettling. Its four back legs worked like a rabbit to propel its sharp clawed front paws and saber filled mouth at its prey. The last set of legs swung forward, outside of the mid pair; mid legs reached between the back paws just as they landed, the perfect position to launch their owner into astounding bounds using four legs instead of two and leaving the front paws free to rend. His arrow bent under the strength of his bow as he released his shot, leaping away, eager to meet the lizca in midair, the arrow connected with a thud. It punched effortlessly through hair, muscle, and sinew before continuing out the back of the lizca.
Three bounds away, Falkin dropped his exhausted bow from numb fingers. Two leaps away, he crouched pulling himself low with all the energy his corded legs could muster, eyes focused completely on the closing inches between his grasping fingers and his dagger. One bound away, the lizca sprang just as he felt the cool weight of his dagger slide into his hands, screaming his own challenge Falkin sprang forward enraged beyond reason at the darkness that eagerly edged in to embrace them both.
Like a coiled spring he flew up, his dagger leading way. All the weight of his body behind his last gleaming hope, he leapt to meet his attacker head on. Blood erupted from his back as the Lizca’s embrace stopped him mid air, pushing them further into the canyon, Falkin was flung weightlessly back as the wooden spears he had placed along the walls halted the Lizca, keening it struggled to gain purchase, but its paws just barely brushed the ground. Blood bubbled from the flaring nostrils. Falkin rose, exhausted he gazed hollowly at the carnage he had wrought. The Lizca still thrashed weakly snapping its jaws, glaring at him as red foam bubbled out of its mouth. Numbly Falkin grabbed a wooden stake from the rocks; he turned painfully to the Lizca. Wooden quills stuck out from its belly and shoulders, thrust forward as blood streamed out onto the ground; still it struggled to reach him, raking screeching furrows in the stones walls. From just out of reach, Falkin leaned back then thrust forward smoothly as he had countless times on the pike targets of the practice fields, the sharpened wood sank cleanly into the grief enraged beast; with a thankful sigh the Lizca slowly grew still, sent finally to meet its mate.
Kaydran jerked awake, he sat up with a start, and shivering in fear his mind raced struggling to recall his dream. Every night his dreams where plagued by shadowy forms hunting him through the night until he awoke exhausted and sweating.
Zatch dashed the last bit of sleep from his eyes with water from the wash basin in his temporary room. Thankful again for the luxuries he was being treated to. As the last remnants of sleep faded along with the details of his nightmare, he groaned exhausted from another night of fitful sleep.
Daxen let the water drip off his face and hair from the stream as he wiped the taste of bile from his throat, this last dream had been so intense his back still ached, reaching behind himself he touched his back, expecting there to be blood; the pain had been enough to make him throw up his hearty dinner.
"The dream again?" Narissa asked handing Daxen a water skin to wash out his mouth. He swished water around his mouth before spitting it out onto the grass.
“It’s different every night, yet still the same.” Daxen struggled to put words to his feelings. “I'm not making any sense am I?” He asked ruefully. Narissa smiled at him encouragingly without speaking, she looked concerned but he knew she wouldn't press him; he was immensely grateful for that fact, so different from his pushy sisters.
“It seemed to end this time, I don't know if it is really over but it felt final, like something had been put to rest, as crazy as that sounds.” He snorted out a rough laugh at his inability to express how he knew that his dream was really over; not just waiting crouched in the shadows waiting for him to doze off again.
“I hope so, if it’s still bothering you after tomorrow we can have a healer see if they can to figure out what is going on inside that thick skull of yours.” Narissa said rapping him lightly on the forehead with her knuckles before helping him to his feet. “Since we're already up we might as well push onward to the university we should be there before the sun if we break camp quick enough.” She said stretching to work the stiffness of sleep from her body. Daxen began packing up his bedroll without another word of encouragement; he had barely been able to sleep between his nightmares and the excitement of their journey. Within minutes they where ready to go, Daxen climbed eagerly up Sixtails as she crouched for him, he slid into the saddle on the great wolf’s back, sandwiched behind Narissa and their camping gear, he had grown used to the stride of her partner’s gate, so unlike the gate of a horse, the wolf shook herself settling the saddle and their gear firmly into place on her broad back, with a short excited yip they were off. racing into the lightening gloom, fleeter than a deer they slipped through the trees and shadows, trusting in Sixtails superior night vision to find a safe path to their journeys end.