Hunters Unlucky, Book 1 Storm Read online

  When he raised his head, he was surprised to see movement about twenty paces away on the far side of the stream. A small animal seemed to be staggering around on the ground. Storm reared up on his hind legs to get a better view. It looked like a rock rat—possibly sick or injured.

  Storm’s stomach rumbled, and he had to swallow his saliva. He hadn’t expected to find any food in the cave. He put a foot in the stream.

  “Don’t go over there.” Storm turned to see an adult ferryshaft—a stranger to him—bending to drink. “They’re just trying to trick you,” said the stranger without looking at him. “This is our side. Stay here.”

  Storm sat down in surprise.

  After a moment, a small creasia slunk out of the rocks. Storm was even more surprised. It was a cub, standing no higher than Storm’s own shoulder. Still, it could easily have killed him. The cub scooped up its prey and sat watching the two ferryshaft, the injured rat still squirming in its jaws.

  “See,” said the adult. “They play this game with new foals or young adults who’ve never been through a Volontaro before.”

  Storm stared at the adult. “That cub would have killed me if I’d gone for the rat?”

  The adult just looked at him as though he were an infant.

  “But why won’t they come after us over here?” persisted Storm.

  “That’s the treaty,” said the adult simply. “This is our side. That is the agreement.” He turned and walked back toward the herd. Storm remained by the stream a little longer, but the cub was leering at him in a way that made his skin prickle. To his consternation, the cub started down towards the stream as if to drink. Storm backed off and made to leave.

  However, just as he was turning away, something caught his attention. On the lip of the rise behind the stream, just on the edge of his line of sight, he saw a tall stone with a relatively flat face. On this surface, someone had scratched an enormous stick shape. Storm blinked hard. It was exactly the sort of shape that he’d been finding in the caves by the spring feeding grounds. He’d never seen such a large one in such an open place.

  Storm glanced at the cub. He was almost certain now that she was female. She’d set the rat on the ground, still half-alive, and was lapping water as though Storm were not present. Feeling suddenly bold, he said, “Do you know what that marking is on the rock in the center of the cave?”

  She glanced up with a look of surprise. There was a long pause. Finally, her mouth twitched. “Come over here, and I’ll tell you.” Her speech was slow and heavily accented, but Storm could understand. It was the first time he’d ever understood something a creasia had said.

  Storm bristled. “You already have enough to eat.”

  The cat yawned, showing all her teeth. “Does one ever really have enough?”

  “You don’t kill us because you need to eat.”

  The cub watched him. “Maybe not. Not always.”

  “Why, then?”

  She licked her lips and looked away. “You’d better stay on your side of the stream, little ferryshaft. My father is hungry, and a rat won’t satisfy him.” She turned and stalked off.

  Storm went looking for Pathar. He wanted to know about the large marking. Instead, he found Tracer and Leep, looking exhausted and hungry where they huddled with a number of other low-ranking ferryshaft. Storm felt guilty. He sometimes forgot that his mother, though not prominent, still gave him resources and a degree of protection unavailable to his friends.

  “We can’t find Ishy,” Tracer said at once. “We’ve been all through the herd. Mylo thinks he fell or got trampled.”

  Storm felt a sudden heaviness. He’d not known Ishy well. The foal had been withdrawn and quiet since the death of his brother. Still, Storm had assumed that he would recover with time.

  “We may be replacing him,” said Leep dully, “with a female Callaris found. Her father died last winter before she was born, and she hasn’t found her mother since the initial rush to the cave. She asked Callaris to be her rogan. He’s already fought off two other males and is about to engage a third. Mylo is helping him.” Leep made a vague gesture towards the distant cave wall. “What have you been up to?”

  Storm told them about the boundary stream and the cub’s deadly trick with the rat. He did not try to explain the strange marking and how it reminded him of others he’d seen last spring.

  Tracer’s eyes widened. “Well, that’s good to know. I was about to get a drink.” He shuddered. “Maybe I’ll just wait. I heard an elder saying that we may leave soon—if they decide that the storm is really over.”

  * * * *

  The creasia left the cave that evening, filing out in a long line into the fading light. Most of the ferryshaft had moved to the back of the cave to be well out of the way. Storm, however, felt that this was likely his only chance to get a close look at a creasia without danger, and so he edged to the front of the crowd. He soon found himself surrounded by elders and prominent adults—the only other ferryshaft who seemed to have no fear of cats. They cast sidelong glances and frowns in Storm’s direction, and one (Storm was pretty sure it was Kelsy’s father) aimed a kick at him, which he dodged.

  Storm watched the creasia file past with their cubs. He suspected that they birthed in the spring, like ferryshaft. The males were considerably larger than the females, and their coats were an array of brown and tan and gold. They completely ignored the ferryshaft, but occasionally scuffled among themselves. Storm thought he saw little groups within the larger group, and he wondered if creasia also had cliques. What happens to their orphans? Are female cubs forced to choose a mate in order to survive?

  Gradually the stream of cats diminished. Storm felt the animal beside him grow tense. Looking toward the end of the line, he saw a cat, larger than all the rest and as black as starless night. He came last, his pace unhurried, watching the ferryshaft and the progress of the other creasia. Storm noticed that the adult ferryshaft around him—the wisest and strongest in the herd—all lowered their heads and averted their eyes.

  When the black creasia reached the mouth of the cave, he turned and looked back—casually, as though to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. Storm fancied that the green eyes focused on him, and he thought—although he was never quite sure—that the cat hesitated. Then something jerked Storm’s tail so hard that he sat down. The legs and bodies of taller ferryshaft obscured his view of the creasia. The adult who’d already tried to kick him once landed a successful blow to his shoulder that sent him sprawling. Clearly, he was not welcome among the elite.

  Storm turned to scramble away and caught sight of Pathar. To Storm’s surprise, he looked quite angry. “Were you the one who jerked my tail?” asked Storm.

  Pathar didn’t answer. Instead, he bent his head and hissed in Storm’s ear. “Do not make me sorry for spending so much time on you, Storm! What were you thinking, drawing attention to yourself like that? By all the ghosts of all our ancestors, we’ll be lucky if he doesn’t ask about you!”

  Storm was bewildered and humiliated. Nearby ferryshaft were giving them a wide berth. Storm knew that they thought he was being berated for inserting himself among the herd leaders. But that wasn’t what Pathar was saying.

  “That black creasia…?”

  “His name is Arcove. He’s their king. You do not want him taking an interest in you.”

  “But why would he…?”

  “Because of your color.” Still talking softly, but with a furious expression, Pathar said, “Now, we are going to pretend that this fight ended our friendship. Ferryshaft know that I taught you. They link us, and that is unhealthy. We will not be seen together in public on friendly terms again. However, you may come to me at night or alone, and I will try to help. I am doing this to protect you, Storm.”

  Storm did not have to pretend to be hurt. Pathar snarled loudly, probably for the benefit of those watching, and turned away. Storm resisted the urge to call after him, to denounce him as a hypocrite and a coward. You probably go
to those “conferences” every year. Where else would Arcove ask about me? What do you talk to him about, Pathar? Do you decide how many of us will get slaughtered?

  But he kept quiet. He wanted to believe that his old teacher cared about him and really was trying to protect him.

  To get his mind off it, Storm went to get a better look at the stone with the strange marking, now that the eastern end of the cave was free of creasia. He soon realized that the creasia side was substantially larger. It also included an area where bats nested, and a colony of rock rats that appeared to live on the insects attracted by the bats’ dung. These things constituted a food source, which was absent from the ferryshaft side of the cave.

  However, Storm did not think this had always been the case. From either side of the marked stone, he found a deep line gauged in the cave floor from front to back. It disappeared over places that were too rocky or uneven, but picked up again on the far side. The line ran through the bat colony.

  This is the true boundary, thought Storm. This line splits the cave evenly—fairly. He was still thinking about the implications the next morning, when the ferryshaft herd finally left the cave.

  Chapter 20. Ambition

  Callaris’s new ru was called Valla—a dainty, cream-colored foal, small for her age, and timid. By the time the river froze, the clique had added another new member, as well—a big yearling male named Tarsis—orphaned in the first creasia raid. The clique actually turned away another, smaller male, who tried to join about the same time. Mylo thinks he can afford to be picky, thought Storm.

  Maybe he did, or maybe he just didn’t think they could support another light-weight. Two rues were a lot for an orphan clique to defend, and Valla did not bring down her share of prey.

  Storm thought that Tarsis might be scheming to take over the clique after Mylo moved on. He was smart enough, and he could fight. However, he wasn’t too ambitious to be patient. Mylo would be four years old in spring. Some ferryshaft took a mate at four, but Mylo did not have the looks to attract an independent mate, and Tollee was not old enough. More likely, Mylo would stay with the clique until he was five and better able to defend a ru on his own. At that point, Tarsis might be big enough to consider fighting Callaris for control of the clique.

  At least, that was what Storm, Tracer, and Leep thought would happen. “And then there’s us,” said Leep with a thump of tail, “the solid middle. Big enough to matter, not big enough to rule. Or probably to mate, either.”

  Tracer snorted. “You could have a mate this spring if you wanted.”

  Leep had been spending excessive amounts of time flirting with various female cliques. He was getting less embarrassed about it. “You think so? At three? I couldn’t father a foal…could I?”

  “I think there are a few who’d let you try,” snickered Tracer.

  “Oh, well, you’re one to talk—you and that butterfly-eyed…what’s her name?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Tracer sweetly. He had, indeed, been making eyes at a young adult female who’d lost her mate last year. She was not high-ranking or particularly pretty, but she laughed whenever Tracer tried to be funny, and she just happened to be on the edges of her clique whenever he came around.

  “Well, alright, her name is Mia,” said Tracer. He glanced at Storm. “And if I can find an interested female, anyone can.”

  Storm did not rise to the bait. He was looking up at the cliff from where they lay in the lee of a boulder.

  Tracer nudged him. “Oh, come on, you don’t even try.”

  Storm smiled. “I’m only a yearling.”

  “You’ll be two this spring. Foals like us have to start early—”

  “I’m not like you,” said Storm. “I’m a runt.” He still stood a head shorter than any ferryshaft his own age.

  Tracer squirmed. “That doesn’t mean—”

  “They talk about your fur,” put in Leep. “They notice you, believe me.”

  Storm snorted. “They notice me. That doesn’t mean they want to mate with me.”

  “They’re curious,” persisted Leep. “Rumors still go around about how Kelsy couldn’t catch you. All you’d have to do—”

  “I’m not going to flirt with the female cliques until someone deigns to notice me,” said Storm. “I’m going to fight Mylo for Tollee.”

  A moment of perfect silence greeted this announcement. Then Tracer and Leep both spoke at once.

  “Oh, Storm, no!”

  “Bad idea!”

  “What did you just say about being a runt?”

  “If you win a ru in a fight, she has to choose you afterward,” said Tracer. “You don’t have the right to claim her the way a rogan does who has supported her all winter. Even if you manage to beat Mylo…she could just walk away!”

  “Then she’ll walk away,” said Storm, still staring at the cliff.

  “You won’t beat Mylo,” said Leep. “Storm, tell me you’re not about to do this tomorrow.”

  Storm finally looked at him. “Of course not. Next year, maybe.”

  “Good. Then there’s time to talk you out of it.”

  “Yes,” said Storm, “but you won’t. Instead, maybe you should help me learn to fight.” He’d been working on his plan since the start of winter. Storm could tell he was filling out, putting on muscle, gaining better coordination. When he skated this year, he rivaled the three and four-year-olds for agility. He took long runs in the winter twilight, pushing himself for speed, building muscle that would put power behind his kicks.

  He’d found the sheep trails again, too. Slowly and methodically, he’d begun to learn some of the ones near the winter feeding grounds. He chose his favorites and memorized every leaf-thin ledge, every drop and gap. Out on the windy cliff face, Storm’s small size and light weight were an asset. He was becoming bolder. He searched for the trails that led to caves. Sometimes he left prey there. He would return for it days later and find it frozen, still fresh and undisturbed. I can help feed a foal, and I can protect a mate. I might do it differently than others, but I am capable.

  Except the mate he wanted was Tollee, and to win her, he would have to fight—and probably kill—his clique leader. Storm did not dislike Mylo. He didn’t think Tollee disliked him, either. But she doesn’t want to be his mate. She feels trapped. He saw it in her eyes every time someone mentioned the coming spring—one season closer to fulfilling the bargain she’d made for protection.

  “Just wait for her,” Leep told him reasonably. “She’s only obligated to stay with Mylo for the number of years he was her rogan. That would be…”

  “Four,” said Storm flatly. Ordinarily, mating relationships were renegotiated on a yearly basis. They usually lasted for several years, occasionally a lifetime. However, the rules for rogans and rues were different.

  “So four,” said Leep, as though that were not longer than any of them had been alive. “And probably less. Sometimes the rogans break up those long partnerships after a couple of years. If Mylo sires big, healthy foals or fights his way up the hierarchy, the other females will take an interest. Anything could happen in four years!”

  Storm shook his head. “You don’t understand.” Tollee saved my life from those curbs. Now I’m going to save hers. I’m going to give her back her freedom. She can do whatever she wants with it. He was by no means certain that she would want him, although he tried not to think about that. To Leep and Tracer, he said, “Why don’t you just show me how to fight?”

  They tried. To their credit, they tried hard, but Storm soon realized that neither of them were very good at it. There was a reason that Tracer and Leep were not contending for the top positions in their clique.

  In desperation, Storm finally went to Tollee and explained, awkwardly, that he’d like to learn to fight. She gave him a strange look, but she didn’t ask why. As the winter wound down, he spent long afternoons with her, ducking and dodging, and trying to flip her over.

  “You’re quick,” To
llee told him. “So very quick, Storm, but you’ll lose in the real thing unless you fight dirty. You don’t have any weight behind your attacks.”

  “What do you mean by dirty?” Storm asked.

  Tollee shrugged. “Hamstring your opponent. Open an artery and just keep dancing away until he bleeds out. Slash at the forehead so that he has blood in his eyes and can’t see what he’s doing. Or…you know…back him off a cliff…or over weak ice.”

  Storm frowned. Ferryshaft didn’t usually fight like that. They did not fight to kill. There was always the chance that an opponent would simply surrender. “Did you do that to any of the males who harassed you?” He’d wanted to ask before, but never dared. She would have been less than a year old. Could she have managed to kill another ferryshaft?

  Tollee looked away.

  “You don’t have to answer,” said Storm quickly, but she interrupted him.

  “One. I thought about a lot of ways to do it, but I only killed one.”

  Storm wanted to go to her and nuzzle her cheek, but he didn’t think she’d like that.

  Tollee kicked at a rock. “I went to Mylo right afterward. I didn’t think I could do it again.”

  Her eyes met Storm’s and he stared back wordlessly. He wondered whether she’d guessed what he was practicing for. He wondered whether she would tell him not to do it. She could fight Mylo better than I could, thought Storm. But she won’t.

  The herd might punish a ru who attacked her rogan, but Storm wasn’t sure that was why Tollee wouldn’t do it.

  Maybe Mylo will yield. Maybe he doesn’t really want Tollee. Maybe I won’t have to kill him.

  “Storm,” said Tollee, “don’t do anything stupid.”

  “I won’t.”

  Chapter 21. Riddle of an Island

  So-fet foaled that spring. Dover would not let Storm enter the cave at first—behavior that Storm found infuriating. Storm believed that Dover still harbored a secret suspicion that he took food from So-fet when Dover was not looking.