The Literary Diversions of K.T. Lazarus

The young hunter crouched, still as a rock, while the group of spawn shuffled across the desert sands not five paces away. A fierce and aggressive breed, their outlines in his mind’s eye were dull and muddled, unlike the crisp outline of the woman beside him—his unit’s first-hunter. She gave her signal, and the two flitted forward to eviscerate one each of the creatures. As the rest wheeled to face the sudden onslaught, four more hunters sprang from behind. In a matter of seconds, the skirmish was done.

This, after several years of anxious patience, was his first hunt. He relished it. His naen’s trackers had been on the scent of this pack for some time, and finally, there was blood to bathe his hands in. It was not the young man’s first time killing the Spawn of Ehsan. The night his mother died, he had killed many—some with his mother’s crystal dagger, others with flame powered by the depths of his grief and rage. Again, a year later, he had awoken to the nearly imperceptible signs of alert in the encampment and stalked with his sister through the outer perimeter of tents to ambush stray spawn seeking an opportunistic kill. But tonight, for the first time, he sought them out—delivering death before they had the chance to bring grief upon more of his people. It felt right; purposeful.

He eagerly awaited the day, soon to come, when his sister would be old enough to join him on skirmishes such as this. They complemented each other in their battle training, anticipating each other’s actions as though they were the right and left hands of a single, great warrior. His brother would follow suit in a number of years when he was of age to become a hunter, but having been adopted and raised by another family within the nae after their father had died, the boy felt almost a stranger to the young hunter. His brother had grown up in an intact family, with siblings and parents of his own; he and his sister had only each other. That he regretted not knowing his own blood was immaterial. The hunter would not step between his brother and the generous family which had fostered him.

The first-hunter gave the signal to move out, and the unit fell into line. The spawn they had ambushed had only been a hunting pack out in search of food: following their tracks would lead the hunters back to the main herd. Shortly, they regrouped with a second unit of hunters. The young man shifted to the back of the formation to keep distance from a man in the second group—a man who shuffled across the sand with a pronounced limp, and whose face was deeply scarred from temple to jaw-line from where his father’s dagger had slit it open during their duel.

His mother had died defending his siblings from spawn who should have been stopped by this hunter; and while his father had truly been lost to him the moment his mother died, it was this hunter’s dagger that ultimately ended his life. Despite his involvement in both of them, the young hunter had never been able to hold this man honestly responsible for his parents’ deaths. But try as he might, neither could he find a way to forgive the man. So instead, he maintained a healthy distance and avoided interaction as much as was possible.

Two more hunting units led by the naen chief rejoined his group as they followed the meandering, seemingly aimless path of the spawn through the desert sand and rocks. The dreamer’s eye, half-lidded, climbed steadily through the sky. It had just crossed its zenith when the chief gave the signal to stop. The lines of hunters behind him froze in unison. At the farthest reaches of hearing, the barest sounds of movement whispered across the air. The chief changed his signal and the hunters fanned out in pairs, spaced just within fire-sight of one another as they crept toward their quarry in an arc. One pair flitted forward to scout, returning after some minutes to report to the chieftain. The main herd of spawn had gathered around a broad outcropping some five hundred paces away. Coordinating their advance with the chieftain’s hand signals, the hunters silently encircled the herd while the creatures milled about, shambling and shuffling amongst each other at unknown business. Placed behind whatever slight and imperceptible cover the terrain afforded them, the hunters went still and awaited their command.

Once all the hunters were in place, the chieftain let out a shrill whistle. The spawn tensed, the outer perimeter of the herd scanning the dark sands, while the inner mass crowded in around the center rock. Amid the group on the plateau, one immense beast stood up, towering over the others: the alpha of the herd, its underlings waiting for its cue to take action.

A crystal throwing spike spiraled out of the night and punched through the alpha’s skull. The center of the herd degenerated into chaos, and the outer perimeter of spawn wheeled around in confusion.

The hunters attacked. Though outnumbered four to one by the herd, they used the chaos to their advantage, darting inward to cull the herd one at a time before retreating back out of danger. The hunters with the best aim circled in the shadows, sowing more panic and chaos with their throwing spikes, and picking off the more intelligent of the spawn as they attempted to bring order back to the herd. When the mass fear reached a bursting point and a large bulge of spawn rushed outward from the rock, the hunters before it rapidly retreated while those to the sides flanked the column savagely, separating small groups of the creatures for slaughter as the rest of the herd retreated back to the relative safety of the rock.

The young hunter had just retreated from one such bulging charge, and was searching among the more fierce spawn still on the center rock for a good recipient of his throwing spike, when he felt a presence behind him. He and his partner whirled to find a group of spawn eight strong bearing down upon them—a hunting party they hadn’t caught before the attack, returning home. Slipping to the side as the first rushed him, he sliced it open from shoulder to hip; his partner was slower to react, and was knocked to the ground as one of the beasts crashed into him full on. The hunter instinctively flung his spike, picking the spawn off his grappled partner, then dropped back and away from a swipe from the next one. Its talons caught his shoulder, drawing three searing lines across his flesh. Planting his feet, he shot forward into the creature’s charge, impaling it on his dagger. Dropping his hips, he lifted it off its feet and tossed it into the spawn following close behind it.

He stumbled, suddenly dizzy, and dove sideways to avoid the next slashing claw leveled at him. He hit the sand hard, his left arm refusing to move below the cuts on his shoulder—only some spawn were venomous, but it appeared fortune had not favored him this night. Throwing one of his mother’s daggers from the ground he killed another before it could pounce, but four still remained of the hunting party, while his sight blurred and shifted out of focus. He could not tell if his partner was dead or alive, but he had not risen from the ground after being tackled.

In a blur of motion across his fire-sense, a man leapt over him and punched the pommel spike of his dagger through the skull of the nearest spawn. Though his leg could only barely bend from his former injuries, the older hunter danced with practiced speed, drawing the attackers away from his wounded tribesmen.

Senses fading as the poison coursed through his veins, the young hunter focused inward, centering his mind on the life force burning at his core. Pushing all else away, he embraced his internal fire and then unleashed it from his heart to rage through his body. The cuts on his shoulder sizzled and spat as the poison boiled out of him, and his muddled senses honed back in on the world around him.

He forced himself off the sand and propped up against a boulder to regain his bearings. At the central rock, the last few spawn were being picked off, while small groups of hunters were dispatched to pursue the few that had escaped the assault. The lamed hunter knelt in the sand, the spawn hunting pack sprawled out dead around him. Blood flowed freely from beneath his hand, held firmly to his ribs, and his breathing came in short gasps. The look he gave the young man was one of deep sorrow and pain; a pain far deeper than the mortal wound he had received.

He begged the young hunter’s forgiveness.

He was the cause of his parents’ deaths.

No day passed in which he did not wish that he could undo the past.

The young hunter reached out and clasped hold of the man, forearm to forearm as brothers. There was nothing to forgive. He thanked him for his life, and then the man died.

When the line of hunters returned to camp shortly past dawn, the young hunter stood to the side and watched the man’s oldest son, standing with the other children to welcome the hunters home, until the boy caught sight of him waiting and stepped slowly forward. The hunter knelt and handed the boy one of his father’s daggers. Then he offered one of his own in place of the second, requesting the honor of bearing a dagger of the hunter who had saved his life. The boy nodded, understanding, and the young hunter watched him walk to his mother, standing grief-stricken with an infant girl in her arms. She nodded once to him, and he showed his respect by allowing his tears to fall to the scorched sand.

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