All of Razaad seemed like chaos. Dark clouds, twisting and coalescing above, cast unpredictable shadows and weaving curtains of rain across the lowlands of the isle. Where the tall grass grew, it was pulled back and forth, dark green tendrils on the edge of Arn’s crouched viewpoint. Where the puddles of water and motes of murk dotted the swampland, the wind from the rainstorm picked up spray and blasted it against Arn’s painted face.
A voice, no more than the croak of another marsh creature, was nearly lost in the anarchy of Razaad. Arn tilted his head left to hear it. “Loklar is ready.” It was Crezik, half hidden by waving reeds and bent mangroves.
Arn bit his tongue. Loklar was a scorched fool, as always. The chief hunter wanted Arn to give the order this time. Said it was his turn. Loklar barked and bayed like a lonely hound, before each hunt. He wanted everyone to play a role. Arn gripped the four-foot spear in his left hand, feeling it shift over the rich soil his other hand clenched.
Gently, he released the dirt, but not the weapons’ shaft. He extended one foot ahead of him, and shifted his weight forward. As the wind and rain tore at the isle, the hunters prowled like turtles. Arn, with his black hair and camouflaged face, moved methodically. He avoided every twig and puddle. His eyes shifted down the slope, spotting the water scales and their feathery cohabitants. The birds would produce a swarm of white and grey colour when the chase began, making the dark hides of the water scales nearly impossible to follow. No matter how good Arn’s eyes were.
The hunters waited for him. If they caught more than one water scale today, the tribe would welcome them as victors—and Loklar would get all the credit. Arn knew that Loklar’s second, Torr, would put merit before trials. As much as Arn was glad for his chance to demonstrate strategy, ‘turns’ and ‘fair play’ should not hold back the skill of the tribe’s hunting band.
Arn lifted his wooden spear half a foot in the air above a rock in the mud. It’s stone tip resounded off the rock with a loud clap, and, at once, the charge began. Ten hunters tore out of the cover of whipping grass. The rain and wind did not hide them, nor steer them wrong.
They had formed a semi circle around the small pack of water scales. The robust lizards stood four feet tall, with strong legs, grey scaly hides, and a thin, twisting tail. One saw the quiet attack coming. Its hiss commanded the heads of its comrades up, and without hesitation the pack of seven turned away from the animal burrows they had been prowling. They ran.
Arn ran after them, through the cloud of white feathers. The gulls cawed as they rose into the stormy air, abandoning their snacking perches on the back of the water scales. The hunters’ semi circle quickly narrowed, like a knot. Arn’s leather boots hammered across the damp soil; Arn’s spear glided across the ground without touching it. He fell in beside Torr, who gave him a grin as the two dashed down the slope of the muddy hill toward the wide, shallow brook below.
Without warning, the ground in front of Arn opened up and he leapt into the air. His boots thundered against the other side of the crevice and he kept running. Razaad’s chaos was not only its atmosphere, but the collapsed surface of an old, rotting island.
One of the water scales had gone the wrong way around the hole in the earth, to be pronged by Crezik’s spear. Another hunter stopped to help the small man with his kill. The reptiles put up a good fight, usually, even against the virulent ashroot poison that dripped from all their weapons.
They left behind the storm of gulls.
Another water scale went down, and more hunters turned back. Arn and those still charging reached the brook and their boots thundered over the ancient wooden beams that bridged it, while the lizards splashed through the water. Torr’s spear lanced down and pinned one against the opposite bank. The creature’s tough scales had only been breached in one small spot, but the fast-acting poison and the pressure of Torr’s muscles kept it there. Another hunter turned and stopped after crossing the brook to help him.
Arn, Loklar and another man named Im, plunged headlock into the forest of crooked mathhar trees, breaking through wiry branches and tearing up the foliage. The remaining water scales scattered once they reached cover, and the three hunters divided.
Arn kept his eyes on one of the reptile’s dark body’s. The white and grey trees did not grow thorns but the angles in their branches were sharp enough to cut. He dodged under a larger branch, deftly stepped over a root. Arn’s dexterity was sharper than the stone spearhead; his eyes were stronger than the muscles in his legs. As fast as the water scale ran, on his sturdy little legs, Arn glided through the forest faster.
When Arn was ready, he jabbed forward. The chaos of Razaad seemed like a still tranquility for a moment, as the stone spear point scraped along the heavy scales to find purchase in a knot above the shoulder. Delicate flesh was breached, poison was instilled, and the water scale was driven down to the earth by Arn’s weight. His feet found purchase in the soil and the beast and he skidded through the foliage like a gull’s feather coming to rest.
That moment of peace ended. The water scale tore itself from his spear, and charged at him. Its saliva was venomous, and its row of fangs sharp. Arn had settled from his leap, barely, and then shoved with left foot to stagger out of the beast’s way. Another jab of his spear busted two scales above the lizard’s belly. The whole time, hissing screams tore the air, as the water scale felt the poison burning its skin and trickling through its veins.
Arn spun around, his tight leather hunting gear touching the soil as he went down on one knee. He stabbed the butt of his spear into the dirt.
The water scale impaled itself. The poison tip punctured its front shoulder and the lizard’s weight pushed forward until the whole spearhead had disappeared into its chest. For a moment, it still squirmed. Final dying spasms shook Arn’s spear shaft, and then everything went still.
The hunter stood up, covered in mud. The rain dripping through the mathhars and their wide blue leaves fell on his dark, soaked hair. The black paint on his face had begun to run, at last, and his white forehead was visible. He wiped his brow so he didn’t get any in his eyes. With a yank, his poison spear came loose of the kill.
It took only a few moments, and the rope at his belt, to tie the water scale to the wooden shaft. Arn heaved the beast up onto his back. A blast of thunder shook the heavens, but nothing around Arn gave any reply. His burden was heavy, and his feet sunk into the mud every step of the way. He trudged back through the short swamp forest.
A voice called out, somewhere through the gnarled tree trunks to Arn’s left. He stopped his march. Amidst all the torrents of rain, wind, and the waving grasses, Arn stood with his kill over his shoulders, and listened to the forest.
“Help…” the voice breathed, just a sigh through the storm.
Arn bent to the side, and set his spear down against the bark of a nearby mathhar. His water scale just sat there, and dripped a little blood. Arn drew his dagger from his back sheath.
He found the source of the voice forty paces away. One of the spindly trees clung to the edge of a slanting crevice, and a hunter clung to its vines. Though the rock was slanted and the bottom of the pit was hidden out of sight, Arn grabbed the tree for support. Many had died from falls and natural land traps.
Loklar hung from the mathhar tree, no spear in sight. He had fallen against the slope, and only managed to stay his fall by wrapping his arms in the vines. Arn could see blood and bruises welling up where his hands had caught purchase. “Help me, Arn,” Loklar called up. “I fell.”
“I see that,” Arn said. Loklar’s life was forfeit. If they had been friends, things might have been different, but Arn had made his choice long ago. The hunt was on.
“Help me, and I’ll reward you,” Loklar said. “You can start the hunt again, strategize. Learn.”
“That’s not how it works,” Arn muttered. He was looking at the branches of the tree. To stay on top of Razaad, one did not reward saving. Rather, one did not need saving.
The rain made it hard to climb the rickety tree, though the rivers weaving down into the crevice likely made it even harder for Loklar. Arn found the source of the vines and set to work with his dagger.
“What are you—Arn, don’t!” Loklar said. “No, no, no, we can be friends.”
“Friends are secondary,” Arn said. He wasn’t without caring. He cared about plenty, but Loklar was close to the bottom of that list.
He sawed through the first two vines, and Loklar slid half a foot to the side. “Stop!” the man shrieked, dangling above the precipice. Arn looked down at him. Loklar’s face was painted with camouflage but half of it had dripped off already. Arn probably looked similar, but his eyes were not wide with terror.
Arn looked back to the vines. With a twist of his knife, he cut loose another three vines. Loklar slid loose, grappling for grip. He shrieked as he fell, until his tumble twisted end over end and his head struck the rock cliff hard. Down, the hunter plummeted, crashing off the rocks until he fell out of sight.
A moment passed and the only sound heard was the rain pattering off the rocks. Arn grabbed the cut sections of vines and pulled them off the tree. He tossed them into the branches of another tree so they could not be found. Of course, the chances of Loklar being found was slim. He was gone for good. And Torr would become chief hunter.
Arn slid down the tree and strode back to his slain water scale. He groaned as he lifted the dead lizard up onto his shoulders. It was a long hike back to the village. He wiped his brow of rain water again and listened to the anarchy in the sky. Another pang of thunder sounded when his next step sunk into the mud. He didn’t look back until he was marching through the weaving reeds up the slope. The other hunters had already disappeared, but he could see bloody traces where they had killed their own prey. At the top of the hill, where he had first rung his spear’s head to order the charge, he looked back at the mathhar forest. With the smallest smile, he kept walking.