Chapter 4: The Hunt (IV)

  Another shriek cut through the air. Ethan knew—the pursuer was torturing the woman. It was the method that race used specifically when hunting humans.

  If he turned back to save her, he’d walk straight into this idiotic trap, and both their heads would end up as ornaments in some orc tribe.

  The Dono River flowed eastward, swift yet gentle, its tiny waves seeming to beckon him.

  Come, come. Jump in, and you’ll be safe. You’ll grieve, you’ll feel guilty, but at least you’ll live. In a few years, maybe you’ll fade this memory, even laugh about it over drinks with friends. If not in years, then surely in decades.

  Or perhaps you’ll use this sorrow as fuel. Become a general someday, lead an army, sweep all orcs from the continent, avenge her…

  A third scream came, so faint it might have been a trick of his worried mind.

  Ethan shouted the foulest curse he knew, spun around, and sprinted back the way he’d come. He let out a roar with all his might, telling the pursuer his stupid trap was working exactly as he’d hoped.

  Less than ten minutes later, gasping from the run, Ethan saw the pursuer—and the woman he held in his grasp.

  Black hair, cropped to her neck, spilled from her cloak, tangling to obscure her pained expression. Her right hand was a mangled mess, twisted like a gnarled vine, every bone shattered. It wasn’t from a single blow—someone had broken one part, then another, until there was nothing left to break.

  Ethan felt a flicker of relief: aside from that hand, there was no sign of fatal wounds. She dangled from the pursuer’s grip like a chicken to be slaughtered, faint moans escaping her lips, Intermittent, as if it might be snuffed out at any moment by the claws clamped around her neck.

  Following that hairy, massive claw, Ethan saw, for the first time in broad daylight and at such close range, the orc who’d hunted him for three days.

  A full foot taller and half again as broad, his body covered in brown fur, with pointed ears, yellow pupils, a narrow muzzle—a wolf’s head. He was a werewolf. His proportions were roughly human, but the perfect curve of his muscles and bones betrayed strength and agility no human could match.

  The werewolf wore a specially crafted leather armor. The mace on the ground—the one that had crushed the skulls of over a dozen of Ethan’s comrades—was clearly custom-forged; humans and dwarves could never wield such a massive weapon. This fearsome gear complemented his frame, making him a match for an entire squad of soldiers.

  Yet this werewolf didn’t look imposing or dangerous—he even seemed somewhat disheveled. The fur on his left arm was matted with dried blood, and the wound there still oozed slowly. An Anka rapier, though not built for hacking, was no less lethal: its unique blade, when twisted after piercing flesh, tore apart surrounding veins and tissue. Forged from fine dwarven alloy, its slender blade could even pierce bone.

  His left paw had a charred patch, revealing scorched, burst muscle. The fur around it was singed—a fireball’s mark. The slight singeing on his head fur suggested the fireball had been aimed at his face, which he’d blocked with his hand when he couldn’t dodge. That fireball must have been timed perfectly.

  If he’d joined forces with her against the pursuer, their chances of winning would’ve been high… Ethan was consumed by regret. Now he could only fight with all he had. There was still hope—after all, the pursuer’s left arm was…

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The pursuer grunted, baring his sharp teeth and rolling his shoulders. Ethan didn’t understand the gesture, but he saw the muscles in the claw holding the woman bulge.

  The prey had arrived; the goal was achieved. The bait was useless now.

  “Stop!” Ethan screamed, sprinting at the pursuer.

  Crack. A sharp, clear sound of breaking bone. Ethan couldn’t tell if it came from the woman’s neck or his own. His overworked legs had no strength left to dodge mid-charge. He watched, almost helpless, as the pursuer planted a precise kick in his chest, sending him flying like a scarecrow to crash hard into a tree. The knife in his hand drove into the trunk.

  Ethan curled into a ball like a shrimp, blood and saliva oozing from his mouth and nose. Several ribs were broken, but luckily they hadn’t pierced his organs. His chest felt as if a herd of wild oxen were rampaging inside, squeezing out all sensation but pain. He couldn’t even draw a breath.

  What a boring end. The pursuer felt disappointment. This prey, who’d made him work so hard these three days, was so easily overpowered. He’d hoped for a thrilling fight to finish it.

  That morning, when he’d found obvious tracks and scents by the campfire, he’d been certain it was a trap. How could such a cunning prey leave his trail so deliberately? It had to be a trick. So he’d chased another, less likely set of tracks. When he realized he’d been wrong again—fooled by the prey’s ruse—shock and rage had unhinged him.

  And this other human’s fighting spirit had surprised him. He’d nearly taken a fireball to the face. Fortunately, she was fragile too. Breaking her hand had made her crumple in pain, helpless.

  In the end, he’d won. He’d lured the fleeing prey right to him. Now he could walk over and twist off his head with ease.

  No, no need to rush. Savor every moment. Watch what this human did when he knew death was near. It might make a fun finale.

  One last trick? A struggle? Or curl up, sniveling and wailing nonsense? Please, not that. He’d grown tired of it.

  Ethan finally managed to draw a breath. His ribs felt lined with knives, shifting painfully with each inhale. He looked up at his knife, stuck in the tree—white sap from the trunk had oozed over the blade.

  He recognized this tree. Its thin, straight roots had once made him think of a nearly shameless saying. Now he remembered it again. Glancing at the woman, silent on the ground, a surge of grief and anger lifted him to his feet. He pulled the knife from the trunk, raised it with all his remaining strength, and charged.

  The pursuer watched the oncoming prey with almost pity. This slow, predictable rush was his last struggle? He could see every muscle twitch, every pain-induced twist of movement, see when and where and how hard the knife would fall.

  The pursuer raised the mace’s handle, blocking the knife dead-on. A loud clash of metal. As expected, the knife and arm rebounded, sending the body reeling backward, leaving his chest and abdomen wide open. One claw to the gut, and he’d tear out that warm heart.

  But the pursuer hadn’t counted on one trivial detail. The tree sap on the knife, jolted by the impact, sprayed into countless droplets—hitting his eyes, his damp nose.

  It wasn’t sap. It was a thousand tiny, red-hot knives, poisoned and barbed. The pursuer let out a shriek, shriller than any he’d ever made.

  Pain consumed the world. His vision flushed crimson, then went black. His nose was gone—only pain remained there. His ears rang with nothing but his own scream. Then, through the haze, he felt something cold slide into his abdomen, piercing up to his chest. It didn’t take much force, but it drove steadily through his neatly arranged organs, carving a path.

  A terror that overshadowed even the pain flooded him. The pursuer grabbed whatever was at his midsection, pouring all his strength and fear into the grip. Then he heard a scream, as shrill as his own.

  Ethan didn’t hear his wrist bones shatter. He only felt shards tearing through muscle and veins, protruding through his skin. He wasn’t using strength—he had none left. He used that searing pain to drive his knee into the knife handle, again and again. Through the hilt, he felt the elastic give of a breaking heart.

  The pursuer’s shriek cut off. He clutched his chest, claws digging through his armor into his fur, as if trying to push the broken thing back into place. He staggered a few steps, then crashed to the ground.

  Ethan knelt, clutching his left hand, howling and gasping for breath. It took a while before he could stand.

  It was all over.

  No, not yet. He couldn’t stay here. The pursuer’s corpse would draw lizards soon. He was too weak to fend off those ugly scavengers. He hoped the woman’s pack held useful healing herbs—maybe something as good as that water-purifying rune.

  Ethan stumbled over. He looked at the woman’s pale face—once made beautiful by smiles, but in half a day, it would be just like the werewolf’s corpse, food for those hideous creatures.

  I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. Ethan knelt before her, in agony. Then he thought he saw her lips move—surely a trick of his eyes. But then he heard a moan, stronger than his own.