A horn sounds and everyone, Hawk included, gazes at the Hunters. My father stands out in front, clad in a stained black leather tunic, a hollowed out tug horn to his lips. The future Head Greynote leads the charge. The horn is Hawk’s signal.

He takes off.

It seems to me that having the new Hunter run to catch up to t’others is a knocky tradition. I mean, all you do is tire him out ’fore he even gets to the starting line. I haven’t heard about many newbs getting killed in their first Hunt, but still…

I don’t like Hawk, but I don’t want him to die.

At first Hawk comes out a bit fast, probably ’cause he’s full of adrenaline and excitement and all that first-Hunt stuff, but then he slows a bit, settling into a light gallop. T’others await his arrival patiently, in formation, bangers in the front, shooters in the back, and slashers on the wings. Circ’s a slasher and, as usual, I spot him right away. We’re maybe a quarter-mile away up here on the bluffs, but I can see him as if he’s standing not two feet from me.

After three years, I’ve memorized everything ’bout him, from the way he stands, to how he holds the slasher-blade when he’s anticipating having to use it, to his pre-Hunt rituals, which he starts now, just as I’m watching him. First he squats and scoops up a handful of dust, letting it sift through his fingers until it’s just the right amount. He watches the grains of sand fall, gaining valuable information on wind speed and direction which’ll be vital in the event he hasta use the bow strapped to his back. The remaining dust is patted onto the handle of his slasher-blade to keep his hands sweat-free. When he regains his feet, Hawk’s nearly upon them. But Circ doesn’t panic, doesn’t rush the rest of his rituals, just calmly goes about them, as if the entire world is waiting for him. A cupped hand over his brow keeps the sun out of his eyes as he scans the tug hurd, looking for weaknesses. Then he checks and rechecks his equipment, making sure he has everything, that nothing’s loose. Finally, he assumes a runner’s stance, one foot in front of the other, knees slightly bent, head down.

Hawk reaches the Hunters at a dead sprint and the horn sounds again.

~~~

For me the eeriest part of the Hunt is the beginning. The Hunters charge the hurd, making no sound. Not a war cry, not a yell, not even a hiccup. Their feet barely seem to touch the ground as the hundred or so men and Younglings run on silent tiptoes. The hurd knows they’re coming, sure, but the silent approach lulls them into a trance. That is, until the bangers start banging.

Wielding short, stubby hammers and long, pointed spears, the bangers arrive first, prodding at the tugs in the forefront, sneaking in a smash with a hammer where possible. The tugs pretty much go wooloo, which is the point. They lose their cool, start to break off from the hurd, scatter. The only way to defeat a two-thousand-pound foe amongst a pack of two-thousand-pound foes, is to get him away from t’others.

But not all the tugs start running. The biggin does a bit of charging of his own, churning up durt and dust and plowing into the line of bangers, who, realizing they’ve got a fight on their hands, start to retreat.

Sometimes it’s better to be quick than lucky.

It’s something my father once said that stuck with me. That was back when he wasn’t such a baggard. I’ve always been quick on my feet, even if a bit clumsy, and my father taught me to use that to my advantage. Now, in the midst of the Hunt, being quicker’n the guy next to you is crucial.

Out of fifty or so bangers, about five ain’t as quick as t’others. The biggin tosses two in the air like feathers, only they don’t come down all floaty and soft-like; they come down like a rockslide, probably breaking half the bones in their bodies. T’other half are broken when the madder‘n-scorch tug tramples all over them on the way to his next mark. To take out the third and fourth Hunters, he just lowers his big ol’ head and butts them over, leaving nothing but carcasses and guts in his wake. For the fifth one, he has something special planned. To the Hunter’s credit, he knows he ain’t gonna escape the biggin, and he turns to fight. But it doesn’t make one grizz of difference. His spear and hammer just bounce off the tug’s hide and he keeps on coming. With a deft flick of his neck, the monster tug gets under the Hunter enough to lift him up on his horns. The guy screams.

I look away when the blood starts spraying.

Stay away from him, Circ, I think again. This time it feels like a prayer.

Well, the shooters start shooting, and their pointers fill the air like a thousand lashes of rain running sideways in a winter wind. At least two dozen pointers pepper the biggin, sprouting out of him at all kinds of angles. He bellows, but I know it’s not ’cause he’s scared or hurt or surrendering. No, his cry is one of anger and defiance. Not on my watch, it says to me.

A banger with a death wish runs up and jabs his spear straight into the tug’s side, but it just breaks off before it penetrates more’n an inch. In a move so agile a burrow mouse would be proud, the tug twists itself around and kicks out with his hind leg, which catches the bold (or maybe wooloo) Hunter directly in the face. He goes down harder’n a sack of tug dung and lies still.

Enter Circ.

Somehow I knew he was coming, one way or t’other. It’s exactly the type of situation he can’t seem to stay away from. One that’s impossible. One that’ll challenge him to the very end of, or perhaps beyond, his level of ability.

He races in from the side, leaps on the biggin’s back with reckless abandon, slashing with his slasher-blade again and again as the tug leader bucks and kicks like he’s under attack by a swarm of angry soldier bees. Circ’s hanging on with one arm, jerking and cracking around like the business end of my father’s snapper. But he’s still stabbing, just a flurry of bronzed skin riding a monster tug whose brown coat is slick with red to match the sky.

~~~

It shouldn’t be possible for an animal that large to die, at least not from injury. But die it does, slowly at first, stopping its kicking, still snorting and huffing, but no longer fighting. It’s a strange sight: a tug the size of a Glassy fire chariot, walking and stamping his feet, with Circ on his back, like a pesky fly. I know there’s all kinds of other stuff happening all around him—like slashers finishing off their kills, a stampede of retreating tugs thundering into the distance, and apprentice healers rushing onto the field to attend to the dead and injured—but I can’t seem to pull my eyes from him.

Circ.

I don’t know why I worry ’bout him. He’s the most capable person I know, always coming out on top. In this case, literally.

Flush with the tug’s bloody body, he lowers his head to its ear, whispers something. The killing words: In the name of the sun goddess, I claim your body for the use of my people, the Heaters. You have died with honor, and your passing will save the lives of many. I send you to a better place, Warrior.

Circ wraps his arm around its neck, and is about to draw his blade across the biggin’s throat, when a blur swoops in from the side and smashes into him and the tug.

What the scorch? I think.

Circ loses his balance and topples off the injured tug, which suddenly has a bit of fight in him again, unloosing a bellow that sweeps across the field like a plague. I stand, straining to see who ruined Circ’s perfect kill. Hawk comes into view, stalking around the front of the tug, his spear raised to killing height. Beneath the tug, which is stomping and kicking again—not dead yet!—Circ’s rolling around, trying to avoid getting trampled. Hawk, the baggard! He’s going to get Circ killed!