Shorn: Chapter 6

After a break to eat a small lunch, they went back to plowing. They finished the second field faster, some time before the sun set. Melda sent the kids to clean up. She and Shorn stood surveying the work done.

Shorn’s blisters had broken. His muscles ached. And he was genuinely tired. He thought he could probably lie down and fall asleep right away. He was going to be stiff in the morning.

But standing there, looking at what they’d accomplished, none of those things mattered. This was what mattered.

He realized that he felt good. The blackness which had hung around him for so long had lifted sometime during the day. He felt hopeful again.

“I believe we can finish the rest in two more days,” he said.

She gave him a sideways look. “So you’re not leaving tomorrow?”

“No.” He turned to her. “There is a problem.”

She nodded. “Food.” Before he could say anything else, she continued. “I have my husband’s bow. Could you use that?”

“I would see this bow.”

She went inside and came out with a leather-wrapped bundle. Inside was an unstrung bow, a handful of arrows, and a bow string wrapped in oiled cloth.

Shorn picked up the bow. As he’d expected, it was far too small for him. He’d have to be careful firing it. If he drew too hard, he’d snap the string, maybe even the bow.

“I guess it’s too small,” Melda said.

“I might be able to make it work. I will have to get close.” He looked down at his feet. “Stalking is not something I am good at.”

“Lorn wasn’t good at it either. But he had a spot he used to go to, where he could sit on top of this small cliff and shoot the deer as they walked below him.”

Shorn considered this. It could work.

“You can show me this place?”

“I can tell you where it is.”

 

The next morning, Shorn left before the dawn. It didn’t take too long to get to the spot. A low cliff about twice the height of a man overlooked a game trail that led to some meadows with good grazing. The hillside was choked with brambles and was quite steep, making this the only good way through.

He settled himself on the rocks and strung the bow. Fitting an arrow, he drew the string back and sighted in. It would be difficult to use, but he thought he could make it work. He’d trained with the bow while at the Khivoz, along with a variety of swords and spears and such. Even with all their advanced technology, the Themorians still trained with the old weapons. It brought much more honor to a warrior to kill his enemy up close than from a distance. As well, all duels—and the Themorian warriors dueled often—were fought with the old weapons.

Time passed and no game appeared. Shorn’s back started to hurt from sitting on the rocks, reminding him that he wasn’t as young as he used to be. He wanted to stand and move around, but he knew that was a mistake. The hunter had to be completely still, had to become part of the landscape, in order to succeed.

He remembered back to the Blood Rite, deep in the frozen wastes…

 

Shorn reached the lip of the ridge and dropped on his stomach to peer over the edge into the valley on the other side. Snow and ice covered everything, as it did year-round this close to Themor’s southern pole. He was on the edge of a long escarpment that led down into a tangled landscape of broken rock. In the middle of the valley was a lone peak, an ancient volcano. Smoke curled from it, indicating that it was not completely dormant.

Inside the bowl of that volcano, he would find Thunka’ Drozh, the Beast of Winter. That was why he was here.

He wore a heavy zherka, the traditional ankle-length, hooded cloak made from the hide of the giant furred hekov that roamed the southern continent known as The Cruel. He carried a pack containing a few meager provisions, a long knife, and a length of rope. Nothing else.

He’d started out with a sword, one of the heavy, two-handed weapons every young Themorian carried when he set out on the Blood Rite, the last of the Trials to finally graduate from the Khiroz. It broke three days ago, when a pack of bale wolves set on him. On the first swing, even. He’d had to kill the rest of the pack with his knife and bare hands.

He hadn’t been surprised when the sword broke. In fact, he was expecting some sort of treachery. The weapon had been given to him by Mag Dogacz after all, and the old warrior hated Shorn for nearly killing Mag’s son during the personal combat section of the Trials. Shorn would have done the same in his place.

The Blood Rite was simple in nature. The young warrior journeyed alone into the Cruel, the only uninhabited continent on Themor. There, the most dangerous of Themor’s fauna lived, everything from the razor shrike—big enough to carry away a man, yet almost completely silent in the air—to the four-legged cave hunter with thousands of teeth and a spiked tail.

The young warrior’s task was to kill the most dangerous creature he could, cut off the head and bring it back. A great deal of his future standing depended on how large and dangerous the creature he killed was.

Standing there, looking at the carcasses of the dead wolves, the shattered weapon lying on the ground, Shorn changed his plans. The predator he’d been planning to kill was a vilbeast, an armored creature that could only be killed with a sword if the warrior struck it in exactly the right spot, and hard enough to drive clear to its heart. Very few vilbeasts were killed during the Blood Rite, and none for almost ten years. Returning with such a trophy would bring Shorn much honor.

But once his sword broke, the vilbeast was out of the question.

He wasn’t sure exactly why he decided to go after Thunka’ Drozh. No one had even seen the Beast in nearly a hundred years. Many believed that it had finally died, the body frozen in its lair. Going anywhere near the thing was suicide. Even the loudest and most arrogant of the students at the Khiroz didn’t brag about going after it. It wasn’t done.

Probably that was why he chose it, though he didn’t spend much time thinking about it. Pondering things wasn’t Shorn’s way. His way was sudden, overwhelming violence. Before his opponent had even fully come to the decision to attack or defend, Shorn was already on him.

Or maybe he chose it out of stubbornness. He’d heard the saying hundreds of times growing up: As foolish as riding the Beast.

It wasn’t done. It couldn’t be done. Everybody knew that.

Shorn didn’t like it when someone told him he couldn’t do something.

So, he left the broken sword where it lay and continued south. He killed four times during the journey, as one denizen after another thought to make a meal of him. Each one would have marked him as a warrior to be reckoned with, but he left their bodies where they lay.

Now he was here. He was almost out of food. If he survived this, he’d be lucky to make it home. But that didn’t matter. The hunt was on. That was all that mattered.

He surveyed the terrain. There was a lot of open ground between where he lay concealed and the volcano. If the Thunka’ Drozh caught him out there, he’d be at its mercy. As powerful as it was, his only chance lay in surprising it.

Off to the west was a bank of forbidding clouds that were blowing in fast. The air beneath them churned with blowing snow. He should be able to use the storm to conceal his approach.

He didn’t have long to wait. When visibility was such that he couldn’t see the nearby rocks, he stood up and started down the slope, cinching his cloak tighter about him as he went.

The storms this far south were deadly. The winds drove shards of ice at shrieking speeds. Bare skin was lacerated in moments. Without the tough cloak, he wouldn’t have lasted long.

The going was difficult. The ice was riven by crevasses. Most weren’t visible at all, being concealed under a layer of ice. The unwary traveler wouldn’t know they were there until it was too late.

But this was not Shorn’s first time in the wastes. He’d come here for training multiple times, and not just to fight the creatures. Simply surviving the elements took training and a great deal of personal fortitude.

The storm never let up as he crossed the small valley. The crevasses forced him to take a circuitous route, and he had to backtrack and circle around several times. At no time could he see the volcano, but despite his zigzagging he had no doubt he was still going the right way.

At last, he stood at the base of the cone. Shattered rock and great sheets of ice covered its sides. Somewhere up there, hidden in the storm, was the Thunka’ Drozh.

Climbing the volcanic cone was difficult. The ice was so slick, the wind so fierce, that it seemed he must be blown off. He was forced to use his knife to make the climb, stabbing it into the ice to make holds.

The wind at the top shrieked like a live thing, trying its best to dislodge him.

He climbed over the lip and descended into the bowl. Instantly, the wind began to subside. It still howled, but it was no longer deafening. Visibility improved too. Whether the bowl provided shelter from the storm, or whether the storm was weakening, he couldn’t tell.

He’d descended about halfway when he realized it was growing warmer. He could see steam issuing from a number of vents in the hillside. The ice receded.

Near the bottom he finally saw it. A huge opening in the side of the cone. He approached to within a hundred paces and then crouched down in the lee of some tumbled stones to survey it.

Bones littered the mouth of the cave. There was no movement inside. Even from this distance, he could smell the beast.

He looked up at the sky. Though there was no sign of the sun through the clouds, he knew sunset was close. The Thunka’ Drozh was a nocturnal hunter. It would be stirring soon. He would either have to act soon or wait until morning when it returned from its hunt.

Shorn preferred to act now.

He moved closer, eyes fixed on the cave mouth. If the creature appeared right now, he was doomed. But still there was no movement. The smell got worse with each step.

He stopped at the entrance, crouching down behind a boulder while he took stock of his surroundings.

Over the last few days while he made his way here, he’d come up with and discarded several plans to kill the creature. Finally, he’d come to realize what he should have known all along: there simply was no good way to tackle such a monster with what he had at his disposal. He would have to hope for something to reveal itself.

Now that he was here, he was starting to get an idea.

Using his knife as he had to climb the cone, he began to make his way up the hillside. There was a ledge overhanging the mouth of the cave, big enough to hold him.

He made his way out onto it and crouched there. The rope had frozen to his cloak. He broke it free and uncoiled it. He tied several knots in it and made a large loop.

Now there was nothing to do but wait. Waiting was something he was good at. He’d learned the value of it during his years at the Khivoz.

After his public humiliation over his grandfather’s death, Shorn drew the attention of several of the older boys, already in their fourth year. They saw what had happened as a sign of weakness and moved in like predators closing for a kill.

It started with cruel jokes and taunts. Shorn had the sense to ignore them as much as possible. When they saw it wasn’t working, they stepped it up. He was shoved down. Personal items were stolen. They made sure he failed inspections, which led to further punishment from the instructors.

When three of them caught him inside the latrines one night, they beat him badly enough that he needed to go to the infirmary. He was asked by the instructors who did it to him, but Shorn had learned by then how the system worked, and he maintained he’d fallen on a patch of ice.

But he knew then he had to act. There was nothing to stop them. Sooner or later, they would hurt him badly or perhaps even kill him. It had happened to others. The instructors’ primary concern was making the children into ruthless killers. They weren’t much interested in protecting those too weak to protect themselves.

So, Shorn came up with a plan. He found a heavy piece of metal pipe in the trash and hid it outside the barracks where the older boys lived. He knew they snuck out sometimes at night. One of them had a cache of liquor he’d stolen on his last trip home. They’d sit out behind the mess hall and drink.

Shorn knew all about what drink did to a person. His father, an unhappy man with a miserable marriage to a woman who despised him, often drank. When he did, he was stupid and slow.

Shorn meant to use that.

He had to wait three nights before he got his chance. Three nights he sat out in the cold, his little arms wrapped around the pipe, waiting for the barracks’ door to open. It was cold and miserable, but not as cold and miserable as being forced to stand in the snow for an entire day while other students mocked him, and instructors berated him.

On the fourth night, he got his chance. He hadn’t been waiting long when the door opened. He ducked lower into the shadows. The three boys came out whispering and giggling. They never saw him.

Then, it was more waiting. The longer he waited, the more confident Shorn became.

It was after midnight when they returned. Their whispering was louder now. One stumbled and almost knocked the other two down, which brought a round of suppressed laughter.

Just as they reached the door, Shorn acted.

He made no sound. He gave no warning.

He attacked the tallest one first, hitting him as hard as he could on the back of the head. The boy uttered a groan and collapsed.

The others stared stupidly down at him, their intoxicated minds not sure what they’d just seen.

Shorn was already launching his next attack.

He hit the next one in the back of the knees. He cried out and went down.

The third boy was turning when Shorn hit him square in the face. There was a sound of broken bones, and he screamed, blood spraying everywhere.

Lights were coming on. Voices called out. Shorn knew he was out of time, but he wanted to make sure his message got home. He went berserk for a few moments then, hitting them over and over. Then he threw the pipe on the ground and fled.

None of the boys ever bothered him again. The one he’d hit in the face left the academy altogether, a disgrace to his family.

Shorn allowed himself a grim smile at the memory.

Life got easier in some ways after that. There were fewer attempts to bully him. But he was more isolated than ever. Though nothing was ever proven—not that the instructors made much effort—the other boys knew it was Shorn who’d done it. They mostly avoided him. But they didn’t like him either.

He felt the creature before he heard or saw it. The rocks vibrated with its coming. Shorn flexed his hands and picked up the rope. He stood.

He could feel each ponderous step in the soles of his feet. The thing felt huge. Even bigger than he’d been expecting.

It occurred to him that he had taken on a task too great, that he would probably die here. Strangely, that thought calmed him. He was not afraid to die. He feared dishonor, but he did not fear death.

It was right below him now. He could hear its harsh breathing, the scrape of its hide against the stone. He raised the rope. He was only going to get one chance at this.

When it finally emerged from the cave, it was moving so fast he almost missed it—no doubt building up speed in order to launch its bulk into the air.

He saw the tip of the snout emerge, covered in thick gray feathers, massive teeth curving up and down.

He threw the rope.

The loop settled neatly over the beast’s head. Shorn gave a quick jerk to tighten it and jumped.

He landed on the back of the beast, the back of its neck, anyway. The Thunka’ Drozh took a moment to respond, as the creature tried to understand what had just happened. Shorn took that moment to tie the loop off and hunker down, taking hold of the rope with both hands.

The creature bellowed in rage, then twisted its head around, trying to bite him. But he was too far up the neck and crouched down too low for it to reach. It backed up two steps. He had an awful moment where he thought it would retreat to its lair. He’d be scraped off on the ceiling and trampled underfoot.

But then it lunged forward and leapt into the sky. Its huge wings flapped, propelling it upwards. It was a four-legged creature, the front two smaller with clawed hands for grasping. It had a long neck and a long tail that ended in a V. It was covered in feathers, mostly gray with spots of white.

They climbed into the sky, the Thunka’ Drozh twisting as it flew, still trying to reach the infuriating creature clinging to its back.

But the rope was strong, and Shorn had a death grip on it. Even when the beast rolled in the air, he barely budged.

It bucked and spun, snapping its long body like a whip, but still it couldn’t dislodge him.

Then it began to climb. Higher and higher they rose. The wind and the cold were fierce, but Shorn never relented.

Now for the hard part.

Shorn let go of the rope with one hand and drew his knife. It was razor sharp, honed by him for endless hours. The blade was half the length of his arm.

He was straddling the beast’s neck, not too far behind the head. He knew that underneath that tough hide, somewhere hidden in the neck bones, was the spinal cord. All he had to do was cut the thing, and the Thunka’ Drozh was dead.

The fact that he might die in the fall was not a consideration.

Now the creature was diving, rolling as it went, trying desperately to dislodge him. He had to take hold of the rope with both hands again to stay on.

It seemed as though the creature meant to crash into the ground, but it pulled up and leveled out just in time. Now was the time to act.

Shorn raised the knife. He could see the spot, a sort of dimple, where he would strike. One blow, just right, and this was over.

Yet for some reason he did not strike. He held there for a long moment as something changed inside him.

In that moment, everything changed.

This was no ordinary creature. Its size and power were staggering. It was a perfect, lethal killing machine. It was the only one of its kind.

Shorn lowered the knife.

He knew what the others would say, but he did not care. He had bested the creature. There was no need to kill it. The world would be emptier without it.

Shorn sheathed his knife, untied the rope, and dove off its back.

Getting back to civilization wasn’t easy. He walked three days through an unrelenting storm without any food. Twice he was attacked by hungry predators. The second left him with a deep wound in his shoulder.

When he walked into the building used as the jump off point for the Blood Rite the warriors on staff stared at him openmouthed. They knew what he’d done. Everyone knew by then. Drones followed every student on their trials, making sure they didn’t cheat.

Shorn was staggering by then, blood caking the whole front of his cloak. But when they tried to take him into the med lab to treat his injuries, he refused. When asked why, he simply said, “I’m not done yet.”

He was transported back to the Khivoz. Limping, still wearing his bloody cloak, he walked to the administration building. By the time he’d reached it, most of the students had emerged from their barracks or training yards and were watching him. He heard the whispers. He’d hear them for years.

Why did he let the Thunka’ Drozh go? Why did he spare the monster?

Shorn didn’t care. Let them talk. He would let his actions speak for him.

He walked up the steps and into the building. The staff officer at the front desk made as if to intercept him, but a flat look from Shorn caused the man to halt.

Shorn walked into Mag Dogacz’s office. The grim-faced warrior was sitting behind his desk. He looked up as Shorn entered.

“I see you brought no trophy,” he sneered. “This means you failed the Blood Rite.”

Shorn made no answer. He simply dropped the coiled rope on the desk and stared at the man until the older warrior grew uncomfortable and turned his eyes away.

Of course, he passed the Rite. Mag Dogacz was not the only vote on the council. How could the One Who Rode the Beast not pass the Rite? Such a feat had never been accomplished before. There were those who dissented, and Shorn began his career as a warrior with a ready list of enemies already, but he ignored them all…

 

A glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye brought Shorn out of his reverie. Careful to move slowly, he turned his head. It wasn’t a deer that approached, but a large bull elk. His antlers had only just started growing in and were a fraction of what they’d be by the end of the year.

This was good. The animal was twice the size of any of the deer he’d seen. They’d have meat for days.

If this worked.

He held very still as the elk sniffed the air, some instinct warning him that there was danger near. The elk looked around, but didn’t see Shorn. The early morning air was still, carrying no scent. Still, the elk hesitated, even turning partway as if to flee. But then it came on.

Shorn raised the bow, nocking the arrow and drawing back the string. The elk was right below him now. He could see the spot between the shoulder blades where he’d put the arrow.

Knowing how much muscle he’d have to get through to reach the heart, he drew the bowstring back a little more—

The bowstring snapped.

The elk’s head shot up, its great muscles bunching for the leaps that would carry it to safety.

But Shorn was already reacting, doing the only thing he could…

He leapt down off the cliff onto the animal’s back, grabbing its head and twisting. In moments it was over.