Ulric was in a foul mood. He had been informed the previous night that he would be joining an Avora named Hawk on a hunt, and like all missives he received from Ilish, he knew that his participation was not subject to negotiation. He would hunt or starve. “Does she think she can order us around?” he snarled at the Gasvik. “Oh, we know what she wants - what they all want. Nasty, spiteful children.” He hefted his armor, slipping the heavy, scaled cuirass over his head and starting to fasten its straps. “Have they set a trap for us, darling?” He crooned. “We knows they want us dead. Do they seek to get us in the open, where they can feather us from the backs of their eagles?”
“Woem un aonadn hadn weon dosdkn,” said the Gasvik. It was sprawled on the thin, ragged pallet, and now it stretched lethargically, opened mouth displaying a pair of tusks.
“What, you didn’t like having horns?” Ulric reached for his cloak, draping the furred garment over his shoulders. Every day, the Gasvik went through a subtle change in shape. It had been no larger than a mouse when they first met, but now it was the size of a small man. If the eagles realized what was happening, they would surely drive the creature from the mountain, or worse, try to destroy it.
“Jawno wenk that dun adhub mowm tusk, weio tusk wubq. Aoion wnaeo and qubd omdab zod. Aomd petch qwunf yadi not huo fdad qowm.” Rising, the Gasvik spoke rapidly, his clawed, elongated fingers gesticulating wildly, but most of his alien tongue went straight through Ulric’s ears.
“So… there’s a reason for the tusks,” he said mildly. It wasn’t worth getting worked up about. Ulric took a seat on the stool, his chamber’s only piece of furniture, and pulled on his worn, cracked boots, then rose and slipped the bearded axe through a loop in his belt. He took the round shield from its peg and slung it over his back, then reached for his heavy crossbow and its bag of bolts. Never a believer in finesse, he preferred to rely on tactics and cunning to gain the upper hand, and then brutality and sheer, grisly devastation to emerge as the victor. He was bigger, stronger, and more ruthless than any of the riders, who despite their talents with bows, often grasped their talon swords like ungainly toys. Any attempt at hand-to-hand combat would result in slaughter, which was precisely why they needed to flush Ulric out of the tunnels. “We must be vigilant,” he cautioned the Gasvik, although it was more for his own benefit. He knew that his familiar saw things that defied his own, meager capacity to comprehend.
Leaving his cramped, dismal chamber behind, Ulric strode through the near empty corridors on his way to the gates, the Gasvik straggling along in his wake. A frightened Dek scurried into an adjoining passage as he passed, and one of the pudgier children, a Chiet, or perhaps an Avora, gave him a brief, suspicious glance. “We goes to kill beasts,” he grinned at her.
“Hadj eon petch wakaid,” remarked the Gasvik.
Eventually, the pair of them arrived at the gates, where a tall, slender man was waiting. He clutched a bow in his hands. Must be him. Ulric moved nearer, shifting his grip on the crossbow. "Hunter, we must go,” he spoke in clumsy Nari. “Need blood. Meat.” He switched back to his native tongue, a broad grin creeping across his face. “We have been longing for slaughter.” |