Tribe: The Red Hand (Tribe Series Book 1) (2 page)

She searched her surroundings again, looking for any sign.

Her hopes had begun to drop, but then she noticed a patch of tawny fur within a tangle of brush upslope from her. Kestrel’s heart sped up when, for just an instant, she caught sight of a hateful golden eye peering at her. In that moment, she felt the beast’s desire to rip her limb from limb and strip the meat from her bones. Because she was the daughter of an Elder, Kestrel had chosen the most fearsome and cunning opponent imaginable. To do less, in hopes of gaining favor from her father’s station in the village, would have brought shame to her and her family.

“Come for me, then,” she whispered, smiling to herself. It was time to up the stakes.

Feigning an injury to her leg, she made a show of clambering up a series of stairlike granite slabs until coming to a steep ridge covered in grass, stunted fir trees, and a few scraggly aspens. She did not bother looking over her shoulder; she felt the beast closing. Still cautious, still hunting, but coming with more boldness than before.

After cresting the spine of the ridge, she dropped off the other side and slipped into a shadowed forest growing up the opposite slope. She was less than a mile from her destination.

Pointing her face into the gusty breath of the coming storm, Kestrel continued upward, every few steps rubbing her bloody hand over the rough bark of tree trunks and through the needles of low hanging limbs. The blood of the rabbits had dried on her trousers, and the skinned carcasses now looked leathery, but the smell of raw meat still wafted from them. She meant them for her victory dinner.

Occasional peeks over her shoulder revealed that the beast was becoming more audacious. It had closed the distance to less than a hundred strides. Ghostlike, it stole from one tree to the next, one bush to another, and the wind was doing its job of carrying the scent of her blood and that of the rabbits to the beast’s flaring nostrils.

Kestrel uttered a pitiful bleating sound, mimicking the cry of a wounded animal, and increased her pace until she was just short of running. It was hard work faking a limp at such speed, but her confidence was soaring.

Wind gusts thrashed the trees, and carried the booming peals of thunder across the ridgeline. The steep trail soon flattened and became a wide, forested bench.

Without slowing, still offering up occasional squeals to lure the beast, Kestrel leaped fallen logs and crashed through thickets of brush. Branches slapped and clawed at her face, drawing raw lines across her cheeks and brow. Roots and rocks threatened to upset her footing with every step. Despite the wind and thunder, Kestrel could hear the beast’s huffing growls closing in.

Breath ripping at her lungs, Kestrel flew over the carpet of rock-studded pine straw, but a heaviness was beginning to sink into her legs. She had not fully accounted for the thinness of the air so high, and was running out of strength. If she did not reach the meadow soon, she would have no choice but to turn and fight. She did not want to do that—to remain true to her purpose, she
could not
do that—but neither did she want to be eaten alive.

Fighting through the exhaustion, she struggled on, climbing like a squirrel up and over a jumble of granite boulders, down the other side, and back into thick stands of pine.

Brush crashed behind her, and rapidly nearing snarls stitched her pounding heart with threads of fear. She searched for landmarks, but the forest flashing by her had become a gray-green blur.
Where is the meadow?

A rock rolled underfoot and she pitched violently forward. She tucked her shoulder to roll, but the angle of her flight was wrong. The top of her head crashed against the ground, her neck cracked, and she flipped over onto her back hard enough to knock what little breath she had from her chest.

When Kestrel rolled to her belly, she found that her jarring flight had brought her to the brushy edge of the meadow—her chosen battleground. She tried to push herself up, but her body felt as though it weighed ten times as much as normal.

A soft drumming sensation moved up through the ground and into her hands. She shot a frantic look back the way she had come. The murderous beast was bearing down on her in great, leaping bounds, its tail a flailing whip streaming out behind it.

She slashed her bloody hand through the grass and dried leaves, came up with a fist-sized rock, and hurled it at the creature’s rounded head. A dull, cracking thud and a yowling snarl told her that her aim had been true, but she did not see the blow. She was already on her feet and tearing across the meadow.

Her unexpected attack had given the beast pause, but only for a moment. She had not run ten strides before she heard it take up the chase again.

Fear exploded into rampaging panic inside her chest. In one shameful instant, she wondered what demented fool had decided that the rite of the Kill should qualify someone to become a Red Hand.

She shoved that disgraceful idea from her mind, yet the stain of it remained. The only way to cleanse herself of the momentary weakness was to face her fear, and that meant fighting to the death.

A second before she found herself tumbling through the air once more, she heard the rip of leather and felt a row of burning stripes blossom across her calf.

This time, she had no chance to attempt a graceful landing. Nearly upside down, she landed on her face and slid through a cluster of spiny wildflowers, arms spread wide, legs curling up over her back in a flailing arc. The beast slammed into Kestrel’s belly and sent her cartwheeling.

Kestrel scrambled to her feet, her mouth gaping wide to draw a breath that would not come, her knife held out before her in a desperate bid to keep the beast at a safe distance.

Having no fear of sharp steel, her enemy pounced.

Claws flashed by her cheek and shredded the shoulder of her doeskin shirt. Several more fiery stripes took root there, but she barely felt them. Kestrel spread her shaking legs for balance, and thrust her hand against the soft fur of creature’s neck. At the same time, she buried her knife in the beast’s flank. It twisted and screamed, its pistoning back legs driving its weight against her. She stabbed again, and in answer, the beast raked its claws across her hip.

The breath she had wanted finally came, but just as quickly burst out of her in an agonized cry. She made one more frantic stab, but the blade skittered across the beast’s ribs. Her counterattack was enough to break their lumbering embrace.

Kestrel reeled backward, her eyes fixed on the beast crouched off to one side, its jaws spread to reveal teeth that gleamed like weathered gold. When the beast took a cautious step backward, as if reconsidering its prey, she did the only thing that might change its mind. She ran.

CHAPTER THREE

Kestrel sprinted a hundred strides farther into the meadow, before accepting that she could go no farther at that pace if she wanted a chance of winning the coming fight.

She spun and walked backwards, expecting to see the beast explode out of the high grass and race toward her, but it was gone. The bite of her knife had given it something to think about, to be sure, but there had been fury and hate lighting its eyes, and she knew it would not give up.

Hesitantly, she touched her savaged shoulder. Her fingers came away greasy with blood. Further searching revealed four bloody tears in the hip of her snug trousers, and another raw foursome along her calf—the blood from that wound had soaked her boot. Trousers could be mended, but the rips in her flesh were another matter. She was bleeding heavily, and already felt lightheaded. Even if she managed to staunch the flow, such wounds were prone to flesh-rot, even under the best circumstances. But these were hardly the best circumstances. She was a long way from home, where her mother kept a cupboard stocked with healing herbs and tonics. Gathering those same herbs anytime soon was unlikely, and to brew tonics, which took a mind more skilled in those arts than hers, was out of the question.

Kestrel cast a longing glance at the pond off to one side, but resisted the urge to go cleanse her injuries. There would be time for that later.
Maybe
.

Seeing no reason to go any farther, Kestrel halted, knife steady in her hand, but swaying on her feet. There was still no sign of the beast. Wind shrieked down off the mountain slopes, now carrying with it occasional spatters of rain. Black-bellied clouds, crawling with tentacles of blue-white fire, pushed over the peaks.

She did not want to die here.
I cannot fail
.
I cannot!

With that desperate thought blaring in her mind, she spun in a tight circle, searching, knife held low to stab an enemy that remained hidden ... or gone.

Do I chase after it, run it down and force it to fight?

The idea took root while she gazed toward the edge of the forest. Whatever decision she might have come to was stolen away when the beast oozed like smoke from a cluster of saplings growing together thick as dog hair. Blood flecked its muzzle, and more flowed from its billowing ribs. As it drew nearer, she heard the deep, wet gurgle of its breathing. She had wounded it terribly, perhaps mortally, but it was far from dead.

And neither am I
, she thought, ignoring the queasy faintness she felt from her blood loss.

The beast came closer, taking its time, an eerie, hateful light smoldering deep in its golden eyes. Its black-tipped tail lashed back and forth, indifferent to the storm’s powerful gusts.

A tickle of uncertainty pebbled Kestrel’s skin in gooseflesh. She had chosen to fight this animal for its lethal tenacity, and she had enticed it further with blood. Perhaps she should have stuck to the tactics of the bird of her namesake, and set an ambush?

She shook her head, refusing to second-guess herself. It was too late for that, and far too late to turn back.

The beast padded closer, muscles bunching in its powerful haunches. Lightning flashed, and its eyes seemed to catch fire for a moment, before going a dark gold again.

Then the creature stopped no more than ten feet away. There was cunning in its stare. Too much cunning.

“What are you waiting for?” Kestrel demanded, her voice shrill.

Its shoulders rippled as it fell into a crouch.

Kestrel mimicked the creature’s stance, bending her knees, spreading her feet and arms. She slashed her knife between them.

With a growling hiss, the beast laid its ears flat against its skull. Kestrel tried her own growl, but it sounded more like a whimper.

The beast’s tongue, streaked with blood, lolled through the ragged gate formed by its teeth. No matter how insane it sounded, Kestrel thought sure the creature was laughing at her. That made her more afraid, but also angry.

“I will not die today!” Kestrel cried, and charged ahead at the same instant the beast leaped.

They met in a squalling tangle, her knife slashing, and its claws tearing. Rending red agony ripped across her belly. Screaming, she sank the blade into the creature’s flank, once and again. Dirty yellow teeth snapped together an inch from her nose, then yawned wide again for a bite that would pierce her skull.

Kestrel reared back, and the beast’s greater weight put her off balance. As she fell, she lashed out. The blade sank to the hilt. She clung to the knife’s handle, letting her weight drag the sharp edge downward, tearing open the creature’s side, ripping a great bloody gash in its belly. It yowled and twisted away, leaving her behind.

Kestrel sprawled on her back, stupid with weakness and terror, lines of fire spreading from her newest wounds. More than any presence of mind, instinct commanded her to roll to her side.

The beast was circling, trailing its entrails behind it. It favored one foreleg, and was dragging the opposite rear leg. Yet its golden eyes still burned with killing hate.

Kestrel could not breathe, and her limbs trembled. Blood ran into one eye, turning half the world red.

Get up!
she ordered herself.
Get up and fight! For your Ancestors, and for the House of the Red Hand, get up!

The beast circled closer, its movements shaky. A ceaseless growl rumbled from its throat, a sound of rage and fear, something she fully understood.

The beast charged, and to Kestrel’s eyes, it seemed to be moving as if through cold honey. She surged to her feet. Just before they clashed again, she tripped over a stone, and barely missed having a claw-tipped paw tear off her head.

Stumbling forward, she rammed her blade deep into the center of the beast’s chest. There was a breathless quality to its pained scream.

They fell together and rolled. Kestrel drew out her knife and plunged it again, and once more. The creature spit and snarled, its body shuddering. Twisting hard, she came up on top, blade poised to strike, but not falling.

The beast, her Kill, was dead.

CHAPTER FOUR

Caught in a haze of pain, Kestrel stared down at the beast. Death had softened its fury, stolen its murderous intent. It was no longer a monster that stalked nightmares, but a lion. In death, she could appreciate the grace and majesty she had stolen from it. The elation she had always dreamed she would feel at this moment was nowhere to be found. In its place, she felt pity, even regret.