It was about time I finished this short story. I hope whoever reads it has a great time!
Never before have I been so grateful to hear the distant rumble of thunder. Its echoes wash over me, caressing every inch of my skin, thus sharpening my senses. The rain conceals not only my scent but also the sound of my movements, while an endless cloak of black clouds hides the setting sun. Yet no matter how far fate’s helping hand stretches, caution remains my greatest ally. There could be other, crueler hunters lurking amid the sea of tall grass - bloodthirsty things which crave the taste of human flesh. So I creep into the unknown, spear in hand, eyes ever vigilant, for today my prey is the most ruthless of all, the most merciless and efficient killer ever created. Today I am hunting my fellow man.
I press my body against the muddy ground and take a moment to feel the power of distant lightning strikes. The earth vibrates each time the heavens strike the world, from which, I aim to absorb their speed and strength. I must become like lightning if I want myself to have a fighting chance. My foes are taller, far stronger than I, with wide shoulders, thick arms, and scars from past battles. Yet no matter the odds, I press forward. After all, what do I have to lose? I have no home, only the open plains, no father, mother, sibling or child to share my struggle against the cold winds with or to protect from the fangs of beasts. If I could save that woman, that maiden dressed in white, I could have a family, maybe start a new tribe where my bloodline could live on. Doubt lingers in my mind, yet I push on.
Finding their camp wasn’t difficult. Though the rain washed away their tracks, man—whether clad in amber or animal hides—tends to leave evidence of his presence. Crumbs of food, cut vegetation, and even excrement were enough for me to track them to their hideout, where I expected to find more of their kind. To my surprise, they live alone, in conditions only slightly better than mine.
Four small wooden huts, half-sunken into the ground, dot the hillside, their mossy roofs barely visible. A campfire burns inside each strange dwelling, its smoke escaping through small holes in the tops. Strangely, no defenses—no ditches or palisades—protect the camp from outside threats, leaving the entire camp out for the taking. Only the vigor of the inhabitants offers any chance against utter destruction, but as I gaze at their tired, expressionless faces, I wonder if these warriors even have the will to live.
Hidden by darkness, I observe the scene, my body frozen like a rock. The girl is still alive, though drenched in cold rainwater. She lacks the strength to resist, and I watch as they tie her limp body to a tall boulder atop the hill. But it is no ordinary stone. No, it is an idol, a terrifying monument adorned with carvings of men falling into flames or chased by thin, tailed figures with arrowhead skulls. I stare at it, searching for meaning in the strange altar, while a voice in my mind urges me to hide from its unending gaze. Then another thought emerges—foreign, alien, yet strangely alluring. It tells me to show respect to the idol, that I am safe in its presence, and to forsake the heavens as they have forsaken my kin. With a racing heart, I press my face against the ground, desperate to break free from the accursed stone’s influence. The thoughts fade, but I fear they will return to haunt me.
I’m unsure how long I’ve stared at the mud, but after what feels like hours, curiosity overcomes me. The amber-clad men no longer roam their camp, leaving only their “living trophy,” who seems to have fallen asleep. Still prone, I move toward the nearest hut, my eyes darting left and right to brace for any unwanted surprises. Despite my caution, the coast remains clear, much to my concern. Like the sun scorching the earth before a storm, my mind warns me that this peace and quiet has a reason—one I dread learning the hard way.
Still, I crawl up the hill, pausing every few feet to ensure I haven’t been spotted. After spending minutes creeping up to the camp, I reach the first shack, and I can practically feel the heat just from watching the shadows dancing on the walls. Then I see him. A man lies beside the roaring flames, naked except for a thin brown blanket he clutches like a child. Had I not witnessed their true nature hours earlier, I might have mistaken him for another denizen of the steppes, a victim of the elements. Watching his chest rise and fall while listening to his deafening snores, I’m reminded of myself, of all the nights I spent huddled beside dim flames. But I know who they are: killers, raiders, warriors of evil.
Seizing what may be my only chance to take one of them down, I swiftly move toward him, knife in hand. The sinister voice of the idol returns to the back of my mind, but this time, it speaks to me in a tongue I cannot understand, and disperses as soon as I deliver the killing blow. I hold the stranger’s mouth shut as he jolts awake from the flint blade burrowed his throat, as he tries to push me off in a desperate attempt to save his wicked life. Like the prey I caught on the plains, he chokes on his own blood before my eyes, unable to save himself no matter how fiercely he tries. Moments later, his body goes limp, and I realize I have just committed murder for the first time.
Strange. So different is man from beast that the mere thought of killing one could sicken the stomach. I cannot tell whether it’s my knowledge of his past actions or a deep, feral craving for violence that leaves me feeling nothing. There is blood on my hands, the blood of a man whose name I never knew, whose fate I care little for. Perhaps in that better age my grandfather spoke of, I would have felt sorrow, hatred, or even disgust. I might have felt all the emotions my kind has been burdened with, and perhaps more. But this is no better age. This is a trial by fire.
As I sneak toward the second hut, I notice the cold rain has begun to ease. The noise of my movements grows louder, freezing me in my tracks. So blind had I become from my successful kill that I neglected to check my surroundings. Yet as I glance left and right, the outpost remains as somber as ever. Still, the thought of lowering my guard unsettles me. After all, it was such carelessness that allowed a blade-headed beast to surprise my kin, who then stained the soil red with their insides.
The second warrior sleeps soundly as well, unaware of his impending fate. Yet on my way to finish him off, something tells me that my movement lacks in confidence. It’s as if my body doubts me, my limbs whispering that my success cannot be repeated. Still, I ignore it, as I did with the voice of the stone.
Or at least, that was my hope. Entering the hut, I find a man thrashing under his blanket, unable to sleep. He slowly opens his weary eyes, and I, with only a few heartbeats to spare, spring forward. Bringing my flint knife down from above, I inflict a gruesome wound on his shoulder. He screams in pain and tries to push me away, but in his tired, agonized state, he struggles to throw me off, locking us in a desperate wrestling match. Despite my initial advantage, my prey still has his weight to rely on. Each of his punches lands with the force of a stone flung from a sling, and each time he grabs me, I fear he might tear me apart. Only my pitiful slashes deter him from doing so, for despite his hulking frame, he is still a mortal.
After a minute of grappling in the campfire’s warmth, he weakens, bleeding from the dozen small wounds I’ve inflicted on his body. My prey raises his arms to shield himself, seeking a moment’s rest as I tire. Then, as I drive my knife toward his throat, he swings his elbow into my face. I fall beside him, stunned and blinded by the blow, while the smell of warm blood hits my nostrils.
Before I can even grunt, the man’s hands seize my neck, squeezing the breath from my lungs. His fingers dig deep, coiling around my throat like a snake.
My life flashes before my eyes as I scramble for my missing knife. Faces and memories, both sweet and sorrowful, flood my mind as I begin to lose consciousness. Everything darkens, my head throbs with pain, and I can do nothing but hope for salvation. Then, as my fingers grow cold, I feel the handle of my knife in my palm.
So focused was my foe on choking the life from me that he failed to see my attack. I strike him from below, driving my knife through his jaw and into the roof of his mouth. It takes a moment for the pain to register, along with the realization that I, a young hunter, have bested him.
I have no time to celebrate my kill, however. As soon his blood drops onto my body, I crawl to safety and grab my spear. Surely, the last warrior heard his comrade’s cries over the now-gentle rain and waits for the chance to smear my guts over his stone god.
Outside, my eyes meet hers. Gray pearls gaze into my soul, searching for answers about her fate. Her face bears a tired, hopeless look—the look of someone who has abandoned the will to live, existing only for the moment death claims her. I rush to her, still panting from my fight, and see her try to shuffle away with what little strength remains within her. She must think I’m one of her captors, come to offer her blood to the rock. As I cut the rope binding her, a spark of hope lights her eyes. She tries to stand after I free her, but her legs buckle under the weight of her capture. I catch her before she hits the ground. Our bodies press together for a moment, skin touching skin as we share warmth. She is cold to the touch, shivering beneath her soaked robe. Yet I see a faint smile on her face, followed by a strange word I can only assume means “thank you” in her tongue. I nod at her in silence, still mesmerized by her eyes.
So locked were our eyes on each other that I failed to check my surroundings. Out of nowhere, the third warrior wraps his left arm around my neck before kicking the girl into the mud. I feel his amber-clad torso pressing against my frame and catch a glimpse of his axe rising, poised to split my skull. Like the cornered wolf I am, I bite his exposed forearm with such force that it draws blood. My final foe, though tall and strong, recoils from the pain and hurls me aside, cursing me in his own tongue. In the distance, thunder roars across the plains.
We stare at each other with mutual hatred, eyes burning with the feral urge to take life, to extinguish the flame of another being. To him, I am but a mere pup, a youngster who dared to step out of line. But for me, he is my true rite of passage.
He stands there, wearing nothing but leather pants and an amber torso piece, likely sizing up how long I can last in a fight. I do the same. One strike from his axe could end my life, while my flint-headed spear must hit his most vulnerable point. Perhaps crippling a leg joint will even the odds, or severing a tendon or two. Or, if the heavens truly favor me, I could slash a major artery. All I need now is one lucky strike.
He shouts and lunges toward me, but I roll to his side just in time. Instinctively, I stab at his chest, but to no avail. My spearhead glances off his amber-clad torso with a faint clank, leaving us achieving nothing, other than trading places. We repeat this twice more—him swinging, me dodging and stabbing, only for my weapon to rebound off him. I feel the tip of my spear loosening, its integrity failing as it clashes against the superior material.
My limbs tremble. I’ve been on the move for so long with so little in my belly that my body begins to falter, my racing heart gripped by fear of death. The warrior before me senses this. He grins at my suffering, relishing in my weakening resolve. A chuckle escapes his lips as he points his axe at the stone, then slowly draws it across his throat in a slicing gesture.
In desperation, I hurl my spear toward him. Aiming as if I were hunting on the plains, it strikes his uncovered shoulder. He freezes from the blow, and I, drunk with the smallest glimpse of victory, rush in, dagger in hand.
But overconfidence fells many aspiring hunters. With the butt of his axe, my foe strikes my head as one might swat a fly. I collapse onto the wet soil with a loud splash, my face caked in mud, my head ringing from the blow. I struggle to rise, but my persistence earns only a kick to my ribs as my ears are filled with the warrior’s bellowing laughter. I lie there before the idol, spirit broken and limbs weary, awaiting a swift death. Yet it does not come. No, my foe seems to be enjoying my pitiful state and spits on me. Then comes another kick, followed by a third and a fourth one each more brutal than the last before, bruising my small frame. A wave of insults washes over me, unintelligible but granting me a moment to rest and seek a way out—if there one. Then I realize my dagger remains in my hand, concealed by mud and grass.
He lifts me by my hair, intent on dragging me to the rock as an offering, his mouth spitting curses in a tongue so brutish it fuels my hatred for my enemies. It was this rage which gives me the strength needed for my plan. In the middle of his speech, I drive my blade deep into his calf, striking bone and the blood vessel I was hoping to open. The warrior drops me and screams in pain, granting me enough time to crawl to safety. I glance back to see how far I have gotten, only to see my foe limping toward me, axe raised high.
With no weapons left and no one by my side, I close my eyes, ready to meet my end. Then I hear the soil shift. Curiosity prompts me to open my eyes, and I watch the idol topple toward me—and, more crucially, toward my foe. He turns and screams, but a moment later, he is crushed under the immense weight of the rock. At that instant, the rain ceases.
Before my heart can calm, I search for the girl with my eyes and, to my surprise, find her slumped against the idol’s base, panting from exhaustion. It is now that I realize she must have toppled the stone to save me, whether through her last reserves of strength or with aid from above. In the end, we saved each other; two souls bound by a shared struggle, freed from the claws of the evil rooted in this corner of the world. She collapses to the ground, laughing, releasing nervous energy. It is an involuntary response, done to relief tension. I know, for I’ve done the same many times before. I laugh as well. I laugh for I know I lived to tell this tale.