Keelo
With Eot to my right, we creep closer to the trikon’s den. It’s shadowy inside, making it impossible to see more than an arm’s length beyond the opening. Regardless, I squint, straining my vision for a glimpse of our prey.
“It’s not coming out,” Eot says, voice tight with concentration. He doesn’t often focus solely on one task, but when he does, his commitment is admirable. Already, there are creases along his brow, and he frowns at the cave entrance as if also trying to see beyond the darkness.
“I guess we’re going inside.” I attempt to sound more confident than I feel.
Fighting in the open of the ravine would give us our greatest advantage.
There’s space enough to swing our battleaxes and to shift into our monstrous form.
Stepping into the darkened cave isn’t ideal, especially if it becomes narrower the deeper we’re forced to go.
We fight best when standing side by side, not corralled into single file.
“We’ll lure it out,” Eot agrees. “If we can get it to chase us.”
As if we’re already thinking with one mind, we both step forward, vying for position at the front. After a moment’s struggle, I win, keeping Eot behind me, where it’s safer.
I blink in the sudden low lighting, trying to adjust my vision. The ceiling’s cramped, and I slide my axe from its sheath across my back to stop it from scraping against the rock. It’s a welcome weight in my hands, and I hold it before my chest, prepared to strike.
It’s impossible to see the back of the cave, and the way the sound of our footsteps bounces off the walls makes me think it’s much larger than I’d initially expected.
Then the smell hits, so powerful I reel backwards, stumbling on the uneven ground and bumping against Eot.
“Fek!” He gags as I fumble with the cloth tied around my neck, pulling it over my mouth and nose. It does little to disguise the stench of rotting flesh, but I’m desperate. My eyes water, the scent so strong I swear I can taste it at the back of my throat.
“Old bimor meat?” I suggest. Maybe it dragged one of the carcasses back to its cave. Meat must spoil quickly during the heat of the desert days.
I shuffle forward, hating the idea of tripping over the trikon’s prey, wishing there was some way I could hold a torch as well as my axe. But being able to properly see isn’t worth the risk of fighting one handed.
Eot is standing so close behind me that I can feel his warm breath on my bare back.
“Where the fek is it?” I growl through clenched teeth, so easily distracted by my other half when I should be focusing on the task at hand.
I lift my foot to take another step, and my knee hits something that definitely isn’t rock. It’s icy cold, squishy, and very dead.
Involuntarily, I draw in a breath of surprise. The stench hits my lungs. I cough and gag and try not to spill my last meal over my boots.
“Is that it?” Eot crouches. I see the dark silhouette of him reaching around me, and I hear his hand sinking into liquid flesh. “Scudding fek!” He flicks his wrist wildly, and something wet hits my chest with a splatter, something I try hard not to think about.
I squint. The trikon—if that’s what this is—covers much of the remaining cave floor, a dark lump against an even darker backdrop of worn stone.
It’s large, larger than Eot and I in our monstrous form, and it’s got what I think are six legs…
or is that five legs and one tail? Four legs and two tails?
It’s impossible to make out the full shape, the vast majority of its body seemingly melting into the floor, as if it’s been caught halfway between transforming from one form into another.
“We need to find the tracker to be sure,” I say, hating the idea of searching through its rotting intestines for the farmer’s tech. But without it, he won’t believe the trikon’s dead, and we won’t get paid.
We might not get paid even with the tracker, since we technically didn’t kill the beast. Although…maybe the farmer doesn’t need to know the details.
“We’ll drag it outside into the light,” Eot says, and I feel him shudder as he speaks. “Can’t see anything worth a damn in here.”
“Rin…” I snap my mouth shut, not wanting to admit that maybe Halley had been right to suggest we leave the youngling with our mounts. Then she wouldn’t have to see what we’re about to do.
“She isn’t squeamish,” Eot says, sheathing his axe, and I hear his teeth grind as he prepares to stick his hands back into the dead trikon.
“We’ll shift,” I say, despite the very real fact we’ll hit our head on the cave ceiling. I don’t relish touching death, but I like the idea of Eot doing it on his own even less. “We’re stronger that way.”