Chapter 30 Xylon
XYLON
Dawn breaks over the high peaks, its light the color of a fresh wound.
The air in the main courtyard of the stronghold is sharp and cold, thick with a tension that has nothing to do with the weather.
The entire clan is here to see us off, their faces a sea of grim, expectant silence.
This is more than a hunt. It is a trial.
My future, and Dina’s, will be decided on the slopes of this mountain.
Grak stands by the gate, a boisterous, arrogant bull surrounded by his supporters.
They are a dozen strong, all of them loud, boastful warriors from the Stonehide and Black Tusk families, their axes and spears gleaming in the pale light.
Grak is already drinking from a horn of ale, laughing too loudly, performing for the crowd.
He is treating this as a foregone conclusion.
I stand alone. I carry only my father’s axe, its familiar weight a comfort in my hand, and a pack with water and supplies. I do not need a war party. I am a hunter, not a brawler.
My father claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Your spirit is your own, son,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble for my ears only. “Let them see it.” I give a single, sharp nod.
My eyes find Dina. She stands near the edge of the crowd, her hands clenched, her face pale with worry. But when her gaze meets mine, there is a fierce, unshakeable belief in her eyes that strengthens my resolve more than any armor. I give her a small, almost imperceptible nod. I will not fail you.
Grak and his party set out with a roar, their heavy, armored footsteps crashing through the undergrowth, their loud jests echoing off the stone walls of the valley.
They are an army going to war. I wait until the sound of them has faded, and then I slip into the forest, a silent shadow moving in the opposite direction.
Grak thinks like a brawler. He will track the beast’s path of destruction, following it head-on.
He seeks a direct confrontation. I am not the same warrior who left this valley.
The Urog’s curse, a thing of horror and pain, left a gift in its wake.
My senses are still… more. The world is a richer tapestry of information than it is for the others.
I close my eyes and breathe in. The wind tells me stories.
I can smell the well-trodden path of Grak’s party, a foul trail of sweat, ale, and arrogant impatience.
I can smell the clean, cold scent of the high cliffs, the damp earth of the lower slopes, and beneath it all, faint but sharp, the musky, predatory scent of the Razorclaw.
It is old. Stale. Grak is following a trail from yesterday.
I open my eyes and set a new course, moving perpendicular to Grak’s path.
Patience. Dina’s quiet, stubborn resilience in the face of absolute despair taught me the value of that.
The Xylon of ten years ago would have charged after Grak, eager to meet his challenge with brute force.
The man I am now knows there is a better way.
I move silently, a ghost in the ancient forest. My feet make no sound on the pine needles. My breathing is a slow, steady rhythm. I am not a hunter. I am a part of this mountain.
Hours pass. I find the true trail high on the western ridge.
It is fresh. The scent is a sharp, acrid tang in the air, a promise of violence.
I follow it, not with haste, but with a deliberate, measured pace.
I find the beast’s lair just after midday.
It is a deep, shadowed cave set into a sheer cliff face, a place accessible only by a narrow, treacherous ledge.
The entrance is littered with the splintered bones of mountain dae and, I see with a grim satisfaction, the shattered remains of one of Grak’s clumsy traps from his previous, failed attempt.
I do not charge in. I climb to a higher vantage point and I watch. I wait. Patience is a weapon.
The Matriarch emerges as the sun begins to dip, a nightmare of scaled hide and serrated claws.
She is magnificent and terrible, larger than any Razorclaw I have ever seen, her movements a fluid dance of deadly power.
I observe her patrol, her patterns, the way she tests the wind. I am learning her, understanding her.
My plan forms. I will not fight her in her cave, where she has the advantage.
I will not fight her on the ledge, where one misstep means a thousand-foot fall.
I find a small, relatively flat clearing a hundred yards from her lair, surrounded by a thick grove of ancient ironwood trees. The perfect killing ground.
I use the last of the daylight to prepare. I create a small rockslide, not to harm her, but to block the most direct path back to her lair, forcing her toward my chosen ground.
As dusk settles, I reveal myself. A single, sharp stone thrown against the cliff face is enough to draw her attention. Her reptilian head snaps toward me, her yellow eyes glowing with a malevolent intelligence. She lets out a piercing, challenging shriek, and charges.
She is impossibly fast. A blur of black scales and flashing claws. I meet her charge not with brute strength, but with a calculated retreat, leading her away from the cliffs, toward the clearing.
The fight is a brutal, exhausting dance.
Her claws are like razors, tearing through my leather armor, scoring hot lines of pain across my arms and chest. Her powerful tail whips around, a living battering ram that I only just manage to evade.
But I am faster. The Urog’s strength is gone, but some of its speed remains.
I am a torrent of motion, my father’s axe a silver arc in the gloom.
I do not aim for a killing blow. I harry her, I wound her, I wear her down, forcing her deeper and deeper into the ironwood grove.
She lunges, her jaws snapping, and I see my opening.
As her attack overextends, I pivot, bringing my axe around in a powerful, horizontal sweep.
The blade connects with her neck with a sound like a great tree splitting.
It is a clean, deep, honorable blow. She stumbles, a look of stunned surprise in her reptilian eyes, and then she crashes to the ground, her great body shuddering, and then still.
I stand over her, my chest heaving, my body a symphony of pain. I take a moment to offer a silent prayer to her spirit, a sign of respect for a worthy adversary. Then, with my remaining strength, I sever the great, horned head from her body.
The trek down the mountain in the dark is slow, agonizing work. I am bleeding from a dozen wounds, my muscles screaming in protest. As I reach the lower slopes, I hear them before I see them: the sounds of arguing, of frustration.
I stop at the edge of a clearing and look down. It is Grak and his men. Their traps are sprung and empty. They are covered in mud, their bravado gone, replaced by a sullen, angry exhaustion. They are lost, following a dead trail, and now they are blaming each other.
I do not speak. I do not reveal myself. I simply walk past the clearing, the Matriarch’s massive, horned head slung over my shoulder, its dead, yellow eyes staring into the darkness. I am a silent specter of victory, and I let the sight of me, and my trophy, be the only judgment they need.