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Book: Heirs of the Fallen: Book 02 - Crown of the Setting Sun by James A. West
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Authors: James A. West
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pushed himself into a flat sprint. He could not keep the pace long, but hoped he could outlast his pursuer. Heart thumping wildly, his blood pounded in his ears. Every breath came as ragged gasps, and still the footfalls at his back matched his, falling heavily, beating unceasingly at the damp desert floor, getting nearer with every step.
The Hunter had no trouble catching a breath, and had plenty to spare. “When I catch you, I’ll peel the hide from your rancid flesh a strip at a time!” he roared.
You will never catch me
, Leitos thought, but he no longer believed it. He ran as far and as long as he could, fully aware that he was losing the race. There was nowhere he could go that the Hunter could not follow.
Grow strong and cruel
. His grandfather’s command was his only hope, his only choice.…
Without slowing, Leitos rolled the stone in his palm until he had a secure and, he prayed, a deadly grip.
The Hunter surged closer, growling low in his throat like a demonic creature released from the Thousand Hells. Fleetingly, Leitos wondered again if a
man
had pulled him from the river, or actually something born of
Geh’shinnom’atar
.
With the Hunter right on his heels, Leitos pressed ahead with the last of his strength. His searching eyes locked on a jutting rock braced by a pair of scraggly bushes. He flew at it, imagining one possible outcome, and willing what he desired to happen.
At the last possible instant, Leitos turned sharply, ducking the huge man’s grasping hand. The Hunter twisted in a wild bid to catch hold of Leitos, and then his foot collided with the edge of the rock, stopping dead his forward momentum. He flipped through the air, limbs spread wide in four opposing directions. On the far side of the rock, the Hunter landed on his head with a heavy grunt, and crumpled limply to his back.
Leitos skidded to a halt, the stone raised in his hand, intending to hurl it if the man moved. The Hunter did not stir. He sucked wind until his heart quieted, then edged closer.
He is not breathing
, Leitos determined, failing to detect the rise and fall of the man’s chest. Still he waited. If the Hunter was merely stunned, he would soon rouse himself, and the race would begin again. If he was dead, then it did not matter.
I cannot run again
, Leitos thought wearily. Knowing that, however, meant he needed to be certain the man was dead, which in turn required that he get closer.
And what if he is still alive?
That question flew out of the darkness of his mind, as did the ensuing answer, the same answer that had come to him when he first began crawling away from the Hunter.
Then I must kill him.
Just considering that, and the means by which he would dispatch the Hunter, made his insides queasy. Before, there had been fury in his heart, but with the Hunter sprawled on his back, that fury had changed. He tried to find an alternative course, but the Hunter’s earlier boast weighed on his heart.
“I can track a lizard … even a soaring bird.”
Fighting the instinct to flee, Leitos inched nearer, skipping around a tall clump of brush to ensure the Hunter did not move while briefly out of sight. From two paces, the man looked no more alive than he had at ten paces.
Leitos crept closer … closer … until he stood over the sprawled Hunter. His tumble had pulled back his hood, revealing not a brutish face, as Leitos had envisioned, but one that was handsome, even noble. The Hunter was unkempt, to be sure, his strong jaw and chin furred with several day’s growth of beard, which was nearly as long as his close-cropped black hair. Grime made the swarthy skin of his cheeks and brow all the darker. Leitos could hardly imagine him being a betrayer of his own kind. The only flaw that marred the Hunter’s features was a rough, raised scar stretched across his throat. That, Leitos suspected, accounted for the harshness of the man’s voice.
A fly lighted on the Hunter’s cheekbone, wandered about, perhaps sipping
The Hunter had no trouble catching a breath, and had plenty to spare. “When I catch you, I’ll peel the hide from your rancid flesh a strip at a time!” he roared.
You will never catch me
, Leitos thought, but he no longer believed it. He ran as far and as long as he could, fully aware that he was losing the race. There was nowhere he could go that the Hunter could not follow.
Grow strong and cruel
. His grandfather’s command was his only hope, his only choice.…
Without slowing, Leitos rolled the stone in his palm until he had a secure and, he prayed, a deadly grip.
The Hunter surged closer, growling low in his throat like a demonic creature released from the Thousand Hells. Fleetingly, Leitos wondered again if a
man
had pulled him from the river, or actually something born of
Geh’shinnom’atar
.
With the Hunter right on his heels, Leitos pressed ahead with the last of his strength. His searching eyes locked on a jutting rock braced by a pair of scraggly bushes. He flew at it, imagining one possible outcome, and willing what he desired to happen.
At the last possible instant, Leitos turned sharply, ducking the huge man’s grasping hand. The Hunter twisted in a wild bid to catch hold of Leitos, and then his foot collided with the edge of the rock, stopping dead his forward momentum. He flipped through the air, limbs spread wide in four opposing directions. On the far side of the rock, the Hunter landed on his head with a heavy grunt, and crumpled limply to his back.
Leitos skidded to a halt, the stone raised in his hand, intending to hurl it if the man moved. The Hunter did not stir. He sucked wind until his heart quieted, then edged closer.
He is not breathing
, Leitos determined, failing to detect the rise and fall of the man’s chest. Still he waited. If the Hunter was merely stunned, he would soon rouse himself, and the race would begin again. If he was dead, then it did not matter.
I cannot run again
, Leitos thought wearily. Knowing that, however, meant he needed to be certain the man was dead, which in turn required that he get closer.
And what if he is still alive?
That question flew out of the darkness of his mind, as did the ensuing answer, the same answer that had come to him when he first began crawling away from the Hunter.
Then I must kill him.
Just considering that, and the means by which he would dispatch the Hunter, made his insides queasy. Before, there had been fury in his heart, but with the Hunter sprawled on his back, that fury had changed. He tried to find an alternative course, but the Hunter’s earlier boast weighed on his heart.
“I can track a lizard … even a soaring bird.”
Fighting the instinct to flee, Leitos inched nearer, skipping around a tall clump of brush to ensure the Hunter did not move while briefly out of sight. From two paces, the man looked no more alive than he had at ten paces.
Leitos crept closer … closer … until he stood over the sprawled Hunter. His tumble had pulled back his hood, revealing not a brutish face, as Leitos had envisioned, but one that was handsome, even noble. The Hunter was unkempt, to be sure, his strong jaw and chin furred with several day’s growth of beard, which was nearly as long as his close-cropped black hair. Grime made the swarthy skin of his cheeks and brow all the darker. Leitos could hardly imagine him being a betrayer of his own kind. The only flaw that marred the Hunter’s features was a rough, raised scar stretched across his throat. That, Leitos suspected, accounted for the harshness of the man’s voice.
A fly lighted on the Hunter’s cheekbone, wandered about, perhaps sipping
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