Dromos 31, Imperial Year 1645
The Eastern Plains – The Killing Field
The meadow was a sea of tall grass, green and gold, swaying in the wind. Wildflowers dotted the edges—purple, yellow, white—but the center was trampled flat, churned to mud by hooves the size of dinner plates. The alphis bull had claimed this place. It stood at the heart of its territory, a mountain of muscle and mane, its hide the colour of old bronze, its horns curved like scythes. When it breathed, the grass bent away from its nostrils.
The crew had tracked it since dawn. They emerged from the treeline in a loose formation, spread out, weapons ready. Orin led them, his sword at his hip, his eyes scanning the horizon. Gregor walked beside him, his shield strapped to his arm, his face set in the expression of a man who had stopped being afraid years ago. Roderick carried a heavy spear, its iron tip gleaming. Bearded Corvin—Hound—held his bastard sword, its dark blade hungry.
Three hired hunters flanked them: a woman named Sera with a longbow, a man named Kell with a crossbow, and a silent half-elf named Lyra with a pair of short swords. They had been paid in silver and promise. They did not ask questions.
Orin stopped. The bull had seen them. It lowered its head. A low rumble came from its chest, deep as thunder.
"Well," Gregor said, "there it is."
"There it is," Orin echoed.
The bull charged.
Not a hesitant trot. Not a testing advance. A full, ground-shaking, earth-splitting charge. The grass flattened before it. The wind of its passage knocked Sera's first arrow off course. It sailed wide, disappearing into the sky.
"Scatter!" Orin shouted.
They broke left and right like leaves before a storm. Gregor planted his shield, braced his feet, and took the impact. The bull's horn scraped across the steel. Gregor slid back, his boots tearing furrows in the earth. His arm screamed. He held.
"Gregor, you mad bastard!" Roderick yelled.
"Shut up and hit it!"
Roderick lunged, driving his spear into the bull's flank. The tip sank in, but the bull twisted, and the shaft bent. Roderick cursed—a long, rolling stream of orcish profanity that needed no translation. "Missed the ribs! Missed the damn ribs!"
The bull spun. Its shoulder caught Roderick and sent him flying. He landed in the grass, rolled, came up bleeding from a cut on his forehead. The spear was still stuck in the bull's side, wobbling with each step.
The bull turned toward Orin.
Orin looked at the beast. At the horns. At the eyes. "Why me?" he asked the sky.
The bull charged.
Orin dove left. The horn passed so close he felt the wind of it on his neck. He rolled, came up, drew his sword. "Why me!" he shouted again, as if the bull might answer.
It did not. It turned, shaking its mane, and trotted back to the center of the meadow. It was not tired. It was not wounded. It was assessing.
"It's smart," Bearded Corvin said.
"It's a bull," Gregor said.
"It's smart," Corvin repeated.
The bull circled. The crew circled with it. Sera loosed another arrow. It struck the bull's shoulder, buried itself an inch deep. The bull snorted, shook its head, and the arrow fell out. The wound was shallow.
"We need to bleed it," Corvin said. "Slowly."
"How?" Gregor asked.
"Keep it moving. Tire it out. Then go for the legs."
The bull charged again. This time it went for Lyra, who had strayed too far from the group. She dodged left, rolled under its horns, and slashed at its foreleg with her short sword. The blade bit into the tendon. The bull bellowed, stumbled, kicked. Lyra flew backward, landed hard, did not move.
"Lyra!" Kell shouted.
She groaned. Alive. Not moving.
The bull turned toward her.
Orin ran between them. He dropped to one knee, raised his sword, and drove the point into the bull's chest as it lowered its head. The blade pierced hide, muscle, and stopped. The bull's momentum carried it forward. Orin was thrown aside, his sword still embedded in the bull's chest.
He landed in the grass, his arm bent at a wrong angle.
"Orin!" Roderick ran to him.
The bull shook its head. The sword wobbled. Blood poured from the wound. But the beast did not fall. It stood there, bleeding, panting, its eyes still yellow and wild. It was not done.
Bearded Corvin stepped forward. "Now."
He ran at the bull's wounded leg. The beast turned to face him. Corvin feinted left, went right, and drove his bastard sword into the bull's other knee. The blade punched through the joint. The bull's leg buckled. It fell to one knee.
Roderick picked up his bent spear and drove it into the bull's neck. The spearhead broke off, but the shaft stayed in. The bull thrashed, tried to rise, could not.
Gregor approached from the side. He drew his short sword and drove it into the bull's eye. The beast convulsed, then went still.
Silence.
The wind blew. The grass settled. The bull's blood pooled in the mud.
Kell knelt beside Lyra. "She's alive. Cracked ribs. Maybe a concussion."
Orin sat up, cradling his arm. "It's broken."
Roderick wiped blood from his forehead. "We'll set it."
Bearded Corvin pulled his sword from the bull's knee. "We need to butcher it. The hide, the horns, the meat. Newhope can use everything."
Gregor looked at the body. "How do we move it?"
"We don't. We cut it here. Carry the pieces."
They worked through the afternoon. Sera skinned the hide, her knife moving in long, practiced strokes. Kell cut the horns, sawing through the bone. Roderick and Gregor carved the meat into quarters, stacking them on a travois. Lyra, wrapped in a blanket, watched from a safe distance, her face pale but her eyes open.
By dusk, the bull was a skeleton. The crew loaded the meat onto the travois. The hide was rolled, tied, slung over Roderick's shoulder. The horns were wrapped in cloth.
Orin's arm was splinted with two straight branches and a strip of torn cloak. His face was pale, but his eyes were clear.
"Back to Newhope," he said.
They walked east. The sun set behind them. The wind carried the smell of blood and grass.
The meadow was quiet. The bull's bones would bleach in the sun. The wildflowers would grow back. But the crew would remember this day.
End of Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Seven