~An Epic Tale~
Content warning: This story is about a carnivorous warrior tribe, and I've pulled no punches with the prose. There will be some fairly gruesome violence, portrayed in part for comic effect, and references to cannibalism. Suitable for teenagers and not-too-sensitive children.
Nazhrelko stood with her back to the wind, planting her spear in the thick, pale blue moss to steady herself. This was going to be the most difficult hunt of her life and she was far from guaranteed to come back with all her limbs attached, but she'd never forgive herself if she let the tribe down. They were starving, and there was only one thing left for them to eat.
The monster's single enormous eye swept over the mountainside. Nazhrelko gulped. Was she just seeing things, or had its gaze lingered on her for a moment? If it could see her, it might all be over.
Don't be a coward, Nazhrelko, old girl. This is just the chance you need.
Nazhrelko took a quick look at the monster's arms. Its muscles were relaxed, its soft purple skin unstretched. The cycloptic freak hadn't spotted her, but its eye was finally pointing her way. Her inner monologue was right.
Nazhrelko pulled the pin from her wing-pack. Two heavy canvas wings unfurled from her back. Nazhrelko leapt from the ridge. Immediately, the wind had her in its grasp, threatening to hurl her right into the epic's arms, but Nazhrelko had little fear. She'd been practicing for weeks on the eyeball-trees north of the village; most of them had grown eyepatches by now. She aimed her spear forwards and glided straight ahead. Her spear plunged into the epic's eye. Nazhrelko plunged into the eye, exploding into a world of moist, warm, gooey stuff.
The epic let out a howl of agony, clutching at the ruin of its oculus. Slender webbed fingers closed around Nazhrelko. She had a vague sensation of being picked up and thrown, closely followed by a cold, wet, splashy sensation.
Coughing and spluttering, Nazhrelko arose from the pond. Time to take stock of the situation, she supposed. Her spear was gone, presumably lodged in the monster's thick, stodgy excuse for a brain, and she was covered in ocular goo. She couldn't feel her tail, but she could feel her right arm, which she'd landed on. Broken wood and tattered canvas hung from her back. And the epic?
"Chaaaarge!"
"Last one there's a rotten egg!"
"Hold up, there! I'm the chief! I can't be a rotten egg!"
The epic was swatting blindly at her comrades as they leapt from in trees and behind bushes. One stomp from its thick, webbed feet would spell doom for anyone, but you can't stomp on what you can't see. Armed with spears and axes, ten of the Purple Tribe's greatest warriors tore into the monster, hacking away at its legs with just a little thought to keeping the best meat intact.
Nazhrelko's primary heart swelled with triumph. They'd done it. "All right! Show him the meaning of pain!"
The epic's arm swung down like an avalanche of lithe, supple purple arm, smashing through three warriors. Bent into painful and unnatural angles, they landed in a heap at the foot of the ridge.
Nazhrelko's secondary heart (which fit better) leapt into her throat. She ran to her comrades. "Kielas! Toramar! Ashakryl! Oh, say something, please!"
The fallen warriors said nothing. Numbly, Nazhrelko stepped back to avoid the dark red blood trickling towards her. This was horrendous. Epics could take your life with a flick of their wrist, tear down a tree bare-handed, destroy an entire village without even meaning to, and did they do anything productive with this power?! No! All they did was kill, kill, kill, maim, slaughter, kill some more, eat entire civilisations-!
"I'll make you pay for this, you demon. I'll slaughter you! As the Spirits are my witness, I will finish what I started. I'll cut your head off, dig out my spear and put it clean through your heart-"
"Well, get on with it!" the chieftain snapped.
"Right. Sure." As gently as she could, Nazhrelko retrieved Kielas's spear. He'd favoured heavier spears, more for clubbing than accurate stabbing or throwing, but it fit well in her hands.
The epic was thrashing and howling amid the warriors, all of whom had had a couple of lucky escapes already. Taking a deep breath, Nazrelko shrugged off her ruined wing-pack and charged. Her powerful legs launched her at the epic's incoming hand, which she stabbed with impunity, lodging her spear firmly between the bones just below the wrist. In agony, the epic retrieved its ruined hand, yanking the spear out of Nazhrelko's grasp. Two spears in one day? Really?
Some little-used part of the epic's thick, stodgy excuse for a brain was crying out for attention, and now, with its hand speared to pieces, the epic finally listened. It was going to die. It had to get away. Turning on its heel, the epic made a mighty leap, higher than the trees and those weird standing stones with holes in them.
"No! It can't escape!" the chief was vociferously protesting. "We can't not get its meat. After it!"
"I don't understand. How can it jump so high?!" Nazhrelko protested, as the group set to running after the epic.
"It's those webbed feet." Shaman Xaikari winked at Nazhrelko. "They're the strongest jumping feet anything can have. Level five Jump."
Shamans could say the weirdest things sometimes.
The mood was glum in the Purple Tribe's village that night. Ashakryl and Toramar had ended up as dinner, the first good meat they'd had in weeks; Kielas they salted so he'd last longer.
"At least they're among the Spirits now," said Nazhrelko softly, swallowing the last of Toramar's arm. The warriors would be glad to know their vacated bodies would go on to nourish the tribe, although Kielas had hoped to be made into stew (after dying of old age, surrounded by grieving relatives).
"They won't be long without our company," the chieftain muttered.
"What was that?"
"I... I said "Their sacrifices won't have been in bad company." We'll find a new source of food soon, don't you worry."
Nazhrelko was not convinced.
Dazmirop the fishing expert spoke up. "It's just occurred to me. This epic, won't it still be out there? Blind, wounded, scared, confused, in pain..."
"You're right, it would be." Hope swelled in both Nazhrelko's hearts. "We can get it at our convenience! If we do a synchronised spear attack, maybe use some fire-bombs-"
"I wouldn't be so sure," the shaman interrupted. "Epics heal very quickly. If the epic prioritizes its eye-"
"Prioritizes its eye?!"
"That's what I said. By tomorrow, it could have a brand-new eye, and it won't take kindly to losing it again."
Nazhrelko fell into a despairing silence.
"Is that it, then? We've lost? There's no hope left?" the chieftain asked, his tone suggesting he already knew the answer.
"I did not say that," said Xaikari levelly.
"Oh, why must you speak in riddles?!"
"I'm a shaman. It's what we do."
The chieftain fell into a despairing silence.
"Oi, purples! Wake up!"
A gruff, booming voice startled Nazhrelko out of her slumber. "Who?! What?! Where?! Why?! How?!"
"Katsubo. Orange Tribe warrior. Your ugly village. To ask you some questions. I walked, stupid," came the reply.
Nazhrelko rose groggily to her feet, looking up into the jutting chin of a broad and powerful Orange Tribe warrior. Her heart sank. The Orange Tribe liked nothing more than picking on less prosperous tribes, so, however much it hurt, she'd have to be respectful.
"How can I help you, noble warrior?"
"Did you send the epic?"
"Epic?! What epic?!"
"The purple one. It stormed through our village, howling and raging. Two of us perished before we got together enough torches to drive it away, and it only went and passed out in the middle of our corral!"
Nazhrelko blinked. Normally she'd offer a fawning apology, but a plan was forming at the back of her mind. The epic was afraid of fire? They could use this. "Why, yes, that was our epic. Is there a problem?"
"Problem?! It- it passed out in our corral! Our pets all needed counselling!"
The chieftain was heading in their direction, worry and tiredness vying for dominance on his face. "What's going on here?"
"I was just telling Katsubo, here, about the epic we roughed up yesterday. For fun. Like we always do, isn't that right?"
"Uh... yes, of course. Precisely."
Katsubo raised his numerous eyebrows. "You didn't do a very good job of it."
"I should think not. If we run out of epics, we won't have anything fun to hunt," Nazhrelko lied blatantly. "We just gouged his eye out, slashed his legs to pieces, crippled his arm, you know?"
"I... I do know. I think." Katsubo shook his head to clear it. "Why should I believe you, though? You, the most useless excuse for a tribe we've ever known, beating up epics for fun?!"
"Well, why shouldn't you believe us?"
"Because I have a functioning brain," Katsubo ground out. "Now, do you have anything sensible to say about the epic?"
Nazhrelko glanced at the chieftain.
"Here you go," he said matter-of-factly, thrusting his staff into her hands.
"What?! I- I don't-"
"Oh, she's just being modest!" the chieftain laughed, ruffling Nashrelko's hair so hard she was struck dumb. "Go on, warrior. Show him what you're made of."
Katsubo roared with laughter. "A scrawny Purple Tribe warrior? Against ME?! Inconceivable!" Razor-sharp claws extended from his fingers. "I'll tear you apart with my bare hands. Prepare to-"
Nazhrelko thrust the butt of the staff into Katsubo's inner left eye.
"Aaaaugh! Hey, what the-?!"
Swinging the staff in a wide circle, Nazhrelko brought the heavy skull crashing into Katsubo's groin.
"Aaaaaaargh!"
"It's just like a spear and an axe all rolled into one! Amazing!" Nazhrelko gushed, twirling the staff to bat aside a vengeful swipe from Katsubo. She brought her foot up to his belly, her long claws tearing through his crude cloth garments and lacerating the flesh below. Not stopping for an instant, she brought the staff's skull down on her enemy's skull. The Orange Tribe warrior sank to his knees in agony.
By now, quite a crowd had gathered, and they burst into applause when Katsubo fell. Giddy with pride and adrenaline, Nazhrelko handed the chief back his staff.
"Please... don't tell the chief about this," Katsubo groaned. "She'll cast me out. Have me executed. Worse, she'll keep bringing it up at dinner."
"Don't worry. She won't hear a word," Nazhrelko assured him. "You might have to tell her a bit, though, if she's going to pay for our services."
"...Services?"
"Epic-wrangling," said Nazhrelko matter-of-factly. Her most audacious plan yet was coming to fruition. "We'll get a few flaming torches and drive it away, like we always do, given that some epics are afraid of fire."
"Or drawn to to maraccas," Xaikari piped up.
"Uh, quite. What do you say?"
"I... I say, uh... What do you want in return?"
"Hunting rights," the chieftain declared. "Half of the western plains."
Katsubo's eyes went as wide as saucers. "Half?!"
"And the epic's corpse, of course."
"I... I don't know. I'll have to talk to the chief."
"You do that." Nazhrelko laid a hand on Katsubo's shoulder. "Now, if there's no further ado, let me show you to the door."
"...What's a door?"
"It doesn't matter. Shift."
"Nazhrelko, I really hope you know what you're doing," the chieftain hissed. He, Nazhrelko and all the Purple Tribe's finest were gathered in the Orange Tribe village, flaming torches at the ready.
"Mostly. We'll try to scare it away with the torches. If that doesn't work, we try to make it eat the Orange Tribe."
The chieftain groaned.
"You all ready? Because if you're not, you're in for a tough time of it!" the Orange Tribe chieftain shouted, raising her staff to the snoozing epic's head. She thwacked the amphibian monster with all her might, then ran for her life as it rose to its feet.
The fight was on. Quickly passing the torch to her left hand, Nazhrelko unlimbered her spear.
"That does it. She's nuts," sighed the chief.
Ignoring him, Nazhrelko glared up at the epic's mostly-healed face. Her eyes had it outnumbered two to one. "Hey there, big guy. Remember me? Remember the spear?"
The epic ran screaming into the woods.