Here, Kitty Kitty
Takkar had never dreamt of dying in his sleep.
He would have liked to. The clansmen sung tales of the glory of the hunt, of great battles and renown, but he saw them for what they were. Lies at worst, embellishments at best. No one died in their sleep at Oros. If it wasn't one of the animals that roamed the land, or war with another tribe, the gods would strike one down anyway. Whether it be through the touch of snow and wind, or a curse, as one's body gave up on them, left to become food for the buzzards, and the birth of maggots. Few lived beyond twenty years. Even fewer lived beyond the next ten. In time, death came for everyone.
And in spite of all that, he didn't want to die. Not yet at least. Because his clan had been wiped out, and he wanted to achieve a song of his own before joining them in the next life. Takkar, the last Hunter, the Conqueror of Oros, the Slayer of Man and Beast. Good, long, complicated words that the singers could transform into something more eloquent than he could. But now, facing down a mannak, he wondered what song would be sung now. Takkar. Last of His Kind. Trod to death by mannak. His body became one with the earth.
The mannak bellowed and he swung his torch. He could not run – hunters took down mannaks with their ability and coordination. None could best a mannak by themselves. Nor could they outrun it. And in this valley, there was no way for him to escape.
Would I seek such a thing?
He yelled and swung his torch. A shaman told him that the gods banished Man from the trees, and they were forced to dwell in the dirt like lesser creatures. Another had told him that fire was a gift from the gods, and it was this magic that kept the walking demons at bay. But while mannaks and other beasts fled from fire as all creatures did, this one was not intimidated by one man waving a spark in its face.
The mannak roared once more. And this time, charged.
And death has a face.
Takkar dropped his torch and drew out his spear. His bow would do him no good, even if he wasn't about to be crushed under foot. All he could do now was try to embed it in the mannak's forehead. And that meant not getting crushed, and not getting gorged, and-
Takkar screamed, diving to the side, and grabbing the mannak's tusk. All he knew was what he had to do. Thinking about what could kill him would do no good.
I'm ready. Are you ready? Death comes for one of us. And which face is he wearing?
The mannak. He could see that as it stopped and proceeded to shake about. Takkar struggled to keep his grip. And felt the mannak's snout beating him. He had suffered worse. And yet he knew that if he were to fall, it would all be over.
I am ready.
The mannak roared.
Am I?
He recalled the tales of the Yagahl. Those who killed mannaks were awarded the White Spear.
The mannak bellowed, and he was now holding onto the tusk with one hand.
He knew of the tale of the Hunter, the one who had saved the Spear-tooth. The one who had freed thousands, and returned home.
And where is home now? Fire and ice, locked in battle. Always, we in the middle.
The mannak roared one last time, and Takkar found himself flying through the air. To "ride the mannak" was a phrase that meant "that's impossible." And now, at the end of all things, he realized how those words had come about.
Useless now.
Words meant nothing. Words were for the tongues of Men. Beasts did not need words. Beasts acted. As the mannak did, as it drew itself up on its hind legs, ready to crush him. To return him to Mother Earth from whence he came.
Take me.
The mannak roared. And he heard another one. Softer, yet with more ferocity. Enough to give the mannak pause. Enough to remove the ice and give him fire. To roll aside as the feet of the mannak came down, nearly pulverizing him.
Blessing or curse?
He did not know. But the mannak roared once more. And he heard another one. The second one. Louder than before. And saw-
Oh gods…
Saw a spear-tooth walk up beside him. Bearing its teeth and claws at the mannak. Walking by the hunter as if he were nothing.
Aren't I?
Man did not hunt spear-teeth. They were too fast, too strong, too vicious. Mannaks were strong, but could be brought down in time. But the spear-teeth were something else.
The spear-tooth roared, and the mannak backed away. And Takkar could not believe his eyes. Mannaks did not fear spear-teeth. And spear-teeth did not bother with them either. They were creatures of speed and agility. They had lesser prey to catch.
Like myself.
The mannak backed away. Never taking its eyes of the spear-tooth. On instinct, Takkar grabbed his torch and waved it. He did not know what good it would do, if any. The mannak feared the spear-tooth, not him. And he doubted it would fear fire either. And yet still it retreated. Still it departed. Leaving Takkar, last of his clan, alone with the spear-tooth.
Takkar looked at it. And the spear-tooth looked back. He knew that he might have escaped one death for another. Few could best a spear-tooth. And none could do it without a weapon. So close, even the spear-tooth would not fear fire.
Friend or foe?
The spear-tooth came up to him and began sniffing his animal skins. Gingerly, Takkar reached out a hand and put it on the beast's head. Suicide, in normal circumstances. And yet, the spear-tooth was acting more like a dog. A legendary species that some claimed had been bred to serve Man by the gods. Related, yet distinct from the jackals.
You are no dog.
Takkar knelt down and met the spear-tooth's gaze. And the spear-tooth met his.
You are a hunter.
And the two remained in place.
Why?
Why had the spear-tooth helped him? Why was it in submission? What possible favour could he have earned from the gods for him to be given such mercy?
Is it a sign? He looked up at the sky. The sun was low, and the clouds sparse. No birds carried the songs of the gods. Is it?!
No answer came. He was the last of his kind. And the spear-tooth, for whatever reason, had joined him.
Silently, Takkar picked up his spear and torch. Silently, he departed the valley.
And the spear-tooth followed.