The Day of Thunder

[Otomo Akutou]

Slowly, he crept forward, moving with precise care to place each foot where it would make no sound, to keep himself hidden from the eyes of the spindlehorn where it stopped to sip from the small flowing stream. As it looked up, he froze in place, his teachers’ lessons helping him seem barely to breathe, showing no more motion than the boles of the sturdy trees or the stones growing moss on the ground.

The spindlehorn’s ears flicked once, twice, and it bent back down to the water. Slowly still, he reached back to unlimber his bow, practiced hands stringing it easily and smoothly before withdrawing an arrow from the quiver at his hip and nocking it. The bow gave a small groan as he drew it back, inhaling as tension built in the string, and it sounded a flat note when it snapped back to drive the arrow forward.

The shaft struck true, point sinking between the ribs behind the foreleg, driving in halfway to the fletching, and the spindlehorn staggered forward a step, sinking to its front knees. It should have been enough to ensure it did not regain its hooves; it had been on such hunts before.

This time, though, it was not.

The spindlehorn stood, then, and turned to face him, foam building at its nostrils, tinging red and black. Lips peeled back to reveal fangs where they should not be, and the spindling horns from which the beast’s name derived lowered for the charge to begin.

Surrounding sturdy trees offered more than cover, though, and the bowman caught a low branch to haul himself up, shimmying higher to gain a better vantage and a sturdy place from which to shoot again. The tree shook as the spindlehorn struck it, points piercing the bark as should not have.

More arrows followed, and not all hit their mark as the spindlehorn rammed the tree again and again, each time chipping away at the wood a little more. But as the last arrow found its way through the eye, the spindlehorn dropped, and the bowman waited a few breaths to see if it would stand again.

It did not. Not yet, anyway.

The tree beneath the bowman began to groan, and he scrambled down before it could speed him onward. Dropping into a crouch near the spindlehorn, he drew his shorter blade again, recalling something his sensei had said long ago, calling back to his younger days.

When he swung it, the cut was clean, and the head left the body, blackening blood flowing out.

It took some time to find enough wood to burn it all.

~~~~~

Thunder pealed from heavy clouds above, and rain lashed down over the pitching deck. Barrels and crates slid from snapped lines, bouncing across the boards and running into railings.

One of them hit, pinning him to the taffrail.

The deck pitched again, and, winded, he slumped down, coughing.

The ship leapt upwards and fell again, and he was sent screaming into the open air for a heartbeat before the waters rose up to swallow him again.

Under the cloth of his tent, he started awake, screaming.

Silence followed as he wiped his face, panting, heart racing.

Heat rose in his face as he realized what he had done.

His teachers had told him to go to Blue Lotus Village. He was on the way. He could not get there soon enough.