The Egghunt
By: Tievel Posted on: December 30, 2005
It was close to night, and still they hunted him. He crouched low behind the
crest of a dune at the sound of a distant howl. They were coming closer. He
checked his cargo once again as he had minutes before and doubtless would again
in another minute.
Eggs filled his pockets and pack to the brim, plain white eggs and blue eggs, yellow eggs and striped eggs, but normal eggs nonetheless. But this was the reason that Sapience pursued him, lusted for his blood. These eggs. The men and women hunting for him yearned for them more than gold, and would do anything to have them.
Another distant howl brought his attention back to his present situation. It had been a mistake to take shelter in the Mhojave. Though he knew it well and it was easy for those who did not to be lost in its boundless and bare sands, the winds had betrayed him and not stirred at all this day, leaving in stark contrast to the smooth dunes his hasty tracks. The sands themselves slowed his armored steps, a disadvantage those tracking him did not experience. And the lone and level sands, stretching far and away, made him a plain target to any airborne foe for miles and miles.
He had a chance if he could make it to the Vashnars. There he might be able to lose them; he knew those mountains better than he knew himself. It was not a sure escape— nothing was at this point— but his odds were better there. Dozens of experienced trackers trailed him: Sentinels with powers he couldn't contend with, and Serpents who had traveling advantages he could never hope to match. Even so, he continued to run. Looming ahead, the pale and daunting crags offered him hope.
On the verge of dusk the calls that had constantly filled the air throughout the day abruptly ceased. He was immediately on edge. Freezing in place he listened, closely and intently, to any sounds the breeze might carry to him. The sound of a dog sniffing, finding his trail. Worse yet, the noise came from beyond the dune from which he had just come. White-hot panic coursed through him, excluding all reason, and he began a mad dash for the still-distant mountains. Straight on for an endless hour he ran, the pursuit never flagging.
That hopeless flight nearly ended him. Cresting a dune he hurtled straight-long into a lone hunter, startling them both. Luck and skill allowed him to regain his composure first and, quickly drawing his swords, he turned his panicked descent into a lethal lunge, impaling the unlucky hunter to the hilt. With a dreadful twist the chaste sands were stained red and the hapless foe was sent hurtling through oblivion to the Halls of Maya. There was still a hope for escape, but the encounter had cost him precious seconds, and the man had not died quietly. Without even stopping to wipe his sword clean he made haste for the approaching peaks.
It was full night now; the sheltering mountains still elusively crouched upon the horizon. He had managed to evade pursuit in the desert, but now, crouched low and waiting by Great Southern Road, the Vashnarian foothills within arrow shot, his chances looked bleak. Intermittent patrols meandered up and down the road, barring his passage into the foothills. For hours now he had waited for an opening, soaked and shivering in a ditch to the side of the road.
There it was, an opening! The patrol rounded a turn in the road and disappeared out of sight. He took his chance, ran hell-bent for the hills. Moments, passing as slowly as years turned to seconds, a terrifying eternity as he ran, exposed, through the night and across the road. Then it was over. He was into the foothills and still running, as silently as possible, under cover of terrain.
Safe.
He never saw the trap. One moment he was streaking through the darkness and the next he as strung in the air, an unholy din shattering the still night and slating his mind with white, burning panic once more. He twisted, turned, wrenched and wrestled with every muscle in his body, trying, desperately trying, to free himself. He heard the shouts in the distance. He struggled harder, burned the very air from his lungs struggling, but the ropes would not give. His swords! Sheathed on his back they were just out of reach, but he was a Mhun, and dexterity was his expertise. He heard some of the eggs shatter, but he kept turning, twisting and….the sword came lose, in reach of his hand, and in an instant the rope snapped in two, sending him sprawling.
The shouts drew nearer, and exhausted though he was, he roused himself and continued his flight into the mountains.
The chase still showed no signs of giving up, but the quarry was wearying noticeably. Worse yet, he knew they were herding him, but there was nothing he could do about it. No help was coming. His herb supply was dwindling, and every encounter with an enemy, every sword or arrow smeared with curare, was one attack closer to the end.
His only hope lay to the south, towards the canyon in the shadow of Nicator. He might have a chance of hiding in one of the many crevasses along the canyon wall. Blinking away his steadily mounting exhaustion, he trudged his way towards the distant hope. The calls and yaps of the hunters reverberated throughout the entire range, haunting him along his way. Dawn was coming soon, but he could not foresee the night's end.