The Tarsk Hunt

Tal, Ortossi of Ven'dara.

The mists hang low over the marshes beyond the Olni, and the tarsk have been rooting in the black mud since dawn. Your kaiila is saddled, your spear is sharp, and two guards from the Ven'dara hold wait at the gate with hunting sleen on leash.

Do you wish to ride out now as Ubar, with horn and retinue, or go quiet and alone, tracker style, belly low in the reeds?

The tarsk boar they speak of is a great silver-tusked brute, scarred from old spears. The peasants say it has killed two sleen already this season.

You lift the horn to your lips.

A deep note rolls out across the courtyard of Ven'dara, echoing off stone. The guards straighten. The sleen throw their heads up, yipping, eager for the scent. From the stables, hooves strike cobbles as your retinue mounts.

You ride out through the great gate, banner of Ven'dara snapping above you. Peasants clear the road, fists to foreheads in homage to their Ubar. Beyond the fields, the marshland opens, flat and silver with morning water.

Your master tracker, Relian, rides up beside you and points with his spear.

"There, my Ubar. Rooted ground. Fresh."

The mud is torn. Great cloven prints lead into the reeds. The air smells of rot and musk

You nod to Relian.

"Loose them."

The leashes slip. The hunting sleen scream and plunge into the reeds, dark shapes vanishing in a spray of black water. For a heartbeat there is silence, only the snort of the kaiila beneath you.

Reeds thrash. A squeal, high and furious, rips through the marsh. Birds burst upward. Your guards lower their spears, forming a half circle as you commanded.

He comes.

The great silver tusked boar explodes from cover, mud flying, eyes red with rage. Twice the size of a common tarsk, scarred hide flecked with foam. One sleen hangs at his flank, another darts for his ham.

He charges straight for your kaiila, Ortossi.

Your spear is in your hand. The guards shout your name.

You couch the spear tight under your arm, lean low over the neck of your kaiila, and spur forward.

The beast does not veer. It wants you.

The distance closes in heartbeats. You feel the pound of your kaiila's hooves in your bones, see the white of the tarsk's tusks, the mud clinging to its bristles.

Impact.

Your spear takes him square in the shoulder, the shaft shuddering in your grip as the kaiila carries you past. The boar screams and twists, snapping the shaft, but the head holds deep. He stumbles, slashes wildly, and one tusk grazes your mount's leg. Your kaiila shrieks but holds its footing.

Relian is there in an instant, spear ready, but the great boar is already slowing, blood darkening the marsh water around him. The sleen circle, snarling, waiting for your word.

The guards raise a cheer. "Ven'dara! Ven'dara! Honor to the Ubar!"

The tarsk sinks to its knees in the mud.

You pull your kaiila up short, chest heaving, and lift your broken spear high for all to see.

"Relian!"

Your tracker looks up, startled. To be granted the kill of a Ubar's boar is a high honor, and his hand trembles for a moment on his spear.

He does not waste it. He steps in swift and clean, placing the point behind the great tarsk's foreleg and driving it home to the heart. The beast shudders once, then lies still in the black mud, steam rising from its hide in the cool air.

A roar goes up from your men. Relian kneels in the mire before you, head bowed, his spear red.

"My Ubar is generous. My spear is ever yours."

The sleen are called off. The guards begin the work of bleeding and trussing the great silver tusked boar for transport back to Ven'dara. There will be feasting tonight, and the story will grow with each telling.

You turn your kaiila toward home, the horn sounding again, this time in triumph.