predator.
‘May this shield cover you well,’ Huy told him softly.
‘Thank you, old friend.’
Next Huy offered him the lion spear. This was such a heavy cumbersome weapon that only a powerful man could handle it. The shaft was of carefully selected hard wood, fire-treated, and bound with green leather which had been allowed to dry and shrink upon it. It was as thick as Lannon’s wrist, and twice as tall as he was.
The unbarbed blade was in proportion wide and heavy, bound into the shaft with leather strips, the round point honed to a razor edge. It was designed to allow the maximum penetration into flesh and, once buried, to open a massive wound that would induce heavy bleeding.
‘May this blade find the heart,’ Huy whispered, and then louder. ‘Roar for me, Gry-Lion of Opet.’
Lannon reached out and touched the priest’s shoulder. He squeezed it briefly.
‘Fly for me, bird of the sun,’ he said and turned away. With the shield on his back, careful not to show the ‘eyes’, Lannon walked out towards the waiting beast. He walked tall and proud in the sunlight, a king in all but name, and Huy’s heart went with him. Quietly Huy began to pray, hoping that the gods were still attentive.
Lannon strode through the soft grass that brushed his knees. As he went he remembered the advice of the oldest and best of his huntmasters, rehearsing each move, each word of it.
‘Wait until he growls before you show him the eyes.’
‘Make him come to you at an angle.’
‘He charges with head held low. You must open his chest from the side.’
‘The skull is like iron, the bones of the shoulders will turn the finest metal.’
‘There is one place only. The base of the neck, between spine and shoulder.’
Then the words of the only man amongst them all who had ever faced the gry-lion, Hamilcar Barca, the forty- sixth Gry-Lion of Opet, ‘Once the spear is in, hold it, my son, cling to it with your life. For the gry-lion is still alive and that shaft is all that will keep him from you until he dies.’
Lannon walked on steadily watching the black swollen-bellied carcass of the buffalo, seeing no sign of the beast he was hunting.
‘They are mistaken,’ he thought. ‘There is nothing here.’
He could hear his own heart beating in the silence, his own footfalls, and the hiss and suck of his breath. He watched the dead buffalo and walked on, tucking the butt of the lion spear more firmly under his right armpit.
‘There is nothing here. The gry-lion has gone,’ he thought, then suddenly he saw movement ahead of him. Just the flick of two ears held erect for a moment then flattened again, but he knew that it was there waiting for him. He felt his steps begin to drag, feet heavy with fear, but he forced himself onwards.
‘Fear is the destroyer,’ he thought, and tried to force it down, but it was a cold heavy thing like oil in his guts. He walked on, and suddenly the gry-lion stood up beside the carcass of the buffalo. It stood facing him, with ears erect, its tail swinging lazily, head up, watching him, and Lannon gasped aloud. He had not expected it to be so large. He missed a step, hesitating. It was huge, unbelievable, like something from a nightmare.
He was 200 paces from it, and he walked on towards it, concealing the ‘eyes’, and watching the giant cat’s tail swish faster with agitation as he approached.
A hundred paces from it, and now the tail began to slash angrily, like a whip against the gry-lion’s flanks. The cat crouched a little, the ears flattening against the skull. Lannon could see the eyes now, hot yellow eyes in the patterned face-mask.
He walked on, and the gry-lion’s ruff of mane came erect, swelling out the shape of its head, it sank a little lower into its crouch. Its tail slashed furiously, and Lannon walked on towards it.
Fifty paces separated them now, and the gry-lion growled. It was the muttering menace of distant thunder, the drumming of the earth in quake, a belly-jarring sound like the crash of surf on a storm-swept beach. Lannon stopped, he could not walk on with that sound in his ears. He stood frozen, staring at this terrible animal in its mounting rage.
Long seconds he hesitated, then with an abrupt movement born of tear he swept the shield from his back and showed the ‘eyes’. The glaring roundels were all that was needed to precipitate the beast’s anger. The black tufted tail froze rigid, lifted slightly above the level of its back, the head dropped low against its chest, and it charged.
At the same moment as the charge began Lannon went up on his toes, and jumped forward. The shackles of fear fell from his limbs, and he bounded towards the charging cat with long light strides. He was angling his run across the gry-lion’s front, forcing it to keep turning towards him, bringing it in at an angle, exposing the neck and the side of the chest.
As Lannon ran the spear blade danced above the earth ahead of him, like a firefly of light in the sun.
The gry-lion came fast, and low, head down so that the incredible fangs almost touched its chest, curved and ivory pale. It seemed to snake against the grass as it closed for the kill, and its enormous bulk filled the whole of Lannon’s vision.
At the last possible instant Lannon lifted the spear-tip slightly, centring it on the vital spot at the base of the neck, and the gry-lion came on to the spear with its whole weight driving it.
The blade plunged into the brown furry body, sucked into unresisting flesh, and the shock of the impact drove up the shaft and hurled Lannon backwards onto his knees - but he held on to the spear.
A storm raged about him, great waves of sound engulfed him, battering his eardrums, as the gry-lion roared out its death throes. The shaft of the lion-spear whipped and thrashed in his grip, smashing against his ribs, crushing and bruising his flesh, shaking him so his teeth clashed together in his skull lacerating his tongue. He clung to the spear.
He was lifted from his feet, riding high on the shaft of the spear as the gry-lion reared, then he was smashed
