The Basilisk Hunt (First Draft)

A cold wind swept through the Aderran Valley as the sun crested the high mountain peaks. Spring had come early, but the breeze still carried the sting of winter. The pine forest within the valley still had a thin sheet of snow on it, the gray needles dusted with white. The air was crisp as Toran took a deep breath, his breath misting as he exhaled.

He crouched in the brush, bow and titanium arrows at the ready, his dark gray eyes intense as he stalked his prey in the brush. The mottled dark and light grays of his garb helped him blend in, the hood of his cloak pulled up to shadow his features as he prowled. Toran’s quarry, a machine known as a basilisk, stood alone as it took a drink from a nearby stream. The lights on its body pulsed a dull blue, telling Toran that it didn’t suspect his presence.

The hunter stalked closer, drawing his bowstring and aiming for one of the weak points in the machine’s hide. With a slight whisper, the arrow cut through the air and sliced a hydraulic line in one of the basilisk’s back legs.

The machine let out a loud, metallic whine as it bucked and fled. Toran gave chase, dashing with all the speed his wiry frame could give him. Like the winds themselves, the hunter flowed through the woods, unbothered by underbrush or tree roots as he ran to keep up with his prey. An arrow knocked and at the ready, he got a clear shot at the basilisk as he crested a ridge. He loosed another arrow, only to have the shaft bounce off the machine’s steel plating. He cursed as he continued to give chase, not wanting to lose sight of his quarry.

The basilisk, even with a cut hydraulic line, still thundered through the valley on all of its six legs with remarkable speed. It’s heavy, squat body rolled through anything that got in its way, knocking over small trees and crushing boulders underfoot. Toran sought to harvest its components to trade in the village due south of the valley. A basilisk’s plating could make formidable armor, its servos and motors could be used to replace those from failing machines, even the wiring and cables could be used by craftsmen to make clothing and charms. Everything was valuable to someone, Toran had learned, and he saw value in turning a hearty profit from his catches.

The hunter looked ahead and saw the path incline before dropping off. He collapsed his bow, slotting it onto his back with a magnetic connection, and put his arrow back in its quiver, replacing them with an ax he had on his belt. Toran spared a glance for the basilisk. The metal beast was becoming more sluggish, the cut line gushing green fluid into the air and onto the stones and grass. He had to make the jump just right to get onto the basilisk’s back, use his ax to get a firm hold onto the hexagonal plates, climb to the monster’s head, and hack at its neck until it died.

With a prayer to the Dawn-Father, Toran leapt from the elevation towards the running basilisk with ax in hand. He landed with a painful thud, driving the blade of his ax between a gap between the armor plating of the basilisk’s back. Pain like a bolt of lightning spiked through his torso, bringing tears to his eyes, but the hunter steeled his nerves and made his way up the monster’s back.

The beast thrashed and let forth terrible whines and screams that seemed to stab Toran in the ear. He was tossed to and fro as the long, powerfully built frame of the basilisk shook, almost losing his grip on his ax. But the hunter’s will and steely determination kept his grip firm. Hand over ax, he climbed. Where back met neck, Toran gripped onto a piece of the basilisk’s exoskeleton, bracing his legs onto gaps in the hexagonal plating, raised his ax high, and brought it down, hacking into the exposed wiring and cable between the neck rings.

Sparks and fluid came shooting from the wound and the basilisk shrieked in agony. Again and again the ax bit into the silicone flesh of the beast, each time cutting deeper and deeper into the machine’s neck. As it died, the basilisk thrashed more and more violently, desperate in its struggle against the hunter. But the hunter had killed its kind before and knew its weaknesses. Soon, the beast went silent and still, the lights on its body going dull, then dark. With a partially decapitated head, the basilisk slumped to the ground.

Toran dismounted the dead machine, putting a hand to the beast’s cold head, and offered a prayer to its spirit so that it may find its place in the fields of the Dawn-Father. Concluding his prayer, he began harvesting material from the fallen machine. Halfway through, however, he heard something on the wind. A faint shriek, though not one like that of the basilisk that he had slain. No, this one was far more guttural, carrying more power to it. He glanced up, scanning his surrounding before a shadow caught his eye. His gaze went further up and saw a horrible shape.

Wings that shadowed the light of the sun, a long and powerful body, a head bedecked with long and dangerous horns, with a single baleful eye of bloody red looking down at him. A dragon, the most fearsome of all predators in the world, had come to the Aderran Valley. It roared again, continuing to circle the dead basilisk and the hunter like a vulture over a carcass.

Though Toran was a hunter, one esteemed by his clan, he knew that dragons were beyond even his ability to slay. Legends spoke of brave heroes, like Arigan Lightspear and Syrys Wyrmsgreif, men who could take down such beasts were tales spoken by lore masters and story tellers across the face of Terra. But Toran was always a pragmatic man, and had no illusions that he was like such men. So he relented to the beast, leaving the body of the dead basilisk for the dragon to do with as it pleased. There were always more basilisks in the valley, anyway.