The Basilisk Hunt (Second 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.

A long, lithe predator, like a tiger that flew on wings of silicone. Talons big enough to carry off entire herds of basilisk and sharp enough to cut down even the most fortified of city walls. Its own body could encircle a village three times over from the tip of its tail to the tip of its snout. From its single, baleful, red eye, it could unleash a ray of light that could turn a score of the finest hunters into cinders. Again, this beast among beasts let out a bellow of primal dominance, letting all those in the valley know that a dragon has come.

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. At the same time, no dragon should be this far into Tavirith lands. They kept mainly to the deserts of Kheridesh further west, up in the plateaus. A pit of dread cold began forming in the hunter’s stomach, fingers of fear tracing up his spine, his mouth going dry as his body broke into a cold sweat.

He ran, ran with the speed of a man who had just looked death in the eye, ran with everything he could muster and then some. He didn’t even spare to look behind him when he heard the dragon descend, whether to pursue him on land or to take what it wanted from the basilisk’s corpse, Taron didn’t know. All that mattered was escape, to get as far away from that nightmare given steel shape as he possible could.

With a hunter’s grace and a dead man’s determination, Toran navigated through the thicket of pines to his campsite. He had to collect his things, break camp, make his way back to the village, and warn them. It was then that a whine, one that started low but soon crescendoed to near ear piercing, sounded behind him. A whine that was soon followed by a loud cry, as if the very air itself screamed in pain. Toran dropped to the ground as a lance of flame streaked above him, cutting through the space above him and through several trees both behind and ahead of the fleeing hunter.

A roar, metallic and malicious, echoed from behind Toran as the ground shook. The fear that once simply caressed him now threatened to smother him, as he now realized hunter had become hunted.

Toran broke to his left, sliding down a slope into a shallow ravine and sprinted through the shallow water. The dragon kept with him, its eye staring at him, as if it could sense his fear. The whine began anew as the light of the monster’s red gaze grew. Toran’s heart sunk, his mind racing feverishly for a way to keep him alive before he could be incinerated. Just as another lance of flame was about to fire from the dragon’s eye, he leapt back and charged up the other side of the ravine. An explosion of dirt and rock rose behind him as he scrambled up the side and back into the forest.

The camp was a foregone conclusion. All he had to do was run and find a way to get the beast behind him off his trail. He bought himself some time, giving him a few precious moments to look around and think of a plan. Climbing up a tree would take too long, and it would be futile since the dragon would fly. To keep running would also prove to be folly, the dragon was a machine and he was not. Hide. He had to hide.

It was then that a familiar roar came from behind, followed by the whine of the dragon’s flame preparing to be unleashed. Toran looked to the side and saw a hollow, small but enough to fit at least one person if he had to guess. With no other options, the hunter threw himself onto the ground and packed himself into the hollow just as another lance of fury screamed through the air.

Thunder pounded in Toran’s ears as his heart raced like a nest of frightened rabbits. He breathed deeply, keeping himself from panting and making too much noise. As the loud booms of the dragon’s steps crept closer, Toran fought to keep himself absolutely still. Moments that seemed to stretch to infinity passed as the beast of beasts looked for him.

The light that came from the dragon’s eye passed over the ground around the hollow as the beast craned its enormous, snake-like neck around. The sound of wood cracking painted the picture of talons gripping onto the trunk of a nearby tree in Toran’s mind’s eye. In his head he offered a prayer to the Dawn-Father, asking for his protection from this terrible beast, so that he might hunt another day, and so that he might save the people of the village south of the valley.

Eventually, the dragon withdrew itself, no longer interested in the chase. Toran waited for several minutes, making sure the beast was truly away. When he was sure everything was clear, he made his way out of the hollow carefully, sure to take in his surroundings for any sign of the dragon stalking him. Assured that the monster had passed, Toran pulled himself fully out of his hiding place. Heaving a sigh, sparing a prayer of thanks to the Dawn-Father, he swiftly jogged off back to his camp. He had to warn the village as soon as he could.