The downpour struck the slopes suddenly, as though the sky had cracked along a seam and released all its accumulated moisture at once. Water lashed in a solid wall, transforming the air into a murky curtain. Black volcanic rock gleamed with an oily sheen beneath the streams flowing down in countless rivulets. The rainy season had eaten into this land permanently, saturated every crevice, every crack in the stone.

  The slopes transformed into rivers of mud. Water carried with it branches, leaves, clumps of soil—everything not held sufficiently firm. It flooded tree roots, filled hollows, formed temporary lakes in every depression in the rock. The jungle below drowned in the grey haze of rain; its greenery had dulled, blurred, merged into a single sodden blot.

  High on the slope, beneath a rocky overhang, a shadow lurked.

  Yellow, narrow, predatory eyes with vertical pupils stared downward, motionless. They didn't blink. Rain drummed on the stones, rustled in the foliage, drowned out any sound, but the eyes didn't tear away from their prey.

  Below, between the trees, a figure made its way.

  The beast moved cautiously, keeping to the base of trunks, avoiding open spaces. Its brown fur was soaked through, gathering in long clumps. It was hunting—nose to the ground, movements calculated, slow. Some rodent, judging by the trajectory. Or a bird that had fallen in the downpour. The beast followed the trail stubbornly, paying no heed to the streams of water flowing from branches straight onto its withers.

  The yellow eyes narrowed further.

  The predator on the cliff didn't stir. Even its tail remained motionless; only the very tip, covered in spikes, twitched barely noticeably—the sole sign of tension. Its hide was almost black in this grey light, blending perfectly with the wet stones. Rain ran down its back, down the bony growths, dripped from its whiskers, but the beast seemed not to feel the cold.

  Below, the hunter stopped. It froze, muzzle extended forward, scenting the air. Ears pressed flat against its skull—water flooded them, interfered with hearing. It took a step left, then another, skirted a thick root protruding from the washed-out soil.

  On the cliff, muscles tensed.

  The beast below leapt sharply, plunged its muzzle into a pile of fallen leaves. A squeak sounded—short and desperate. Prey thrashed in its jaws. The hunter jerked its head, breaking the victim's neck, then straightened, holding the carcass in its maw.

  The yellow eyes flared.

  The predator launched from the cliff soundlessly. Rain drowned out even the scrape of claws on stone. A grey-black shadow plummeted downward in swift descent; paws stretched forward, maw gaped, baring fangs.

  The beast below didn't even manage to raise its head.

  The blow struck precisely at the withers, drove its muzzle into the mud. Fangs sank into the scruff; forepaws began tearing at ribs whilst hind legs gripped the earth, holding the weight. The victim jerked once—weakly, hopelessly. Jaws clenched harder, severing vertebrae.

  The downpour continued flooding the slope. Water ran down the victor's hide, washing away blood before it could stain the earth. The predator didn't release its grip until the body beneath it went completely limp.

  Only then did the yellow eyes slowly close in satisfaction.

  Yellowness blazed amongst the wet branches—a second pair of eyes, greedy and merciless.

  A whistle sliced through the downpour's din.

  The arrow buried itself precisely in the predator's left eye. The beast roared, jerked its head, trying to shake off the pain. The shaft protruded from the socket, wet, trembling with every movement. Blood sprayed in a dark fountain, mixed with the rain, ran down its muzzle.

  The predator became prey in a fraction of a second.

  The second arrow whistled after, struck its brow—slid along the bony ridge, leaving a furrow. The third stuck in the base of its skull, piercing skin but missing the brain. The fourth passed through its ear, clean through.

  A hail of arrows cut through the streams of water.

  They flew in an unbroken barrage, one after another, as though the storm itself had gained teeth. The beast thrashed, snarled, lashed its tail against the ground, throwing up mud and leaves. Arrows buried themselves in skull, muzzle, neck—not all pierced the thick bone; some shattered against the growths, stuck in hide. But there were many. Too many.

  Shafts protruded like a hedgehog from the beast's head. Blood flooded its remaining eye, turned the world red, blurred. The predator wheezed, lunged forward blindly, blinded by pain and fury.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The stream broke off suddenly.

  Silence returned—only rain drummed on stones and the beast's raspy breathing tore through its bloodied maw. It stood swaying, head lowered. Arrows stuck out in all directions, giving it a grotesque, terrible appearance.

  From behind a tree emerged a figure.

  Blue skin gleamed in the downpour. Yellow eyes burnt with cold flame. In its hands a spear—long, wet, the point glinting with steel menace. Nemira stepped forward, then again, gathering speed.

  The grun'jak sensed movement. It wheeled with a jerk, despite the arrows piercing its flesh. It snarled low, gutturally—a sound full of fury and mortal despair. Its health had barely lost a quarter; its body remained strong, muscles tensed beneath hide, ready to spring.

  They charged towards each other.

  The beast raced on all fours, throwing up sprays of mud. Claws dug into the sodden soil, tore at it, leaving deep furrows. Its maw gaped, baring fangs—bloodied, terrible. From its throat tore a continuous snarl—a mixture of pain, fury and hunger.

  The troll woman ran to meet it, spear forward, the point aimed precisely between the eyes. Water lashed her face, flooded her eyes, but she didn't blink. Every muscle drew taut; every step calculated to the millimetre.

  Five metres separated them.

  Four.

  Three.

  Mud fountained from beneath both their feet. Rain had transformed the slope into a solid quagmire, but neither beast nor huntress slowed their pace. Distance melted swiftly, inexorably.

  Two metres.

  Nemira saw the grun'jak's remaining eye—bloodshot, crazed, full of mortal resolve. Saw the gaping maw, saliva mixed with rain and blood. Smelt wet hide, iron, fear.

  One metre.

  The spear aimed precisely for the maw, between upper and lower jaw.

  The grun'jak's fangs clamped on the spear shaft with the crunch of splintering bone. Nemira jerked the weapon sideways, deflecting the beast's head from the leap's trajectory. The heavy body flew past, struck her shoulder, threw her aside.

  The troll woman fell on her back; mud squelched beneath her weight. The spear tore from her hands. She rolled, leapt to her feet in one movement. Rain lashed her face, flooded her eyes.

  The grun'jak wheeled. The spear shaft protruded from its mouth, prevented its jaws from closing. The beast shook its head furiously; wood cracked, splintered. Fragments tumbled from its maw with bloodied saliva.

  Nemira lunged for the fallen spear. Fingers slid on the wet shaft, couldn't hold. The grun'jak was already charging at her; paws exploded through the mud. She threw herself aside; the beast flew past; claws sliced the air centimetres from her skin.

  She pushed off from the ground, yanked the sword from her belt. The short, heavy blade gleamed in the downpour. The grun'jak wheeled faster than she'd expected. The growths on its back flashed; its tail whistled through the air.

  The spikes on the tail's end crashed into the troll woman's flank. Mail rattled; rings burst. Pain seared her ribs, knocked air from her lungs. Nemira was thrown into a tree trunk; her back struck the bark.

  The beast gave her no respite. It leapt, front paws stretched forward. Claws aimed for her throat; its maw gaped.

  Nemira collapsed to her knees, ducking beneath the blow. Paws passed over her head, slammed into the trunk. Bark exploded into splinters. The troll woman darted forward; the sword went from below upward, plunged into the beast's belly.

  The grun'jak roared. It jerked, wrenching the blade from her hands. Blood sprayed in a hot fountain, mixed with the rain. The weapon remained protruding from the wound.

  The beast dropped onto its forepaws, wheeled. Health plummeted swiftly—the bar in Nemira's consciousness flashed with alarm. But the grun'jak didn't slow. It charged forward, low to the ground.

  The troll woman retreated; her hands found the broken spear's shaft. She grabbed it, thrust it before her. The point still clung to the fragment, though it wobbled. The grun'jak flew straight onto the improvised weapon muzzle-first.

  The point pierced its cheek, passed through flesh, struck teeth. The beast roared, shook its head. The shaft tore from Nemira's hands, flew aside. Blood gushed from the fresh wound, flooded its muzzle in a solid stream.

  The grun'jak—blind, bloodied, wounded—but alive. And fury filled it to the brim.

  Nemira backed away. Her hands were empty; no weapon. Her back struck a boulder—wet, slippery. Nowhere to retreat.

  The beast moved forward slowly, heavily. Paws splayed in the mud; its tail dragged across the ground. Blood mixed with saliva dripped from its maw. Its breathing was raspy, laboured—each inhalation came with difficulty.

  But it walked. Step by step, inexorably.

  Nemira groped at her belt with her hands. Fingers found a knife's grip—the first weapon she'd received from the priest upon her very first appearance in Seratis. She yanked it out, clenched it in her fist. The blade seemed pitiful against the beast's bulk, but there was nothing else.

  The grun'jak froze two metres from her. Paws spread wide; claws sank into the sodden earth. Muscles tensed beneath hide, gathering the last crumbs of strength for the final lunge. Its head lowered almost to the ground—the pose of a predator before the decisive leap.

  Rain washed blood from both combatants, sweeping scarlet streams down the slope. Water and blood mixed beneath their feet, transforming the rocky soil into a quagmire of red mud that squelched with every movement.

  Nemira glanced at the carcass—hide already ruined, scored with deep gashes. Another one. Fury at herself flared as a hot lump somewhere in her chest, eclipsing weariness and pain. She screamed—gutturally, furiously, breaking into a roar—and herself tore forward, towards the beast.

  The grun'jak hadn't expected such action from cornered, exhausted prey. It hesitated for an instant, then still leapt to meet her, jaws gaping bloodily. Livien darted aside at the last moment, feeling claws whistle past, barely missing her shoulder. The knife in her hand found its target of its own accord—ripped open the beast's flank in a long slash from ribs to thigh.

  Not giving the creature a chance to recover, she immediately leapt onto its broad back from above, gripped its flanks with her knees. The dagger flew downward again and again, driving between ribs, seeking heart or lungs. Each blow was accompanied by the dull squelch of flesh, sprays of blood.

  The grun'jak roared with pain and fury. It rolled onto its back with a sharp, desperate movement, trying to crush the rider with its own weight or reach her with the claws of its forepaws. Its hind limbs worked, scraping air, aiming for the troll woman's belly.

  Only this became its final mistake.

  Nemira saw the sword's grip, still protruding from the beast's belly beside her. Fingers reached for it of their own accord, gripped it in a death clutch. A jerk—the blade emerged from the wound with a vile squelching sound, releasing a fresh fountain of blood. The girl leapt away from the maddened grun'jak, landed on all fours in the mud a couple of metres from it.