Fox Hunt

Endings

Trees and bramble whipped past Trinidad as she galloped through the forest with her new rider. Her mouth frothed around the tugging bit as Stanley yanked her this way and that. He swatted her hips with a switch made of extra reins. He was particularly cruel with her handling and kept beating her to ride faster between the trees. Stanley was panting in almost the same measure as Trinidad.

The smoke was thick from the burning mansion, visibility was poor, but at least the rain had stopped.

Despite her rider's urging, Trinidad struggled against his instruction. Every time he told her to jump, she flinched and stamped her hooves down in the soil.

"Come on you stupid animal! Do you want to get skinned alive?" Stanley growled as Trinidad once again skirted around the fence he wanted her to jump. She whinnied as she clomped the ground while throwing her head back and forth. Her brown eyes showed white at the edges. Stanley craned his own neck to look back at an unseen pursuer. His wild nerves transferred into Trinidad from his erratic directions. She knew something was after them. Something worse than the wild dog that chased Wharton and her yesterday.

Panic was rising in her blood, and Stanley was doing nothing to calm her down. She ran forward almost blindly through the smoke and fog, being whipped from behind by Stanley and being whipped in the face from the twigs she couldn't see. It was a hellish situation.

Then Trinidad sensed a presence. In the haze ahead, an eddy curled sharply. She startled and reared up to kick her bludgeoning hooves into the air. Stanley tugged at her reins, trying to steady her, but in fear, she did it again, gnashing her teeth on the bit, kicking and bucking at whatever was haunting the fog with them. Stanley cursed loudly, but finally, she launched the man from her back and darted into the smoke's cloaking protection.

Stanley, alone now or far from it, scrambled up to standing. His eyes watering from the fume's sting. He drew out the scimitar that remained on his hip throughout the initial confrontation with this beast pursuing him. It acted like his sharp shield, jetting out in front of him. He swished its point through the air.

"Come out now," he ground in disgust, "show yourself." This was more to himself than the pursuer. After all, Afrikan negroes weren't gentlemen and had no sense of honour. Calling the man a coward wouldn't stop the brute from spearing his back from within the shadows he was hiding.

Unexpectedly, the man appeared in the motes a few meters away. He was bright red, taller than any man Stanley had seen, masked in steel, and carried a diamond-shaped spear. Unlike in the dark servants' quarters, as the warrior sprinted down the hall or in the fire-lit bedroom, Stanley finally got a good look at the Zulu out for his blood. The fog in the grey of the English morning light seemed to make him shine like an ethereal fae. He looked nothing like the men he fought in Africa.

"You're not..." Stanley swallowed, "what the hell are you?"

The creature deigned to answer before rushing Stanley. The point of the spear pierced forward but hit only mud. Stanley rolled away into the haze. He was skilled at fighting against spears, but he more commonly fought with a bayonet and rifle. Knowing that this creature was immune to bullets after the failed cannon shot made him abandon his guns in the mansion before alighting on Wharton's prize horse.

The mud-covered Stanley from shoulder to hip. It was freezing, but his blood was running so hot, he barely felt it. Excitement and dread filled him. He would either die or emerge with a victory so rich he would never be able to equate its ilk again. He backed into the fog but the spear tip found him. He heard its deathly whistle and his instincts forced him out of the way. It struck earth. Stanley launched his blade at the wrist on the polearm but missed. He dodged again, picking up another swath of mud down his front. He would be covered in the muck shortly.