The Hunter's Song

21: Severance (Shale)

"Stop moving!" I snapped.

"Stop standing still!" The lanky razkur barked back at me.

"I've been chasing you for the last hour!" I spun my axe and vaulted to an upper ledge in my ship's sparring den. "We're getting nowhere!"

"This is the pace you are setting," Mourning Crow maneuvered below me, disappearing from sight behind a grouping of fabricated obstacles stationed around the grey and black room. "And if you insist on complaining, stop dicking around and say it to me in Oto-Winde!"

Mourning Crow's chain sickle shot up and severed the supports from my shelf, forcing me to leap off and find the back end of her chain looped around my ankle. She yanked me down, but I spun and landed upright with her chain locked in my fist.

"Sawa'kahee!" I cursed in Oto-Winde and yanked the chain hard. The razkur insisted that I focus on profanity first to identify and confront any insult swiftly.

She came at me from the left.

Shit! When did she move over there?

She parried my axe, threw it aside, then kicked my legs out and dropped me to the ground.

"Sawa'Kahjee," <fuck off> Mourning Crow corrected, flapping her ears rudely forward and sharp.

Insult. Noted.

The three-lined silver scar proclaiming her successful Dread Rite and her official status as a full member of Clan Jahaa peeked out on her forehead just behind the part in her hair.

I disliked being outmatched in any arena, but there was no shame in being bested by Mourning Crow. Medical Prime carbon-dated her age to be older than Oru and her competency and skill as a warrior were self-evident to all who reviewed the recordings of her Dread Rite.

Had her innate connection to the U'la'ke not been a factor, Mourning Crow was well within the appropriate age and skill level to petition for a challenge worthy of claiming Forged status or even the brand of an Elder.

"Again!" Mourning Crow thrust her sickle at my chest.

I rolled and scrambled out of the path of her successive stabs.

"Sawa'Kahjee!" I roared, mimicking her pacing and inflections.

The razkur pursued me at an astounding pace, hopping atop tall cones jutting from the floor behind me.

"How does this help me learn what your ears are saying?" Per her mandate, I did my best to communicate only in Oto-Winde.

Mourning Crow shot across the false stalactites protruding from the ceiling and spun around to tackle me and put her face a fraction of an inch away from mine.

"Because we don't talk like this!" The razkur flailed her ears excessively at my eyes. "We're non-stop and on the go. And sometimes, we're capable of lying."

Mourning Crow pounced off my chest and slithered behind a fake boulder.

I curled up, still seated, and turned toward her voice.

"Consider the origins," Mourning Crow whispered while crawling between the room's fixtures. "Hunting underground, sneaking up on your prey." The razkur snaked under a low-hanging archway and prowled closer in perfect silence. "You hear and see everything, but it comes at the price of two giant sails perched on the sides of your head."

Her long ears were low and hinged back, flowing gracefully behind her head.

Sneaky. Deceit. Concealing one's intent.