Terror of the Shadow

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The night was astir with activity. From high up, the hunters might have looked something like a colony of ants, all scurrying over each other through a long line of bodies, anxious to grab their equipment and get outside before the sun rose high enough to bake them.

Laban quickly figured out that the line wasn't exactly an organized queue but more of a... well, a mob. It was far too early in the morning to spend the energy to try and push himself through, so he moved forward at probably less than a snail's pace. The most he could do was to (mostly) avoid being trampled by any more approaching herds of impatient rhinoceros dressed like men.

One such beast rammed his shoulder as he charged passed, nearly throwing Laban onto the ground. When the man had slipped by, Laban suddenly recognized the bald head sitting on a tree stump that he probably called a neck. It was Nimrod.

Apparently, Laban had been recognized, too, because he hadn't gotten too far before he said: "Hey, there! If it isn't the boxing champion of Malkuth!"

Of all the people in this crowd, Nimrod was probably the last one he wanted to see. But he couldn't help but crack a small smile when he saw a small bandage on the side of his cheek. Nimrod wrapped an arm around Laban's shoulders. Laban let it happen if only to let himself move through the line a bit faster.

"Hey, no hard feelings about what happened at the cabin, right?" said Nimrod. "I mean, I might be mad if it had actually hurt..."

The words coming out of Nimrod's mouth turned into mush inside Laban's ears. He actively didn't listen. But Nimrod was apparently perfectly content with doing all the talking. The stream of not-very-funny jokes never stopped for much longer than it took for him to take a breath.

Nimrod talked and Laban ignored him until they had reached the front of the line. Nimrod's "humor" was thankfully redirected then for a few brief moments. Laban was handed a pile of supplies and ushered forward. He slipped into the heavy cloak, put the gas mask on his head, and stuffed the rest—some rope, a mostly-full canteen, a small collapsible knife, and other emergency supplies—into his pack next to the parcel of fruit his mother had given him. He discreetly pulled out one of the slices and put it in his mouth. The dried fruit was very chewy, which made it easier for Laban to savor the sweetness of it as he walked onward towards the armory.

Which, Laban thought, probably could have rivaled the Library of the Elders in terms of grandeur; its gleaming racks of weapons and ammunition were certainly much more well-stocked than those of the Library. Hunters shuffled through, each one grabbing their weapon of choice before leaving through the door at the other end.

Laban eyed the station where the energy-staffs were charging. This was the preferred weapon of most Malkuth hunters, and for good reason; the energy-staff was capable of both ranged and close-quarters attacks, while still being light enough to carry in one hand. Torreck had told him that these were the weapons used by the Malkuth in their thousand-year war against the Territes.

Laban reached forward and grasped the slender metal shaft, pulling it out of its slot on the rack. He hefted it in his hand for a few moments, wondering at the power contained in such a small device.

It was almost immediately snatched away, however, by the man who wouldn't seem to leave.

"Woah, there, kid," Nimrod said. "Be careful. This ain't some toy to play around with. This is a very delicate and dangerous piece of machinery. It really takes two hands to operate. Best leave the energy-staffs to the... ahem... professionals."

Nimrod twisted the grip of the staff, and it snapped into its full length of nearly five feet.

"See? Two hands," said Nimrod. He looked over to a small shelf of hunting knives stashed in the corner. He selected one without much more than a glance and handed it to Laban.