The Bountyman, RUTHERFORD RUGER's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Rutherford Ruger wanted one hide above all others. The Rabid Beast's. He meant to skin it and wear it as a cloak no blade could cut. But the beast left almost no tracks. So he came to the cult that worshipped it, hoping their faith knew what their eyes had seen. He found them kneeling around a fire, brown robes stiff with grime, bone totems hung at their belts. His teacher had taught him to hunt the beast, not the men who prayed to it. She was dead now. Her axe hung at his back, split-ready for close work. Her bone bow rode his shoulder. He used both because he trusted nothing of his own. "Where does it sleep," he said. The cultists did not answer. One spat at his boots. Rutherford dragged that one up by the collar and pressed a thumb into the hollow of his throat. The man choked out nothing useful. So Rutherford moved to the next, and the next. His questions were not gentle. Blood dripped on a prayer mat before anyone broke. Then the fire guttered. Three small figures stepped from the smoke. The Triumvirate of Carnivora. Skull-pale faces, eyes like hot coals, robes the color of old wounds. The cultists bent their foreheads to the dirt the moment the three appeared. "You bleed the faithful," the lead one chanted. Makkar. His voice rose and fell like a hymn. "The Grove bleeds you in turn." Rutherford dropped the cultist and raised the bone bow. "Tell me where it sleeps. Then I leave your flock whole." The three circled him, a slow ring. But Makkar's eyes narrowed, not with threat. With offering. "The curse-born took one of ours," he chanted. "South. In its cave of bones. Go to it, hunter. Feed it your pride." Rutherford lowered the bow an inch. They wanted him to go. That told him the cave was real. He went south. He found the treehouse outpost first, a wild fort grown into a great trunk, strung with charms and hidden traps. He sought help there, from the poacher hunter folk the locals trusted against the cult. He did not trust them either. But a man alone does not take the Rabid Beast. They pointed him to the cave. Claw scars raked its stone mouth. Bones littered the floor. And there, in the dark, the beast stood over a torn cultist, the body ragged and bloody, bone totems still pinned to the robes. Black fur. Long teeth. Yellow eyes fixed on Rutherford. It grinned. He loosed an arrow. The bone shaft struck empty rock. The beast was gone. No growl, no rush, just the dead cultist and the cold cave. Rutherford stood in the silence. He had found the lair. He had seen his prey. And now it had seen him first.