Thwei'kha Bhu'ja's Arc

Chapter 4 of 7

The log had fallen. The stakes had caught. But the creature was not dead. Thwei'kha Bhu'ja crouched at the sealed mouth of the den and listened to it scream. The black beast thrashed on the points, tail whipping the walls, claws raking stone. Its long head still snapped at the air. He could not step inside without losing his gut to it. He needed the skull clean, and he needed it whole. Skar'khan came down from the pines with his club. The goblin pressed one eye to a gap in the deadfall and pulled back fast. "Still strong," he said. "Tail like a whip. Head like a hammer." Thwei'kha thought fast. A spear thrust through the gap would only feed the thrashing. He needed the beast pinned by more than the stakes. He turned to the mechanical raccoon at his heel and tapped its plated shoulder twice. Its blue eyes brightened. "Cottage," he said. "Bring rope. Bring the iron hooks she keeps by the door. Run." The raccoon turned and vanished downslope toward the trapper woman's pinewood cottage. While it ran, Thwei'kha and Skar'khan worked the deadfall. They pried a narrow slot at the top of the log, wide enough for a spear shaft, too tight for a claw. Thwei'kha drove his spear through the slot and into the beast's shoulder. He did not push for the kill. He pushed to pin. The creature shrieked and lunged, and the stakes bit deeper into its belly. Black blood ran down the shafts. Its tail slammed the wall once, twice, then dragged. The raccoon came back with a coil of rope in its jaws and two iron hooks strapped to its back. Thwei'kha fed the rope through the slot, weighted with a stone, and worked it around the beast's neck by feel. Skar'khan climbed the deadfall and caught the stone as it swung back. They pulled together. The rope drew tight under the long skull and cinched it to the log. The beast's head jerked up and held. Its jaw snapped on air. Its tail beat slower now, tired, wet. Thwei'kha shifted the deadfall a hand's width and slipped inside. He kept low, under the reach of the claws, above the sweep of the tail. He drove his blade up beneath the jaw and into the roof of the skull. The body shuddered on the stakes and went still. He stepped back, breathing hard, blood to his elbows. The skull was his. He would cut it free at the cottage, where the woman kept clean water and sharp tools. Four kin. One head. He set his hand on the black carapace and felt it cool.