Page 3 of Tharn’s Hunt (Barbarians of the Dust #2)

NOT PREY, BUT POSSIBLY STILL LUNCH-SIZED (A HUNTER'S DILEMMA)

THARN

I have never hunted a female before.

Mere sols ago, I did not believe they existedoutside the clan's ancient stories. Now I stalk one across the dust, and the very air feels different.

She moves with a clumsy urgency that is neither prey nor predator. Not the careful prowl of a shadowmaw. Not the heavy trudge of a rock-beast. Something new. Something fascinating.

Something potentially dangerous.

I crouch, studying the marks in the sand. Small prints, too perfect to belong to any creature native to Xiraxis. No claws. No tail-drag. Just neat impressions, each one placed one in front of the other, if unsteadily.

My claw traces the edge of one print. Smaller than mine by half. How can something so small be a thing of legend? How can something this delicate be real?

Rok’s female , Jus-teen, had spoken of this female with such longing. Her clumsy mental images had been clear: “ Find her. Please, Tharn. Find my sister .”

Jah-kee .

Rok is my clan-brother. Finding Jus-teen’s sister-female was my duty. But the clan has changed. Since Rok returned with Jus-teen, every male walks with a new tension. We watch him. We watch his female. We wonder.

But there is more. Another reason I took the hunt.

Since the females came, my blood runs hot. My sleep is thin. There is a hunger that has no name, because meat does not kill it. My body is a stranger to me.

To track another female… it is not just a rescue. It is a hunt for a cure to this new madness.

Shaking these thoughts away, I return to the trail. For solmarks, I've been tracking her, following her increasingly erratic path across the dust. She travels by Ain’s light, and sometimes too far past when Ain retires.

Her trail leads toward a cluster of stone spires reaching up from the dust. I quicken my pace, eager to close the distance. But as I approach the spires, I notice something that makes me freeze mid-stride.

A red tinge. Dark against the orange rock. The ever-shifting dust tried to hide it, but the truth is clear to a tracker’s eye.

Lifeblood .

My dra-kir gives a hard, steady thump as I crouch, touching one claw to the mark. It’s dry, but recent.

My head snaps up as I scan the area, nostrils flaring. The scent is faint but unmistakable.

Shadowmaw.

She was hunted.

I follow the trail, alarm growing with each new evidence of the dark liquid against the dust. There is too much.

The lifeblood leads upward to a rocky outcropping where signs of struggle mar the stone. Claw marks. More lifeblood. Loose rocks. The unmistakable pattern of a desperate climb.

She did not just run. She fought back. And she climbed.

A smart move to escape the pack. But as my eyes scan the base of the rock again, a cold dread settles deep in my gut, heavier than any fear of shadowmaws.

Circular patterns trace through the sand, barely visible even to my trained eye.

The sister-female didn't just face shadowmaws. She attracted the attention of something far worse.

And she survived.

The lifeblood trails away from the outcropping, staggered, but definitely made by something still alive.

A sharp flicker of respect cuts through my alarm. This is no simple, fragile thing to be coddled. This female has a fighter’s spirit that burns brighter than Ain’s own light. She's proven herself worthy of the hunt.

No. Not hunt, Tharn. Rescue . I must remember she is not prey, despite how the tracking of her makes my lifeblood sing.

Her trail leads to a rock face, cracked and weathered by countless cycles of Ain's wrath. At first, I see no sign of the female. Then I notice a dark opening halfway up the stone—a cave mouth, perfectly positioned to catch Ain’s last light while providing shade during the harshest hours.

And there, leading up to it…more lifeblood.

She is in there. I can feel it.

I scale the rock face easily, claws finding purchase where her small hands must have struggled. At the cave mouth, I pause, scenting the air. Yes, there is her strange smell, mixed with the metallic tang of lifeblood.

And there, curled against the far wall beside a tiny pool of water, lies the sister-female.

Jah-kee.

She is smaller than Jus-teen, though similar in form... dressed in similar torn hide coverings. And she's damaged. Badly. Her breathing comes in short, sharp bursts. Her body trembling with each inhale, each exhale.

“ Do not fear ,” I project into the silence of her mind. “ I am ally. Not foe .”

When I move closer, a wave of heat rolls off her small body. Too much heat. This is not just venom-fire.

The wound on her leg is deep. Swollen. Angry. My eyes see this. My mind knows it is the threat.

But my eyes betray me. They wander.

Her face. It is… soft. No sharp angles. No battle lines carved into the jaw. Just smooth curves. Her mouth is full. Her head-fur, dark like deep canyon sand, is tied back, but strands cling to her skin like dark vines.

No scales. No hard hide. Only skin. So soft, it looks like a thorn could tear it. Her legs are long, but thin. Not shaped for a strong stance. Not made for this world.

How did my ancestors come to worship such fragile beings?

And yet… a strange feeling twists in my gut. A tightness. This softness… it is beautiful. Not like the dawn. It is the beauty of a new, sharp spear tip. The beauty of a shadowmaw’s eyes before it strikes. Dangerous.

Something inside me stirs. A deep growl. It is a feeling I do not know. It tells me to back away. It tells me to stay. It tells me to… guard this place. This female.

By Ain’s light… What is this madness ?

I force my gaze from her face to the wound on her leg. The wound is the only thing that matters.

She needs water. Sustenance. Care for her wounds. The dried lifeblood on her leg concerns me most. Shadowmaw venom festers quickly, even when not directly bitten.

I reach for my waterskin, uncorking it with ease. Her condition worries me. Even Jus-teen wasn't this damaged when Rok found her. Fire isn’t meant to be trapped within.

I reach forward, careful to be gentle as my claws brush her head fur.

The moment my claw makes contact, light explodes beneath my skin.

A violent, golden radiance erupts from my hand, searing up my arm in a blinding wave.

I jerk back with a startled snarl, claws unsheathing as I stare at my hand.

The light pulses, a frantic, silent beat that matches the sudden, wild hammering of my dra-kir.

It races across the patterns on my shoulders like a fire with no heat, consuming me.

What—by the Giving Stone— what is this?

The female moans. It’s a soft, yearning sound. Her back arches slightly, her lips parting as if my light has seeped into her dreams.

And dust take me, my member twitches in its pouch with a life of its own.

What—in the dust ?

Is this what happens when males and females touch?

I go utterly still, as if movement might worsen the sensation. This has never happened before. Rok never mentioned this with Jus-teen. Never described light, warmth, or this tightness in the chest that accompanies it. Perhaps it's unique to this female. Or to me.

Or to the combination of us both.

The thought sends a thrill of pure terror through me.

The glow intensifies as I reach for her again. My claws tremble as they brush her head-fur—dust and stones, it’s so soft—and I force myself to focus. Her condition is critical. Whatever is happening to me must wait.

" Jah-kee ," I project through the distraction, the thought weaker than it should be as my concentration fractures. " Drink ."

She doesn’t respond. Her lips remain slack, her mind closed.

I try again, fighting to steady myself as the light pulses brighter.

" Female. Water. Drink ."

Still nothing. Only the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

With a single digit that now trembles with both the glow and uncertainty, I part her lips and trickle water between them.

Mouths are not particularly interesting. They're for eating. But hers...

Her lips are soft, pliant. Nothing like mine or my brothers’. The sensation makes my claw shake harder, and I nearly spill the water.

Water is precious. Every drop spilled is a small death on Xiraxis.

Despite my care, some water trickles down her chin. I catch the escaped drops with my free hand and take them within my own mouth, unwilling to waste even this small amount. The clan would be horrified at my inefficiency, but I cannot keep my claw from trembling.

When her throat moves in a weak swallow, I release a breath. Thank Ain, some got through.

It’s a painfully slow process, but I continue feeding her, hoping she will take more.

All the while, the glow never dims. It pulses softly beneath my skin, as if it has a will of its own.

That thought terrifies me. That part of me that has always been in perfect control of my body, my instincts, my dra-kir.

By the time a quarter of the waterskin is empty, I am both relieved and unsettled.

Relieved because her breathing has steadied slightly. Unsettled because every moment I spend tending to her, I feel myself being drawn deeper into her strangeness.

Perhaps the light affects my mind as well as my body.

Now, the wound.

The gash is deep. She continued through the dust with such an injury? The pain would have been searing…and still she carried on.

I marvel at this. The tales spoke of the Daughters of Ain as wise, powerful beings who commanded the elements. This small creature before me seems neither wise about Xiraxis nor particularly powerful. Yet she survived where most would have perished.

I retrieve my satchel, selecting firebloom leaves that will fight the shadowmaw venom. Crushing the leaves in my palm, I squeeze until they form a paste.

As I apply the mixture to the wound, the female’s body jerks, a small sound escaping her lips. Not vocalizations. This sound is soft. High and vulnerable.

“ I am sorry, small female .” I work more gently, trying to minimize her discomfort. “ I do not wish to harm you .”

I do not expect her to respond. Her mind is closed, her body weak. But then her hand suddenly shoots out.

Small, soft, clawless digits close around my wrist.

I flinch, nearly dropping the paste. My dra-kir hammers against my chest, and for a moment, I freeze. My first thought is that she has attacked me, but… no. Her grip is weak, trembling against my skin.

I stare at her hand, then at her face. Her eyes remain closed, her breathing faint. She has not woken.

“ What are you doing ?” I project, glancing at her face as if she might answer. “ I am not… something to catch .”

I try to pull my wrist free, but her fingers tighten slightly, as if even in her unconscious state, she refuses to let go.

And where our skin touches…

More light.

But where before it was merely bright and pulsing, now it swirls.

I stare at our joined hands, at the patterns of light dancing beneath my skin. The sensation of a bone lodging in my throat makes me swallow hard.

I am a hunter. I am controlled. I do not crave strange sensations.

And yet, I do not remove her hand. I am ever aware of the sensation of her touch. There is warmth there, as if her small grasp is burning an imprint into my flesh. I finish treating her wound, gaze shifting to her hold on me even as I wrap the wound with fresh leaves to keep the poultice in place.

Through gentle movements, almost as if I don’t want to disturb her hold on me (which is ludicrous), I settle back on my haunches, considering my options.

I cannot leave her alone here while I venture far for assistance. Worse, I cannot take her with me. In her condition, she might not survive the trip. Better to stay, to help her recover enough strength for travel.

And perhaps, whispers a thought, to discover more about this light between us. About why my dra-kir beats differently in her presence. About why I'm drawn to study the lines of her face when I should be focused only on her survival.

“ Jah-kee, ” I project again. “ Rest. Tharn will protect you. ”

But rest does not come. I sit guard, a sentinel between her and the dangers of the dark, her touch a burning imprint on my skin. When Ain’s first light begins to touch the horizon, I check her condition. The fire has not quelled, but it has not worsened. She needs meat. I must hunt.

Prying her fingers from my wrist feels like tearing away a part of my own hide. The absence of her touch is immediate and unnerving. Growling at my own foolishness, I descend from the cave.

The hunt is fast, efficient. A sand runner, its meat tender enough for a weakened body. Laden with fresh meat and a full waterskin, I make my way back, my mind focused on the strange, vulnerable female.

But as I approach the base of the rock face, I pause. There’s something in the sand. Crouching, I peer down at the tracks. Shadowmaw. They must have arrived after I departed. I’m studying their passage when something prickles at the back of my neck.

I’m being watched.

My head snaps up…and there she is.

Jah-kee.

Ain. She is there. Looking at me.

My dra-kir, always so reliable and steady, does an unreasonable flip in my chest.

She’s awake.

Perched at the cave’s entrance, the dying light of Ain catches in her wild, tangled hair, haloing her in gold. But it’s her eyes that stop me dead. Wide, unblinking, the whites showing all around that strange blue.

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just stares down at me, wide-eyed and trembling, like I’ve already torn her limb from limb. Her strange blue eyes burn with a mix of fear and fury that tightens my chest in a knot.

And I realize with a jolt that shakes me to my core: she does not see a rescuer.

She sees a monster.