Hawk's Eye, Kaufman Teosis (3)

Hunting down prey once it has been driven into a corner is easy work. Kaufman knew that well.

"…"

Kaufman walked the underground waterway in silence.

What was a ranger's specialty, after all? Pursuit and the kill — that was a ranger's true craft. The watercourse ran right beside him, the air thick with damp, the light almost gone; none of it mattered.

Bloodstains. Footfalls. Traces left behind no matter how carefully ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠they were hidden.

No amount of effort could slip a seasoned ranger's eye. Kaufman followed the remaining signs at a quiet pace, and even mid-pursuit he never once let his guard down.

Vision wide. Ballista always loaded.

The moment he sensed Najin's presence far ahead, Kaufman pulled the trigger. The bolt screamed through the air and grazed the fleeing prey's thigh. Blood sprayed. A choked groan echoed down the tunnel.

Thud!

The prey kicked off the ground and ran.

Bleeding, swallowing his pain, he fled into the distance. Kaufman did not run after him. He simply followed at a steady, measured walk.

It might have looked like leisure. In truth, it was anything but. The prey was already wounded. He was bleeding, and he had been cornered. And the path ahead was seeded with endless traps, was it not?

Then there was no reason to surrender a pursuer's advantage.

Give him no chance to counter.

Drive him hard. Never relinquish the upper hand once you hold it. That was the hunt as Kaufman Teosis understood it. Closing the distance and inviting a counterstrike was a fool's risk.

Grind him down.

Until he was exhausted.

Until he could no longer move.

Drive him that far, then put a bolt between his eyes — and the hunt would be finished. At this point, the hunt was as good as over.

He was simply doing what he always did.

A hunter's work was nothing special. The hunter chased the bleeding prey. In the deep waterway, two sets of footsteps rang low and soft.

Pursue. Pull the trigger. Pursue again.

As the same pattern repeated, Kaufman found room for thought. He knew full well that letting one's mind wander mid-hunt was the height of stupidity — and still he could not ignore the thoughts circling in his head.

"…Hah."

He exhaled a long breath and kept walking.

Senses still open, he thought. How had he fallen this far? The years spent in the brutal mountains along the border, the years spent bleeding for the Empire — all ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of it was nothing but the past now.

The honorable soldier who had been ready to die for the Empire was not here. What remained was an old, exhausted hunting dog.

A dog that went where the leash pulled, that bit what it was ordered to bite, and simply lived that way. Of course, if the hand on his collar had still been the Empire's, Kaufman would have taken pride in the work. Giving one's life for the homeland was something a soldier could call honorable.

But the hand on his collar was not the imperial family's.

So of course there was no honor in what he did. No cause. The knowledge left a bitter taste.

For the Empire.

For the glory and peace of the Empire.

The old cries still circled through his mind.

He did not regret turning his back on the Techel Mountains and walking out under his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠own power. He had found someone more precious than country. There had been no other choice.

The problem was what came after.

What came after was the problem.

"Goddamn bastards."

Kaufman spat the words through his teeth.

It might have been a common enough story. A cabal of black mages taking revenge on a retired soldier. A wife caught in the crossfire and killed. At the end of it, nothing left but a child.

We've given emergency treatment, but it won't hold long.

It's a vicious curse.

There's nothing we can do…

A life ruined. A story ruined.

But something remained.

And to protect what remained, a man would throw away anything.

Oh, of course we'll help.

But to lift a curse of this magnitude… His Grace's blessing is required. And His Grace finds beauty in those who serve him.

What will you do?

There were only so many places a man could cling to.

They demanded the impossible.

Wise choice.

His Grace will respect your decision as well.

But refusal was not an option.

"Damn it."

Kaufman scratched at his neck.

"Bastards."

He raked harder. Flesh tore under his nails; blood welled. Kaufman ground his teeth.

Hoh.

I never imagined you would dig this thoroughly.

The truth uncovered at the end of a long pursuit.

Yes. The one who told the black mages where you were and set them on your wife — that was me.

But what can you do about it?

Report me? Go ahead and try.

Someone might lend an ear to a retired soldier's few words. But then what?

His life had been toyed with. The tragedy he thought was chance had been a carefully laid plot. By the time he saw it, the collar was already around his throat.

Your daughter.

Only we can pull your daughter out of that underground city.

Choose wisely, Kaufman.

Shouldn't a man protect what he has left?

What remained was a shabby hunting dog.

Kaufman clenched the contract inside his coat. A pact sealed on both their souls. Complete the job, and he would be freed from everything.

Once.

Succeed this once, and it was done.

Just one more time…

"…"

Kaufman's teeth ground together with a sharp crack.

He thought of Najin — of the way the boy had reacted to the words underground city of Atman. Kaufman knew how that city had been made. He knew how people lived inside it.

A boy born and raised in that place.

A boy who had finally climbed out into the open air.

And Kaufman's assigned role was to crush that boy, grind his face into the dirt, and dig out his eyes so he would never see the light again. The knowledge filled him with revulsion.

"…Damn it."

Muttering, Kaufman drew back the ballista. The mechanism clanked heavy and solid. He shook off the stray thoughts, packed his feelings away, and walked on.

Boom. KRAAASH!

Sound rolled from far ahead.

Traps springing. The noise did not stop at one — it came in a chain. Listening, Kaufman muttered under his breath.

It's over.

Accumulated fatigue and wounds. Movements gone sluggish, too late to dodge. Judgment clouded by pain. Let that cycle turn long enough and a cornered prey lost all capacity to think.

The cascading traps were proof of it.

He was past sensing them, past avoiding them. Kaufman walked toward the sound and saw blood spattered everywhere, marks as if something had rolled across the floor.

The trail of blood stretched on into the distance.

Drag marks, as if the feet had been scraping.

This tedious chase was nearly finished. Kaufman followed the blood. Time to finish a prey that could no longer move.

And so Kaufman closed the distance.

He closed it — and that was the mistake.

The hunter who had kept his range and chosen every right answer until the final instant chose the wrong one at the last possible moment.

—Now.

A voice Kaufman could not hear.

A voice that reached Najin's ears alone.

The instant it came, Najin moved. Hanging from the waterway's ceiling, hidden in the dark, he dropped without a sound.

In a darkness where you cannot see an inch ahead, no one can say who is the hunter and who is the prey.

As if to prove the words, Najin's eyes lit up in the dark.

Bloodshot eyes fixed on the target, Najin watched.

The hunter who had finally stepped into the open. The one chance he had bought with everything he had. Kaufman's gaze snagged on the bolts and daggers Najin had pulled from his own body and thrown across the floor — and in that instant, as Kaufman took a step deeper into the dark—

—Now.

The voice at his ear.

Najin dropped from the ceiling. The ambush was silent, but Kaufman's senses bordered on the superhuman; even the thinnest thread of presence registered.

"…!"

Kaufman's eyes flew wide. He whipped the ballista around to aim — but it was already too late. The dagger in Najin's reverse grip slammed into the ballista's frame.

CRACK!

The blade bit home before the trigger could fall. The ballista misfired — and in the same breath the longsword in Najin's right hand came down.

Accumulated fatigue, the wounds, the sword aura he had spent fighting Pau Ve — none of it left enough for the longsword to take on a blade of energy. Even so, steel was more than enough to tear human flesh.

An ambush. A longsword driven with every ounce of remaining strength.

The blade chopped into Kaufman's shoulder. The poncho he wore tore open; blood sprayed. The sword was biting deep, about to shear through shoulder and arm both — when Kaufman clenched his teeth and thrust his hand out.

Thud.

Blood or no blood from the palm clenched around the edge, he locked the blade in place so it could not sink farther, and drove a kick straight into Najin.

CRACK.

The kick slammed into an abdomen already wounded, yet Najin did not release the longsword. Even as he was driven back he forced power into his grip and twisted. The blade tore Kaufman's shoulder wound wider and carved deep into the fingers locked around the steel — and only then did Najin give ground.

Stalemate.

Distance between them, the two men stared each other down.

"What a mad bastard."

Kaufman laughed as if he could not believe it.

Blood ran from the split shoulder. The torn poncho slid free, spilling everything stored inside in a clattering rain, and the shattered ballista would never fire again.

Deep cuts through fingers and shoulder.

This hand won't draw a bow anymore.

But the Najin Kaufman saw was in far worse shape — several times worse. His whole body was a lattice of wounds, his clothes dyed dark red, and several bolts and daggers still jutted from his back where he had not managed to pull them free.

Bloodshot eyes. Ragged breath.

Even if he had dragged Kaufman this far, the boy's condition was nowhere near normal. It was a wonder he was still on his feet — and yet he showed no sign of letting go of that clenched longsword. Looking at him, Kaufman admitted it.

Neither of them was prey.

Here, both of them were hunters.

With the poncho gone, Kaufman's upper body was bare. Scar-riven forearms. A leather harness hung with every kind of blade. One hand drew a dagger; the other pulled the machete from his hip.

The reek of blood trembled in the air from every direction.

The only sound was water running along the channel.

A brief stillness. A single shared breath. The time they spent weighing each other's condition lasted only a few seconds. In those few seconds both men finished calculating exactly how they would kill the hunter standing in front of them.

There was no first and second.

Almost as one, the two hunters charged. The dagger Najin threw and the blade Kaufman swung met in midair and skittered away; they battered the deflected steel aside as longsword and machete crashed together.

KRAAAANG!

Sparks leapt.

Blood sprayed from wounds torn open by the violent motion. Najin's bloodshot eyes and Kaufman's locked.

Reflected in those eyes was only killing intent.

Reasons, stray thoughts, every worthless scrap of feeling — all of it had been thrown far away long ago. Hesitation was death.