The harsh, dry air lay a heavy parch on the Rider’s throat as he crossed the arid plain. A canteen clanked hollow against his mount’s flank, a grave reminder he was still days out from the closest water in any direction.
And even then he was gambling. The region’s scorching summer season was notorious for turning the most raging rivers into ditches of dust.
His battered hat, darkly aged from years of sweat, soaked in the last warmth from the dying sun. He rode taut and stubborn before its smoldering gaze, offering his deeply bronzed skin as his rite of passage through the unforgiving land.
In the distance a raptor’s cry pierced the calm.
As the hard crust of earth began to give way to mud-colored bedrock, the trail sloped down into a shaded, barren canyon where cool air greeted the Rider. For a time he nearly forgot his thirst as the horse trotted along, the click of its hooves echoing softly off the smooth, wind-sheared walls. Ahead, the sun descended, fading to an impossible hue that bathed the canyon in the wrathful light of a red sunset.
Many myths spoke of sunset as a witching hour when forgotten things walk among us. The Rider had heard many such tales in his travels, whispered over burning embers of lonely campfires, spouted like gospel from pilgrims and peddler folk. He chose not to heed such fables when he struck out westward across the dread lands known as “The Territory,” with murmurs of death and ruin passing him by like straw in the wind.
With the dry-cracked floor sprawled out before them and the red sky lording above, the pair came to a bend. What awaited them upon the turn was a maze of towering rock columns standing rigid between the crushing canyon walls. The last rays of the sun splashed like blood across their totemic faces.
Then, in the stillness of the day’s end, the Rider heard a faint clap of wings. He turned in his saddle to put sight to sound, but saw nothing in the ruddy evening haze. Righting himself, he felt a tension course through the horse’s corded body as the sound grew suddenly closer.
A cry shattered the air as a massive shape passed directly overhead, the boom of its wings causing the horse to rear violently and tossing the Rider from his saddle. He hit the hard-baked earth shoulder-first and spat a curse of pain. Only the horseman’s instinct saved him from a crushed skull as he rolled away from his mount’s stamping hooves.
The blow to his shoulder filled the Rider with dizzying pain, but a cacophony of nightmarish shrieks brought his eyes to bear. And what he saw was horror manifested.
Hovering above his mount were three feathered beasts of enormous size. Each one possessed a primal set of wicked, black beaks and talons like spades, weapons they used to rend and tear the flesh from his horse as it defiantly bucked and brayed.
Then, like some savage game of tug-of-war, each beast latched onto a limb of the dying animal and took to the sky, the snap of bones and shredding of hide echoing into the canyon.The Rider realized his inaction and reached for the pistol at his side. Instead, he found the holster empty, his weapon lost in the fall.
With no other recourse, he staggered to his feet and fled into the labyrinth of stone, leaving behind his saddle and with it, any real chance of survival. The pain from his fall began to numb as he raced through the pillar-strewn canyon.
The scathing sounds of the ravenous beasts were drowned out by the booming of his heart in his chest. Beasts of such size would find no full meal in one horse alone, he thought.
They would be back for him as well.
He ran with measured steps, glancing quickly between the ground and the sky. What manner of creatures they were he could not say. They appeared as vultures and flew swift as falcons. But it was their size that filled him with the most dread.
His thoughts were invaded by the appearance of a sleek, black form soaring above the canyon’s rim. The other two were likely closing in. The Rider knew pack hunters when he saw them. He veered suddenly, spying a low shelf and made for it with leaping strides.Then, with the telltale rush of air and violent screeches, the beasts were upon him, their terrible beaks snapping at his back like the whip of a stagecoach driver.
The Rider dove for his life into the earthen sanctuary with a yelp of primal fear. His body slammed once more into the hard rock as he hit the back wall of the shallow dugout. For a moment his eyes were closed and all was still.
Then a deafening metallic gnash snapped him back to life. He coughed violently as the space around him was filled with dust from quick, mauling strokes of talons against stone. Each one seemed closer then the next, but as the swipes slowed and weakened, he realized he was just beyond their deathly grasp.
The beasts continued to probe his refuge well into the night, savagely attacking the entrance in tandem. The Rider’s mirth, born from his temporary escape, now faded with the light. It seemed these were not the type of creatures to lose interest quickly. And unlike him, their recent feast had given them the advantage of time and stamina.
He, however, could not afford to wait.
But, the Rider had not been idle in the waning hours. He had discovered he was not the first poor soul to seek shelter here. To what animal the small collection of bones in the corner belonged, the Rider did not know, but he was grateful for its sacrifice.
By the pale cast of moonlight on the canyon floor the Rider wrought measured blows of rock against bone, splintering a leg bone into a crude dagger. The rhythmic crack echoed into the night while he prepared his weapon and his spirit, for he knew the beasts held every advantage.
And then the Rider waited, steeling himself for what followed. From the mouth of his cave he flung a stone that careened off a nearby rock column. The sound was instantly joined by the terrible din of the savage hunters seeking out his ruse.
The Rider seized his chance to take flight, scrambling from his would-be tomb. As he emerged he looked to the sky for the first time in what seemed like days. But, he could not see the freedom of the clear, cold night for three black masses of death leering like jackals from atop the stone columns. The devils hadn’t fallen for his trick and pulled one of their own.
Now, there was no turning back.
Hunters and prey burst into motion at the same moment. The Rider raced blindly across the canyon floor while his pursuers dove into the canyon on sleek, void-like wings. Weaving in his escape to break line-of-sight would not deter them much longer, he knew. They would be upon him in seconds.
He only had one chance at surviving a coordinated attack. Heart pounding, lungs burning, muscles weakening, the Rider dove to the ground just as a razor talon passed over him, grasping at the air where he'd once been.
Without a thought, he flipped violently, arcing out with the primitive dagger just in time to meet with the flesh of his next attacker. The crude dagger carved a ragged line of warm red across the open talons of the second creature. Its terror-filled cry was deafening as it abandoned the strike in a flurry of dust and blood. The Rider found and his feet and was off again.
Before he could reach full stride he was enveloped in the crushing grip of his impossible adversary. He felt the anchor of the earth fall away from his feet. The weightlessness was nauseating and death felt inevitable and imminent.
But, the thought of death, even the very word, became as impossible to him as the existence of these ancient hunters. Deep in his soul the fuse to survive was lit. The explosion of the Rider’s clenched dagger into the soft belly of the beast ushered from it the swoon of a creature dealt the killing blow.
Even as the pair spiraled toward the ground he punched out with his weapon, lost in a mist of fear and rage and blood. The heap of man and bird lay motionless until the Rider clambered from under the carcass.
As he stumbled out from under the bloody, broken creature, his weary vision made out two incoming shapes. The Rider spat with hate and let out a string of curses as he charged headlong into their path. His voice was silenced by the hellish shriek of hunters at the moment of the kill. He closed his eyes and felt the cold rush of air come over him like a veil of death.
And then, nothing.
He opened his eyes and was confused to find himself whole and alive. He jerked his head to look behind and saw the two beasts hunched over the corpse of their fallen ilk, shrieks of ghastly delight escaping their gore-covered maws. Looking naught but forward, the Rider continued his mad dash.
Soon he came to an old, hand-carved trail leading up the side of the canyon and out of the nightmarish labyrinth. His entire body was racked with pain and he was beyond thirst, but he had survived.
He heard then a rumble in the distance and he spied the promise of rain clouds on the horizon. How far he couldn’t say, but the sight was enough to keep him putting one foot in front of the other as he strode off into the darkness.