Free The Nomad by Simon Hawke

gray-striped cat fully eight feet in length and weighing several hundred pounds. Its barbed tail twitched back and forth nervously.
    Then, suddenly, the wind shifted, and with a low growl, the cat turned directly toward the Ranger, gathering its legs beneath it for a leap. There was no time to attack now, the beast was already bounding into the air, taking the initiative, launching itself at the Ranger with a roar, its four front legs extended, claws poised to rake and shred.
    The Ranger timed it perfectly. He rolled beneath the beast as it hurtled toward him, came up fast as it landed, and leapt onto its back before it could turn to face him. He locked his legs around the great cat’s torso and seized one of its horns with his left hand, ignoring the painful lashing of its barbed tail as he bent its head back to expose its throat. The kirre threw itself down, trying to dislodge him, but the Ranger held firm, gritting his teeth with the effort of forcing back its head against the pull of the cat’s powerful neck muscles. The knife flashed, and the cat gave a gurgling cry as its blood spilled out onto the ground. Still holding on, the Ranger plunged the knife into the creature’s heart, ending its agony. It shuddered once, then lay still.
    The Ranger relaxed and disengaged himself from the dead beast, getting back to his feet and standing over it. He crouched beside the body and stroked its flank, then placed his hand upon the creature’s massive head and softly said, “Thank you for your life, my friend. May your strength become ours.”
    After the Ranger made his kill and the tribe had fed, he gathered some wild berries and kory seeds, as well as some pulpy, succulent leaves from the lotus mint, which grew in abundance on the slopes. He filled his pouch so that there would be a plentiful supply for Ryana to take with them when they set out in the morning. With any luck, they might a find a small mountain stream where they could stop and refresh themselves and fill their waterskins. It was a clear, cool night, and the Ranger always felt better in the mountains than on the desert tablelands, so he allowed Lyric to come forth and join him so that he could enjoy a song.
    As they made their way back to the camp, Lyric sang a song in elvish—a ballad Sorak no longer remembered but had once heard his mother sing. The Ranger walked along at a steady pace, enjoying the feeling of the breeze blowing through his hair and the lilting voice of Lyric issuing from between his lips. As they approached the campsite, they could see the soft glow of the fire reflected on the rock walls of the outcropping. The Ranger smiled, thinking how Ryana would enjoy the meal he had gathered for her. As they rounded the far side of the rock outcropping, the Ranger suddenly heard something hissing toward them through the air. Lyric’s voice fell silent as the arrow struck them in the back, and they fell to the ground, both of them spinning away into the darkness.

    * * *

    Sorak came to his senses not knowing what had happened. He was lying stretched but on his stomach, with his own cloak covering him. It was early morning. The campfire was burning brightly, and he could smell the aroma of roasting flesh. He opened his eyes and saw a man seated cross-legged by the fire, cooking some meat on a spit. He sat up instantly, and gasped as he felt a sharp pain shoot through his shoulder.
    “Easy, friend,” said the man seated by the fire. “Move slowly, else you will undo all of my good work.”
    Sorak looked at shoulder. His tunic had been removed, and his shoulder crudely but effectively bandaged. Some kanna leaves had been pressed together underneath the bandage to make a poultice.
    “You did this?” asked Sorak.
    “I applied the poultice and the bandage,” the man replied. “I did not inflict the wound, however.”
    “Who did?”
    “You do not know?”
    Sorak shook his head. “No, I remember nothing.” Suddenly, he looked around. “ Ryana!