The Great Hunt (Eurona Duology, #1)(28)

Paxton knew his behavior had been inappropriate, but it was her own fault. He hadn’t wanted to meet her. He’d chosen to leave the table because he knew he couldn’t act as the others had—trying to win her approval like groveling chumps. And still, she’d sought him out, taking him by surprise and causing him to act on impulse.

He raised his eyes to the skies in frustration. It would take more than a blushing princess with hair of rose gold to make him forget the teachings of his grandmother, of the injustices instated by the princess’s ancestors, still blindly carried out by her own father.

Oh, how civilization forgets.

He wished he hadn’t given the princess the satisfaction of an eye caress. He’d surely inflated her ego even further. Not to mention he’d raised the notice of the guards, who seemed unappreciative of his behavior with the royal lass.

So be it.

The naval lieutenant sidled up next to him, wiping his long daggar to a sheen before sheathing it at his waist. “You’d do well not to insult the princess again.”

Paxton’s defenses went up. He didn’t deal well with royal arse-kissers. “Didn’t look to me as if she minded.”

Harrison faced him. “She’s a friend of mine. She’s trained not to react. You’ve no clue what she’s going through.”

Paxton snorted. “Aye, poor royal lass. Forgive me if I don’t feel pity on her account.”

Harrison’s face contorted in frustration as he looked away, and Paxton felt an unusual stab of guilt. This man had lost his cousin. He’d left his duties to hunt. He didn’t deserve Paxton’s disrespect.

He forced out the words, “My apologies, Lieutenant Gillfin.”

The man stuck out his hand. “Just Harrison.” They shook, and an easy silent agreement was made between them. Paxton would be careful to keep his opinions to himself from then on.

Night awaited. It was time to put everything else out of his thoughts.

All day the hunters had been at odds before finally deciding where they each would hunt.

But that had been before supper. Before the princess had graced them with her presence and turned the men to mush, intensifying their competitiveness. Before Lord Lief Alvi showed—seemingly the only Ascomannian with any sense. Paxton had smiled sardonically to himself when he heard the blond lord ask his ranks, “Why are we splitting off from the other men? Have you not heard the tales of our prey?”

Their stuttered responses were cut off by the sounds of drums coming from the other side of the tents. Paxton and Tiern made their way over to the far side of the commons where a fire pit had been lit, surrounded by Kalorians who’d painted their faces black as the night. Stripes of the mud paint went down their necks and arms. One of them kept beat on a lap drum, and the other Kalorians fell into step, circling the fire.

Paxton had heard tale of Kalorian prehunting ritual dances. Now, chills covered him, the beat of the drum sinking beneath his skin, into his bloodstream. He watched with the other hunters in silence as the Kalorians performed their orchestrated tribal dance. Together they stomped and squatted, thrusting out their spears with sharp shouts. Paxton could imagine this scene in the jungles of the hotlands. The men finished, stabbing the sky with their spear tips. A respectful hush filled the air until the Kalorians turned, ready to hunt.

“Amazing,” Tiern said under his breath.

Samuel chuckled. “Aye. I’m ready to kill something.”

Roughly twenty men from each kingdom set out, over a hundred in all. The largest group, the Ascomannians, insisted on hunting the area Paxton had pointed out as the beast’s past stomping grounds. Paxton clenched his jaw in annoyance, but since they had the most men he wouldn’t fight it. It was smart.

Sadly, the group of Lochlans fared the lowest numbers. A mere thirteen of them had come, from all waterways, and four of their ranks were wealthy men for whom archery was only a hobby—not actual hunters. It made sense that their numbers were lower, considering many of their land’s bravest men had already faced this foe or given up hope.

They left royal lands through the southern gates, passing the massive wall that hundreds of workers were diligently fortifying against the beast during the daytime, building it even higher. Pulley systems lifted heavy stones to men on ladders. Vines, a cursed burden battled by all Lochlans, covered stretches of the wall as far as the eye could see.

“Beautiful,” Tiern muttered. Paxton looked to where Tiern was gazing over his shoulder, at the castle beyond—lit by hundreds of torches along its parapets, walls, and in the windows of the High Hall atop, light gray stones of the towers stretching high into the night sky.

Paxton turned back to the path, saying nothing.

They hiked over five miles through trees and marshland to the southern creek, where the beast had most recently killed the fisherman. Two of the younger lads, sixteen years each, climbed into trees overlooking the land and creek. Paxton and Tiern found a half-rotted log and brush pile and they sat back to back. Their entire group was in earshot of one another. All at once they silenced and the sky blackened. Moonlight cast shadows through the trees. Sounds of the creek and night creatures lulled them through their wait.

Paxton’s entire body was on high alert, and he felt Tiern rigid behind him. At one point a particularly large fish jumped in the creek, and Samuel stood with a holler, shooting an arrow blindly toward the water. All of the men stood, on instinct, only to chuckle at their own reactions. Harrison gave Samuel a joking shove and they moved back to their places. Paxton caught Tiern’s nervous grin just before they hunkered down again.