The Hollow Hunter

V.

The hunter sits hunched by a small fire. The dancing flames flicker over his gaunt features and throw shifting relief over the flank of his horse picketed nearby. The sun has long since disappeared behind the snow-capped mountain peaks and the velvety arms of dusk stretch out across the eastern sky. The forest sits dark but alive with the sounds of the night.

The hunter picks through the contents of his saddlebags as he smokes. Eventually he finds and lifts out a heavy pouch filled with rifle shot. He opens the pouch and begins to pull out the individual cartridges, filling each with just enough marrow to make it glow softly before slotting it into one of the five empty magazines he has on hand. When he fills a magazine he slides it into one of the four straps that run the length of a bandolier that sits beside him in the dust. The fifth magazine is inserted into his rifle. He works carefully and methodically, making sure to store roughly the same amount of marrow into each bullet, feeling his aura grow weaker with every lost fraction.

When he finishes, the pouch is still half-full of ammo but the bandolier can't hold another shot. He quickly pulls out his pistol and reloads it as well, filling the six chambers with marrow rounds of pistol shot. He then rummages around in the saddlebags again until he pulls out three perfect metal spheres that glint dully in the firelight. Each sphere is smooth and unblemished except for a single line of runic script that traces its circumference. He slots these three spheres into the bottom loops of the bandolier which are specially designed to hold them. With that finished, he stands and stores the ammo pouch back inside the saddle bags and straps the bags back onto the horse. Then he picks up the bandolier and loops it over his head to rest on one shoulder and refastens his tattered and hole-ridden cloak about him.

Slowly he becomes aware of a shift in the forest. It takes him a moment to pick out what it is, but the realization sends a chill up his spine. The sounds have vanished: the crickets no longer chirp, the nearby owl has ceased it's call and taken flight, even the leaves no longer shift or rustle in the dead air. He stands, grabs his rifle, and chambers the first round into the breech.

"How long has it been since we last saw each other? At least a decade I'd reckon." The voice echoes through the wood, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. The hunter spins around, eyes scouring the darkness, rifle clutched tight in his hands.

"Longer," he replies.

"I suppose that's true. After all, you were just a boy last I saw you. Oh how innocent you were back then, how weak. But look at you now, such power! Such rage! Oh, if she could only see you now! What do you think she would say?"

"I don't care."

The laugh seems to come from all around him. "You never were a very good liar. You know what I think she would see if she met you now? A shell of a man, more concerned with the violence he intends than with the well-being of any who cross his path. She would be ashamed."

The words cut deep, because he feels the truth in them. "Enough games. Show yourself," he shouts, voice cracking with anger.

The hunter hears a rustle of movement off to his left and turns just in time to see a hollow charge into the firelight. The dancing orange flames reflect off its sleek ebony form and it bunches up and leaps at him. He shoots it in the face with his first marrow round. The bullet arrests the hollow's momentum and it collapses to the dust, screeching as it is consumed by an eruption of emerald light. The flash of aura briefly illuminates the forest and the hunter sees many pairs of hungry black eyes staring back at him from the darkness beyond the firelight. Cold fear pricks his heart and makes the breath catch in his throat.

"Fly away, little bird. Fly away."

As the pack advances the hunter chambers in the next round and fires. His shot hits another hollow and the ensuing explosion blinds the others just long enough for him to loose his horse's tether and urge it forward. The hunter turns and fires again, catching the lead hollow in the chest just as it moves to swipe at him. As the last round detonates he turns and chases his horse.

The hunter manages to catch up and run alongside his mount as it gains speed, aware of the pack of hollows fast encroaching on his heels. When his horse nears a gallop he lunges and grips the pommel tightly with both hands, letting the horse pull him off his feet before touching them back to earth in time with the horse's gait and vaulting up into the saddle.

The hollows dog at the strides of his horse like a pack of wolves chasing a deer through the brush. Breath and sweat steam off of horse and rider as they barrel through the underbrush, guided only by the faint moonlight. The hunter drops his reins, trusting his horse to find a path through the darkened wood, and turns in his saddle to fire back at his pursuers. The hollows are indistinguishable from the darkness that surrounds them but the silver moon shining through the trees gives fleeting blue glimpses of their forms. He cannot tell how many are following, but it is definitely more than ten. He shoots and misses, but the emerald flash illuminates the charging beasts and sprays them with dirt. They are gaining. The one in the lead lunges at his horse's back legs and narrowly misses. The horse screams in fear and panic. The hunter shoots the lead hollow in the torso and the marrow explosion throws the following two hollows backward, but more keep coming, flowing over the bodies of their fallen brethren like an unstoppable black tide.

The hunter keeps firing until his magazine runs empty. Explosion after explosion lights up the wood. When the hunter reaches for the next magazine on his bandolier a hollow lunges at the horse's back legs and manages to trip it up. Horse and rider scream as they crash to the ground. The hunter manages to free his leg in the fall so it doesn't get trapped under the body of his horse. He skids several feet over the dirt and rocks and slams into a tree trunk, making it shiver and groan. His vision darkens and his mind threatens to slip into void, but the screams of his horse bring his mind back to the surface. He jolts up and looks over to see seven hollows devouring his horse while it still lives. They rend and tear its flesh, exposing muscle and bone, before greedily shoving the meat into their mouths while the dying horse screams and kicks. The hunter reaches for his rifle but he lost it in the fall. He tries to stand but wooziness forces him back to the ground. As he watches, one of the hollows breaks away from the feast and shuffles over to him on all fours like an ape. It grins at him, blood and viscera dripping from its black teeth.

"A noble effort, but I'm afraid you have been beaten."

"Not yet." The hunter shoots the hollow with the pistol concealed in his cloak. As it dies he looses one of the three spheres from his bandolier. He channels a rush of marrow into it until it glows with the heat of a miniature sun. "Fuck you," he spits and tosses the marrow grenade into the crowd of hollows.

The explosion rocks the forest, churning up a hail storm of dirt and stones, and bending the trees in a fiery blast of green energy. A careening stone smacks the hunter on his bandaged cheek and he is knocked cold.

When he awakens he is not sure how much time has passed. It is still dark outside, though the charred clearing is lit by the flames of a few dying grass fires. The air is thick with smoke and the sickly sweet smell of charred flesh coats his nostrils as he inhales. The bark on the trees surrounding the blast zone is blackened and stippled with patterns of orange embers that flare on the breeze. The hunter's clothes are tattered and singed by the blast, but he is unscathed. He cannot be hurt by his own marrow.

He shakily rises and walks toward the charred mound in the center of the scorched circle. The bodies, scorched and fused together from the extreme heat, are little more than a grotesque chimera, still smoking and sizzling in the cold night air. The hunter stands over the remains for a moment.

"You deserved better," he says softly to his fallen friend, the last one he'd known in the world. "I'm sorry."

After a minute he turns and looks around until he finds his rifle laying in the dust, its wooden stock soot-stained and cracked from the heat. He picks it up and slings it over his shoulder. Then he continues on. Alone.