System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 101
Sunlight spilled into the cave, faintly illuminating the outermost wall where yellowed, damp clay clung to the rock, and the slope of the cavern slanted downward, its inner secrets veiled from a distance.
The two hid behind a large tree, peering around it for a moment.
“Roy, the blood stops here, does that mean ... my Barshel is in the cave?” Old Hark swallowed, his fingers twisted together, anxious and fearful. “What could have dug this den? An armadillo, a snake, a marmot?”
“Do you think any of those could make a hole this large?” Roy stared at the cave, a thought passing his eyes. “How heavy is Barshel?”
“176 pounds.”
“That fits ... whatever dragged Barshel could haul him a whole mile; the force equals dozens of small beasts.”
Roy grew increasingly reluctant to approach the cave; if some terrifying monster lurked within his life might be forfeit. The Witcher had warned many times not to provoke things beyond one’s ken.
“Think, what can haul a near 180-pound man from the Vigen River up into a field and leave so few traces along the way.”
“Boar?” Old Hark’s face changed as he guessed. “In the bakery I hear folk every year complain about boars wrecking gardens!”
“Boars rarely drag a full-grown man that far. And to keep Barshel from resisting,” Roy shook his head and analyzed, “the thing would first have to gravely wound or kill the target; yet the trail shows surprisingly little blood. There are no signs of struggle. Strange.”
Old Hark’s face twitched and a darker possibility crowded his mind.
“A bear? If my unlucky boy met a bear...”
Although winter had come, not all bears kept to strict hibernation; those without fat reserves sometimes came out to forage.
“Same logic applies; if a bear were the culprit there should be more fight marks and more blood along the way.” The boy’s black eyes measured the cave again. “Also, judging by the ridge and the turnips, the den’s only about waist high. It could not fit the bulk of a bear.”
“Then what on earth is it?” Old Hark clapped a hand to his face and cried in misery, “It would hunt humans?”
“We cannot delay!” Roy snapped to his feet, a hard edge cutting his cloudy eyes. He spoke with resolve, “I feel he’s still alive. I’ll go in and fetch him.”
“You don’t even have a proper weapon, how do you plan to fight what’s inside?” Roy hauled the old man down, forcing calm on him. “Charging in blind won’t save anyone and will cost you your life.”
“I was thirty when I had him, his mother ran off when she bore him.” Old Hark’s panic poured out, “I raised him alone; if he’s gone, what meaning is left for an old man?”
“Listen, I actually have an idea.” A flash lit Roy’s dark eyes. Unsure if the person inside still lived, he dared not use extreme measures like hurling bombs in or choking the den with smoke. But since the creature had hauled Barshel half a mile to its lair, it must have hunting instincts. Even an old dragon can be lured by a poisoned sheep, let alone lesser beasts.
“Old Hark, go buy a chicken or a duck, quick, best to get one from a nearby farmer!”
“You want to bait it out?” Old Hark paused then caught on to the plan. “Will it take the bait?”
“Try it, probe with poultry,” Roy advised. “And bind its beak so it can’t cry out and draw the monster too early.”
Half an hour later Old Hark returned, carrying a black-and-gold rooster, its feathers glossy, a rope over its beak so it made no sound, its wings tightly held so it could not struggle.
Roy, waiting, had already poisoned his steel sword and the fresh batch of quarrels.
“What now?”
“Wait in silence, and make no noise.”
Roy took the rooster, feeling its hot body. “Sorry, but to save a man we must sacrifice you.”
He smeared half a vial of Paralyzing Venom over the bird’s body, forced the rooster’s beak open with his left hand and poured the remaining half vial down its throat.
Finally he nicked the crimson comb with an arrow, letting the blood run, and hurled the bird toward the cave mouth.
“Cluck, cluck, cluck.” The bird landed and crowed once, then beat its wings angrily among the turnips before it began to stagger as the Venom took hold. Five seconds later it moved as if drunk, its claws treading air like on clouds, walking crookedly, its body swaying, pitiful to behold.
Hidden behind the tree, the two slowed their breathing, faces hardening, eyes unblinking.
The rooster collapsed and lay still. After about thirty seconds,
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