110. Let the Hunt Begin

  Before she knew it, Serac found herself elbows deep in a perfectly equitable ‘duel’ to decide Rotgard’s future.

  The rules of the Realmhunt were simple enough even for a pair of outrealmers to grasp, at least on the surface. Teams of three, consisting of two hunters and one spotter. Points were awarded based on the individual haul: 1 point for natural wildlife, 10 points for Mob-class Aberrants, and 100 points for Elite Mobs. The team with the highest tally at ‘sunset’ (the most ‘open-to-interpretation’ part of the rulebook) would be declared the year’s winner.

  Pretjordians had been doing this for so long that even Pathsight was in on the act. All Wayfarers who’d registered for the event saw the addition of a new overlay element, just for the day: a ‘counter’ next to their parameter bars to keep the score. In the interest of transparency, this was also reflected in their general status sheets.

  Of course, Pathsight couldn’t be so granular as to track the ‘natural wildlife’, which needed to be preserved in an ‘edible state’ to count for points. But… this category existed mainly to keep the Anchored public occupied. Everyone understood implicitly that the contest really came down to which of the Wayfaring teams were best at flushing out and smiting Aberrants.

  There was, of course, a fourth scoring category that belonged to one name and one name alone: the Frostkrill. This was the fabled giant prawn that stalked the depths of the Netherpool—a Pretjordian mainstay that kept coming back for more despite being smited multiple times. Sightings were uncommon and smitings even more so. In the 300-odd-year history of the Realmhunt, the Frostkrill had surfaced a grand total of 17 times—and had been successfully smited on just five such occasions (four of them by King Tyr himself!).

  Such a rare and difficult smite warranted its just reward. Any Wayfarer who dealt the smiting blow to the Frostkrill would be awarded 1,000,000 points for their trouble. It was a made-up number, arbitrary and almost meaningless in itself, other than to spell out a simple fact: if you smite the Frostkrill, you win the Realmhunt.

  Zacko the Manesferan had especially found this amusing. He claimed it reminded him strongly of something he’d read in a children’s book back home, though he couldn’t recall the book’s title nor the ‘sport’ described therein. In any case, the upshot was clear: if Team Serac had any hope of winning the game, they needed to make the Frostkrill their primary goal.

  And boy, did they need this win badly! A lot was riding on Team Serac coming out victorious—or at the very least outscoring Team Rathor.

  “If you win, Serac, Rotgard shall have me,” the Prince had declared in front of the whole Realm. “Myself and my best strike team in the Kronvakt will come down and make the Roots our home. A year, five years, a decade or more. However long it takes for my Roots-dwelling brothers and sisters to be safe, prosperous, and hopeful for the future. However long it takes for that gentleman there”—Rathor had turned sharply towards the clownfish heckler then, much to the man’s alarmed chagrin—“to deem Krongard’s amends ‘good enough’.”

  Ridiculous. An absolute farce. You’re the freaking prince of this Realm; you should be helping your people just as a matter of course, not setting it as the term of a wager! But then… Serac just had to ask. It couldn’t hurt to at least ask, right?

  “And if I lose?”

  Rathor’s smile had widened then, ruby eyes shining ever more brightly.

  “Why, it’ll just be the other way around, won’t it?” the Prince had crooned, his voice softening until Serac felt as though she and Rathor were the only souls in the vicinity. “If I win, you will come to the Crown and join me by my side—as the newest sanctioned member of the Kronvakt.”

  Yes. The terms of the wager were simple enough to lure the whole Realm into the ‘spirit of competition’. A victory for Team Serac would mean a massive boon for Rotgard’s restoration efforts. On the flipside, defeat would be disastrous, for Rotgard would then lose its live-in Wayfarers and end the day worse off than it began.

  Ridiculous. An absolute farce. I’m surprised the Rotters didn’t break out in rebellion right then and there. What a slap in the face from the ‘people in charge’!

  “You know you could’ve just refused, right?” Zacko pointed out now, as Team Serac joined the throng of competitors who moved as one toward the starting Hubstation.

  “Could I have? Really?” Serac wasn’t so sure. “You were there. You saw—no, felt—how popular Rathor is. It’s like he’s the golden child that can do no wrong. The Rotters might resent Mr King and be indifferent to Mrs Queen, but even they clearly love Mr Prince, warts and all. And as soon as he floated the idea that he might come down personally to take our jobs, the people were sold. You could see it in their eyes. I could read it in the ripples.”

  “Hm,” Zacko hm’d, unusually thoughtful, “and here I thought the Rotters loved us, the outrealmers who stood up when no one else would. Welp, so much for that, eh?”

  Zacko had hit upon a sore spot, and it took Serac a moment to recover from the hurtful realization. Yet, she couldn’t rightly blame the Rotters, not from where she stood. Pay your dues and show your worth. No one in this Realm eats for free.

  Serac scrunched up her face at the unpleasant memory. Desperate to wash away the taste of bile in her mouth, she sought a third opinion that might shed a different light on the matter.

  You’ve been awfully quiet. Aren’t you gonna pester me to lose the bet on purpose so I can beeline my way to Krongard?

  Even after this direct address, Trippy took a moment’s pause before answering. He seemed awfully reluctant to broach the subject.

  “The thought did occur to me, Wayfarer,” he eventually admitted. “But now that I’ve met this Rathor Tyrsen, I’d prefer you stayed far away from him. I… don’t like the effect he has on you.”

  “What?”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  In her mortified shock, Serac forgot to use her inside voice. The outburst drew not only a raised eyebrow from Zacko but also curious looks from others within earshot—including Rathor Tyrsen himself, who smiled winningly at her as their eyes met.

  And just what do you mean by that? Serac reverted to her inside voice, though her outside face continued to redden. What exactly are these ‘effects’?

  “A significant debuff to your critical thinking skills, to start with,” Trippy explained, monotonous and without a hint of irony, “as well as a whole host of physiological changes: elevated heartbeat, shortness of breath, dilated pupils… In short, the fight-or-flight response, though I fail to see why a nonviolent interaction with a fellow Wayfarer should be the cause of it. You weren’t under any status effects from what I could gather, so the source of it must be—”

  Okay! Enough! Stop! If there was a hole in the ice next to her, Serac would’ve dove in without a second thought—though it probably wouldn’t help her in this particular case. Let’s just both agree that I should try to win the game, and let’s also never bring this up again!

  The starting Hubstation was located just on the edge of the main beach. Presently, much of that beach was taken up by Gulloyne’s napping figure, but the hunters and their spotters managed to squeeze into what little space was left. And thanks to the scale of the supersized lotus, every Wayfarer in attendance was able to find a place to meditate.

  With no Karma to ingrain, all Serac needed was to reconstitute. As such, she was one of the first wave of Wayfarers to finish meditating, and she took the opportunity to size up her opponents.

  Her eyes first hit upon figures she knew well: those of the Tomasen twins, accompanied by Erik the tilapia as their spotter (likely a formality more than anything). Even though the wager was between her and Rathor, Serac would also hate to lose to the sturgeons, especially knowing their victory would mean victory for Palmr Jorgensen.

  Then, she let her attention wander over the other Wayfarers. About two dozen Yakshas of the Kronvakt, ranging wildly in size, shape, demeanor, and even Karmic Levels—anywhere from KL-15 (just a baby!) to KL-60 or thereabouts.

  A narwhal with a mason jar for his Instrument (Looks empty at the minute! I wonder what’s meant to go in there…). A barreleye (With a see-through skull! What?!) armed with a nondescript knife you might find in any old Pretjordian kitchen. A manta ray whose typing didn’t become apparent until she spread her arms wide to reveal a pair of wing-like pectoral fins (Pretty! But somehow, I picture her flying from tree to tree instead of diving into water…).

  With such variety on offer, it was impossible to keep track of everyone and everything. Serac took in as much information as she could, while privately hoping she’d never have real need for these scouting reports. Best case scenario is Zacko and I get through this portion of our journey with little to no Wayfarer-on-Wayfarer violence—especially if we’re gonna be outnumbered like this!

  Whether or not it was this particular thought that guided her, Serac’s gaze next fell upon Rathor Tyrsen. Presently, the prince stood a ways away from the rest of the group, flanked on either side by his bull-shark Yaksha father and slender Rakshasa mother. Serac knew this wasn’t the trio that made up Team Rathor (the king and queen were sitting this one out), so she had to assume this was just some quality family time before the son’s big game.

  The vibes, however, seemed… a little off. The family spoke to each other quietly—too quiet for anyone else to hear. But they didn’t do such a good job of hiding their emotions.

  Loha especially was visibly upset, as she peered up at her much taller son to make some kind of impassioned appeal. To this, Rothar’s body language was one of disregard and perhaps even petulance, as he crossed his arms and avoided his mother’s eyes. At some point, Loha grew impatient enough to grab her son by the chin and shoulder to turn him towards her.

  “Ah…!”

  Serac let out an involuntary gasp. Somehow, this was the first time she got a good look at Rathor’s bare back—and also the first time she saw what passed for his dorsal fin.

  It was a stunted little thing, a barely mappable hillock of polished basalt on an otherwise vermilion field. And yet, Rathor was a man seemingly beloved by all across the Realm. There certainly were no unsavory rumors nor derogatory epithets attached to the prince’s crimp-finned back…

  Despite not feeling great about it, Serac spied on the royal family for a while longer. She saw Loha become increasingly animated as Rathor continued to brush her off. Eventually, as more and more Wayfarers came out of meditation (and more eyes turned toward the Djofulsens), it was King Tyr who used his considerable frame to break up mother and son.

  Surprisingly even to herself, Serac’s eyes chose to linger on Loha. Dismissed by her son and pushed aside by her husband—and in a rather public manner at that—the queen cut something of a forlorn figure. Bags under downcast bloodshot eyes, tiara of corals knocked slightly askew, shoulders somewhere halfway between held up in dignity and sagging in defeat.

  For seemingly the first time, the woman showed her age. Well… perhaps not all four centuries of it, but enough to make Serac wonder again: just what’s been ‘eating’ this Queen Loha these past two months?

  The answer, if she’d ever find it, would have to wait. The Realmhunt was nigh, and its host King Tyr now clambered onto the laurel upon his sleeping salamander Steed, the better to address the contestants from an elevated podium.

  “Hunters!”

  Tyr Djofulsen roared, sending shockwaves through the air that would’ve been palpable to anyone, reader or no. After his son had helped to navigate the rough seas from earlier, the king appeared to have gotten his mojo back. He wore his usual jovial smile as he began:

  “All that needs saying has already been said, but allow me to leave you with a few final notes. First, I’ve taken the liberty of reading the Nether-deep ripples myself, and I can happily inform you all that the Frostkrill has awakened! I repeat: the Frostkrill has awakened, and is up for grabs for anyone bold and skilled enough to smite it. I do have some favorites in mind, but I trust that every one of you will do your part to make this Realmhunt the great spectacle and celebration that it is.”

  Loud murmurs rippled through the gathered Wayfarers. Many of the contestants here today had been but younglings when the last Frostkrill smiting occurred, which only added to their excitement. Even Serac—who’d only learned of the Frostkrill’s existence a mere few days ago—turned to her teammates, Zacko and Petter, to exchange enthusiastic smiles.

  “And second,” Tyr continued, with his shark eyes now twinkling with a sly sort of amusement, “a reminder to you all, made all the more relevant by my previous announcement. The Realmhunt’s rulebook is a short one, and there are numerous contingencies it doesn’t account for. For example, there’s no rule against teams forming alliances, as long as all parties involved accept Pathsight’s judgment on who should receive the smiting credit. By the same token, there’s also no rule against one team directly interfering with another’s hunt. But I warn you: if you do decide to hunt your fellow Wayfarers, you’d best be prepared to be hunted in turn. Understood?”

  Silence all around. The once festive mood had tensed at the flick of a fin. Serac looked to her teammates again, this time to exchange nods of determination.

  As for King Tyr, he let the silence marinate as if he were saving it for dinner. He swept his twinkling shark eyes across the entire field of contestants. Then, his face split into a wolfish grin, showing off every one of his serrated teeth.

  “Good. Then without further ado, let the Hunt begin!”

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