Page 6 of The Hunter's Mate

“That’s beside the point.”

I glare at him. “Go on.”

He cocks his head. “It’s a dangerous creature known as a zimya, native to swamps like this one. I’m going to release it and we’re both going to hunt it…and if you win, I’ll let you go.”

“Describe this thing to me,” I say.

His frill flares slightly. I think that’s his version of a smile—and I think it means he likes me humoring him. “It’s similar to what you might call an anaconda on this planet, but it has legs.”

“Come again?”

His sharp teeth glint. “Hunting and trapping this creature—or killing it—is the only way that I can ensure you won’t get me caught. If you can show your cunning, I will feel safe releasing you.”

“You’re psychotic,” I say.

“I like to play games, and it just so happens I’m often involved in deadly games,” he says. “That doesn’t mean I am not of sound mind.”

“And if I catch this thing, you’ll let me go?” I ask.

“I swear to the goddess of the hunt that I will release you,” he says.

I glance over at my wrists. “Alrighty then. Untie me and you have a deal.”

He reaches around my back and in one fluid motion slices right through the cords at my wrists. A second later, his other hand is at my ankles, cutting me loose.

I gasp at the release, feeling coming back to my limbs.

“Okay,” I say. “When are we doing this?”

“Tomorrow,” he says. “You need time for your leg to recover and to have something to eat…then we play.”

It sounds like he’s legitimately enjoying this.

I swallow hard and nod.

“What’s your name?” I ask. “I assume you have one?”

“Nyrik,” he says. “And yours?”

I bite my lip. “Fawn.”

He cocks his head.

“A prey animal,” he says. “Fascinating.”

6

Fawn

For what it’s worth, at least Nyrik is a good sport.

He leads me through a hatch in the floor of his ship, below which is a tiny mess hall and a prison cell with a translucent wall. I can see the zimya coiled at the center of the cell, its face more feline than reptile, a mane of feathers running from the crown of its head down its sinuous spine. Its green eyes stay fix on us as Nyrik sets a plate of food down for each of us—what looks like greens with some raw fish.

“Is this safe for me to eat?” I ask.

Nyrik peers at me. “Our game would be ruined if I poisoned you—and besides, I wouldn’t waste my rations when I could simply slit your throat.”

I swallow hard, my eyes wide as I stare down at the plate. It’s hard to get an appetite when a lizardman is telling you how easy it would be to kill you.