All six hunters jumped to the ready, arming themselves with stone spears, bone knives, stone axes, clubs, and other tools of murder.
"Everyone, protect the hunt!" Grind shouted.
The six hunters gathered around the dead beast, their eyes scanning every shadow, every crevice, and every sway of the grass. They searched the scenery for any indication of a threat, but no one could locate the source of the scream or what it might have come from.
"Anyone see anything?" Grind asked.
He got his answer in the dead silence of the hunters. Everyone was looking around for any leads—to know if it was a threat they had to defend against or just an injured animal—but there was nothing. No movement in the grass, no sounds of something coming toward them or putting up a fight against some creature nearby. Nothing. The world was pitch and silent, as if something had just materialized to frighten them and then reverted back to ceasing to exist.
Grind was just about to tell his hunters to be at ease when Flea got in front of him and pointed his spear into the distance.
"Hey, what is that?" the young hunter said, more than asked.
Grind peered in the direction Flea was pointing his spear, but the sun was too bright in his eyes for him to make out just what it was the young hunter was alluding to. He clasped his hands around his eyes and tried again, searching the vast area for what Flea's fresh eyes were better able to point out than his old, stale ones. He wasn't able to see anything that stood out in particular until…
"Is that…" he trailed off, unable to properly comprehend just what it was he was seeing.
"It's Spoot?" he heard his son Kain utter in confusion.
While it was indeed Spoot, that wasn't what was shocking about what he was seeing. What stood out was that he was running. And him running wasn't even the confusing part—it was what he was running from. A hog. He was running from a hog that appeared to have its tail cut off.
"Say, Flea, tell me something," Hilt asked with a humorous inflection. "Isn't that the hog you tried and failed to kill earlier?"
"You didn't have to say 'fail,' but yeah, it looks to be the same one."
"Hold on, I don't get it," said Tone, a tall, bald hunter with a voice so deep it vibrated in the ears. "Why the frick is Spoot running from some stinking hog? Is his skull hollow?"
"Hey, Spoot! Run any faster and we might see the slit between your legs!" a short, black-haired hunter shouted.
All the other hunters began hurling insults of varying degrees of disrespect and disappointment at the man, but Grind blocked their incessant yapping out. Something was wrong. It didn't make sense. Why was Spoot—one of the most experienced hunters in the tribe—no, not even that—one of the most competent and fearless fighters in the tribe—running away from a mere boar? Something wasn't adding up.
He cupped his eyes again, shielding them from the blinding light of the sun. Now that the man had gotten closer, he really looked at him—not just the quick pass-over glance he did before. This time he paid attention to anything that could give him an answer as to why one of his best fighters was running away from a hog like a man who just got caught mating with another man's mate.
Grind searched the man for something—anything—that would tell him something, but got nothing. He didn't look injured. He wasn't limping or cradling one of his arms. So what was it?
Grind decided to see what he could get from the man's face instead, and just from his expression, Grind knew something disastrous had occurred.
Spoot, whose face was usually a canvas of joy and laughter, was now plagued with a look of severe horror and fright. His bushy eyebrows stood high on his forehead, his green eyes were wide and unblinking, and with every step he made he peered behind himself as if he were expecting something to appear at the drop of a rock.
"Hey, Spoot, your—" the same man began another insult, but Grind raised his hand.
"Hold on, Lint. Something's wrong."
"Huh?" Lint uttered. "Nothing seems wrong to me. Looks like Spoot has just been a coward acting tough all along."
"Wait, he's saying something," Flea
Now that the hunters were silent, Grind realized Spoot was indeed shouting something, but with him being so far away it was hard to make out what.
Spoot shouted again, but still no one was able to make sense of it.
"What the bonkers are you saying? Speak up, you coward!" Tone shouted.
"Run! Yous all need to ditch dat ting and run nows!"
The jovial atmosphere vanished. In its place was a look Grind had become an expert at noticing: pure fear. No matter how many times he felt it, he could never get used to it.
"Spoot, why should we—"
Grind didn't get to finish. At that specific moment, he saw them.
Black like the moonless dark, with fur so vast and thick you could get lost in it. And the size—damn, were they large. It wasn't Grind's first time seeing them this close, but you never really got used to their size. They had the height of two standing men, two men in width, and three men in length, with fiery red eyes and teeth made for one sole purpose.
And that was to kill.
Grind gripped his stone spear so tight the rough wood creaked. He looked at his hunters. The terror on Spoot's face was now mirrored on theirs. Two of them began backing up to bolt. Grind knew if he didn't get them under control right now, they would all be sitting ducks for the approaching pack.
He ran to the dead beast, jumped on top of it, and stabbed his spear into the carcass at his feet.
"Hunters!" he shouted until his throat strained.
He had their attention
"Listen to me. I can't tell you not to be afraid—that's foolish. Your skull would have to be hollow not to fear what you're about to face. But before you decide to run or fight, I want you to remember what you all accomplished today."."
He scanned their faces.
"Remember two winters of hunger. Remember watching your children cry and losing loved ones. Remember your mates looking at you like you're worthless. If you run, remember that. If you fight, imagine seeing your children eating and happy. Imagine your tribe thriving. Now imagine that while you run like cowards—or die because you were too afraid to kill some dogs with large teeth!"
Grind pulled his spear from the beast and hopped down.
"If you want to run, go ahead. But know that at that point, you are no longer my tribesmen. You are my enemy. Those who care for their kin, come with me. The rest? Just know that when I'm done with these wild puppies, you're next."
Grind started walking toward the wolves. He didn't look back. If his words weren't enough, nothing would be. He was going to protect what his tribe needed to survive, or he was going to die trying.
Footsteps sounded beside him. He looked over to see his son, Kain, smiling at him.
"I'm with you, Dad," Kain said.
Grind didn't need to hear it; he knew the boy would sacrifice himself if it meant the people he cared about lived a little longer. That aspect of his personality always scared Grind. But as a father, it also made him proud to call the boy his son—even if he didn't say it enough.
"Me too, Capo," Flea said on his left.
Grind nodded in respect.
"Well, if you're both staying, I guess I have to as well," Hilt said, stepping up. "Can't have you showing me up."
"That's the way, youngin'. If you die, you die with dignity," Tone added, standing next to Kain.
"My mate always wanted some wolf fur," Lint joked, standing beside Hilt. "Who knows, I might get some 'thanks' for this later."
The men laughed, the tension breaking just enough.
Finally, Spoot reached them, gasping for air. "Yous all ain't runnin', then?"
"That's right. We're going to discipline these mongrels. Catch your breath, Spoot. We need you at your best."
Spoot grinned—that same I'm about to do something mad grin Grind knew well.
"Yous got it, Capo."
With everyone in place, Grind leveled his spear.
"Hunters! Protect your kill!"
They drew their weapons, awaiting the horde that was almost upon them.