Chapter One

He'd been born small and weak and the color of death's shadow. Though he was expected to die, his mother named him this, to honor his first great battle with death, even if he should fail. The one who sired him was a great elder warrior, and though it put an ache in his heart, he advised the female that bore the suckling to do it a mercy and help it to die quickly. She more than refused, her ferocity driving the others away, only the child's father lingering to face her. So savage was her rage that she drew blood from the elder. He was displeased, but respected the right of a female to protect her young. Deep down, he had admired her courage and devotion. He lamented that she would fight so hard for a life that must surely be so miserable and brief.

Death's Shadow was now himself an elder and still wore the color that had promised him death upon his birth. He was pale as tusk-ivory, his speckling and stripes and even his hair were slate blue. His eyes were gray as iron, a ring of milky green skirting his pupils. He had sired many sucklings in his years, sons who became blooded warriors and daughters who now bore great warrior sons of their own. Though the way of his kind rarely drew mates together into permanent bonds or kept fathers in the lives of their progeny, he prided himself in being among the warriors who had treated his mates well during their brief seasons together and who now, long years later, knew the names and deeds of his offspring.

Some of his sons had fallen in glory, Blooded in Death, though they had never taken that honor in life. Others of his sons were years beyond their first hunt, warriors with sons and grandsons of their own. He could boast a daughter who, like the female who bore him, was fierce and well respected even unto the honor of hunting. His long life was a tale of many glories, but for one, glaring stain.

It was no coincidence that he should take this hunt himself. He could have passed it off to a younger warrior. Tracking and eliminating Abominations was in fact viewed by many to be beneath him. But one among that tainted clan was of his bloodline. He had sired the honorless thing he now hunted, and it gave him no pleasure, but he would put down his own progeny to remove the blemish on his life.

This planet his son had selected was of little personal importance. While he could recall a number of hunts on the small world, and a particularly fascinating race of inhabitants, the idea of its possible destruction did not pain him very much. All the same, he could admit a bit of enjoyment at another chance to encounter the oomans. Victory over the Tainted would ensure that oomans would live on without ever knowing that their survival could be laid at his feet.

Oomans were a young race, impulsive and short-lived. But they had a capacity for courage and intelligence that he and many of his kind admired. His primary objective was not to save the oomans, but to put down the Tainted Clan like the rabid animals they were and, perhaps as a secondary objective, to preserve this world for future generations of warriors to test their mettle against oomankind.

It did not escape him that he was aged, approaching the title of Ancient among other elders. It was very possible that this deed might be his last, but there was honor in it, even if he should fail. This was a good fight against an enemy deserving of a long death. He had little to regret if he should fall here and in this battle.

He clicked out a sound of amusement with his tusks as he thought that he should like to sire just one more suckling before he died. One more courtship to a female in her hot blooded season had its appeal. Any warrior who had lost that desire was already dead inside, but he had enough fire and sap in him for years to come. He could rest assured that he was still very much alive and ready for the hunt.

The control panel blipped an alert, snapping his attention from the thoughts of lusting females to the reality of what was coming. He made an easy entry to the planet, their meager technology level affording him the luxury of an atmosphere devoid of sensory and weapon systems. He piloted his craft toward a vastly uninhabited mountainous region with dense foliage and a humid, temperate climate. His sensors picked up the energy signature of a Yautja vessel, and he was well aware that no sanctioned hunts were taking place. Any hunters on this world were here without allowance by the Council of Ancients, and thus were subject to violent removal.

This region was well documented in his logs, an area frequented by his kind in the past. The native people had been a warrior culture, proud and strong. They had been larger than most humans of the era, selective in their breeding practices to foster the most desirable of traits. They were intelligent, possessed of courage and wit that was much like the common way of his own people. His data records had logged them by name, which suggested just how respected they must have been among their kind. These oomans, called Sa’lagi in the record logs, had been fierce, but their bloodlines were broken now by wars with traitorous enemies with a twisted sense of honor. And yet a few remained, tucked away in this portion of wild mountains where few other oomans were hearty enough to dwell.

Though there was atmospheric discharge in the form of thunder and lightning and a bit of cold drizzle, the region was in the deep of its coldest season, and he grumbled to himself as he glared at the sensors that fed him temperature readouts. The cold wouldn’t kill him, but it would do little for all his old wounds and even less for his mood. His previous visits to this world had been in their hottest seasons, and had been quite comfortable. Now he not only faced the vanguard of a clan of abominations, but he was going to have to do it in miserable conditions. Part of him resolved to make each and every one of them pay dearly for the inconvenience.

A distant flash on the edges of his sight was enough to trigger his swift reflexes and he jerked the sensitive controls to evade the attack.The ship pitched to one side, rocking too far on its axis as a bolt of plasma scorched along the underbelly. Though his quick reaction spared him instant death, it was not enough to prevent crippling damage to his transportation.

The plasma ate through the hull, melting vital system conduits and weakening the load bearing bulkheads. Alarms and flashing lights were superfluous. He already knew that he was going down. The trick was to keep the crash manageable. He needed the structure for shelter, the remaining systems for records, and he needed to be upright and mobile after touchdown, however turbulent it might be.

His fingers swept quickly over the controls, rolling the ship over to avoid a second bolt of plasma and steering away from the attack. It was confirmation that he was in the right place, but he needed a bit of distance between himself and his enemies. He needed to put down elsewhere and then go in on foot.

A glance at the sensors indicated that the area was not quite as uninhabited as records might have stated, and he grumbled a curse, watching the ship's cloaking controls flicker. If the oomans below saw his ship, then they might come looking for it. It was an annoyance he didn't have time for. He hadn’t come to hunt oomans, and he didn’t like the idea of hiding from them either.

He steered the bow of the ship for a rough clearing just below a rolling mountain peak. There was a water supply nearby and plenty of cover. The elevation was higher, and he hoped it would be sufficient to keep all but the most curious and foolish of oomans from searching for the source of the disturbance he was about to make.

The sleek belly plowed up dirt and rock, casting them aside in a violent spray as the ship sank deeper into the earth. Young trees snapped off at the ground and birds scattered away from the crash site. Thunder shook the mountaintop as the ship’s nose dug into the rocky mud. The tail came off the ground and spun the vessel half around, tipping it toward its port side before it came to a sudden and quaking halt against a flattened wall of washed out rock.

He heaved a deep sigh as he lingered in his tilted chair to shut down the ship’s unnecessary systems. He rose to his feet and strode across the sloping floor, pausing in the doorway as something clinked to the floor back in the ship’s innards. With another sigh, he left the ship behind and stepped out into the wet cold to begin his work. Frigid air hit him as he cloaked himself and trotted for the treeline, icy rain rolling over his skin. He flicked a mandible absentmindedly as he melded into the trees, irritated by the attack made by young and unworthy enemies. In any other instance, it would have been a thrilling invitation to glorious battle. But this was not honorable warfare. It was extermination.

...To Be Continued...