Prey

The first rays of dawn painted the sky in pale hues as he crouched at the water's edge, muscles aching from a night of prowling. Small birds had begun their morning songs, their calls marking the transition from his hunting time to theirs.

The stars were fading, replaced by streaks of orange and pink that reminded him of fresh meat. Water lapped against his bloodied mouth, sending ripples across the river's surface, disturbing his reflection – the face of an old hunter, battle-scarred and graying around the muzzle.

A wound in his hindquarters throbbed as he moved, a reminder of a buffalo's horn from seasons past. This drought had turned hunting into an ordeal of desperation.

The great herds that once thundered across these plains had dwindled to scattered groups, forcing him to range further and further from his traditional grounds. Where once the darkness had been his ally in stalking abundant prey, now he found himself pushed to the fringes of territories he would never have considered in better times.

The dry season had stolen the strength from the land itself – the grass was sparse and yellow, the air thick with dust, and the smaller water holes had vanished one by one. Age had made him bolder, more reckless in his choice of hunting grounds, but even youth and strength would have struggled in these lean times.

Across the rushing water, he could see greener pastures where prey might be more plentiful. He studied the churning current, its raw power evident in the way it tore at fallen branches.

The river had claimed many lives in his time – he had watched young zebras swept away during crossings, their striped bodies tumbling in the foam before disappearing forever. Even if hunger drove him to many desperate acts, he would not attempt that crossing.

The wetness that even now soaked his front paws was bad enough. He despised wetness more than anything. He despised it more than the bite of thorns, more than the sting of wounds, even more than the gnawing emptiness of starvation.

No, better to stay on this side, where at least the ground was familiar beneath his feet. His gaze drifted toward where the sun would set, where a strange path cut through his hunting grounds.

Unlike the familiar trails left by zebra herds and wildebeest migrations, marked by their droppings and the sweet musk of their passing, this path reeked of something utterly wrong. The black surface carried an acrid stench that burned his nostrils – not the scent of any creature he knew, but something that reminded him of lightning strikes and rotting earth.

He had watched this path grow over the seasons, had seen the strange, roaring beasts that moved along it with eyes that glowed in the darkness. They were faster than any prey he had ever stalked, and their throaty growls made his fur stand on end.

Sometimes they carried men inside their bellies, spitting them out when they stopped. When he had followed the path, the burning scent had still fouled the air, as strong as if the roaring beasts had just passed, though the moon had since crossed the sky and given way to dawn.

Still, with no prey left behind in his own territory, hunger had driven him past their borders into the heart of their territory while the moon still hung high. Over the years, he had learned much about these strange creatures.

The large ones were dangerous, he had learned. He had seen them take down greater prey than himself with their fire-sticks, had watched them move in groups that no single hunter could challenge.

He had witnessed them bring down elephants, had seen them drive entire herds with their roaring beasts, had observed how they marked their territory with strange, straight boundaries that grew ever wider. Their numbers seemed to multiply with each passing season, like termites building a mound.

But these smaller ones, these he had discovered were different. As he had crept between their square caves of wood and stone, he had caught their scent – sweet and clean, unmarked by the acrid smells that clung to the adults.

The smell had drawn him to one particular dwelling, its walls thin, its opening uncovered. Through a gap in the covering, he had seen them sleeping, small and vulnerable. His own cubs had been that size once, in better times, before the drought had taken them.

He had moved with the silence of a seasoned hunter, testing each step, freezing at each small sound. The square caves created strange echoes, and unfamiliar shadows played across his path from their eternal fires.

With one swift attack, he had claimed one of the small ones. Unlike their larger kin, this prey had been light enough to drag, hardly a burden in his jaws. The flesh had tasted different from his usual prey – sweeter, more tender – but meat was meat, and in times of hunger, anything that filled the belly was good enough.

But even in the depth of night, his feast had been short-lived. A scream had pierced the darkness, bringing others running. Their shouts had echoed off the square caves, multiplying like hyena calls.

The sudden burst of light from their dwellings had blinded him momentarily, the glare reflecting off their strange surfaces. Then the first crack of thunder had split the night. Something had whined past his ear like an angry bee.

More thunder followed, the sounds chasing him as he ran. He had been forced to abandon his kill there, melting back into the shadows with his hunger barely satisfied, moving with the instincts honed by countless hunts to find the darkest paths between their structures.

Behind him, the thunder had continued to crack, each sound making his fur bristle, but none finding their mark. The taste of human flesh still lingered, but instinct told him returning to their settlement would mean certain death.

He had seen what happened to others of his kind who grew too bold – had heard their roars cut short by thunder, had found their bodies surrounded by the men's sharp sticks. Instead, he turned in the other direction and followed the river away from the dwellings.

The first hints of dawn had begun to show in the sky as he moved, pausing occasionally to rest his aching limbs in patches of long grass. Each time he closed his eyes, hunger drove them open again. He couldn't sleep now. He needed to find prey.

Not man, but the kind his ancestors had hunted for generations. His whiskers twitched as he caught a promising scent on the morning breeze. Zebra. Fresh spoor led away from the water's edge – the dung still wet, the crushed grass not yet risen.

He could smell urine marks, the particular musk of a stallion in his prime – a herd had passed this way while the moon was still bright. Though his limbs protested after the long night of hunting, his muscles tensed with anticipation.

His tawny coat blended perfectly with the savanna grass as he moved with practiced stealth, each step measured despite his fatigue. He tested the wind frequently, adjusting his path to stay downwind of his quarry.

Through the dawn-kissed stalks, he spotted them – a herd as many as the toes on his front paws and hind paws together. They were clustered near a stand of trees, the young ones staying close to their mothers' flanks.

His golden eyes fixed on a young stallion who had strayed slightly from the group, its own exhaustion evident in its drooping head. The stallion's flanks were round with meat, its neck strong but not too thick. Perfect prey.

He had learned long ago to avoid the lead mares with their watching eyes and sharp hooves, to ignore the tempting foals that would bring the whole herd charging to their defense. This target was ideal – old enough to have meat on its bones, young enough to have not yet learned all the dangers of the world.

The morning wind shifted, carrying his scent away from the herd. This was the moment. His powerful shoulders bunched, ready for one final burst of energy. The stallion took another step away from its herd, completely unaware of its impending doom.

That's when he heard it – the heavy, deliberate footfalls crushing the dew-dampened grass behind him. That sound, that particular way of walking, was achingly familiar, one he had learned to fear from his earliest days.

His instincts screamed at him to run, but his night of hunting had left him too spent to react quickly enough. Before the great lion could move, the air cracked with thunder.

Pain exploded in his shoulder, hot and sharp. His roar echoed across the plain, more in surprise than agony, as he tried to turn. Another crack split the morning air. This time, the pain bloomed in his chest, stealing what little strength remained in his limbs.

He could smell them now. Man. As he had followed the zebra's trail, the men must have followed his own. They were seeking vengeance for their lost cub, turning their fire-sticks against him as they did against all who threatened their strange, growing realm.

As his legs gave way beneath him, he caught one final glimpse of the zebra herd bolting away across the plain, their thunder-sound hooves stirring up dust in the morning light. He attempted to lift his head, to gather his legs beneath him, but his limbs had become as heavy as stone.

A shiver ran through his massive frame, from nose to tail-tip. When had he ever felt so cold? So pained? So wet? He let out a silent growl.

He had survived so much – drought and flood, hunger and battles, the loss of his pride and his territory – only for it all to end here in the morning light. His life was seeping away like water into sand, and with it came a final surge of fury.

At the zebras that had drawn him into this trap. At the men who had felled him with their thunder. But in the end, as his own blood soaked his fur, he hated the wetness most of all.