STARGATE ATLANTIS: Dead End by Chris Wraight Page B

There was even a low heat returning to the air around them. “Well, I’ll be…”
    McKay patted him on the shoulder. That was unusual, the man was clearly pleased with himself. “See? What did I tell you? Genius.”
     
    Ronon didn’t see his life flash before him. All he felt was frustration. This was a
bad
way to die.
    A few more paces, and he saw the shadow of the beast fall over him. He screwed his eyes closed, gritting his teeth and waiting for the lancing of the hooves.
    It never came. There was an almighty bellow, rending the air around him, and the pursuit suddenly stopped. Ronon kept going, legs scything through the snow. Only after he’d covered another few meters did he slow, finally turning to see what had happened. His heart was hammering
    The White Buffalo was writing in pain, twisting and shaking its head frantically. A
jar’hram
protruded from one of its eyes. Orand let slip a cry of triumph, and the hunters cheered. Ronon bent double, leaning the shaft of the
jar’hram
against his knees, gasping for breath. The cold air made his lungs ache, but he was just glad to be breathing. That had been
too
risky.
    But it wasn’t over. The buffalo was sent mad by Orand’s spear. The bellows became a frenzied trumpeting, and it reared again on its massive hindquarters, waving its head from side to side in agony.
    “Fall back!” cried Orand, seeing the danger.
    It was too late. Blind to all but its fury and pain, the buffalo crashed back on to four legs and charged headlong at the source of its misery. Orand, now empty-handed, turned to flee. Like Ronon before him, he was too slow, and too near. The Buffalo surged towards him, head low, streaming blood from its sides.
    Despite his condition, Ronon stumbled into action again, running back toward the rampaging buffalo. He still had the
jar’hram
in his hands, though he didn’t trust a throw. There wasn’t time. Orand was just yards away from the slicing, churning hooves, moments from being crushed. All depended on a clean thrust.
    Ronon held the
jar’hram
high over his head with both hands. He closed fast. Half of him screamed to retreat — this was the monster than had just nearly killed him. The other half, the warrior half, kept him going. Never leave your comrades behind. That’s what he’d learned on Sateda, and the principle didn’t change with the planet.
    With a cry, he hurled himself into the air, straight at the charging beast. The spear-tip plunged deep into the side of the buffalo. With a sickening lurch, Ronon was torn from his feet. The
jar’hram
broke free, swaying in the air, and he staggered and fell back into the snow. Hurled to the earth again, he had a confused impression of movement. The musk was almost overpowering. Barely knowing what he was doing, he scrambled backwards through the trodden mire frantically, expecting at any moment to feel the crushing weight of the buffalo come down on him. The sound of the animal’s death throes was deafening, snow falling in heavy gouts around him, thrown up by the frantic wallowing of the buffalo.
    He wiped the slush from his eyes, still scrambling clear. The vast animal had fallen on its side, writhing in agony.
Jar’hram
protruded from its hide in every direction and the snow was dark and thick with blood. Ronon’s own spear stuck from its stricken flank, buried deep into the flesh.
    Several yards away, Orand regained his feet. His face had the pallor of a man who had stared death in the face too closely. Without saying a word, he pulled a long dagger from his furs. The buffalo seemed no longer capable of gaining its feet. Its bellows sank into long, rumbling cries of distress.
    Orand waited for a few moments while the rest of the hunters approached the wounded animal. With effort, Ronon pulled himself to his feet. His vision still swam, but he kept upright, determined not to show weakness in front of the others. Orand walked forward, holding the knife aloft as the rest of the hunting party