He found a crack; small but getting larger. The chantimer inside was breaking the shell. Thurl dug his thumbnail into the crack and tried to widen it, to help the thing. It leaked some kind of sticky ooze that smelled like rot and musk.
Thurl backed away a few steps. The creature inside mewled more loudly and began thrashing against the inner shell. The crack splintered and became a dozen cracks, then two dozen. Thurl pressed his hands against them and clicked for information.
His heart raced as the chick broke free of its prison and stuck a beak through the shell into the biting cold air.
Thurl wanted to whoop and scream. He clicked around, searching for his spear. If he could bring home a chantimer chick this early in the hunt, he wouldn’t have to worry about going home without a kill.
He dropped to his knees as the chick forced through the egg. Thurl felt around, grasping bones and bonroots, trying to find his spear. Then he remembered, he’d left it below with the hunt team.
For just a moment, he wondered if he had time to get it. Then, the mewl of the distressed chick turned into a harsh, piercing screech. The chantimer chick could smell Thurl, and he didn’t smell like its mother.
The screech was followed by an echoing shriek high above him in the void.
Thurl turned and clicked into the skies. No echoes came back, but he could feel something above him; something immense with heavy beating wings pressing the air into him.
Suddenly, the adult chantimer dropped out of the sky, all feathers and fur; talons and tail. It circled overhead until it found the direction of the wind, then used the velocity to propel itself toward Thurl at its maximum speed.
Thurl was knocked onto his back. The bonroot and bones in the nest dug into his sides and jabbed the back of his head. The chantimer landed and wrapped her four leathern wings around the perimeter of the nest, cradling her eggs; protecting them from harm, but trapping Thurl inside.
Thurl clicked, but was met with the echo of the wings on all sides. Above him there was a hole, but the adult chantimer was craning her long neck, poking down into the gap to check on her eggs.
Thurl stood and faced the creature. He clicked and grunted and the impression that echoed back terrified him. The chantimer was immense; large enough for him to stand within the circle of its wings with room to spare above his head. It had four heavy wings and a long thin beak. The beak split in three places and two barbed tongues shot out. They were normally used for coaxing insects out of tranik vines, but they lashed Thurl and tore at his skin. He twisted and rolled to escape their spikes. Its smooth, round head – still twice his size – sat atop long neck that darted in and out of the circle of wings. Just outside the wings was a slender body covered in slick, oily feathers and follicle fur.
The bird mewled again and from the echo of the mewl Thurl could navigate his surroundings more clearly.
The wings were large, but not particularly thick. They were leathern and veined, with boney struts that ended in sharp talons.
Thurl had left his shield and his spear on the ground. He found a loose bone intertwined in the nest and plucked it out, wielding it as a weapon. He thrummed two grunts and saw the beak opening again, those horrid tongues coming toward him. The air pressed against his flesh and he dodged the tongues, rolling behind one of the remaining eggs. The tongues thrashed around on the bottom of the nest, tasting his path so the bird could strike again.
The chantimer chick was pulling at her shell, tossing pieces aside as it tried desperately to free itself. The thing was covered in ooze. Its follicles were wet and useless. It didn’t seem as if it could even lift its own wings.
Thurl ran behind it, and sheltered himself beneath a large section of the discarded egg shell.
The chick tried to stand on its thin legs and tumbled over into the nest. It mewled pitifully, and the adult chantimer began cooing nuzzling the offspring to help it stand.
Thurl took the distraction. He ran to the edge of the nest toward the wings closest to the adult chantimer’s breast. He stabbed at the weakest point, just below the connective tissue, and the thin membrane of the wing tore open.
Warm blood spurted from a vein and froze on Thurl’s body, matting his follicles and making the movement of the tongues difficult to determine.
He hacked and jabbed at the wing until he’d carved a sizable hole.
The chantimer shrieked and thrashed at him with its beak and finally raised the wing. Thurl grunted and found his opening cleared. He lunged for the edge of the nest, meaning to roll beneath the wing and back onto the surface of the tranik vine. But, just as he cleared the woven bonroots of the nest edge, the bird stood up, spreading its four huge wings behind her. She screeched a deafening howl and lifted her talon, then stomped it over Thurl, trapping him beneath.
Thurl slipped down the side of the nest, and lay in the gap where the nest rested on the tranik vine. The nest edge held the talon above him, but Thurl was still trapped. The talons dug into the bark and the nest. Thurl jabbed, ineffectively, at the underside of the chantimer talon, but the talon was made of hard bone and thick enamel.
He could feel the air moving in fast whorls around him. A quick succession of clicks revealed the bird to be twisting and contorting its slender body, plucking its own nest apart to get to Thurl.
Thurl lay flat on his back and pressed his arms and feet against the bottom of the talon, trying to pry it off him. He scrabbled through the bonroot and bones of the nest, looking for one taller than his width to prop the talon above and prevent himself getting crushed. His follicles bristled and quivered for information. He clicked and grunted as the panic overcame him. Then, he felt the insects crawling out of the bark, marching toward his body, ready to feast on his remains and heat their larvae with his warm blood. As one of the chantimer’s tongues lashed his leg, Thurl screamed, emitting a foul cloud of frosted breath that carried on the wind for miles.
The high-pitched shriek startled the bird, and for a moment it paused and mewled for information. Thurl shrieked again, and the bird withdrew, raising its wings and crouching, as if ready for flight.
The mewl turned into a low growl and the chantimer tightened its grip on the back of the vine. The talons moved closer to Thurl as the insects began to find their way onto his follicles.
There was another high-pitched shriek, much louder than Thurl had managed, and a volley of spears tore through the air. They bounced off the chantimer without penetrating the iced feathers and fur, but the chantimer began to beat her wings. She loosed her grip on the vine and lifted into the air with gusts of blistering wind.
Thurl scrambled to his feet and beat at the insects crawling on his skin. He could see the other warriors standing around the nest, shouting whoops of victory at the tail of the chantimer. Then, when the echoes had faded to silence, they began to laugh at Thurl.
“I know you are eager for the hunt, Thurl,” his father said, clapping him on the shoulder. “But you should wait until we get to the hunting grounds. And you should never take on a chantimer. The meat is foul, the feathers are useless and the eggs taste like sweat and pus.”
The warriors laughed again and began climbing back down the vine.
“I didn’t know what it was,” Thurl was trying to explain. “I saw an egg hatching and just thought-“
“I know,” said Sohjos. “Every warriors learns from mistakes. Those who cannot learn from their mistakes, die from them. Next time, before you wander off, make certain you are not alone. We hunt in packs to learn from other’s mistakes and keep accidents from happening.”
“I know,” Thurl said. He’d heard it a thousand times in Elder lessons. He’d just been curious, and maybe too eager to not come home empty handed.
After the warriors climbed down, he waited a few minutes in the horrid cold wind, picking at the vine bark and listening for the chantimer to return. Behind him, in the nest, the chantimer chick was slowly spreading its wings, waiting for them to freeze in the wind; waiting for its mother to retu
rn with meat to feed it.
Finally, Thurl climbed down to face the ridicule of the other warriors. He expected them to call him ‘child’ and ‘runt’ like his brothers and sisters. He was surprised to find them ignoring the battle. They ate and sucked uanna sap and talked about the hunt to come, and not one of them mentioned the chantimer bird.
Thurl moved into the circle and chewed one of the deilla pies his sisters made for him. Soon, the hunt party would be moving again. He needed to eat if he wanted to keep up.
CHAPTER four
They were running in single file between the huge trees of the ancient foothills. Thurl could hear the wind whistling through the entrance to the Valley of Corpses. The excitement inside him was making it hard to control his heartbeat. He was sure every fegion in the foothills could hear it.
Xatencio and Darawa had been sent ahead to scout and were coming back to report. Thurl could smell them getting closer; the faint musk of Racroft deepening as they approached.
Darawa reported a clear entrance, free from avalanche or storm winds. It would be a good day for a hunt. The game was plentiful. Down in the valley there were flocks of flightless signie roosk rummaging through the bristlewind. A chunacat was stalking them, but chunacats were solitary hunters, and it was unlikely there were more of them. A host of lutzwock was huddled beneath the overhang of the glacier. They could smell a few solitary fegion nearby, but couldn’t locate them.
Fegions were wide and low and blended into the snowy background and were very hard to hunt. They were covered in blankets of thick fur, but they were slow to turn and had poor senses. They rarely attacked unless provoked. When they did attack they were fast and left no survivors. The Racroft ignored the fegion. Their pelts were useful, as were their bladed jaws, but this expedition was about michau meat. And, of course, there were flocks of trigon birds nesting in the towering ice reeds.
Thurl began to get excited. Maybe he wouldn’t go home empty handed after all. A signie roosk shouldn’t be too difficult to catch, and the lutzwock were slow and stupid. Thurl felt some of his anxiety beginning to lift.
It took the rest of the hunt party the better part of the day to reach the entrance to the valley. There was a camp set in an alcove in a recessed rock near the gorge where they would enter. They gathered inside, wrapped in hides and furs to conserve body heat and huddled around a warming rock. They talked; they sucked uanni sap; they ate. They would wait until the lowest tides, when the world seemed to be quietest and most calm and the creatures were mostly asleep, before they would venture out and stalk their prey.
Thurl sat near his father, but his father moved away. Thurl moved with him and again, his father moved away.
At first, Thurl thought it was some sort of punishment for his folly with the chantimer. Then he realized his father wasn’t sitting with anyone for more than a moment or two. He was making rounds, checking on the other warriors. Thurl could hear him whispering things to them as he crouched. Sohjos never whispered anything to Thurl. It was Thurl’s first hunt. The other warriors had secrets, plans, strategies to share.
Sohjos whispered to Ciashi and Gabal, to Hedule and Yadreet and Sreht, then Lavis, then Darawa. Each, in their turn, whispered back and clicked or grunted in Thurl’s direction. Finally, Sohjos whispered to Meisx, and Meisx laughed and grumbled something in return.
“Because he is my son,” Sohjos growled at Meisx.
Meisx stood up. He was taller than Sohjos; wider and stronger, but fool-hardy and arrogant.
Sohjos stood to challenge him and they huffed and snorted in each other’s face.
Meisx whispered something and Sohjos whispered back. Then, Meisx spat and puffed his chest and tried to back Sohjos against the wall.
Sohjos stood, unyielding and resolute; silent and calm and confident.
Finally, Meisx mumbled something and retreated to the back of the cave. He sat against the wall, growling to himself.
Sohjos returned to his routine, whispering to Romd and Aivira and Djinzon.
After a while, many of the warriors lay down in the furs and took a nap. Thurl wrapped himself tight in his chunacat cloak, excited and nervous and frightened and frantic. Finally, he fell asleep as well. He would need rest before the tide receded and the real hunt began.
As he fell asleep, he could hear the beasts in the valley; their soft padding through the snow; the howl of their breath in the wind; the crunch of their teeth on the stumps and roots of the frozen vegetation, or on the bones of one another. The Valley of Corpses was wild; untamed. Thurl had never experienced anything like it. He was beginning to feel unprepared. He wanted to please his father and show his brothers he was ready, but he was no longer sure his training had prepared him for the real world. Everything outside the cavern had real consequences; life or death.
Thurl drifted off to sleep, nervous and excited and terrified.
CHAPTER five
The smell of blood, the sounds of battle, the rage of beasts on swirling winds.
Thurl sat up and tossed the chunacat pelt aside. He clicked his tongue and discovered he was alone in the alcove. The warming rocks were still there, but all the warriors were gone.
Thurl panicked. He leapt to his feet and grunted frantically to find the hunt party. His follicles and whiskers quivered in the cold, searching for disturbances in the air currents. He ran to the alcove opening, sniffing the air for the scent of his father.
“They went without you,” said a voice behind him.
Thurl stood stiff. He could feel the breath of the Racroft left to guard him.
Gabal was crouched on a rock just inside the overhang. His heavy fegion pelt draped over him like leather snow.
Below, in the valley, Thurl could still hear the beasts and the battle.
“Why would he do that?” Thurl asked, trying to sound angry, but feeling more than hurt. “Why would my own father leave me behind?!”
“Sohjos felt you weren’t ready for the hunt,” Gabal said. “He said he went easy on your training and that was his mistake. He wants you to sit up here and feel the hunt before you participate.”
“The chantimer?” Thurl asked.
“It was kind of a stupid mistake,” Gabal said.
Gabal was one of the younger warriors on the hunt team. He was easily ten years older than Thurl, but he had trained with Thurl’s older brothers, so they knew each other well.
“So, what am I supposed to do?” Thurl asked Gabal. “Just stay here with you?”
“No,” answered Gabal. “I’m joining the hunt. You’re supposed to stay here. Sohjos just wanted somebody to be here when you woke up so you knew you weren’t welcome down in the Valley of Corpses.”
“I’m supposed to stay here in the cave while everyone else hunts,” Thurl repeated for clarification.
“Yep,” said Gabal. “Witness and learn, Runt. Maybe next time you’ll know the difference between a nest full of eggs and a chantimer death trap.”
Gabal slapped his giant hand on Thurl’s back, and galloped through the snow, down the hillside toward the rest of the hunt party.
Thurl sat on the rock, sulking and sullen; angry and hurt.
In the Valley of Corpses he could smell the prey getting settled down for the night. The hunt party was too far away for him to feel their movements, but with clicks and grunts he was able to track their strategy.
The valley was immense, stretching for several miles in all directions, surrounded by high cliff walls in a nearly complete circle. In his training, Thurl had been taught that the valley was once an ancient volcano: a bubbling crater filled with warming rocks so hot they melted into liquid. The volcano was dead, now; just as cold and frozen as the rest of the planet. It made a perfect hunting ground. There was only one main passage in or out of the valley, and the creatures that lived there, or wandered in looking for fertile grounds, often got trapped. The Racroft were able to chase their prey throughout the valley, without fear of it ever getting so far away as to be out of reach.
Using these echoes, Thurl followed the action of the hunting party.
They had surrounded a rare herd of michau – lumbering beasts with broad sides, powerful horns, enormous mouths, and the intelligence of a pile of rocks. Michau meat was tender and juicy. Their milk was warm and fatty. Their hide was thick; their horns were sharp. If the hunt party was able to bring back two or three slaughtered michau, the tribe would feast for months.
The warriors positioned themselves down-wind of the michau herd. Thurl could locate his father, Sohjos, standing on the crest of a snowy hillock, his arms spread wide, letting the pressure of the winds touch every follicle and whisker on his skin. From there, he would command the hunt.
The warriors prepared their shields and weapons, while Thurl sat back out of the wind.
He thought about Oswyn. If he returned empty handed, she would never want to mate with him. She would protest and hide with the Elders until a new arrangement could be made. Thurl would be called Runt for the rest of his life, she would argue, and that wouldn’t be healthy for any children they might produce. She might even win appeal, and another mate would be chosen. It wasn’t as if there was any real reason they were chosen as mates. Mostly, it was simply their health relative to one another, their complimentary age, and the fact that Oswyn’s father owed Thurl’s father a favor. Thurl knew some of the elders who had never mated. They were sad, lonely hermits, sitting alone outside their huts, just waiting for the cold to take them. At least, that was what Thurl thought of them. It wasn’t fair for his dad to keep him from the hunt. He was old enough, he had completed the training. He should get to hunt.
Orphan Tribe, Orphan Planet Page 3