The Outcast pushed that thought away. He refused to give in to the tears the name squeezed out of him. What had he done to make Agrevod hate him? It wasn’t his fault he was so short.
Quintazora and Darienel strolled back into the tent city as if they didn’t have a single chore waiting to get done. Somebody was sure to notice if they continued wandering around instead of working. Somebody would tell on them if they even suspected his brother and sister might help an Outcast.
Kirrkerin turned away from the pair as if he hadn’t seen them and prowled in the opposite direction. That was odd. Did the warrior disapprove of his being Outcast? Not that it would help him any. Or maybe it would. If he were careful.
He slithered forward, still flat on his belly. Rocks poked into his stomach; grass sliced tiny cuts down his chest, on his thighs, and in places he didn’t want to think about. He tried keeping his hips up, but that didn’t help a bit. Eventually he slithered into a narrow dirt path, probably an old coney trail. Dust stung his cuts, but he hoped it would seal any new bleeding.
Lightning flashed, thunderdrums rumbled. Tonight’s storm shouldn’t arrive until after dark. He planned to be under cover before the hard rain started.
The nameless boy raised his head a scant thumb length to check on the warrior. Kirrkerin had wandered even farther away. Good. He might reach the sack before anyone saw him.
He slunk forward, as low in the grass as a mouse. Well, as a nercat kitten; he hated thinking of himself as a mouse. A hand’s breadth at a time, he crept forward until he touched cloth. Taking a firm hold on the neck of the sack, he started to slither backward.
Backing up blind in the sharp grass hurt worse than going forward had. He lifted his head to relocate the coney trail.
“Outcast!” Kirrkerin howled. “Death to the Outcast!”
Blast.
Agrevod’s voice screamed in the distance. “Death to the Outcast!”
Sandblast it, if Agrevod caught up with him, there wouldn’t be enough of him left to feed to the bahtdor.
Still clutching the canvas bag, the nameless boy leapt to his feet and raced back toward the canyon and the trail down to safety. At least, he hoped they wouldn’t follow him into the canyon.
Several deep male voices chased him, gained on him. “Death to the Outcast!” Rocks thudded into the grass behind him.
He dodged away from the stones and ran faster.
A spear shaft grazed his ribs and pierced the ground just ahead of him. Deathwind strike them! That was cheating.
The Outcast dove aside and rolled to the edge of the canyon. He stuffed sack’s neck between his teeth, skittered over the canyon rim, and fell several paces before he could grab hold of a gnarly bush, forty feet above the canyon floor. That was too far to jump without breaking something. But not far enough down to escape his tormenters.
He bit into the canvas sack, squeezed fingers and toes into cracks in the rock, and scrabbled down the cliff face.
Fist-sized rocks battered his head and bare shoulders. “Death to the Outcast!”
Pain burst through him as skin tore. He scuttled downward, leaving bloody handprints on the canyon wall.
“Death to the Outcast!” A skull-sized rock bounced off the cliff next to his head, briefly trapping his hair and yanking out a few strands. “Death!”
He glanced down. Still twelve feet to the ground.
A pumpkin-sized boulder hit the wall above him. He ducked as it bounced over his head.
He flung himself off the cliff, spun in the air, and landed on gravel. He grabbed the sack and launched himself under an overhang.
An avalanche of rocks and boulders rained down around him. “Death to the Outcast! Death! Death.” Agrevod’s voice. No one else was shouting.
He hunched under the overhang and squeezed his hands over his ears. Blood dripped down his wrists, down his hair, across his chest.
Years passed before yelling choked into hoarse grumbles and rocks stopped pounding the canyon floor. He waited years more, until dusk, to crawl out of his shelter. Leaving the sack under the cliff, he crept to the river, checking the canyon rim with every step. No one seemed to be watching.
Half facing the cliff wall, the Outcast knelt on the bank and bathed his cuts. Icy water forced a wheeze from his lungs, and his wounds stung with every handful of water as he scrubbed gingerly at crusted blood. But mostly he felt numb. What had he done to deserve such hatred?
Nothing. That he remembered. He’d worked at his carving and stayed out of trouble. Maybe that was the problem. Warrior-apprentices were forever getting into trouble.
But no one could mistake him for a real warrior. He asked too many questions. And he was too short.
He minced into the cold water until he found a pool deep enough to immerse his whole body. He ducked under to rinse his blood-clotted hair and shuttered from the cold. How had his hair gotten all gory? Oh, from his hands. He inspected his palms. Bloody scratches striped his hands from fingertips up to his elbows, and his feet from toes to knees, but they all looked shallow. He’d been lucky.
He deserved a little luck. No, he’d made his own luck. With the Thunderer’s blessing, he’d survive being Outcast.
Lightning flashed, thunderdrums rumbled in the distance.
The Outcast grinned up at the dark sky. Certainly the Wind Dancer and the Thunderer approved. He splashed out of the river, one eye on the canyon rim. The gods’ favor wouldn’t protect him from a well-aimed spear. His fath– Agrevod never gave up easily.
Careful to watch for vipers slithering through the gloomy dusk, he worked his way around loose rocks, back to the overhang. He opened the battered sack. A smaller, thick leather sack nestled inside, filled with journey bread, jerky, and dried berries.
His belly growled louder than the thunder. He broke off a corner of the hard bread and stuffed it into his mouth. Pure bliss. Definitely Mama’s cooking. He hoped Agrevod never found out she’d helped him. Her brothers would kill him, but Agrevod would beat her and tear her tent apart before anyone stopped him. If they stopped him – they might destroy everything she owned for helping an Outcast.
He chanted a prayer to the Wind Dancer, begging protection for his mother.
After two more bites, he carefully packed the food away. His family wouldn’t get away with bringing him anything else, and he wasn’t about to share a single crumb with the mice.
He dug deeper into the sack. Under the provisions he found a scruffy blanket, a ratty pair of boots and clothing. His own old boots, his oldest clothing, and Darienel’s old beaded belt fastened to a gaudy pouch decorated with hundreds of small opals. He guessed someone would notice if his new bachelor garb went missing. But since he hadn’t grown in years, the old stuff fit well enough.
He dragged leather pants over his wet skin and wriggled into the soft suede shirt. A child’s clothing. How embarrassing, now that he was twelve. But he’d never count as a man after failing to complete the Knife Ceremony.
His cuts twinged with each scrape of leather against his skin. He hoped he didn’t start bleeding again. The bahtdor herd couldn’t be far away.
He started to cram the spare shirt back into the bag, but his fingers met something hard. He scrabbled along the bottom of the sack until he got hold of it. It was so dark he explored the object as much with his fingers as with his eyes.
A sheathed knife. A bahtdor-bone knife, and from the engravings, one he’d helped carve. He tilted the blade, and in the dim light he found his own maker’s mark near the hilt, below his teacher’s. He also found the owner’s name. Quintazora.
His sister’s knife, earned in her own Dedication ceremony two years ago.
What a terrible sacrifice. What would happen when someone noticed it was missing? They’d Outcast her, too.
And there was nothing he could do about it.
The nameless boy curled into a knot and wept.
Chapter 4.
Sunshine woke him. A bull bahtdor roared, not far away.
> Time to move. A bull could munch him down in three bites and the overhang wouldn’t protect him from its slobbery jaws and long neck. The sand-blasted beasts always acted hungry.
This time of year, they were nearly starved.
The Outcast buckled his little brother’s belt over his shirt, stroking the beading affectionately. It was just like Darienel to gift him something they both valued, even knowing he’d be punished if anyone saw it. He’d miss his little brother. He already missed Mama.
Would he miss his nosy sisters? Maybe. Well, probably. One them must have donated the ugly little pouch. Quintazora had risked her life by giving him her knife.
He packed everything back into the canvas bag, leaving the knife at the top, but out of sight. Anyone who saw the carvings on the bahtdor-hide sheath would know it was a Ceremonial Knife. They’d soon guess who’d given it to him. He wouldn’t endanger Quintazora if he could avoid it.
He hoped he could draw the knife out of the bag in a hurry if he needed it.
But first he needed to find shelter. Around the next bend a stand of Lividusater trees shaded the river, growing nearly as tall as the canyon rim. The blue-black leaves wouldn’t hide him from the Tribe, but the trunks were so big around that a hungry bahtdor couldn’t push the tree over. Plus he’d never seen an abuelo snake climb a Lividusater. He could camp in the branches until he found a permanent site.
A permanent site? Could he really live in the canyon alone?
The nameless boy shook his head. Where else could he go? All tents were closed to him. No Setoyan in the world would dare take him in.
Pushing that thought away, the Outcast trudged along the riverbed, as close to the cliff as possible. Even though everyone was supposed to ignore him now, unless he went too close to the tents, dishonorable warriors might drop rocks on him. They’d have trouble seeing him if he stayed near the undercut areas.
He suspected his fath– Agrevod might be lightning-blasted enough to forget honor again and push boulders on him. Rocks were a slave’s weapon. And a slave’s punishment.
Or the man might feel that a living Outcast son – former son – shamed him too deeply.
He plodded around a snarl of blackberry vines, into the Lividusaters’ shade. Wind picked up as thunderclouds formed low in the sky. Midmorning so soon? He needed to find a protectable camping site in a hurry or he’d spend another night as easy prey.
Low moans echoed ahead of him.
Was someone hurt? The nameless boy trotted between tree roots and scanned the riverbed and the cliff walls whenever he could see around the huge trunks. Who would be down here? The voice sounded too deep for the herder child.
He hesitated. Was it someone hunting him? A trick to lure him out? He crept to the edge of the trees. Nothing. Not even a stray bahtdor hatchling from the herd farther down the river.
What was making the noise? Had someone fallen into a sinkhole? He kept watch on the canyon rim, but walked faster. Wind pushed his tangled hair into his face. Impatiently, he shoved it back.
Moans grew into wails, subsided again. Went silent.
The wind died.
The Outcast darted forward. “Who’s there? Are you hurt?” His hair blew into his face again.
Wails erupted from the canyon floor directly in front of him. From a huge hole right under his feet.
He skidded and sat down hard on the edge of the pit. His feet dangled over empty air. A musty scent oozed over him, a mixture of mold and dried carrion.
Low moans echoed out of the abyss.
He scrambled backward.
Something was down there, and it wasn’t human or bahtdor. Was it a ghoul? His grandmother told horrible tales of ghouls hiding underground, waiting for a chance to snatch away children for their dinner.
Or was it the ghost of another Outcast, lost forever in this canyon, never able to leave?
Sand rattled and slithered deep inside the pit.
That sounded more like ghouls than ghosts. And he’d rather not meet either one. He hitched the sack higher on his shoulder and edged around the hole. He eased away, unwilling to turn his back on the pit.
A pale yellow snout appeared at the edge of the hole, followed by a wedge-shaped head bigger than a pair of his father’s boots.
He froze. Not an abuelo snake. Please Thunderer, not an abuelo.
Flat eyes peered into his. A forked tongue flicked at him. The mouth opened wider, showing fangs longer than his hands.
Showing a gullet wide enough to swallow his whole leg.
He couldn’t move. Didn’t dare move. Motion meant death, he just knew it. He barely dared breathe.
The snake’s head rose, swayed back.
A bahtdor cow bellowed, not a hundred feet away.
The Outcast started. Why was he standing here? He jumped aside as the massive head slammed down. Gravel spurted into his face.
“Lightning strike you!” he screamed. He spun away and dashed toward the bahtdor herd.
Three older cows thundered toward him, their blue-black hides dripping river water. He ducked, sprinted between the legs of the tallest cow, and leapt to the side to avoid her thrashing tail. He splashed into the river and leaped up on a boulder.
The bahtdor bellowed and ripped at the rock around the hole. Their claws gouged deep furrows into sandstone. No blood, so they hadn’t caught the blasted snake. That meant he couldn’t camp anywhere near here. Blast and sandblast. How far would he need to travel to be out of hunting range?
Water dribbled down his hair, onto his soaked shirt. He looked at his wet clothing and stared at the sack still clutched in his hand. His blanket and spare shirt were probably wet, too, but at least he wouldn’t starve.
Not yet.
He needed to move far enough away that the bahtdor hadn’t eaten everything. Far enough away that the Tribe hadn’t harvested everything the bahtdor wouldn’t eat. And far enough the stinking abuelo snake wouldn’t eat him.
He had a blasted long walk ahead of him. The Outcast splashed out of the river and wandered quietly toward the herd. Very quietly, and very watchfully. Getting eaten was not part of his plan.
He walked through the herd, head up, fist ready to smack a tender nose if its owner got too curious. None of the herd took notice of him. Maybe they mistook him for the herder child, though he hadn’t had that duty for over three years.
Where was the herder child? Somebody ought to be down here keeping an eye on the bahtdor. Maybe the abuelo ate him. Or a viper bit him. Or even a turybird might eat him. The shaggy, long-legged birds looked silly, but they stood as tall as any warrior, and their claws were as sharp as knives. Maybe the bahtdor ate him – it wasn’t all that rare, if the herder didn’t pay attention or moved at the wrong speed. Just because the Tribe trained hatchlings from the egg that real people weren’t to be eaten didn’t mean it didn’t happen. The dumber bahtdor couldn’t tell a Setoyan from a slave.
A dull-eyed cow studied him as he walked away from the herd, but plunged her head back into the river.
He had to admit, his fath– Agrevod was right; he really wasn’t as tall as a bahtdor’s knee. Not even big enough to tempt a hungry cow.
The cow yanked her head out of the water, her jaws empty. She eyed him again.
Maybe he was big enough, after all. He strolled toward the cliff face and tied the sack to his belt in case he needed his hands free. He hoped he could find a trail before she decided to overcome her training. His fingers were still sore from yesterday’s hasty descent.
Blue-black hide glistened as the cow ambled out of the river. Her long neck craned in his direction.
The Outcast scrambled on top of a boulder, boosted himself higher, and clambered halfway up the cliff hand over hand, scrabbling for toeholds. Why hadn’t he left his boots in the sack? They were a nuisance during a climb.
The cow sighed and wandered away. He doubted she’d give up so easily if he got back into reach.
He was nearly at the canyon rim before he remembered some
one might be waiting there. Someone unpleasant. But his fingers wouldn’t hold much longer. He scooted higher and peeked over the cliff edge.
No warriors, praise the Thunderer. Nobody at all. But something odd moved in the distance. He climbed onto the plain and cautiously stood up. Still no warriors in sight.
A trail of colorful dots poked above the grass. What was that? Wagons? Why would –
Of course, outlanders, wanting to trade with the Tribe. Probably Kerovi slave sellers. And about time, too. The bahtdor were close to starving if they were willing to eat a tribesman. Not that he was Tribe anymore, but the bahtdor wouldn’t know that.
The Outcast turned away from the outsiders, hesitated, and looked back. No law said he had to stay here. Outlanders were all crazy, and he couldn’t ever trust them, but he had to go somewhere, and anywhere was better than staying in a canyon so thoroughly stripped of food even a bahtdor went hungry.
That meant traveling with outsiders. Working for outsiders.
His stomach churned. He’d never even spoken to an outlander. Well, he’d spoken with his mother’s slaves, but that didn’t count.
Maybe it did. He understood several of their twisty languages. He spoke a couple well enough to translate for his sisters, on the rare occasion anyone cared what a slave might say. If he could talk to a slave, he could talk to a slave seller.
The trick would be to avoid becoming a slave himself. He’d have to pay somehow. He’d work, certainly, but all he had for trade was Darienel’s beaded belt.
And Quintazora’s knife. No, he’d never give that up. Ever.
He untied the sack and shoved the knife under his damp blanket. He’d keep it hidden somehow. No matter what.
Maybe he could convince them the ugly pouch was worth something.
The Outcast squared his shoulders and marched toward the outlanders’ caravan.
Illusion's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 1) Page 2