Of course, most of what he had to say to her of late was “do” and “don’t”.
Nevertheless, courtesy demanded same. “You do me honour, old uncle. It’s not the temperature so much, but—”
“The damp.” Another elder nodded understanding over her own bowl of stew. She and her two companions also stood out, a trio dressed in the layered lammoi-spun thickweave of hillClans. “It’s chill even for our People, used to Wind’s breath upon highLands. Drink our hosts’ good tea; it’ll warm you.”
Anahli tucked in. Altogether pleasant, how their hosts cooed and spoiled Kuli. One in particular—and one her own Clan would honour as holding lizardKin’s Changing Spirit—wore women’s garb, yet had muscular arms and a thick moustache that few outside River favoured. She’d thought Mound law made such People outlier. Their place amongst the cookFires crept a warm and relieved smile across her face, particularly when ša tugged at Kuli’s ahlóssa braidlock and refilled the burl bowl with stew as fast as her little Fox could shovel it in.
It was also more than pleasing to notice several fems eyeing her. Ai, maybe she’d have her pick of partners for Dance and play after all, and maybe also… She let a smirk tilt her lip. The oških male kept throwing a covert glance her way.
“Your People are third to arrive. Only the midLands folk, and those outliers.” Chukfitohya's voice dipped at that last but his smile stayed with Anahli. “Not to mention the upriver cousins—they’re always late, don’t you know? Must be because they’re so close they always think they’ve plenty of time.”
Anahli laughed.
The old male grinned, showing a few gaps. “So, Council starts tomorrow, as well as stickball and the races, and tomorrow you will Dance, oških? A lovemate found at First Running’s festival will often become oathmate over the coming turns of our Hoop.”
“Aška!” Kuli sang out. His bowl and cup clanked to the ground as he shot off towards the massive wooden entry.
With a rueful smile at Chukfitohya, Anahli picked them up. As she rose, she saw, sure enough, that their People were dismounting just inside the entrance.
“I’ve heard Horsetalkers ride to the body-soil trenches,” Chukfitohya mused, taking the discarded utensils and depositing them in a large open sack half-filled with same. “Tell me, is it true?”
“It depends on how far the trenches are.”
The elder barked out a laugh and gave her shoulder a fond smack.
He might be old, but his arm was stout. Anahli gave due with a rub, grinning as he laughed again, satisfied.
Kuli had reached their dam; Aylaniś was swinging him around. Her mare—always besotted with her rider’s youngest—was nudging in, and almost negligently, Aylaniś swung Kuli up on the broad, spotted back. Anahli’s grin turned admiring. Her sire and dam seemed slight amidst the taller, broader dawnLanders, but it was a litheness conditioned by Grandmother’s sterner gifts, glowing dark with the blessings of a fiercer Sun. Aylaniś stood to the fore, as proper for horseClans’ chieftain, her hair bronze in the muted light and unbound save by temple-plaits—lengthened with horsehair, of course. A quartet of pinion feathers gifted from raptorKin hung just above the plaits. Her leathers, like Anahli’s, lay in patterns woven smooth as a watertight grass basket, dyed in a range from clouds to grass to the dark rose of Sunset.
Tanners a’Šaákfo were the best, after all.
Having given the mare a sound hug, Kuli launched from her withers towards his sire. Palatan caught him midsail and threw him over one shoulder. Held him there, too, with just the one hand.
“Ai!” Chukfitohya snorted, admiration and chagrin. “Your bows are short, but drawing one’s like trying to run River waist-deep.”
More pride trickled through Anahli at the answering murmurs. Her sire’s charisma was underlain with a dangerous tension; whipcord strung in minimalist efficiency. No doubt the impressive old scar tracing a finger-length down from one tattooed cheekbone helped. And the well-muscled belly between leather vest and belted leggings, over which several of the matrons hissed approval amongst themselves. A grin ticced Anahli’s lip.
“Here come our chieftains,” Chukfitohya pointed out.
Anahli hissed approval as much for the old one as Naišwyrh’uq’s leaders. They made no less splendid an entrance, merely a different one. Sarinak Mound-chieftain made two of Palatan in breadth. His head was swathed in Sky-hued cloth, beads dangling, with only those few twist-locks concealing his nape. His crimson robe spilled in many folds over one massive shoulder, and one hand held a decorated spear. Just behind that spear strode little Madoc, full of himself as a strutting fowl… and well, that one wasn’t so little anymore, grown a full head since Anahli had last seen him. Tokela should be there, too, but no sign. Likely off larking with some playmate; he was only a few summerings younger than herself, no doubt had his indigo by now. Anahli brushed at her own Clan Marks, dismissing the thought, more interested in who walked at Sarinak’s other hand.
Inhya’s chin tilted graceful-high. The very picture of a respectable chieftain and matron, numerous bells jingled and swayed, equally graceful, from her Forest-hued kirtles, and she’d a turquoise headscarf bound round the thick, black knot impeccably braided, coiled, and oiled at her nape.
Inhya was who the leatherKeeper back home had meant, in a tone Anahli was no doubt meant to hear: Herself’ll tame eldest daughter, you’ll see.
Anahli returned the borrowed blanket to Chukfitohya's thin shoulders and began creeping forwards through the gathered welcome. She should be there, her own chin raised, doing honour to their hosts as… “eldest.”
Instead she halted as a hunched figure limped forwards, shrouded in a furred cloak and leaning on a staff.
As if she’d the right, part of Anahli’s Spirit sniped, and the other part growled, She has every right! She was Alekšu!
The crowd poured from about Anahli, greeting the newcomers. Palatan was giving his sister a fierce hug, whilst Sarinak knelt next to Aylaniś, speaking to Kuli and several other children.
Inhya said something, then Palatan’s voice wafted Anahli’s way upon a breath of Wind, tight with all-too-familiar exasperation. “She came on ahead. Hasn’t she given you proper greeting?”
Aylaniś, speaking with Sarinak and the children, let her eyes flick over the gathered crowd.
It was Chogah, shoulders twitching beneath panther pelts, whose gaze found Anahli. Her eyes, dark and knife-edged, glittered like trade beads.
Anahli backed into the gathering and disappeared.
HE, TOHWAKELIFITČILUKA a’Naišwyrh, was the first of his tribe since his dam to brave Šilombiš’okpulo.
It gave him the wherewithal to throw off the strange intimidation of the t’rešalt, tread the wood with eyes high, if wary. Before long, however, his belly started complaining. Easily ignored rumblings soon became overt growls—and made him realise how still the woods were. The constant pip and burble of water dribbling over soil and leaves was there, of course, and an occasional rustling that might be one of flyingKin, or a tree climber. Otherwise, Forest held an eerie, unnatural quiet.
Which meant he would go hungry for a while. Unless…
Tokela bent over one of the fallen logs, which lay twice as big around as even Uncle Nechtoun, whose meaty muscles had long softened with the privilege of age. Pulling at the rotted bark, which crumbled in his fingers, with his broad, copper knife he poked further and… Ai! Victory! Pale grubs and crawlers of all description went scattering. They looked normal enough, so Tokela tucked into the small feast. Perhaps he could find some roots as well.
A huge sickle of ebon soared past his ear with a great whoosh! Tokela ducked, one arm going instinctively to cover his head and the other flipping his knife from digging to defence. A sharp creak assaulted the quiet. One of the largest flyingKin he’d ever seen touched down on the log’s end and folded gleaming wings. Easily the length of Tokela’s torso, ša gave a cock of head as, from above, a second croak echoed. Tokela peered upward to see anothe
r three waiting, perched on a thick branch.
The first hopped closer, intent upon Tokela’s meal. The strange gleam within the beady eyes made Tokela hesitate; it seemed the Star-glitter of the t’rešalt had been captured there, all sparks and darkness. Maybe ša wasn’t Kin after all…
But there was not way to be sure. Tokela was in their territory, a guest. Pulling several of the choicest, fattest grubs from the log, he extended them upon a flattened palm to his feathered companion. A whisper, half hiss and half creak, sounded through his teeth. Some never learned the proper way of attempting animalKin’s talk, but Tokela felt most Suns he communicated better in this than with his own kind.
If such things held in this place.
Both offerings were considered—gravely, it seemed—then the bird hopped closer and accepted, pecking the grubs from Tokela’s palm so light he barely felt it.
The others flew down, expectant. With a soft chuckle, he broke away more bark.
Leaving his impromptu companions working away at the remainder, he went in search of water. Humus clung to his mouth, tasting of wood-rot and tannin. Thankfully, River held no places forbidden. She’d many children, and no doubt Her fingerlings ran through here.
TreeKin spoke with creaks and sighs as Wind took the uppermost branches, but Šilombiš’okpulo lay uncanny quiet. The deeper Tokela ventured, the more its presence brushed against him. Every tree, every blade of grass, every creature living alongside him held their own brand of life… but this waiting, this focus? It drifted beyond any Dance he knew: past tribe and Clan and shelter, food and survival.
That nearly decided for him: turn around, retreat, you have no business in this place.
Fear lived with Tokela every Sun in some fashion; it sharpened nerve and sinew, built one’s heart strong. Panic, however, could turn one from hunter to prey on a knife’s edge of acquaintance. Panic had led him here, set his feet upon a path he’d never imagined… Well.
No more panic. Instead he’d find answers. He was no ahlóssa of seven winterings on his first hunt in a darken place. He’d all he needed: four capable limbs, nose and ears and eyes. The copper weight of his skinning knife at his thigh and the lighter eating blade upon his arm. His thick hide leggings were sturdy, his boots worn close as skin. As he walked, he ensured his tunic was belted snug and, rolling the sleeves free of his sinewy forearms, he tucked up the dangling wood beads of his hip wrap. Ready.
Water quivered his nostrils before ever he saw or heard; the scent led him, unerring, to a River-child running deep and clear. Tokela halted at the edge, gauging not only the surround but, most importantly, the spoor telling of others coming here to slake their thirst.
The River-child tasted normal, sweet, and so cold as to burn upward behind his cheekbones and down into his gullet.
He remained squatting on the bank for a while, listening, smelling, watching. Then he leapt the stream and continued on, passing silent through the huge, mossy trees.
Not far after, he came upon the pathway.
No animal trail, this; wide and well tended as the trade path leading past the Great Mound and upRiver to the crossing shallows. Closer inspection revealed the tri-cloven prints of large antleredKin and, beside that, unmistakable signs of two-leggeds, only their tread was twice the size of his own. Tokela hunkered down to trace his fingers lightly over the spoor, sniffed. The tang was sharp and unfamiliar, but strides told more than scent; four two-leggeds had passed, accompanied by six of antleredKin.
Only wabadeh were so sizeable. Some firstPeople partnered with antleredKin, on the edges of frozen upLands where the animals were smaller, docile. The great ones of dawnLands’ Forests had a spooky and recalcitrant nature; wabadeh wanted kinship with none but wabadeh. Unless…
Chepiś were giants. They Shaped not only flesh, but thought and intent. What if they could tame even wabadeh? What if wabadeh were… different, here?
Mindful of his exposure on the trail, Tokela rose.
But the tracks were old, perhaps two fours of Sun. Curiosity once again won out over wariness, compelling Tokela to follow, and when the trail split his next decision made itself just as easily. The smaller path held the newer prints.
He didn’t have to venture far. Something large lay across the path, laced with Sun’s blinding shards where they broke the canopy.
Tokela halted, hefting his skinning knife, nostrils flaring. Wind told him little, but nothing smelled right in this place, and the unexpected twists of Sun and shadow made vision even chancier. Tokela snuffed again, but only the pungent rot of disturbed humus and the whiff of bruised conifer answered him… with perhaps a telltale tang of musk? Likely male, then. Hand upon his knife, Tokela crept towards the beast, merely to hesitate as the furred bulk gave a sudden expansion, letting out a large, moisture-laden sigh.
No antlers, not wabadeh. Living.
No trepidation, now, but pity sharp as the blade at his fingertips drove Tokela forwards once more. To be trapped in such a fashion, with no help in sight? He scuffed his feet so as not to startle the… creature, beast… whatever it was, it seemed nothing of Grandmother’s making, so Tokela felt uncomfortable calling it Kin.
Splayed belly-up in a tangle-trap, neck twisted at an impossible angle, the creature made three of any predator Tokela knew. It had to be Shaped, more like to some improbable cross between pantherKin and wolfKin. Signs of a mighty struggle marked the path, and odd streaks of blue-black clotted the creature’s huge, foam-flecked jaws and brindled fur.
All this flitted through Tokela’s consciousness swift as a sharp breath. The creature gave another quavering wheeze, and its sideways-flung leg jerked and quivered. Perhaps its spine was injured; surely it wouldn’t just lie there? Tokela uttered a soothing grunt, placing a firm, cautious foot against the hinge of the creature’s formidable jaw as he reached for the obsidian blade upon his right arm. Thin and sharp, it would give swift mercy.
The creature gave into a small panic as Tokela bent over, knives in hand. Heaving and scrambling, it nearly jerked from both pinning foot and the trap—
Tokela froze.
The trap. It wasn’t one. A loose tangle of tree limbs curved and broken, it wouldn’t have held Tokela, much less this creature.
Tokela stomped hard on the broad head, pinning it. He turned just in time to see a three more of the creatures melt from the nearest thicket.
With a snarl, the one in front pounced.
It bowled Tokela over even as he struck out with both knives. The obsidian gave a shrill crack and shattered against tough hide; the copper knife met only air as the creature tumbled over and past. It snarled, shrill and cheated. Clearly it had overestimated his size.
Tokela took the chance, rolling to his feet, grip still firm on the skinning knife. An oddling sight sent the blood chill in his veins: the trapped creature pulling free from its snare, not unlike one of his tribe shimmying free of a fishing net.
The hesitation cost him. A massive weight rammed into him, driving a harsh cry from his chest and slamming him against a thick bow tree. Heat, and hair, and foul, fetid breath battered Tokela as he shoved, kicked, tried to wrestle his knife hand upward. The trapped creature, bait to lure the prey—only now Tokela was the prey. The only thing keeping those huge, slavering jaws from closing on his windpipe was a desperate grip, torqued hard as outLand eirn about the creature’s throat.
Pain blazed in his thigh then in his bicep, claws ripping and teeth tearing—or trying to. Somehow Tokela kept his stranglehold on the creature and freed his knife hand. With a harsh grunt, he shoved the knife upward and wrenched sideways. The creature gave a strangely normal ki-yi and convulsed—a last, violent tear of teeth and claws—then fell at Tokela’s feet. Impulse, to kick it away, but he might as well kick at stone. Instead, gaze fixing on the remaining creatures, he began a slow, sideways creep.
They were supine; no doubt expecting their companion to handily dispatch the puny two-legged. As their prey proved instead resourceful, the creatures
rose, snarling.
The one in front stood high as Tokela’s chin.
Tokela snarled a hoarse answer that steamed into the air. He kept his back to the bow tree, and his knife ready. Its copper surface, too, steamed, stained with the creature’s… it must be blood. Even if it whiffed of nothing he’d ever experienced, and even if in Sun’s faint dapples it looked more like to the indigo that, if these things had their way, he might not survive to Mark upon his own cheeks.
The largest creature stilled, and Tokela sucked in a quick breath, crouched-ready. Instead the creature sprang at its fellow, the “bait”. Little chance for bewilderment, though; the remaining creature leapt for Tokela. He lashed out, let the momentum spin him past the brunt of the charge. Giving an eerie cry, it’s lunge fell short, its jaws snapping a frantic but bloodless rent in the fringed cloth of Tokela’s hip wrap.
It fell back, a penetrative—unsettling—calculation in their eyes. Still, it limped; Tokela’d done damage, at least. Yet the creature seemed confused, eyeing first him, then the grey-brindled leader, who still had the smaller one pinned to the ground. Punishment, for spoiling what should have been an easy kill?
With a last growl, the grey-brindled leader released the youngling and turned. Again that unsettling calculation, as the leader eyed Tokela up and down, lips curling back over its canines. Tokela returned the favour. To show throat, here and now, surely meant death.
“Ai, this prey has teeth.” Tokela grated out, letting his senses cast about. Were there others? Would he know? For only in closer quarters did the creatures reek of fetid sweat and breath; they’d disguised their scent. The concept was no more outLandish than the way their eyes glittered in shards of white. Akin to the t’rešalt. Who knew what unnatural abilities these things possessed?
N’da, he couldn’t think that way. Shaped or no, they were predators. It remained: if he moved, they would strike, and if he didn’t move, they would still strike.
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