by Lori Holmes
Unexpected
Rebaa had barely finished her prayer to Ninmah when a challenging cry answered the angry snarls of the bear. She watched, feeling strangely disembodied as something streaked like lightening through the darkness and struck the bear full in the side, burying itself between its ribs to bite at its heart. The creature threw back its head, jaws gaping wide as it roared its pain and surprise to the sky.
Staggering on its hind paws, it toppled over backwards. Rebaa watched in detached horror as the bear thrashed in the snow, turning everything around it dark red. A trickle of blood streamed from its mouth as the struggles became more and more feeble, then with a dying gurgle, the bear finally lay still.
Rebaa could not move. Her fingers were frozen in shock around the branches she had clung to for her very life. She stared down at the now lifeless form of her adversary as her mind struggled to catch up. A violent trembling started all over her body and she knew it was not a good idea to remain in the branches. As much as height offered protection, she would have to take her chances on the ground.
Stiff and feeling strangely outside of herself, Rebaa climbed back to the rocks below. Her injured leg immediately gave way beneath her and she collapsed to the ground.
Ninmah, preserve me!
She was crippled. The furs that covered her calf were soaked crimson. Her shaking grew worse. Too much, it was too much. Falling forward onto her hands, she vomited into the snow beside the great beast. Her empty stomach had nothing to surrender and she dry heaved until her body ached.
When at last the retching stopped, she rolled on to her side and rested her hot cheek in the snow. It was nice. Her thoughts spiralled idly as Rebaa let her eyes wander over the bear carcass. He should have long ago disappeared into hibernation. She frowned, finding even that small motion an effort. She saw now that beneath the thick fur coat, the beast was emaciated. He had been in no condition for a long sleep. The Furies were getting longer, colder, and it was not just Man that was suffering.
Her vision darkened around the edges. Rebaa blinked, fighting to keep focused. She had to get up or she would perish in the snow but she could not find it within herself to even raise an arm. Her eyes continued to rove over the bear’s body and lighted on the object that must have killed it. A long, thick pole was protruding from its side.
The sight flashed a warning through Rebaa’s fading consciousness. Such an object could only mean one thing. Cro. Struggling to get her boneless arms beneath her, Rebaa fought to rise.
“Shalanaki?” a throaty voice cut the air.
Too late. The owner of the spear had already arrived. With a despairing moan, Rebaa began to drag herself forward in one last effort to escape. Her leg trailed behind her leaving a streak of blood. She could not run, she could not even get up.
A pair of thickly booted feet stumped into view before Rebaa’s face, blocking her path as her vision began to fade. The owner of the feet crouched down. Rebaa just had time to take in a broad face and a pair of black eyes staring at her impassively before the world turned dark and she knew no more.
A pale, red-headed giant was reaching for her, Juran’s blood encrusting its fingers. She tried to run but she could not. “Juran!” she cried. But he was not coming. He was dead. Helplessness washed over her as she faced down her death alone. Alone. The bloody fingers brushed her face-
Noooooo.
Behind the darkness of her eyelids, Rebaa’s mind awoke from the nightmare only to find waking was not an improvement. She hurt everywhere. Her muscles ached, her fingers and toes were searing but the most prominent agony of all came from her right leg. Her wounds felt as though they were on fire. Instinctively, she tried to pull away, but a powerful grip closed around her knee and held her firm. Her eyes shot open.
The inside of a cave greeted her focusing vision but it was not the cold, damp crag from which she had just escaped. The smooth walls glowed hot with the light of a fire and the air smelled of furs and burning wood. That was all she could take in before the pain in her leg intensified, accompanied by the sound of a sizzling hiss. Rebaa shrieked, eyes watering as she scrabbled at the stony ground with her fingers, fighting to escape. Somebody was burning her. The sickly sweet scent of her own scorched flesh filled the space. Her empty stomach roiled dangerously and she retched in agony and disgust.
“Runuk,” a deep voice barked as the unseen grip tightened further. Rebaa began to sob openly in terror, fighting all the harder to get away from her captor. They were cooking her alive.
There came an impatient sigh and the grip on her searing leg loosened. Rebaa kicked backwards and heard a satisfying grunt as her foot contacted with what she guessed to be her captor’s hand. She could feel a large presence behind her but she did not turn to take a look. She was loose and she would not make the mistake of hesitating a second time. Boosted on adrenaline, Rebaa scrambled away towards the mouth of the cave. She might not get far but she sure as Ninmah was not going to give up without a fight. She tried to get her protesting legs under her to run.
“Stop.”
Rebaa froze, shocked to hear a word she understood.
“Go. You die.”
The words were not Ninkuraaja but thickly accented versions of those used by the Cro clans. Rebaa rolled over slowly and looked back. Her eyes were seared by the light of a small fire burning brightly in the center of the cave. Rebaa blinked and a large silhouette sitting alone before the flames came into focus, thickset and powerful in appearance. Her vision adjusted further and a mass of vividly orange hair was the first feature Rebaa noticed. It framed the head in a flaming halo and flowed in a tangled mass down the thick shoulders.
Rebaa recoiled, the memory of her mate’s murderers filling her mind as her eyes darted to the face. Milky-pale skin stretched over coarse features and broad cheek bones. But the eyes were not the vivid blue she so dreaded. It was a black gaze that glittered from beneath a short but prominent brow. The being was large but nowhere near as big as the giant, red-headed figures that so haunted her nightmares. Despite the brutishness, the face was distinctly female. The stranger watched Rebaa carefully as a pair of gnarled hands folded away beneath the heavy, reddish-brown furs she wore.
Rebaa glanced down at her own grey-clad right leg. The furs were ripped away and the long claw marks that had slashed her smooth, red-gold skin were now sealed with ugly red and black burns. The pain of the searing continued to keep her teeth clenched but she was no longer bleeding.
The shaggy head inclined towards the wounded limb. “Stop bad blood,” was the halting explanation.
Rebaa remained poised, ready to flee at the slightest provocation. She had been healed, in a fashion, which pointed to the fact that her captor must not intend to kill her.
Not yet.
Go. You die. She was unsure if that had been meant as a threat or simply a statement of fact. Rebaa reached out with her senses, probing the stranger’s mind for signs of danger. She detected only curiosity over-shadowed by a great sadness. Rebaa shied away from that sadness. It was like a dark chasm inside the stranger’s soul.
Rebaa’s eyes flickered over the pale, brutish face again. Her voice croaked as she asked: “You’re a Thal?”
The stranger frowned in confusion; the contraction of skin pronouncing an ugly burn mark that marred her brow just below the vivid hairline. She obviously knew some of the Cro language but not much. Rebaa drew a steadying breath. The Cro opinion of these people had been one of brutish savages, quick to attack. If that was so, a misunderstanding here could mean her life. This creature was many times her strength and weight. To show she meant no offence, Rebaa gave the stranger a sense of the meaning straight into her mind.
The stranger blinked, her confusion clearing. “Yes. Thal. From-” she pointed upwards.
Unthinkingly, Rebaa followed her direction, frowning up at the stone ceiling until the Thal’s actual meaning dawned on her.
“The north?” Rebaa guessed. From her scant knowledge of Thals, she knew
they could survive in the harshest of lands inside the northern wastes where no other people could remain, hunting the giant beasts of the ice. Rebaa eyed the shaggy, long-haired furs of her unexpected companion. They bore no resemblance to the comparatively short-haired, grey wolf furs that she wore. She had never seen such garments. “You’re a long way from home,” Rebaa commented, cocking her head as she conveyed her message both verbally and mentally.
The Thal woman shrugged. “Cold times get worse. People move south or die.”
Rebaa shuddered, she couldn’t deny the truth of that. “And where are your people?” She glanced around uneasily. This particular Thal may be more curious than murderous right now but the same might not be said for the rest of her tribe.
The deep set eyes grew shadowed. “No no. Lost.”
“You’re alone?”
The shaggy head inclined. “Like you.”
Rebaa found herself unable to meet that infinitely sad and somehow all too knowing gaze. “Yes,” she admitted. There was little point in lying. The Thal already knew she was without protection.
The silence stretched as each of them sank into their own separate thoughts. Rebaa re-assessed her chances of making it out alive if, like the bear, this Thal also decided she might make a decent meal in these lean times. She was remembering with mounting apprehension that some Peoples were not averse to the taste of human flesh. There were even some Cro clans who observed such rituals.
This woman had killed the bear singlehanded. She was dangerous and Rebaa could not guess at her purpose for carrying her all the way back to her lair other than as a possible food source. Perhaps she hadn’t been killed yet because Thal tradition dictated that sacrifices only be made when Ninsiku was at his zenith or some such ridiculousness like that.
“Come,” the Thal woman broke the mounting tension, beckoning. “Fire. Warm.”
The Thal gestured to the ground beside her next to the glowing beast. The dark gaze was inviting, hopeful. Rebaa tensed. The stranger was inviting her to come within arm’s reach. Does she take me for a fool?
“Shalanaki!” Her companion held up her rough and empty hands. “You freezing in snow. Need warm.”
She wasn’t wrong. Rebaa could not feel her hands or her feet even inside their thick wrappings. The fire drew her like a moth, the promise of warmth almost overpowering her caution. But unlike the moth, she was not going to be so foolish as to be burned by desire. Instead of moving towards the comfort, Rebaa inched warily towards the cave mouth. She stopped and cried out when the skin on her burned leg pulled and seared with the motion. Eyes watering, she twisted and clutched at her calf in agony.
Clucking her tongue, the red-headed woman rose to her feet. Rebaa cowered down as she passed by. Feeling around behind her, Rebaa found a loose rock and gripped it in her hand, readying herself to fight if needed. The Thal’s every motion was slow and measured. It seemed as though she was trying not to cause alarm with any sudden movements. She went straight to the cave entrance and Rebaa’s heart sank. The Thal was going to block her exit. But the stranger only reached outside and then returned with a great handful of snow. Keeping her eyes upon Rebaa’s to convey she meant no harm, she dumped the icy handful straight on to Rebaa’s tortured flesh. Rebaa gasped in shock, then her breath rushed out in a great sigh of relief as her pain eased, numbed by the treatment.
“Thank you,” she whispered in helpless gratitude, though she did not let go of her rock.
“I go,” the gruff voice said as the Thal backed up again. She eyed the rock in Rebaa’s fist. “You no trust. Wise.”
Rebaa made no reply, lost once again as to whether the Thal meant that she was wise to be cautious or wise not to trust her.
The other woman sighed in the face of her scrutiny. “I go out. You no rest with me here. Need fire more.”
Nonplussed, Rebaa watched as the Thal turned and exited the cave in two long strides, leaving her alone. Rebaa’s thoughts buzzed. She was more than a little bewildered by this turn of events. Careful of her wounded leg, Rebaa crawled slowly to the cave entrance. The Thal’s presence was quickly disappearing into the night. Now might be her only chance to escape.
The shock of the night air took her breath. The cold ravaged her face, stealing the warmth from her skin as she peered out. Rebaa scuttled back into the embrace of the cave.
Go… You die….
She groaned. She was trapped here by injury and the inhospitable night as surely as if the Thal was still holding her leg in her mighty grip.
Her back straighted stubbornly. At least she was still alive. Her hand went to her round belly. They both were. It was more than she had hoped to dare for when the bear had held her tree bound. She would see to it that they remained that way for as long as she could.
Rebaa crawled back to the fireside, careful to keep part of her mind connected to the ebb and flow of the world outside, alert to an approach. A spear leaning against the nearest wall drew her eye. It was a less refined weapon than those Rebaa had become accustomed to seeing but still deadly in appearance. It towered over her and her fingers barely fit around the haft. She had never used a spear in her life but she grabbed it all the same, feeling instantly more secure.
Thick furs were spread all around the burning tongues of the fire and she sank down upon them. Rebaa groaned again, this time in relief as her tense muscles melted; knowing comfort for the first time in days. The heat from the fire washed over her and her icy fingers and toes seared as one extreme met another. She endured it with a fierce pleasure.
There had been a time when fire had frightened her. It was a skill her own people did not possess. Out in these cold wastes, however, it was a blessing, a life giver. She stretched out her hands, only wanting to be nearer. Her hunger gnawed and her baby squirmed in protest. Rebaa quieted both. She would find a way to feed them somehow. At least now they were warm and may yet live long enough to see the dawn.
Lying down with her back to the fire, she faced the dark cave mouth, clutching the spear to her. There were markings carved into the stained haft. Rebaa occupied herself by studying their unfamiliar design, determined not to sleep. She must not let her guard down even for an instant. But as the warmth spread through her body and the familiar sounds of a crackling fire comforted her mind, Rebaa’s eyes slowly drifted closed.
* * *
8
Cold Trails
Eldrax’s mind was ill at ease as he and his men laboured through the thick snow. The initial elation he had felt at Murzuk’s death had waned in the time since they had left the summit of the escarpment. At first it had not mattered much that he had not landed the killing blow himself. He had been rid of his chief and gained control of the young warriors accompanying him with ease. But he was not fool enough to miss the traces of uncertainty on their downcast faces and the glances shared between them when they thought he was not watching.
Being the strongest and most skilled fighter counted a lot towards the struggle for leadership but it was not everything. By tradition, the position of chief could only be achieved in one of two ways. The first was when a worthy Challenger defeated the previous leader in combat, the other was by gaining a dying chief’s blessing to be his chosen successor. Eldrax was acutely aware that he had now failed to achieve either of these things.
If neither Challenge nor blessing had been achieved before the previous chief’s death, then it was left to the elders of the clan to choose among the most worthy males and Eldrax knew it was not always the strongest who would be given the honor.
If he was to hold on to power unchallenged, Eldrax must now prove himself indisputably greater than Murzuk had ever been. Gripping his spear, he lengthened his stride.
There was a faint grumble as the men protested at the increased momentum; Eldrax had already set a merciless pace in his desire to capture the witch. They had travelled light to raid the Black Wolf territory and already their meager rations were running low. There was very little to hunt in these hills, m
ost of the herds had moved south for winter grazing. A couple of hares would not replenish their supplies for long.
Their growing doubt in his leadership only galvanised Eldrax’s will. Claiming an enemy’s mate symbolised ultimate victory in the eyes of all Cro. And Juran’s mate was a prize above reckoning, a prize that Murzuk had always failed to gain for his own. Eldrax would not fail.
The rocky foothills closed in all around them as they travelled on the heels of their prey. It was easy to get lost in such a place but Juran’s mate had proven herself a fool. She had made no attempt to conceal the tracks she had left in her wake; a dangerous mistake for one travelling alone. It made hunting her as easy as tracking a witless beast. Nevertheless, Eldrax knew what made life easy for him, would also make it easy for others. His skin crawled with the need to catch her and make her his own before another did. Greater still was the risk that, alone and exposed, she would perish long before he could get to her.
They had travelled for less than a day when Eldrax’s worst fears were realised and the witch’s prints were crossed by those of large lupine paw prints. She had crossed paths with a mountain wolf pack.
Open mutterings of discontent broke out as his men read the tracks for themselves. They were all skilled hunters, it did not take them long to draw their conclusions.
“The wolves got her.” Eldrax heard Hanak echo his own thoughts. “Murzuk was right, there was no way she would’ve survived this long alone. We’ve wasted our time.”
Eldrax roared out in his frustration and kicked viciously at the snow. No totem and now no mate. The pathetic creature had not known how to take care of herself. Her stupidity had made him look foolish and sealed his defeat. He glared at Hanak, daring him to say more. He would fight all of them if he had to. To the gods with tradition.
“Chief Eldrax?” There was not an outward hint of mockery as the title slipped from Tanag’s tongue but it rankled all the same, blackening Eldrax’s mood further. “I do not understand these tracks. What do you make of it?”
