by Paul Kidd
The feral boy ducked back wildly again, then again, and then suddenly managed to block the sword with his club. He whipped inwards, trying to plunge home his knife, but Kenda caught the weapon and punched the youth an immense blow with the hilt of his sword. The boy fell, weapons spilling from his hands. He lay half stunned, and Kenda raced forward, snarling, poising his sword to plunge it down through the helpless youth’s throat.
Snapper charged Onan straight into Kenda. The mass of the huge bird cannoned Kenda clean off his feet. The man fell next to his rifle, and his hand went instantly for the weapon, but a click from Snapper’s carbine stopped him in his tracks.
She had the repeater pointed squarely at Kenda’s head.
“I’d rethink that if I were you.”
The man glared up at her, but left the rifle where it lay. Beau watched the green man carefully, then rode to retrieve his mount. Kitterpokkie came to assist the fallen feral, and was fussing over him as the boy’s companions came riding pell mell to stand beside him.
Seen up closer, the ferals were clearly young adolescents. Their bows were slender, and they bore no battle scars. Snapper rode around behind Kenda, heading towards the ferals.
“You’re lucky. Past about sixteen, and these guys have some sort of adrenal gland thing. They’ll come at you even after they’re officially dead.”
She rode to greet the other ferals, indicating Kenda with a stern flick of her hand.
“A misunderstanding. He is new to the north. He thought the warrior was going for his bow.” She wiped a hand back and forth across her forehead – the signal for heatstroke, or addled wits. “He has been dealt with.”
The tallest of the feral youths sat in his saddle and made slow, slightly clumsy hand signs.
“He seems to seek battle.”
“He made an error in great foolishness.” Snapper called down to Kenda. “Give the man you hit a gift. A knife or a pendant.”
With ill grace, Kenda reached to his belt. He tossed his knife on the ground before the fallen youth – a knife with an odd, pointed dagger blade. The youth took the weapon and nodded – nodding up to Snapper in acknowledgement.
The incident had apparently been defused.
The second of the mounted ferals came forward. His hand signs were far more fluid – fare more accurate.
“We have seen you in other seasons. You have come here before – digging amongst old stones. You are the Greyfin.” He made a sketch of Snapper’s dorsal fin with his fingers. “The rider on the sunrise bird.”
“Well met.” Snapper motioned to Throckmorton, Beau and Kitterpokkie. “These ones here are riders. We have come here on a work of great importance.” Snapper pointed to the totem stick. “Our work lies past the totem barrier. How wide runs the forbidden land?”
“Wide!” The second bowman made an expansive gesture, looking grim. “It is utterly forbidden. Not even skull biters would dare.”
“We must reach the cliffs.”
“You must talk to the drum beaters. They will know.” The first youth pointed with his elbow towards the campfires to the east. “This way.”
The fallen feral re-mounted, looking stiff and displeased. He turned and led the way to the west. The other two gestured to Snapper, who gave them both a courtly bow. She motioned Kenda to mount his beetle-horse, then summoned up the others.
“Right – we’re going to visit the tribe. So keep your hands visible and away from weapons – and don’t look straight at a feral and smile with bared teeth. It’s a challenge.”
Beau brushed at his already immaculate coat. “Ah! And are there any other social rules for visiting a village?”
“I’m not sure, old son. We’re the first people to ever try it.” Snapper jogged Onan on his way. “Here we go!”
They rode onwards, accompanying the young ferals. Snapper fell slowly back to ride next to Kenda. She looked at the man in cold, sharp anger.
“Listen to me. I have no idea what the hell kind of range you’re supposed to have ridden. But on this turf, in my presence, you will comport yourself as a chevalier at all times. If you can’t keep your prejudice or your temper in control, then go straight back where you came from. We’ll go better without you.”
The man looked at Snapper in contempt.
“A shark chevalier.”
“Upright in word and honourable in deed.” Snapper watched the man. “Be a rider – or be gone.”
Kenda’s hands flexed tight about his reins. He looked at Snapper in absolute dislike.
“I will stay.”
The shark looked at him for a long moment, then moved her mount aside. She kept the man in view in the corner of her eye. Kenda looked briefly up, and saw Throckmorton keeping pace up above – several of the plant’s heads were idly keeping watchful eyes on him from above.
They rode onward, back across the hills, towards the campfires. The young ferals were initially stiff and filled with the gravitas of their great task. Slowly, they let curiosity get the better of them. The flashy, brilliant plumage of Beau glittered in the sun, and Kitterpokkie brimmed with interest, photographing the ferals as they rode. One of the youths glanced at her with more and more frequency, until finally he plucked up the courage to ride up beside her and frame a comment with his fingers.
“Greetings.”
“Hello there!” Kitterpokkie looked the young man over – most impressed by his tusks and stripes. “I am Kitterpokkie. Kitt! How do you do?”
“I am… unwounded.” The young man looked more closely at the mantis. “The plains people come in many forms. I have not seen a being like you before.”
“Ah, a mantis, old chap. A tad carnivorous, but house trained.” Kitt could essay a smile – she had no teeth to bare. “I am a scholar. An investigator. I’m very pleased to meet you!”
“What do you investigate?”
“Life! The universe! Science! The deep secrets of the cosmos, and the gentle magic inherent in every little thing.” Kitterpokkie spreads her claws – she had a most impressive reach, all of it studded with serrated barbs. “The world is my classroom.”
The feral tried to make sense of it all.
“You are a… a drum beater?”
“Um, well, I suppose so.” Kitterpokkie decided she would try a more detailed explanation later. “Now do tell me! Your bow there – composite laminate construction? Do tell me how you make them. The craftsmanship is delightful. How do make your glue…?”
Chapter 11
The eastern hills wore a blanket of low trees – eucalyptus hybrids that spread broad, clustered leaves like clover. Leafy treetops moved softly in the breeze, the rustling merging and blending into a single, soothing flow; the air tingled with the sharp scent of the leaves.
The three feral youths warily led their guests under the tree canopy. Beneath the trees, sunshine turned to filtered, speckled shade. The forest space was open, with only scattered undergrowth here and there – pineapple shrubs and little ferns that wandered shyly about from tree to tree.
The first outposts of the camp appeared: young female ferals scavenging around mounds of banana-termites, and children whooping about riding gangly beetle-horses. The ferals all stopped and stared as the newcomers rode past, jaws dropping open in shock. First one, then another and another began to follow close beside the party, calling out in their weird, guttural tongue.
A trio of followers became a dozen, and then a score. Armoured outriders in war gear and body paints came riding up, light gleaming off their knobby hides. They called out to the youths, who replied, pointing back to Snapper and her companions. Snapper rode fearlessly onward, hands away from her weapons, holding up one hand with the palm outwards signalling that she came to talk.
Escorted by a flood of feral tribes folk, they came up and over a rise that looked down into a broad, green valley just below.
The feral camp covered kilometre after kilometre of terrain, lining a stream edged with glorious flowering trees. The feral people lived in
tents – oblong structures shaped like huts and covered in intricately decorated skins. They were clustered about tall poles decorated with ribbons, and topped with carvings – the banners of their warrior societies and clan groups. The place thronged with all the daily activities of tribal life.
There were swarms of ferals camping beside the springs – easily three hundred families. Beetle-horses and smaller, bounding dog-bird hybrids – clearly some manner of hunting ‘dog’ – moved around the tents. The guttural bawl of feral voices was almost deafening.
Kitterpokkie waved with great politeness, fascinated by everything she saw. She turned her head around to peer directly behind her, much to the fascination of the locals. Children gaped, and a tall, slender feral dressed in ribbons, tufts and bells strode forth from a tent to stare at the pink mantis as she passed.
They were led to a broad, open area with well trodden clay soil. The centre ground had been turned into a weird mandala – a sand painting made with ochres and coloured earth. Several ferals arose from their seats beside the pattern – individuals who wore no armour, but instead were patterned with body paints. They exchanged words with Snapper’s youthful guides, then walked forward to meet the newcomers outside of the open ground.
Warriors gathered in their hundreds – huge men armed with bone tipped lances, war clubs and bows. At the fore blocks of other combatants were more elaborately decorated – painted in star or storm patterns, or as skeletal ghosts. These men were far more grim and wary.
Riding at the front of the travellers, tall and proud upon her battle mount, Snapper waved her hand before her face and blew across her fingers, then lifted her palms.
The crowd became silent. With her helmet crest streaming in the wind and dorsal fin gleaming, Snapper carefully formed words with her flashing fingers.
“These travellers have come invited. We have come in accordance with custom. These travellers have come in respect to seek the wisdom and advice of your elders.”
An old man moved forward from the group of shamans. He was flanked by a small boy that carried his drum, and another that carried an immense war flail cradled in his arms. The old man lifted up his hands and sketched clear words.
“The tribe of the stripe-maned riders sees you. Are you intruders, or are you creatures of honour?”
Snapper put a hand to briefly touch the hilt of her big, curved blade.
“I am a rider of Spark Town. A leader of the riders in battle. I am the grey-fin, and I have never failed in honour.” She pulled down on the neck of her armoured corslet, showing the mark of a scar that ran across her hide. She called back to the others very quietly. “People? If you have any battle scars, this is a good time to show them.”
Beau held up his bridle hand, displaying a rather heroic scar across his forearm. Throckmorton had his recent piercing to display. Kenda looked about in cool suspicion, then pulled open his armour, showing a puncture scar in his right shoulder that could only have been made by a blade.
Someone pushed their way in through the ranks of warriors, coming to the fore. It was a tall young warrior, his armour scuffed and scarred. At his hip, he bore a hefty breech loading pistol in a holster. The young man faced his elders.
“This is the rider who rode alone into the enemy unbidden. This is the rider who pulled my arrow brother and I from beneath the claws of those-who-scream. This is the rider who gave me of her own weapons – a weapon of power – so that I might not ride unarmed into danger.”
The gathered ferals looked at Snapper in immediate respect. The pistol was a weapon of immense prestige, and clearly came with a deal of mystique from the wild solo charge that Snapper had made against the Screamers so many days ago. The old shaman nodded slowly, then moved aside, indicating the open ground beside the great mandala.
“Honourable riders – enter the circle of judgement. We will give what wisdom we may.”
Snapper saluted then turned Onan about to face her companions.
“We’re in.” She eased herself down out of the saddle. “Alright – the old guys over by the totem staves are all drum-beaters. The local shamans and wise men.”
“Indeed.” Kitterpokkie peered at the ranks of painted warriors – each group with their own striking theme. “And these decorated individuals here? What are they?”
“Warrior societies. Elite companies of fighters.” Snapper patted Onan on the neck. “Don’t piss them off. Ferals anger easily, and take a hell of a time to calm down. GeneStorm fallout…”
“Ah yes. A lingering survival adaptation. With luck, they will continue to adapt themselves.” Kitterpokkie walked forward towards the circle of colours on the ground. “Oh my! These people are most impressive. The environment and tasks clearly dictate the tools – but the culture seems delightfully complex!”
“I’ll tell them you approve.” Snapper led the way forward, and saw some logs beneath a small tree that were serving as seats for the elders. “Alright. Stick together, and for the God-fish’s sake don’t look threatening.”
Throckmorton cruised along quietly at Snapper’s shoulder, while Kitterpokkie walked onward, fascinated by everything she saw. Beau gave a polite salute to the glowering warriors at every hand, stunning them with a display as the light caught upon his brilliant plumage like liquid fire. Kenda kept watchfully to the rear, glaring, then sat himself down with the others as the old drum-talker made a place for them at the circle.
The old feral spoke at length with the three youths who had escorted the newcomers, then turned to Snapper. Other elders gathered close beside him, watching his careful hand signs.
“What brings you here? Why have you ridden to the taboo lands?”
The shark nodded. She leaned forward with a quiet intensity.
“I rescued some of your riders from those-who-scream.” The shark moved her fingers with great grace. “Now we have seen more and more of these creatures appear. They breed inside corpses, consuming herd animals and the living. Spark Town has given battle to an army. We slew the creatures in their thousands as they attacked the walls. The last of them were ridden down into destruction.”
Warriors hummed in appreciation. One of the painted warriors made a coughing roar, then made hand signs, pointing towards Kitterpokkie, Throckmorton, Kenda and Beau.
“These ones were there?”
“All of these were there.” Snapper motioned to all of her companions. “Mighty in battle.”
Men murmured and nodded, making a closer inspection of the other visitors. Some jostled one another, approaching closer.
The old drum-talkers murmured together, then the elder spoke again.
“Those-who-scream were long thought to have been extinct. Now once again they have come. They have overrun camps.” The old men looked to one another. “Thus we have brought the tribe together for strength.”
The shark nodded. “They are swift, and come in growing numbers. We wish to discover how these creatures are entering our lands. It is thought perhaps from there – beyond the great cliffs.” Snapper pointed off and away towards the north. “We have been sent to discover if it is so.”
The old man emphatically swept one hand across his palm.
“The area is taboo.”
“We ask permission to enter.”
“No.” The old man was quite concerned. “It is cursed ground. Any who enter there sicken and die.”
Kitterpokkie instantly brightened.
“Oh! So they marked it off with warning signs. Most civic minded!” The mantis spread out her many limbs, and wove hand signs in the air.
“Honoured ones – the death in the ground is a poison left there by the ancients. I have devised special coverings to protect us from its effects.”
The old men looked dubious.
“Protection?”
“Science!” The mantis positively flowed with satisfaction. “If we are swift, then we shall be quite safe from the poison.”
“You have great courage.”
“All in a day
’s work!” Kitterpokkie was quite happy about her preparations. “It is an adventure!”
The mantis’ cheerful bravery clearly impressed the local warriors. Some loudly discussed her, others argued with one another, still others dubiously looked to the cliffs. All spoke rapidly back and forth. Snapper ignored the noise and leaned closer, signing to the old drum-speakers.
“Those-who-scream are a terrible danger to both the tribes and the villages. We must find out all that we can. The threat must be eliminated. Elders – we respectfully seek your permission to enter the taboo zone.”
The oldest of the speakers thought for a moment, looked to his companions, then finally gave assent.
“Since you are aware of the danger, then let it be so.” The old man looked towards the west, where the sun already hung low upon the horizon. “You will surely need daylight. Camp here with us tonight. You have fought to preserve warriors of the tribe. You have gifted them with honourable weapons. Grey-fin, you are welcome here. Your companions are welcome. Make camp there, beside the tribal parley staff.”
There was an instant surge of noise as the tribesmen clamoured at the news. Children ran forward, excited to meet the strangers but too wary to come within arms reach. Big painted ferals stood in quiet groups, eying the strangers and quietly discussing the news.
Snapper’s old friend, the young man with the pistol, came forward. He pointed off towards the stream.
“My arrow brothers and I have a tent, a fire, and a corral for your beasts. We will be honoured to share them with you.”
Snapper took the feral’s proffered hand – the first time in living memory townsman and feral had ever done so. She smiled – close lipped, to hide her gleaming fangs.
