by Zach Hughes
Sundrinker
Zach Hughes
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Sundrinker by Zach Hughes
BOOK ONE
Chapter One
In the time of the long light Du, the source, circled low on the horizon. Warmed by the benevolent light, the air absorbed the steams of the valley to reveal, in all its glory, the purplish blue sky. Sheath ice, condensed from the vapors during the weary season of dims and darks, cracked, sheered away, fell in shardy cascades into dissolving heaps at the foot of the sheer cliffs.
The birds had been arriving since long before the celebration of the coming of the long light to soar over the valley, molting rainbow hued feathers, squabbling territorially over the choice nesting nooks on the rock faces. The valley's mobile young, their musical, piping voices singing the joy of the light, earned credit by collecting the fallen flakes of color and delivering them by the woven basketful to the looms of the matrons. The bulky trappings of the season of dims and darks had been discarded, layer by layer, and Du poured his life-giving warmth in blessing, so that as Duwan the Drinker began his first scaling of the northern scarp, his mouth watering at the thought of his first feast of eggs, he had stripped away his torso covering and was dressed in the long light kilt, secured at his mid-section by a multi-colored sash of woven feathers, falling just above the articulation of his long, sturdy limbs. He knew that he was rushing the egg season, for on the lower cliff, where the source did not reach, ice still covered the rock, making it difficult for his horned toes and long fingers to find purchase. As he crossed the demarcation line between sun and shadow melting ice sheered away under his feet and only the strength of his hands, made powerful in grip by two opposing thumbs, saved him from sliding back. The tough horns at the end of his toes scraped away ice as he pulled himself upward into the full glow of Du.
For a long time he clung, legs spread wide, arms extended upward as his body adjusted rapidly to the full sunlight. He could feel the delicious energy of the source penetrating his yellow-green skin, could sense the arousal of chemical change in his blood. It was good. A clear, piping voice from below brought him out of his moment of worshipful reception. He looked down to see Alning. She, too, had shed layers of clothing. He knew that she had begun to flower during the season of dims and dark, but he was pleased to see the slim grace of her exposed torso, the surprising length of leg, the hint of new color in her face.
"Bring me an egg, Duwan," Alning called.
"Would I forget my little sister?" Duwan called back, as he reached for a new handhold. As he shifted his weight to find purchase with his toes his foot slipped and he dangled for a moment by his strong arms.
"Don't fall," Alning cried.
"Should I fall we will share and your new strength will graft my broken limbs," he said, with a laugh.
Alning's face showed yellow and her black eyes closed in
embarrassment, for Duwan's light statement brushed the bounds of propriety, then she, too, laughed, and looked up at him saucily, her hands on her hips. In spite of her blush, she was pleased, for from the day of her first freedom she had admired Duwan.
"I will bring you a basket of eggs," Duwan said, as he climbed strongly, feeling the power of the source in his blood as each of his cells knew the gift of Du. "But now, little sister, go away, for your presence distracts me." He clung to the cliff face and watched her go. It seemed only a season since he had tended her, along with the other fixed young. He'd been only a new mobile himself at the time, earning credit by working in the young house, but he had noticed her, had been pleased by the freshness of her face, even then. It was a sunny face, was Alning's, and there was a sense of elan in her bright, black eyes. Of all that crop of young she had been the fastest learner. Now, in her first blush of maturity, her walk was graceful, still sinewy, but the sway of her walk spoke of things to come. He felt an odd gathering in his loins. He had suspected for some time that ripeness was coming upon him, and now he knew.
Suddenly, he was not thinking of the almost sensual pleasure of being in full sunlight, or of the anticipated feast of fresh eggs. He was in need of contemplation, and he had to force himself to climb instead of descending. The rocks of the scarp had absorbed the warmth of Du and released it to him. He pressed his cheek against a flat area and watched the flight of the birds. He was nearing a nesting area. He could hear the harsh squabbling and, a lesser sound, the cooings of nesting females. He moved laterally across the cliff and a startled nester brushed his face with ruby wings as she burst out of a recess. There were three eggs in the nest. The shells were a beautiful bright green. He took only one. One did not rob any living thing of its all.
The area he had reached, some fifty feet above the topmost branches of a tall brother made lopsided by pressing closely to the cliff, was rich in nests. Eggs awaited his gathering in the sun on small ledges, in the shade of the overhangs, in small, cavelike cavities formed by thermal separation of the stone. Soon he had his egg basket almost filled. He needed only a few more. However, he had exhausted the resources of the nesting area immediately around him. Below him he saw promising irregularities in the face. He lowered himself carefully. His feet found a ledge wide enough for good footing. By moving along the ledge he filled the basket, decided that he had room for just one or two more eggs, and moved back along the ledge to the other end where a rounded rock protrusion hid a likely cavity at the level of his waist. Already tasting the feast, thinking of Alning's pleasure when he presented her with fresh eggs, he violated the cardinal rule of egg gathering; never put your hand into a cavity that has not been closely examined first.
The enormity of his mistake—the result of his source-induced euphoria, the hint of ripeness in his body that brought his thoughts back to Alning again and again, and the fact that he had his basket full and needed no more than two more eggs—came to him when his thumbs cupped an egg against his other three fingers and, instead of the warm, smooth texture he felt a leathery sponginess. His youth and his good conditioning, plus a lightning reaction time, saved him. Even as he realized his mistake and jerked his hand away from the false egg his arm was crushed from a few inches below his elbow. Had he not been so fast in his reaction the arm would have been caught in the maw of the rock sucker almost to his shoulder and he would not have had the freedom of movement that saved his life.
As the blinding, crushing pain weakened his body, numbed his mind, he felt his life being sucked out of his veins with a force that seemed to want to make his entire body collapse in on itself. He gave one sharp, bird-like scream as his right hand fumbled with the hilt of his shortsword. Even as his mind went numb as blood was sucked away from his brain by the terrible force of the thing that held him, he knew that he had less than ten seconds of life. The sword rose, slashed, and he tried to aim it precisely, for it was vital that he strike at the right place. The blade flashed down, all the force of his strong right arm behind it, and blood spouted greenish blue as his arm was severed at the elbow. Then he was falling backward, the clang of metal on stone ringing in his ears, for the blow had been so powerful that particles of rock fell with him as he tumbled. For a moment all was blackness. He felt impact, expected that to be his last feeling, but the force of the blow that had severed his arm, his total terror, had caused him to push away from the ledge as he toppled backward so that he fell into the upturned branches of the tall brother pressing closely to the cliff. Twigs snapped, limbs clawed at him as the fall carried him through the topmost branches. He huffed as the wind was driven from his lungs by solid contact with a larger branch that bent under his weight and let him fall, more slowly, to other branches until, with the blackness o
f unconsciousness dimming his eyes, he thudded to the ground.
He gasped, fighting for breath, found it, filled his lungs. He paused only long enough to look upward, to see the damage he'd done as he fell through the tightly knit branches. "Forgive me, brother," he whispered, even as he forced himself into a sitting position and examined the stump of his left arm. The stump was still gushing blood and now there was another race against time for his life as he directed the clotting juices to flow, willed the severed arteries to close, watched, growing weaker, as his will gradually triumphed. When only an ooze of blood was coming from the raw stump he looked around.
He was in the far north of the valley, in that deserted quarter of hot, rushing springs. He was too weak to walk. To crawl back to the nearest house was a possibility, but as he began to move blackness came to him and when he once again saw the light through the mists of vapor from the hot springs, he knew that he was beyond his strength, that he'd lost more blood than he had imagined.
Alning. He had sent her away, after she'd followed him to the northern cliffs, but, perhaps, she had not obeyed. He called, but his voice was weak. He pursed his lips and used all of his will to put power behind a whistle. The effort brought the blackness back. When he saw again, he was still alone. Alning had, apparently, gone back to the village. His life was his to save.
A few yards away, over rough, rocky ground, a hot spring sent its steams into the warm air. His vision seemed to be distorted, but he was sure he saw a fat brother there. The fat brothers grew in the margins of the springs, bloating their stubby, multiple stalks with sap rich in the minerals of the spring. He began to crawl, slowly, slowly, painfully, for now the stump of his severed arm had regained feeling after the initial shock. He would never remember how many times blackness came to him, or how long that agonizing crawl of just a few yards continued. He saw light again and the fat brother was near, squat, swelled with its gorging, skin glowing as it accepted the gift of Du. He reached it. He had never had the need to graft, but the instinct for it was in him, and as he prepared himself his weak voice begged understanding, saying, "Forgive me, fat brother, but I have need."
He willed, and felt a prickling sensation at his bud point, that little node in the center of his belly. Felt the opening, used his sword—he'd clung to it during the fall and had dragged it, in its sheath attached to his woven feather belt—to lance a small opening deeply into the skin of the fat brother, rolled to press his bud point, felt a stir there, felt the opening of himself and the first harsh entry of sap from the fat brother. His system, shocked, protested. His toes cramped and his fingers curled into painful knots, and then the initial harshness was overcome and he was adapting and it was as if he could feel the life flowing back into his body. He judged the time of grafting by the wrinkles that began to appear in the flexible skin of the fat brother. The graft would cost the fat brother a sun cycle's growth. To cost the brother more was unthinkable. He had enough strength, now, to make it back to the village. He separated, felt his bud point contract.
"My brother," he said, in fondness, as he patted the fat brother's shrunken, wrinkled skin.
He had to rest often. When he was a short run from the village he encountered two newly mobile youths, gasped out his problem, and soon strong arms were around him, carrying him.
He felt the healing warmth of soil on his feet, opened his eyes. He was in the young house. The think vines had opened the ceiling to the light. All around him the new crop of young slumbered, not yet sentient. He felt the old, warm security of being a part of the earth. The soil of the young house, enriched by mulch, bird droppings, minerals collected from the accumulations in the springs, fed him through hundreds of small outreachings that had been engendered quickly by his regenerative organs. He was at peace. He slumbered, woke.
"Father," he whispered drowsily, for there was a familiar face close to his, a face full of love and concern.
"You have done well, my son," said Duwan the Elder.
"Sucker," Duwan said sleepily.
"Wake," The Elder said. "You must tell me." Duwan struggled against the feeling of peace and sleep. "North," he whispered.
"A landmark, son. Give me a location."
"Must kill."
"Yes. We must kill the thing before it can divide. Tell me where."
"I kill when—" He could say no more. Peace and sleep held him. When next he awoke his head was clearer. Alning was watching. He opened his orange eyes and saw her face, full of concern for him. "Little sister," he said. "I fear that I broke all your eggs."
"No matter," she said. "You are safe." A sudden urgency came over him, as he flashed back to that terrible moment when his arm was crushed by the strength of the sucker's maw.
"Little sister," he said, and there was life and command in his voice. "Free me."
"It is not yet time," she protested.
"Free me, now," he insisted, trying to lift his own feet from the warm security of the rich earth without success. Alning, her face showing fright, ran from the young house. Duwan the Elder was there within minutes.
"Free me," Duwan said.
"Now you can tell me the location of the monster," his father said.
"It is high, and you will not be able to find it without me. Free me." The Elder considered for a moment, looked closely at his son's eyes, burning with life, deep orange. "Yes," he said, reaching for a tool. Duwan's feet, freed, were hairy with extensions. The rich soil clung, but showered off as the extensions withdrew into their almost invisible sockets and the pores closed around them.
A force of twenty warriors had been quickly gathered. Over Duwan's objection, he was carried in a litter. The force moved at a swift trot, for time had been wasted. There were those among them, old, hoary, skin beginning to harden, who remembered the first struggles with the monsters of the rocks, when there were so many that the cliffs were a no-man's-land of instant, waiting death and the suckers, things without brains, actually huge colonies of mindless, one-celled entities, came down from the cliffs to decimate all fixed life and to lie in wait for any unwary mobile. At any given time a sucker could divide, and divide rapidly, although it was the nature of the beast to avoid small divisions. That trait of the suckers had enabled the people of the valley to, it had been thought before Duwan's encounter, eliminate the killers.
It was simple to find the tall brother whose branches had broken Duwan's fall and saved his life. Tender twigs, broken, were already turning brown and the seriously injured larger limbs were being cut off slowly by a tightening ring of growth near the trunk of the tall brother. The rock sucker had not moved. Duwan recognized it by its shape, saw the cunningly constructed cavity that was the thing's maw. It was a huge one, as well as they could judge, although the sucker imitated stone so well that it was difficult to determine for sure just how far it extended around the open, motionless maw.
Fire, that most deadly of friends, carried from the areas of eternal heat to the south, tended carefully, was coaxed into a blaze using the combustible, dead droppings of the tall brothers. Strong young warriors unslung their bows, saw to the stringing, tested, selected straight, strong arrows newly finned with fresh, multi-colored feathers. Duwan was standing, if a bit dizzily, longing to be able to take bow and send fiery death into the sucker, but he had no left hand to hold the bow. When all were ready Duwan the Elder gave the signal, and ten down-wrapped arrows were ignited in the blaze, and at a further signal went singing upward. Some bounced their metal tips off solid rock, five embedded, and burned, and a quivering began as the mindless beast's tissues began to char and smoke. A second flight of burning arrows sang upward and the sucker, feeling pain, tried to crawl, leaving behind a concave area of surprising size. The target now outlined clearly, another flight of arrows finished the job and the beast lost its hold, fell to crash heavily through the branches of the tall brother, dividing on impact with the ground into a dozen small, writhing masses that were attacked immediately and mercilessly by torch-wielding warriors, Du
wan among them. He took satisfaction. He burned, and charred, and left no single mass unbrowned by fire and then refused to give up the search for tiny survivors until his father took his arm gently and led him back to the litter. Within a short time, Duwan, weakened by the trek, was immobile again, hundreds of tiny extensions drawing new strength from the rich earth of the young house. Watches were set on the northern cliffs. Roving pairs of warriors scouted the entire rock face of the valley. In the time of the long light rock suckers were sometimes mobile, oozing over the rocks seeking new points of ambush for unwary birds.
Duwan sank immediately into a blissful sleep. The raw stump of his left arm formed a crust, the texture of which changed during the time he was immobile. He was awake more and more, using his conscious periods for meditation, longing for the mobility to climb into the full warmth of Du. No more suckers were detected. The young warriors climbed the sun-heated rocks and all participated in savoring the feast of eggs. Duwan had his share, brought to him by Alning. When it was time he felt his extensions withdrawing of their own accord, freed his feet, and, walking with pride and strength, emerged into the square to see life going on as it had done for generations. His stump drew stares and expressions of sympathy. He saw Alning running toward him and felt the smile come to his face.
"You are well," she said, falling into stride beside him.
"Yes, thank you," he said.
The square was invaded by a leaping, running group of new mobiles. Duwan and Alning halted as the youngsters crowded around, eyes wide as they gazed at the stump of Duwan's left arm.
"Did it hurt?" asked one green-eyed little female.
"Fiercely," Duwan said with a loving smile.
"What will you do now that you are no longer a warrior?" a young male asked.
Duwan frowned, pulled his shortsword from its sheath. "Who says I am no longer a warrior?" He brandished the sword, the well cleaned and oiled blade hissing with the force of his motion.
