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ORIGINAL DRAFT - PRE-EDITING

This story was written as part of the 2016 National Novel Writing Month. It was written without edits between 12:01am, November 1st and 11:59pm, November 30th.

This story was written by David J Rust, aka Sylvan Scott, and is in a pre-edited state. The characters, situations, and concepts herein are property of the author and may not be distributed or altered without express, written permission.

Skylands: the Scorpion Spear, Part One - "Saeldrin", Chapter Two: The Prey

©2016 Sylvan Scott

Hunger walked in every ice-band's shadow. It awoke and sharpened the senses. It was not welcome, but it was valuable. When one was at home, surrounded by ample stores and the comforts of friends, one's guard was let down. With the even stronger bonds one forged when sent out in a group took hold, hunger arose to remind everyone to watch and be wary. There were more than ramessin that hunted and killed dagdarra on the tundra.

Ered breathed deep before bellowing a farewell to the group they had met. It was sonorous and spoke of the death that would, one day, embrace them all. It was sobering and was how all departures were marked. It was a sound without words. Yet within that low, resonant tone were held the fundamental essence of their existence: B?nor, community, long winters, short summers, and the necessity of large communities.

He ended his call and bowed in the direction of the retreating band. In the distance, their leader bowed in return.

The others had come from Juut in the midway of the Blue Ice. When spring came, it came to Juut first. Hot thermals broke through the ice and warmed a wide series of oasis sufficient for low-light crops to be started. The water flowed from there throughout the land, warming and melting each pocket of blue ice it encountered. Within weeks, spring would spread across Saeldrin. Blue Ice became the Green Expanse. The dagdarra would nod, taking the seasonal change in stride, and begin their hard labor of gathering and preserving enough food for the next winter.

There was no celebration.

Celebration was reserved for births, deaths, and the coming of B?nor's dark season at the end of summer. Then, the bulk of those who hunted them, would vanish. They were dissuaded by B?nor's gifts of cold and darkness. Death haunted them all, but the hunters suffered from it the most. Death would yet come for the dagdarra but it would not be by fang, claw, blade, or gun.

He returned to the others.

"Does Juut not have enough to get through the winter?"

Another one of Oben's questions. They reminded Ered just how new he was to everything down-trail from the high vales, back home.

Ered smiled. "They have plenty. Truth be told, they likely have more than Granite Hearth."

"But--"

"They offered more," Orven said. "But Ered refused the offer."

Oben and Orven flanked Ered as he walked back to their small camp. There, Tel was already breaking down everything but the snow dome.

"It is smart to offer more than you can afford," Ered explained. "Just as it is wise to not accept it. It shows strength and mercy in the heart of the offerer and understanding in the mind of the would-be recipient."

Oben nodded but his expression did not indicate full comprehension.

Ered continued.

"We could add more than what we traded to our sleds. But it would slow us down; make us burn more life force in the hauling. It is wise to rely upon one's foraging skills rather than completely bring all one would need on a trek. In the end, this also sharpens the mind and reinforces reliance upon the land."

"But if you run out of food, all that reliance is for naught," Oben said.

"And there is the trade-off," Orven interjected.

Ered nodded. "We walk the line between life and death at all times. On a wide-ranging trek, even moreso. You never lift your eyes from the horizon and you never stop listening or sniffing for enemies. Even in B?nor's season, we must always be on our guard. The ramessin can send their metal slugs across vast acres of tundra to strike the unwary."

"But if we detect them, all the more alert for the hunger in our bellies," Orven said, "we are more than a match for them."

Oben nodded and said no more. Upon returning to their camp, he helped his sister re-pack the last of the sleds.

Ered turned to Orven and clapped him on the shoulder. "He listens to you more than me."

"He envies me," Orven replied in a soft voice. He grunted as he tossed the trade goods he had been carrying over one shoulder, to the ground. "I use that to guide him. I hope I have not undermined your authority, Watchword."

Ered shook his heavily antlered head. "No, no... Truthfully, I often wish you had been deemed 'Watchword' for this ice-band. You have more experience."

"Our experience is the same," Orven said. He knelt to start untying and breaking the trade good bundles into separate packages for re-positioning on their sleds. The wind continued to blow and snow kept falling. The storm wouldn't abate. "But you know the Dead Hills; you spent time, there. You've actually seen the Alapak canyons and know the settlements around them. You earned your title."

"Still," Ered said, "you're the elder of us."

"Which means nothing except, maybe, in the order we shall likely die." He laughed in a low register. Whether in irony or uncharacteristic bitterness, Ered couldn't tell. "Don't worry; in the next life, I'm sure I'll be the one in charge. You can make it up to me, then."

"What do you know of lives beyond life?" Balmyrra walked past the two with her arms full of cotton cloaks and stoppered, wooden vials. "Have you grown the symbol of our lady, overnight?" She snorted and made a sharp bob with her head, showing off the Y-shaped patch of white fur at the top of her otherwise brown forehead.

"Oh, of course not, great Almarra," Orven said. He emphasized her title. "But surely practicing my all-knowingness will make it easier for me once I am reincarnated with your heredetary knowledge."

His crooked smirk made Ered laugh but Balmyrra scowled. She stopped and turned on him. "Think you that our goddess is a joke?"

"No more than you, Almarra," Orven said. He banished his smile but his tone stayed jovial. "And I shall use your title as proof of it. Were that I did not respect B?nor, I would merely shout 'Balmyrra' when I wanted your attention and not with the most reverent of titles, 'Almarra'." He bowed as he said this and Ered winced, inwardly. "Tell me, when you were reborn from among all the blessed souls in the Far Heavens, did you come to know everything at the moment of conception or did it take until you actually saw the light at the end of the dark tunnel of your mother's womb?"

Balmyrra snorted, turned, and stalked towards the sleds. "Oben! Onid! Stop getting under Tel's hooves and fetch the trade goods our illustrious Watchword has bartered for us! Come! Fast!"

"She'll make you regret your words," Ered muttered to Orven.

"Her presence, alone, is enough to conjure regret. Why should I avoid the chance to have a little fun at the same time?"

"If she wants, she could make sure you are never made Watchword, again."

"Oh, and what a trial that would be: to not have responsibility for others on an ice-band; to not spent months, in winter, seeking food or rooting out ramessin hunters." He snorted and clapped his commander's back as Oben and Onid came running. "You are welcome to the title, my friend. I do not relish it."

Without another word on the subject, Orven and Ered helped the youngest two of their group move sacks of roots and dried fruits to their sleds and distribute the loads.

Even after everything was packed, they were not ready to go. Balmyrra spread the rough-woven, woolen cloaks she'd been working on, upon the ice and snow. For another two hours, she rubbed them with special herbs and applied delicate patterns of quickly-frozen ink. She would chant and raise her voice so that it echoed across the Blue Ice. As midday approached, though, she sat back on her haunches and announced that she was done.

"And ... these; these will help us cross the tundra even in this wind?"

Almarra Balmyrra closed her eyes for a moment, exhaustion in her expression and eyes. She nodded to her apprentice who had helped her during the last hour of the preparations.

Onid, as befitting her title "Waterbearer", was bringing the old woman a cup of steaming tea. She had been brewing it over the last embers of the previous night's fire. The wind and persistent snows had sapped much of its warmth. She handed it to her mentor and bowed to Ered.

"They are brief enchanted, Watchword. Blessed by no less than B?nor, they push the poisons of exhaustion and fear from the body. Wearing such a cloak, you shall be able to run faster, and longer, than ever you would at even your peak of health." The young woman bowed. "If it pleases you, sir."

"Heh," Balmyrra spat. "'Sir'. Stop stumbling over honorifics that don't suit you, girl. He's not impressed."

Onid bowed without a word and retreated to empty out the last of the embers from the fire pot. Then, she joined her younger brother by their place in front of the sleds. Balmyrra climbed on the back of one.

"Won't the cloaks help you, too?" Orven asked.

"In time," the old woman replied. "Once I've retrieved my wind."

Orven shook his head and took his place next to Tel and in front of Oben. The corded straps that pulled the sleds with all their heavy gear looped through bands on the young dagdarra's belt and, from there, up to the harness Orven wore at his shoulders. Tel stepped into the same arrangement in front of Onid. Each donned the cloak that Balmyrra had crafted for them and waited for Ered's command.

Ered had met several Almarra in his time and their magics were nothing to scoff at. Even so, the claims Balmyrra had made strained credibility. Nonetheless, he picked up his cloak and walked to the head of his ice-band. Wrapping the woolen garment over his shoulders, he immediately felt his doubts evaporate.

In an instant, as soon as the cloak was tied around his thick neck, he felt all exhaustion blow away like fine snow on a frozen pond. He gasped, feeling his breaths come deep and naturally. There was no pain from the previous days' journeys. His muscles felt heavier; harder. When he spoke, it was with a booming enthusiasm he had not felt since he had been a young buck.

"Forward!" he shouted. Without hesitation, his ice-band erupted into motion.

He ran ahead and they came close behind.

His sense seemed preternaturally sharp and his stride was twice as long ... twice as fast. He was soon snorting, regulating heat through his thick muzzle, and bellowing with exertion. But he didn't feel tired: not for a second. Their passage kicked up even more snow as they ran, sustained, through the wind and snow. Ered half-closed his eyes and focussed on sounds and smells. The world had become crystal clear, despite the storm. He knew the way and no quirks of weather were going to stop him and his team.

The hours sped by with winter's early dusk coming far too soon. But Ered, glancing at the rest, knew they didn't need to stop. So, with him finding their way as twilight became night, he led them at least three times faster than they would have gone even had the conditions been optimal.

Fishing out a lamp, lit with a naturally-burning fire stone, he shone its dim illumination through the whirling snow and continued his lead.

Still, there were no stars; no moon, either. The skies were darker than dark but his eyes captured what little illumination glanced from his lamp off the snow. They neither faltered nor fell. As the snows grew deeper, though, they started to pant with the exertion. As midnight passed, he gauged that they could do with a rest. But, as he slowed to suggest it to Orven, the man merely shook his head as if anticipating the words.

Ered checked the others. Similarly, they seemed to want to push on. Balmyrra crouched on the top of the sled Tel and Onid pulled, her eyes seeming to shine with an inner light as they reflected that of his lamp. She, too, nodded to him in encouragement. Ered took that as a sign he should not underestimate how long the magic of the cloaks would last. And, so, he pushed on.

He pushed them, and ran; eyes - ears - nostrils seeking through the darkness to find their way.

A few times, he thought he might be heading too far north. But each time he was able to find a landmark he knew and correct his course.

Hours burned in his lungs and legs. He knew it was no less than what the others were experiencing. But it was his task to find the way. It was his task to watch and guide and lead. And as he did, he kept careful eye on his ice-band. Curiously, it was Balmyrra who seemed the most exhausted and, he saw, she had donned one of the cloaks as well.

Then, to his right, the clouds began to lighten.

At first, he thought he must be off-course. If it was the sun, it was lightening the storm from too far in the north. The night, at this time of year--approaching spring--only lasted a few, scant hours. But something in the storm was changing all that. But despite feeling off-course, he soon saw the distant ridge that marked the Salt Sisters. Beyond them, though, the skies were full of swirling, horizontal clouds.

This time, he called for a halt.

"What is that?" Tel asked, catching his breath.

It looked like a wall. A grey so dark it was almost stone, the clouds swirled from north to south, as if enwrapping a portion of Saeldrin at a position somewhere beyond the mountains and hills. What was normally a six day journey had been accomplished in two ... and one of those had been at a quarter speed. But even then, it didn't explain the odd angle of sunlight beyond the clouds. It didn't explain the thickening storm the further they went west.

A mournful wail echoed off the distant hills.

Ered looked around and saw the others had not heard it. They were taking full advantage of the rest. He called for morning meal and stalked to their packs to gather food for them.

Balmyrra was already sipping cold tea.

She handed him a pack of oat balls, traded to them the previous morning. Her eyes were wide and she was panting as if having run rather than ridden.

"Almarra?" He kept his tone respectful and quiet.

"It is none of your concern," she snapped.

He doubted it. In fact, he knew it was not true. His was the final word on an ice-band. Even though she was not only a priestess but an almarra, his word held absolute power on this trek. He frowned and put his hand upon her wrist, keeping her cup from her lips.

"No, Almarra. With all due respect: you will tell me what is happening."

The old woman almost looked like she was ready to strike him. The glare was palpable enough that it made Ered remove his hand from her wrist. But she did not drink, when he let her go. Instead, she looked quickly around at the others and lowered her voice. "Nothing is free; certainly not from B?nor," she hissed. "Their exhaustion is whittled away from my years. Trust me: it's not a price I cannot pay. I have more than enough life for anyone."

Ered was surprised. "Your life? But--"

"But nothing," she snapped. "It is mine to do with as I please! Now, leave me be to catch my breath."

Ered frowned but nodded and took the bag of oat balls. He passed them out, first to Onid and Oben as befitting the youngest, and then Tel and Orven. Once everyone had several handfuls, he took his own sustenance.

Tel was still looking at the distant, horizontal clouds.

"It looks like a ... wall. A wall of wind," Oben said.

"I've never seen anything like it," Orven added. "How about you, Ered?"

Ered shook his head as, in the distance, he thought he heard another strained, mournful wail. "Never. But that's where we're going."

The cloaks' magic was strong and, after their brief break, everyone but Balmyrra was hale and hearty and ready to resume their run. The Salt Sisters were still a long way away. To their southern edge, were the Dead Hills but even they weren't visible, yet, on the horizon.

Ered led the group back into their run.

Now that pale, grey light had returned, his hoofsteps were even more sure. He and the rest of his band pushed onward, using the sight of the three conical mountains as their guide. Here and there, signs of an early spring had been captured and frozen by the freakish storm. Had these winds not risen, Ered had no doubt they would be seeing meltwater in several places around the Blue Ice.

But the storms had changed everything.

It had to be a sign.

But a sign of what, he and no one back at Granite Hearth, knew. The elder priestess and her apprentice would need to see, in person, at the place their great seer had insisted they reach. And, now, with Balmyrra's magical aide, it was a destination close at hand.

They ran through ever-darkening skies and stronger wind. The snow did not build up as much, here, as it had out on the flatter portions of the Blue Ice. Rather, here the tundra began to be broken into low, ridge-like hills complete with stands of scraggly pine and borem brush. He guided them onward, only a few times hearing the moaning wind wrapping itself around the increasing heights of the terrain.

As midday passed into evening and evening overcame and exceeded the hour they would normally rest and eat, he kept them running. In the distance, finally, they could see the near-edge of the Dead Hills. Beyond that edge, towards the hills' center by only six or seven miles, interior canyons would begin, running to the south. Starting near the large dagdarra settlement, Alapak, the deep cliffs stood sentinel over fractured arroyos through which frozen, slushy rivers wound their static way only a few months out of the year. From there, they would head south and follow the Alapak Canyons to their terminus at the saltmarsh, Yellowfen. It was their ultimate destination. And then...

And then, they would see what they would see.

They stopped, late, to have more oat balls and, maybe, some cold ale.

The winds howled once more and Ered perked up his ears at their tone. Nearby, Oben was telling Onid about how the sound was a trick of the ridges, channeling winds into a mockery of living voices. He sounded reassuring but it was an emotion Ered did not echo. He had started to feel tired and could see the same in each of the ice-band. The cloaks--or, rather, their magic--were beginning to falter.

He walked back to where Orven stood in close, quiet counsel with Tel.

"You heard it, then?" he asked them, in sotto voce.

Tel nodded and Orven looked grim.

"We're being hunted."

"We're being hunted."