. Night had fallen, but the living take precedence over the dead and their avenging. Only two of the short ones had not been touched by the flames, and only one of those who had was still alive. The fires could not be put out, by any means short of running out of flesh to burn. The survivor was still alive, barely, as the shala worked with herbal poultices and chants to quench any of the fire that had entered his blood from igniting again. Tagrun had saved him from death, by crippling him for life, their was a heated argument going between the shala and one of the sages from Thogras who had arrived that afternoon in a trading caravan bound for the mountains. The very caravan the victims of the exploding cross had come to escort from the river to those lands.
The flames of that trap had been foul indeed. Cairns made of rock now covered the victims still burning skeletons, but the flames worked beyond them. The rocks themselves were burning in cold violet and black flames that consumed the souls of its victims slowly. From time to time, a thread of silver flame lifted in the flowers of destruction, a piece of the soul fleeing for a beat of a heart, only to be surrounded and thrown down by the darker colors. A cold radiance despite the heat of the flames. Already the Kenrai had begun to call the place Sorg Gabalzg, which meant Rocks of Fiery Death. The sage had said if it was the spell he thought it was, the rocks would burn until the mage that cast the spell was dead. Worse, any who touched the flames would suffer the same fate and feed more power to this being.
As he sat listening to the short ones working with the wise woman and sage, Tagrun was making a curse marker, tying together the feathers of a crow around the skull of a weasel. It was something that had to be done, and the tribe would maintain until the rocky graves no longer burned. As not all knew the meaning of the curse markers, one of the short ones had taken it upon himself to make stones to set beneath them, marked in Annadari, the Yazik or language of his folk, and the markings of the humans beyond the mountains. To the hunter, these marks seemed to be nothing be gouges in the stones. But the sage had said they carried the same meaning as the markers did, for those not able to read the message of the feathers and skulls.
Across the fire the other hunters had raised the duwim stangim, the tent of purification. All but the young hunter had entered it already for their time of cleansing. Tagrun was certain the totem of his people would not cleanse his anger nor wash the taint of the magics off him. The Kenrai above him, still riding the last light of day to find a place to rest, cried out in screams that echoed in the portion of his mind that wanted to start this hunt he sensed coming.
Beside him sat one of the caravan people, one different from the others, and well known and for some reason welcome amid the clan. His hair was of a deep red, darker, and yet brighter, than that of Tagrun. His features were sharp, with a beak like nose, golden eyes and a narrow mouth. And the long pointed ears that marked him as a elf, or Numen as he always corrected Tagrun as a boy. Normally his clothes were similar to those of the clan, leathers dyed in the same tones as the clan used. Or clothes of bright colors. This time he was dressed in a strange manner. He wore leathers, but of deep black, striped with lighter grays like the grassland beasts markings. Thigh boots of black calfskin and gloves and belt of the same adorned him. There was no metal showing at all on him, save his weapons. Unless one counted a black iron booch that secured long black cloak with a hood which completed the outfit.
Two weapons stood out from the others he bore. The ball mace with the four curved spikes jutting from its globe and the black dagger in the black sheath at his belt. The former crafted of the strange steel of the elves, a reddish gold in color, with a black stained handle of wood carved to appear as a thigh bone. The spikes and ball were of one casting, it seemed, smoothly flowing out from them, curving only slightly up or down in alternation. The markings upon it were not things the hunter understood, or was sure he wanted to know.
The knife, however, was something he knew of from the tales the elders and singers told around the fire at night to children. A tar black handle, guard and blade a dusky metal that reflected no light, and thus appeared black as well. It lay in a sheath of black leather, with a simple design stained into its center. A mark known by all folks, the three diagonal blades, from right to left, points down, side by side. The mark of the Allegiance of Blades. The same as the brooch he wore. Only an assassin would dare wear such emblems in public.
At last the shala left the duwim the wounded dwarf lay in, leaving his mending to the sage, after agreeing he had some knowledge she did not, and he admitting her poultices were working when the stub of the leg had started to smolder when the sun lay just a hand above the distant homeland of their patient.
"Humph." Everyone relaxed a bit, some even smiling, despite the language barrier. It seemed old women all over said that word, and it meant the same thing. Disgust with some one or some thing. The wise woman caught the eyes of the young hunter. She held them with her gaze, locking the young man in place with it. "The sage consulted his own totem. There will be more blood, too much, he says." She paused for a few beats of a heart. "He said the wandering eagle would drive this killer away. But the hunt to kill it would take far more seasons of snows than he could count."
Tagrun wondered what that meant. The sands, while often vague, gave better instructions than that. The young man had only two castings ever done, one he never remembered, from when he was born, which no one ever spoke to the one it was cast for, and the one when he came to manhood, to find his calling and hidden name. That sages could count on more than hands and year sticks left him wondering why the sage said it was more seasons of snows than he could count. He shrugged, and let the shala lead him away from the others, to the open areas away from all the duwimi. The old woman was silent the whole way, until they stood on the grass well away from the camp.
"We never speak of birth casting, unless the Totems or times require us too." A shiver went up Tagrun's spine. He had just thought of the birth casting, if only in counting it, and the Shala now spoke about them. This was not something he wanted to hear, he was sure. It took the movement of the stars a finger for his mind to stop spinning with the lights of the sky.
"I will hunt this one. I care not..." The shala's hand on his arm shut him up fast. She let the stars move more, standing there in patient waiting for the moment to come. The young man tried his best to learn that waiting, in the same way the stillness of the hunt entered him in the grass.
"We will cast sand again. When the Rabbit is high in the sky. The totems will speak in the sand, telling us who will hunt." Her hand did not move from the young man's arm. "But we know you were to hunt men, Tagrun. Your birth casting showed it. This is why your father is so worried. He fears once you hunt men, you will never be happy hunting beasts again.
The hunter stood still, the shivers gone. If the sands had spoken once of him hunting men, he hoped they had spoken well of the hunt. Cool gusts of wind came down the valley, the breezes at this time of year called the rabbits breath. The red and bright blue glows the filled the sky between the brighter stars, shadowed with darker areas that made the Rabbit in the northern sky were clear. The long ears of the grasslands beast were still stretched to the place the sun rose in the morning. As the night and stars moved, the ears would turn the horizons, like the banners on the ramparts of the short ones castles to the west.
At last the shalu came around the tents from the west. "The sands and the duwim are ready. Come, Tagrun, it is time for you to cast the sands for reading." The old man led them back the way he had come to the duwim set off from the others. Before it the skull of an auroch sat, facing the entrance from the east. The flap was open, the small fire within was still in the early burn, with the logs taken from the various flat places around the Aqi. One of the lanterns given them by some trader over the years was there as well, the tallow candle softly adding its light to the fire's glow. Drix sat inside, as did the widow of Hathrad. The elders entered first, taking the north and south seats, as Drix and Jaliaha were in the western two already. There was no seat left, so the hunter entered the duwim, lowering the flap behind him, for the reading of the sands was a thing only those within the duwim were to know, never to speak of them to others.
Tagrun knelt slowly, seeing there was already at least two patterns of sands on the ground before his father and dead partner's mate. Already the elders were staring at the patterns already laid down, distinct and clear. The young hunter had no clue what the elders saw in the sands that let them read the fates of those who poured the sands over the bundle of kenrathi feathers. Outside they heard a commotion, which ended when the flap lifted for a moment and another person entered. The stern look on Drix's face told many tales about the one disturbing them. Until the flap dropped again, and the intruder knelt by the younger man.
Tagrun turned his head from the sand he had been studying, still not seeing anything there. The elf from the fire was beside him, the fires giving his face the appearance of a rough hewn statue, light and shadows only, sharp edges between them. There was a long silence, as the men gave stony stares at the intruder, and Gialla stared into the fire. Only Diashaya looked at the elf with a kind face.
After many beatings of hearts, the elf spoke. "As you can see, I am hunting a man. This man came to the Grass, but not from my chasing him." No faces changed at these words. Many said they did not do things they had done, so it was best to wait and see what time and the totems proved to be true. "This one came from the east, and the blade I bear was purchased in Thogras by the people from Isom. The survivors of what this necromancer did there." there was a darkness in that light voice, a chill that affected all at the hint that Isom might be no more.
Diashaya broke the silence that followed. "You hunt him, for coin. That is not the way of our folk." There was disapproval in the shala's voice. Taking coin for the killing of things had led in the past of the tribes to horrible things happening, including the death of several of the clans.
"This coin was small, enough only to say they needed this revenge, shala. We do not make wealth off the poor, it is not the way of the Allegiance in these days." The elf sighed. "I must know if there is a path to find this one, he kills for pleasure. You have seen what he does just to taunt good people, imagine what he does in places where he can work for a long time, as he did in that cursed town. Even the demon horse sought his blood."
Stories of the demon horse of Isom were many and well told around the fires, teaching the young why the old grounds on the east of the Slag Hills had been abandoned for the drier lands the clan now lived in. The tales told of the horse that ate people, body and spirit, not always both, that raced on hooves of fire across the prairies, starting great fires as it sought the reborn elf who brought it to this world and left it stranded in a place it despised more than any other.
Diashaya merely nodded. To her it now made sense, if the coins passed were merely symbolic of the cost of death, the rules of the totems had no troubles with them. She lifted up her hand over the fire, palm up, lifting up a wisp of smoke like a mage did with ghosts. The hand stayed over the flames, high enough not to burn, as she sang a soft song to bring closer the spirit world. Each person held their left hand out, palm down, over hers for a few heartbeats, feeling the calling she made to the totems.
At last the shaman held up the tuft of feathers of an eagle, the totem of the clan. His voice joined the shala's, in a counterpoint to hers. The feathers shook in a dance, revealing a rattle of the desert snakes in them, a faint buzz that melded into the song they sung with the smoothness one expected of nature. The lost plumage weaved in and out of the smoke, as Diashaya's hand began its own dance above the fire, catching tendrils of the smoke, holding it safe for a few beats, then turning to release it in a puff or cloud.
The song ended, with the feathers now held in the hands of both elders over the place between the already cast sands. In silence, Tagrun reached into two jars before the fire, one of black sand, the other white sand. With hands full, he lifted them to the sky beyond the duwim's roof, then set his hands touching, releasing the sands slowly from both, thinking of the killer and finding him.
The elders shook the feathers, scattering the sands in ways that wrote the fate being sought. As the grains fell, they took on a strange pattern. This time there was something there Tagrun recognized. The tracks of a man, the fin in the ground, more footprints, then there was the long nosed tusk beast, a human skull, and the eagle over a mountain. Still the sands fell from his hands, and other things formed, there was an otter, a beaver, and a wolf. Then the last sands fell, making a tusk cat with a scorpion on its back.
This troubled the hunter, and he lowered his hands to his thighs, waiting as the elf did as he had done. With the first black sand to fall, something strange happened, as it leapt off the feathers, which the elders shifted to the last open place, to dance into the other patterns. On the solid grey of Gialla, a heart formed, Drix's swirls became gold coins and a small distant eagle, and a dagger appeared in the casting of Tagrun. then the sands fell into the empty place, black sand, with human skull, broken on the crown.
The hiss of falling sand ended, and the rattle in the feathers went still. The shala gasped at the pattern all the castings had combined to make. The wise woman glanced at the elf, whose eyes were now dull and vacant looking. "The heart will return, but the clan will have one walk far away, but wealth comes of the walk." She hesitated, then looked to the casting of Tagrun. "You will face many dangers, and die from the sting of the scorpion, I fear. Watch for poisons as you walk, by mountains you will take your foe." She stopped at the dagger, which lay atop the skull on his pattern. "Death and knife, but the elf cast the knife, I know now what this means. The marks of other totems I do not fully understand, but I was once of the Yarocha, the beaver clan."
At last the shaman spoke. "Grandson, the sands tell you to embrace all your heritage, your grandmother here came to us when none of the clan had the gifts to be shala, and ours was old and dying. My mother came to us from parents of the wolf and otters, so while in the world beyond the grass, you will have those on your side as well. I see you walking beyond the mountains, and perhaps even beyond the waves. This though..." old shaking fingers passed over the scorpion on the grartagrun's back, " this I know as the old tale. The sting of the scorpion will always come, beware what you help in your wanderings."
Drix's eyes had never left the broken skull. "That is the skull of an elf, and you say you hunt a man." The elder hunter's words seemed to echo in the tent, full of some fear. "You or some kin... brother of my mate, beware."
Gialla remained silent, the heart returning gave her hope. She reached out, hands palm down over the white heart in the black sand of her casting. She did not smile, but her tears had stopped.
Tagrun looked at the sands, when he spoke, it was with a strange feeling of distance. The shalu and shala rarely had appeared at his father's tent, but they had cared for him often as he grew, and now he knew why. He had not known they were his father's parents until the old man had called him grandson. But something else said did not connect at the moment. "Grandparents, I will hold as best I can to the ways. I will find the heart, Gialla, and bring it back."
Drix grunted. "Make no promises boy. You will come back, that I read, but Galen..." His voice trailed off.
The elf spoke. "Levir, I shall be cautious. I have lived a long time already, for I remember Diashaya coming to this clan. But in the end, we all die." His finger hovered over the skull and dagger. "We will hunt together for a while, Tagrun. Perhaps the scorpion is carried by the cat? Who knows." Standing slowly, he sighed. "I should have known the gods would not give me clues to find my prey. Forgive me, I shall withdraw." Cool air rushed into the duwim as the flap opened, then closed. The fire danced high, and new shadows danced across the sands. But none in the tent tried to decipher them. Each sat thinking on what the totems had revealed.
When he at last emerged, still thinking, words made connections in the mind of Tagrun. The hunter walked over to where the elf stood looking south along the river, past the place of rocks that burned.
"Levir, that word. In your people's tongue, it means mate of a sibling." It was an accusation, not a statement. The hunter realized now that as other children had family, so had he, but all had stayed silent.
"Yes, and I never told you of our shared blood for a reason. I hunt men, the most dangerous beasts of all. I never know which hunt will be my last. And I have to hunt alone." The elf sighed, then turned to face Tagrun. "I am Orientis Galen Canumi, your mother was my half sister. Call me uncle, if you wish, or Avunculus in my tongue."
Tagrun smiled at the relative he had just found. "Teach me to hunt men, uncle. And I will school you in the ways of the Grasslands." He held out his hand. "As to the hunt, father told me once, that each time we hunt, even if it is just for rabbits, we must treat it like it is the last."
Hand clasped hand, as the elder accepted his new apprentice.
