Predator's Ground {chap 3 of the original, which was being rewrote to a larger, better tale}

Jenro of the guard was part of the detail turned out to the shore below the south wall, hoping to catch the killer leaving, but knowing in their hearts it was already too late. This was reinforced in his mind when they found the carved up bodies of two of their own near the gate. And three more at the gate, as he moved there. Behind him, on the lake he heard crying and the sound of a pole moving a craft more for speed than stealth. At last a call came from the fogs that rose each night over the waters of Tarafu.

"Hail the shore! This is Scorpio Kenrai, and I have the children, they are safe. I wish to bring them in. Clear a path to the gate."

Jenro sighed with relief, for the children were of high ranking families, and their deaths would not be taken out on his men now.

"Not the main gate, hunter, ground west near the postern gate of the castle. Children should not see what lies at the gate." The guard called out loudly, so others would hear, and respond.

"They have seen the worst already this night, I am sure." The hunter was not the normal jovial person the guard had known since his arrival. There was an edge of hate and rage in the voice, and the steel of determination.

As he ran the skiff onto the shore, the hunter leapt out, and pulled the children ashore, handing them over to guards. When he stood, Jenro saw at his belt something that made him take a deep breath. There was a red handled knife, in a red lacquered sheath. In all his years in the guard of Cosarali, and he was the oldest of the guard, Jenro had only twice seen that kind of knife. And each time, blood had been shed by it, in violation of the laws of the land.

Somehow, he knew who it was the hunter sought. Jenro stood aside silently, and watched as the hunter raced to the gate, seeking his prey. As he faded into the mists, Jenro softly said a prayer, hoping that the hunter caught what he sought, before he had to respond to another scene such as lay at the gate.

The killer was getting sloppy. That or her haste to flee him had made her forget who it was that sought her. The more he thought about it, the more Scorpio wondered if she even knew who had loosed the bolt into her. She would know soon enough, if not. From the gate he followed the spoor of blood, both hers and the guards she had slain there. She had not even tried to fake anyone out, the traces of her passage went straight to the Kiltyen embassy.

But there, something else had waited for her. Or more precisely, someone else. As he arrived, the hunter noted the crowd around the door, and slowed his approach. His face was grim enough that even in the dim lighting of the torches and lanterns, a way parted for him to the door.

And in that portal lay his mentor, bleeding from many knife wounds, still clinging to life, as Semani the Healer tried to save him. Yet to his eyes, even the gods would have a poor chance of saving the poor man. Scorpio slowed his advance so as not to disturb them, even as his mentor looked at him, smiled weakly, and spoke with the effort of a dying man.

"Had I known it was my niece, I would have taken the blade..." His body slumped, and the healer became frantic. But the hunter knew that limp body held a soul no more. He turned, circled the crowd, who moved out of his way as fast as they could. The strange man the townsfolk had long known seemed different, scary. The leathers of the prairies that had marked him as eccentric in keeping his peoples' ways now reminded them that his folk were true barbarians, known to raid for goods, to hunt any who came into their grasslands.

And the still visible red sheath at his belt reinforced those ideas. The hunter was prowling, and the rumor of his stalking was running ahead of him. At the back of the building, he found the trail again. It led to the main gate, where the guard had done the wisest thing they could, and let the killer walk out. They told Scorpio that she had went towards the docks. And there he found the harbor master dead, several guards severely injured, and watched as a small fishing vessel moved into the bay, its shallow hull clearing the chain at the harbor entrance.

The hunter did not curse, rage or give any indication other than a faint tightening around his eyes, of his irritation at losing the trail. But a ship must come to shore, for fresh water at the least, and soon, for few fishing vessels had that on them overnight in port. Scorpio suddenly smiled, and turned back into town. Sometimes information was more important than hot pursuit in catching one's prey. He went first to his home, and gathered a well rounded pack, his saddle, and weapons. From there, he went to Itazaki's. The merchant was sad, yet relieved. The child had spoken of the leeches, and word had spread, easing the fears of a new rising of the cult of Blood Drinkers.

The men spoke for hours, Scorpio with only questions, and the older merchant relaying what he had found out. Coins traded hands, as well as several bundles of feathers and a sack filled with the rotten quartz of the Slag Hills, laced with filaments of gold. Laden with maps and his new knowledge, the hunter walked out of town, towards the inn at the enclave of the small ones, where he recovered a horse, and left at what seemed to be a sedate pace. But those who knew him could tell his haste. There was no barter, no slow negotiations. He merely paid what was owed in gold for the stabling of his mount, and left.

Dawn of the third day found Scorpio Kenrai moving down the eastern side of Bloodless Pass, riding hard to reach the grasslands and the Kensori homelands. This was no homecoming, he would be invading the territory of other clans, as his folk lived in the upper parts of that watershed, closer to the distant city of Thogras, where the scholars still gathered. He rode his horse hard on the downhill run of the still usable road of the long fallen Empire of the Northern Aural Lights. The cobbled highway in this stretch was still in good shape, so he did not worry about having the horse stumble and come up lame. Nor did he have to worry about burrows of rodents and ground creatures, as he would in the grasslands.

The girl had already taken on water twice. He knew this by both word from the goblins as he passed through their small nations, and use of the far sight tube he had taken from a dwarven sailor years ago. The fishing vessel turned out to have bright red sails, easily seen against the azure waves of the Great Water. He had noted its proximity to shore the last open spot he could see that sea from. His prey would try to avoid the town of the traders at the mouth of the river, he was sure, so the next place she would be able to get fresh water would be the stream that fell from the southern highlands below the Slag Hills. For him, that would be two or three suns of riding, unless another tribe contested his passage.

Which he did not doubt the Weasel or Owl clans would do. Still, he had to make the attempt to catch his prey there. If he could not, it was a double handful of days to ride to the crossing far upstream from the mouth of the Slow Water to enter the lands of the Hill Barons. Once there, he could not count on any assistance from the Kiltyen, unless someone knew he had been the student of a member of one of their clans, and granted him salt and fire privileges.

As he left the hills, and came to the fork in the road, the clansman rode of into the grass. To him there was no need for roads, the grass was quicker. The clan that claimed this side of the river, the Hawk clan, were allies and kin to his Eagle clan. They would not dispute his passage, for he was well known amongst them. This was not to say that the young braves of the tribe would not try to catch him, or stalk him. But they would know he rode not to make war on them.

He slowed down his mount from the gallop to a steady lope. The horse had a nice gait, and long strides, even at that pace. The grass was the soft yellow green of early summer, as the dry season began in earnest. It was not yet the rich golden waves, and still only came to the knees of his mount. By the end of the greater moon, if more rain fell, the grasses would be up to the starburst of white on the chest of his mount, with broad heads of seeds ripening in the sun.

As the sun rose, he followed a ridge, staying on the heights, to show he came in peace, as well as try from time to time, to look down the half dozen leagues to the sea. But as the land slowly lowered to the river, he gave up, and took a ridge north, to the Otter crossing. At this place a bed of gravels gave easy passage over the waters he had grown by. He stopped there to rest his mount, and himself. Only a fool or a desperate man rode in the grasses in the hours from noon until the sun was six hands above the mountains to the west. Already the clansman way of thinking of the land had grabbed him. He had been too long from the sea of grass, and it called to him as he had ridden all morning.

He felt eyes of many upon him as he took time to do what storytellers never mention, and bury the evidence of his passing, in both senses. He moved upstream of the ford and let the horse graze on the partially fledged grains of grass, as well as some of the shorter grasses the beast preferred. Having just spent far too long in cities where shade was abundant, the hunter spent a short time to scythe some of the taller and thicker stemmed grasses and weave a sunshade to sit under near the flow of waters to enjoy its coolness as it danced amongst a line of boulders that ran across the whole of the valley upstream of the ford. Yet he made sure the water was not in view, as light reflecting off of water was as dangerous to untanned skin as direct from the sky.

He saw signs of his watchers from time to time, and kept a close eye on his mount, to ensure none of them attempted to set him afoot. When one of the younger Otters came too close, and made a noise, he merely commented softly to the boy on how to get closer. When the head popped up, many birdcalls came from his elders, warning him back. The boy stood and walked back away shaking his head. Pride in getting so close ruined by having admitted his presence.

The Otter clan, or Habawa to call them in the tongue, were mostly playful, but he knew this was just a taste of what he would get once he entered the lands of the Wolf and Owl, not to mention the constant vigilance of the Raven Clan near the great river called by the sages at Thogras the Altorus. As the day wore on, the hunter napped lightly from time to time, never quite trusting to the honor of the Otters about the truce of a river crossing, but not doubting their keeping of the ways of the totems. The truce prevented attacks, but not the jokes that clan loved so much.

As the sun at last stopped adding to the day's heat, he broke his fast with a trout from a pool in the stream, cooked in the leaves of a plant common to the river's edge. Until he reached the Great River, this would be the last of his fresh meat. He would not hunt on the land of the other tribes, and ride openly, never hiding his presence, and would keep a small fire at each stop, to show he was not trying to sneak past the watchers.

He was about to toss aside the mat of grass, but realizing it was still supple, he rolled it up instead, and slid the branches he had used to support it inside the roll. It weighed little, and as his food would be lightening by not hunting, it would not make the ride any more onerous for his steed.

He gathered in his daydreaming stallion, and rode onward towards the deepening blue where the house of the sky had its egress. As he peaked out on the first high ridge above the valley, he took out his far sight tube, and confirmed his guess. From here he could indeed see the distant sea, now nearly ten leagues away. And on that wash of blue was a speck of red, well out from the shore. The prey was behaving as expected, but he refused to let it give him any hopes of that continuing. After all, her kinfolk called her Winnet the Wily, and he did not think it was not unearned any longer.

Scorpio had ridden for two days, riding well into the night to make distance, stopping only in the hottest hours as at the Kensor River. With each passing hour, he felt less sure of the course of the prey he hunted. She knew what it was that hunted her, a Kensori clansman. She knew his clan, and in all likelihood, had heard during her time in Cosarali of his previous hunts. Or what the storytellers said of them. Winnet was sure to have taken this into her thoughts, perhaps choosing to flee by water to prevent leaving an easily followed trail.

He kept to his plan, moving swiftly as he could. But now, at the point of his projected intercept of his prey, he realized he was in the lands of the Wolf clan, the Nomazan in the tongue. He had hoped to avoid the packs, and only have them find traces of his trespass after he had passed, or on the return, when time was not so much a factor.

But plans never meet well with reality. Less than two hands of sky for the sun to travel until he reached the spot the Duhn girl would have to come for water, and the hunter knew that he was being hunted. He had yet to see them directly, but the traces of their movement in the dewy grass were evident as he crossed them, or caught the places not reflecting the sun as brightly. He did not increase his pace, that was what they wanted, for him to run, admitting by that action his guilt of trespass of territory.

He held to the ridgeline trail he had taken until now, moving at a good pace, but not too fast. Soon, the hunter knew, he would have to turn to the valley, and there were no spurs to follow down to the point he was sure his prey would be at. And once he went into a draw, it would be taken as an attempt to evade. He had no good options, so he reined in his mount, moving the stallion to slow walk, then stop. He undid the loop holding the red dagger to his belt, and held the tip of the sheath, lifting the assassin's blade over his head. He could only hope that some member of the Nomazans knew what the blade meant.

From around a boulder just off the trail ahead of him, a warrior parted the tall tusk beast grass growing there. The warrior was of advanced years, but still hale despite snow white mane of hair he wore. He walked forward slowly, alert to this being a trick of some rival clan. Kenrai though he was, and of the Nomazans greatest rival clan, the hunter did not move save to turn the blade slowly so all could see the red handle and sheath. He waited, patiently, as the elder walked forward, gesturing to the ground.

Instead of dismounting, the hunter lowered the blade, hilt first to the warrior. By granting the blade to him, he was invoking the right of negotiation. While he had little he could afford to lose in an exchange, it seemed the best hope Scorpio had. Inside his mind, he could feel a familiar shift, one he normally had long before entering the grass. Scorpio the bounty hunter faded, and Tagrun the hunter and scout emerged from his long dormancy. With that side of his life, came the ways and rituals of the prairies. He knew what he was doing now was the right choice, and as long as he ignored the civilized side of his life's urgings, he might live.

The old warrior smiled. Not with his mouth, but his eyes. He was close enough that the lines around them were visible. He had gained the warrior's admiration, though not his trust. To show one was aware of the foe that tried to ambush him proved he truly was of the grass. Now he just had to show his courage and skills of the grasslands. He waited, wanting the old man to accept, not because the hunter desired so much to catch his prey, but out of respect one would have for any elder still able to hunt, be it game or men.

At last the warrior reached out, and accepted the blade, taking the hilt gently. The old man backed off slowly, holding the blade up between them, so he could look at it, and not take his eyes off his opponent. The signs of pleasure faded swiftly, turning to fear and respect. He met the eyes of the hunter, backing off further while calling out in the Wolf clans own words of the hunt something to those still hidden but watching them. Once the elder was back near the place he had emerged from, something from the memories of Tagrun intruded into the thoughts of the hunter.

He smiled, moved his feet clear of the stirrups on his saddle, and leaned forward with his hands at the front of the saddle, turning the lean into a sudden handstand. His elbows bent a bit, then straightened into a vault off to the side of the wide spot in the trail where he had stopped. As he somersaulted in the air, his hands found two other daggers from the back of his neck and belt. He drew them as he landed, bending deep with his knees to absorb the impact, and regretting it as the joints complained. As the hunter straightened up, he held the naked blades crossed before his chest, holding one by the hilt, and one by the tip of the blade again. He squatted then took seat cross-legged, laying the blades on the ground still in that position. Once this was done, Tagrun Kenrai sat upright, arms crossed across his chest.

He was asking for a trade, desiring back the red knife. He planned to settle for right of passage and the blade, whatever it might cost him. To let an assassin's blade stay for more than identification in the hands of one not in the Allegiance was to ask for a knife with the glyph for one's own name to be made, and given in some dark room to one with a greater desire for gold over honor. To say this was less than desirable was an understatement.

Again, his eyes found the elder of the Nomazan's. The old man raised a hand over his head, and many other of the clan appeared in the grass around the trail. He then sat down facing the bounty hunter. He handed back the red dagger, with a smile.

When the blade was again at Scorpio's belt, he spoke. "Oheiye, Kenrai. The Nomazan have heard of the blade of the Kenrai. We do not need a killer's blade. It must be bad that you took such a knife from the killers clan."

The hunter sighed. Rumor had raced ahead of him he was sure. "One of those across the Great Rivers, the herders of the hills, has gone mad. She was killing children. That cannot be allowed to come to the grass."

The hiss of air from those around them was audible. The elder showed only sadness in his eyes. "I have long heard of Tagrun Kenrai. You take this blade to end a sick soul's rampage. We see that. But you must know what it is you hunt. She has slain in the grass already. Five great moons ago, she came into the grass, and slew many of the clan of the Beaver to the east, between the Great Rivers." Tears rolled down the elder's cheeks. "With the rising of this sun, two of our children disappeared at the stream you head to, and a wave rider with red wings moved away, three hands ago, to the swamps where the Great Rivers enter the sea. We of the Wolf clan will point you the way, this one time, Eagle. Just promise you will find this rabid cat and slay it, before it slays again."

There was nothing else to say, but to hold out his hands, palms up, and pray the Nomazan would not hunt him if he failed. The old man lay his hands on the palms, granting him hunting privilege.

But the news that his prey had escaped his hoped catch point was not something he liked. He now had to enter her grounds to end this. And in those lands, when hunted, she would be cornered, fight harder, and with the knowledge of the terrain he could not have. As they both stood, the men shared what they knew. Luck had it that the Wolf clan had raided the Duhn barony many times for horses and cattle, as well as other goods. It felt good to be Tagrun again, to speak in the tongue of the grasslands, and know that others would help him catch a dangerous predator.

Crossing to the Shadows chapter 16

"At least the ponies survived, even if we spent half the day chasing them."

Dzhino laughed at Garzog's comment. Compared to the priests under the mountains, this one laughed more, smiled occassionally and hit considerably less often. "Next time we lose them, I will look after dark. They like standing by trees then."

 Dzhino gazed to the city walls, fading pink western sky sihlouting crenellations and scattered towers. His first surface city, after the town they passed after dawn, the walls amid night gave it a closed, forbidding aura.

Garzog's chuckle sounded strangely forced this time. "We cannot wait in darkness, despite your advantage in sight amid it." The hand gestured to sinking points of the crescent of Athlan, horns on a distant spur driving into the desert lands.

Behind them, curses filled the air, as Joachim forced along the pack ponies, still skitish after the attack. Dzhino glanced back, still wary of surface animals. Amid the growing shadows, again something moving amid shadows caught his eye. "I know. You wish to leave be among others before the shadow eats your light." Squinting, the young dyermo motioned to the motion. "Scoff no more, (priest). There is my predak."

Dzhino waited several breaths, keeping his eyes upon the ghost following him. In the past, the dead dwarf's spirit managed to evade others noting it when he took his eyes off it.

A deep hum rumbled from his right. "Yes. I see. Interesting." Garzog looked away. "Give him back his freedom, Dzhino. Our gaze chains him there, which is wrong."

Letting his eyes move aside, he noted from their corner a sudden melting of the shade, back into the growing darkness. "Wrong is this one not seeking the Halls of Judgement."

"Or even being able to leave his corpse. It is not (the return to the earth) he seeks, my friend." Dzhino met his eyes. "There is some connection there to you. There must be, for him to leave his remains behind unprotected."

Biting his lip, the younger dwarf felt worries arise. "Could it be the items I scavenged from his body?"

Now Garzog's face became troubled. "Stealing from the dead is a sin, but not one I would think to trigger such. Unless family heirlooms or some powerful magic is among those or involved in his death." Left hand motioning for silence, he turned to the closed gates to the town, entering a short stretch where lanterns and torches lined the bridge across the town's outer fosse.

Unsure hands on the reins led his pony into an awkward dance instead of Garzog's smooth halt amid the painful light. The dyermo cursed softly, wishing now he'd taken chances above ground years before.

"Stay still, lest you wish eating an arrow, travelers." Creaking wood warned them the threat held no bluff. Not that his pony understood the danger.

"You want me still, you talk to this (curse'd) beast!" Dzhino vented his frustration without thought.

"Perhaps you should have stayed in your cave, then, pumillo!" A lighter voice, off to the side, cut his composure further.

Even in his sheltered life, the young dyermo recognized the voice as one of the wood folk, those with the pointed ears and green blood. "Lyeshi, nothing but hate and derision!"

"Hold your tongue, malchik!" More hiss than grumble, the words stung Dzhino hard. "Travelers waylaid by Korshun vAdz call the gate open!" Now the gravel voice rose to carry. "Forgive our skittish mounts and young friend, for we all bear wounds from the demons of the Shadow's passage!"
Racing heart twisted his perception of the pause following, even as the pony at last stood calmly for him. Hands of candles burned down by that reckoning, broken finally with wood releasing its strain, as the alf lowered his bow, no longer targeting Dzhino's head.

Manners his mother taught him kicked in. "My thanks, good alf. Spacebo!" The pony danced a bit, favoring an injured rear leg, which led to Dzhino landing upon the cobblestones.

Above, few laughed. Only the young or those who knew the pain themselves. "I will meet you after you are inside. How many in your group?

Noting Garzog sagging in the saddle, Dzhino rose slowly, taking over the negotiations. "Myself, the (runepriest) here, and one other still bringing up the pack beasts." Looking back, he noted Joachim's approach. "My friends are Garzog ot Gorya and Joachim ot Choelm."

To Dzhino's surprise, the alf used a rope to slide down outside the wall instead of stairs he assumed to be within. "Garz! Jakin! Ave, commites!" Once feet reached ground, the alf barked orders upwards. "Open those gates fast! And send for the Dux! Tell him they made it finally!"

Deep olive tinted hand appeared to aid the dyermo up. "Sorry. Rough times, with the Shadow approaching. We suffered a few attacks ourselves already." Grasping Dzhino's arm with a gentle grip, the alf lifted him up. "Ave, master dyermo. Any who rides with these two friends cannot be ill-omened."

Looking up into eyes more cat than man, the earthy color glittering a bit, Dzhino found himself liking this alf. "Spasebo. For not laughing."

"Those who laughed the loudest know your pains." Those eyes took in the bandages he wore. "Some younger homani did laugh from arrogance, though. I will speak with them later. Sharply."

Dzhino noted several wounds on that arm, very much like those Garzog and he bore. "No need. The unblooded think they are perfect warriors, until they suffer themselves." A nod towards the crescent of Athalan was all he needed to convey his own fears. "Soon enough, all may taste battle and its bitter fruit."

A warm smile creased the face now. "I like your attitude, dyermo. It is refreshing to meet one of your folk who holds manners above pride." The hand sought an unhurt place on his forearm to grip firmly. "I am Quintus Varus Billenius Orestes. Perhaps we can become friends?"

Dzhino smiled, releived to meet a decent sort of alf who thought before shooting, proving the tales of the elders wrong yet again. "I would be honored." Motions to the side caught his eyes, and the alfs. "That is, if permitted by my first friend."

Inhaling sharply at seeing the predak, the alf's grip released his arm. "Sergie? Ah, I warned you not to return, my friend." Glancing back, he noted a single tear trickling down the alf's face.

"You know this one that haunts me? Garzog said he would need reason to leave his body." He kept his gaze on that face, seeking some clue.

"Sergie Vasilovich. In town they call him Sir Basil. A thief with a sense of honor." Slowly shaking his head, the alf kept his gaze on the ghost. "He returned to the mountains two monsoons ago, to save his family from some attack he was warned of. I tried warning him it was a trap by his enemies."

Two years ago, when all his life began its downward spiral. "Sergei Vasilovich. No family name?"

Billenius turned back to him. "Your people never give a family name to we outside the mountains. Unless you trust us deeply." The pony moved close enough for this one's hand to snag the reins.

Remembering the words of both Garzog and the Starosta before his exile, Dzhino felt anger at that restriction. "Foolish tradition we have." Looking at the alf, teeth bared in hurt over something making a connection at last. "He told you, though?"

Moving now towards the gate, the alf no longer met his eyes. "Yes. We were friends, despite his profession, despite my duty to capture him."

"Tsyepochka." Even though this person was not of the hills, he sensed the honor in him. Honor his own elders lacked. "As am I. He would have been too late. Our mother was already dead by then." He followed silently for a while, as the alf led his pony, and others came out to aid the others rapidly inside. "Dzhino Vasilovich Tsyepochka." A whisper as he reached the alf inside the gate. "Though I prefer the name they called me as a boy."

The alf smiled. "I, as well. Call me Bill."

"Solntsye Chort." Dzhino held out his left hand, the one he used for weapons.

The alf laughed, not at him, but what was said. "Yes, those from the Last Mountains would fear a sun-haired devil. Perhaps we can work that name a bit for you to use safely." Mirth left his face, as the ghost arrived beside them. "Or better we don't. Part of the leaving of a name is to leave no trail for enemies to trace." His own left hand took Dzhino's firmly for a moment, then gestured to a nearby stable. "I have a bit of a reputation for jokes and trouble, my new friend. Let us retire aside a moment to stable your beast, and think up a good story for you to tell others when they press you."

Looking back at his companions, Dzhino felt guilty about how little he told them until now. "Those two deserve the truth."

Billenius chuckled, turning the pony over to a stable hand. "They are my friends as well. As my shift is over in a few fingers of sand, I will help you all work out a solid identity." He walked to the back door. "There is an inn across this alley. Tell them Triconis Medius is meeting you, ask for my table."

Now Dzhino relaxed. One of the few letters his brother snuck past the Starosta over the years mentioned this alf. "Sergei being a bor, that I figured out. Mother practiced that trade, too. But his friend being of the guard, that I never saw coming."

Laughter floated between them. "Oh, I have many friends in strange professions, Dzhino Chort." Walking away softly, he waved Dzhino to the inn. "I shall be down shortly, have Jakin and Garz there with us. I owe them a few tankards of ale. I might even have work for you all, if you need it."

"Any job accepted, as Mat used to say." Looking hard at his brother's shade, Dzhino's eyes narrowed.
 "As long as we do so cautiously, unlike a certain rash relative must have." The shade faded at that comment. One their mother often tossed out, staring hard at Sergei, while ruffling Dzhino's hair.

When Inspiration Naps - A poem of my Writing Issues.

Writing is the path,
but the waiting really sucks.
You wait for answers,
wait for feedback on tales,
and worst of all
you wait for good days.

Words still flow out,
just not as well anymore,
part of life's travails
pressing the source with plugs
that prevents the fingers
from dancing over the keyboard.

But still I try,
I crank out things slower.
Find myself thinking longer
before letting ideas fly out
onto the world's screens,
or off to distant in-boxes.

I try to resist
urges to sorely hurt characters
who fall silent suddenly
or just turn overly needy
of some words left
about their trails followed now.

But, in the end
the words finally come out,
slowly, fitfully, between smokes,
not clean and crisp works,
just things requiring edits,
done by chainsaw and belt-sander.

Ya just gotta persevere,
I tell myself, planting butt
into any available chair
and forcing the tale forward
even as I know
this ain't the home run...
but at least it's something.
29June2014 - Dyfedd Rex, cranky at how a certain half-elven hunter of men is turning rather.... talkative but not about his story. I want the Predator tale, not how you drove the Vampires of Dhibt's ruling class insane with hate.

Fixing a Story - The Premise.... Part One of Many to come

Ok, so, here is the first part of this mess.

Folks tell you, all the time, that the main parts of a story are the plot, the characters, the locations, and a few little things the characters and plot need to tell the tale.

And, in that, for all of us, they are correct.

Gazing on this tale, the tattered thing called "Predator's Ground", I find the origin of the story in that first section, where I was just playing around with the concepts of how an Assassins/Bounty Hunters Guild might give jobs, based around knives, hence the reason each of Scorpio's tales revolves around the knife the job creates for him to use, and know his prey.

That was all I had, other than I wanted him to hunt a villain whose killing of others outraged a town enough to forgo their normal hatred of his profession, and hire him to destroy this menace to their lives.

That was it. I never tend to outline a story, most I have outlined, I do enough that the tale dies, not from lack of a story to flesh out, but once I outline it, my mind moves on, leaving the tale untold.

Starting with the hiring of the assassin, though, unless I wish to do tons of flashbacks, will not work now, as I realize I needed to build the characters more. Again, this was not a need the first time around, as the tale grew during the early drafts of Billenius' Tale from a character who walked into Bill's tale, leaking bits a pieces of his stories into the mix. Which led me to ask: "Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?"

So, to fix this, first, it is time to address the biggest mistake of serialized tales, too big of bites at a time.  Which I violated making the sections over 3K words each, nearly 6K words in one section.

So, against my better judgement, and over the objections of my characters, I'm setting a limit first, on the length of each section to post, of 2.5K words. Period. Minimum of 1K, just to give folks something to read for a bit.

Then, we need to expand the tale, to include more from the villain, and a few other characters.

Oops. Violation one, still no draft outline of the plot, and I have characters popping up.

Fine, others might say I'm nuts, but I'll let my methods, choppy as it may prove to use them, run rampant here for a while. Then fix it with the chain saw in the edit.

So, Protagonist is Scorpio Kenrai, the clansman of the Eagle wanderers, and our villain stays Winnet Duhn, from the Kiltyen Hill-Baron clans.

But she, I have found in telling other tales, is not the ultimate villain, just the tool used this time by one I called the Necromancer early on, Zisura of Kvaeg, and other places. A sorceress, specializing in death magics and the like, who has some reason to hate my hero.

Okay, so, some back story work on each can flesh them all out. I know this is midway through the "hunts" cycle for Scorpio, even if he still consults his mentor Codi Duhn, who is the uncle of the villainess ....

hmmmmm.

So, my outline, and weak plot come back together. No idea how much to write this time, but it is gelling up.

Outline.
1 - Zisura's Plan and Corruption of Winnet.
2 - What Scorpio is doing as things start.
3 - The evil grows as Codi and Scorpio deal with something in the guild, that leads to Codi retiring?
4 - Zisura betrays her tool, only to have it turn upon her. She plants the seeds of the tool's fall, telling it of her nemesis, the undestroyable Scorpio.
5 - Winnet's journeys and kills along the way.
6 - Scorpio's resolution of the guild issue.
7 - Winnet in Cosarali, building her base of power and setting her traps.
8 - The town in fear, as the daimyo turns to the guild for help.
9 - The guild politics around the mission, as some see it as a chance to disgrace the rising star that is Scorpio.
10 - The failed blade, when another assassin becomes one of Winnet's victims.
11 - Dark nights, gloomy days as the body count rises, and Scorpio looks at things on his own.
12 - Codi's suspicions lead him to return to the guild.
13 - Close strikes of the villain to the powers of the town, leading to open declaration of the bounty on the unknown killer's head.
14 -  Guild talk of the leaders, and the making of the blade (something I have hinted at, but not dealt with yet in stories, each job is a blade.)
15 to 19 the tales points, refined and stripped both, as they lay now.
20 - A better return, via the Grasslands and some better resolution of his own driving reason for being a hunter of men.

Not all that well organized, I know, but, this is the way my mind works.

Looking at the reasons, I know the guild issue and the issue of Zisura have to be linked, and as she is the creator of the Blade of Shadows, perhaps that tale gets woven into this one.

So, now I tear out the bits I want for the first installment.
A intro my characters and places,
B link together their situations,
and C.... start the path towards the main conflict.

Pondering some things - talking something out

From time to time, I do the unspeakably cruel and painful act of looking at a tale I wrote for a second, third, hell, umpteenth time, and saying....

"I can fix that....maybe." 

This way lies madness. Yet, Billenius was born of such, and this time, I'm leaving it up as a tool, not just for me, but others, on writing. I am still amateur status, just a writer, not an author, seeking that first paid short, novel sale or what have you. But, I know others can learn, by watching my own struggles. So, for a change, rather than giving you a system, some magic formula, it is time for some writer (okay, me, not someone else) to take a bold step, and say,

"This is the hell of editing, revision, and rewrite. Sure you still want to do this crap?"

I am looking at "Predator's Ground", one of the Hunts of Scorpio Kenrai (use the other blogs tab, and click there to access those blogged stories), the first story I tried to serialize after doing "Journey to Freedom" as a serial. I have never been totally happy with this tale, and staring at it, I realized some of the whys this week. Now, it's time to see if it can be fixed, or needs to be left in the category of "This was an early, world building thing I should have left in the darkness of my files, not shared."

So, here is a question, for this project, should I do the revision talk here, and post the fixes there, leaving things up as originally posted, adding the fixed versions, as a teaching tool, for myself, for others, for the analytic minds that need to examine what drove me insane (besides reading parts of the paper not contained in the funny pages, that is).

I loved the precept, it was to set out how my world's assassins and bounty hunters worked. And to some part, it laid the foundation. But, should one revisit the tale, fix it for what has fleshed out since then?

Face it, I will touch the tale, but how is what I'm asking for folks to advice, rant or talk about.

Or am I just trying to avoid all this talk around me about how my beard needs trimmed again?

Blade of the Eagle Clansman - Chap 7 - about 2600 words

The sun had been up for a while when Galen and Tagrun met again over a breakfast of cornmeal cakes and dried beef. Warm breezes rattled the surrounding tree leaves in a murmur rarely heard in the grasslands, save along the streams that fell from the Slag Hills to the east of them. At the moment, the Vault was close to silent, just the occasional voice in the air, faint tread of feet, and sounds of a smith's hammer in the distance came to their fire. In the air was the heavy smell of the rains that had come after they took up these tents, the wild nighttime rains more common to summer not spring. Rich odors of health and growth now rose from the sunlit ground, as the heat of the day warmed the land.

Across the fire, the boy seemed different. Where there had been a somberness, broke only in rare moments by the joy the Numeni had in the world, he now radiated a sense of purpose. He did not meet the eyes of his uncle, but the way they watched a certain path told Galen why not. The girl was not in evidence in this smaller encampment, though she had been with them until before the storms rolled over in the last hours of darkness. Where she was did not bother the assassin as much as it seemed to worry the boy.

Bronze eyes, slit as his own were, at last met the elf's inquiring gaze. The hate so visible in them on the trails here was not showing at the moment. Creases and twitches around them spoke of concern instead. For Galen, this was a relief. The boy had been burning like the grasslands with anger on the way here. A rage at their prey over the deaths he had seen, one the tale Galen had told the Elders would have fanned into a conflagration the wildfires he had sparked with his magic would seem dim next to.

In the quiet, both men ate, thinking different thoughts. Galen set aside the shocks of being on the Vault of Sandor, setting his thoughts on the hunt to regain the trail. The town at the river's mouth was this necromancer's target, he could tell now by the direction of travel. But a good stalker of men knew they hunted a wily and deadly prey. There were other options, not many, but still, there were a few. Along those paths the mind of the assassin dwelled as he slowly chewed the dried meat, wishing his friends would let them reach his packs, and the store of beans from Domorushtuu in them, which when ground and boiled made a wonderful brew for drinking in the mornings. Or while thinking.

But such beans were rare among the clans. They rarely traded outside the grasslands. Mostly the few gems and gold found in the river to the west, sometimes the hides of the beasts they had slain, but did not need more than the meat at the time, and the quills of the great birds of the land, used by many as the best for writing with, as well as decorations for clothing. Such are the hardships of the assassin's calling, the elf thought, sipping from his water skin, to miss many a luxurious meal, while on the hunt.

This prey, after getting his mind back from the wishes of his tongue, had shown his guile and daring several times. Doubling back, not just to toss off the trail, but to hunt himself for lives. The traps, even the raising of the beasts before him as undead servants, all pointed to danger from their prey. Taking another bite of the jerked meat, Galen chewed both the food and what he knew of the prey. The sages of Thogras had few details to give them, save they had divined his Mistress. Just knowing the necromancer served a female power alone had chilled Galen's blood when told. The Empress of Death was the goddess he served, and they knew it was a he only by the magics.

Tagrun grunted, obviously a little worried the girl was not with him, but no more than any other young man in love when away from his woman. "What is known by magic, can be influenced by magic."

Galen's eyes rose from the fire his hand was stirring. "Did I speak my thoughts again?"

The ripple laugh of an elf rang on his ears. "You said on the way here, each time you did, that it was a sign of age." The boy placed a small cup into some coals on his side of the fire, dropping in the leaves of herbs and other plants that acted as the tea of his folk. "Funny, hunters of men seem to talk so much, it must alert their prey."

"Just we old ones, but once we do, we don't stay long in the profession." Galen's hand ran through his hair, wishing he had a comb or brush with him at the moment. "And you make a good point. As I told you, what magic obscures, it also reveals. And the reverse."

A twig acted as a stirring stick as Tagrun pondered this himself. "Can we trust this one not to have influenced the magics to blur what was revealed." He held up a hand, stalling Galen for a moment longer. "This necromancer, let us assume all we have seen is a false trail. You said no one could carry that amount of weight by spell, which means somehow, someway, he has hidden the tracks of the weight. Could he have allies or servants on a nearby trail, carrying things, that he grabs from time to time to make us fear him more?"

Objections died in the assassin's throat as the words found niches in his brain. Spaces deep inside his head where another hunt's memories lay in uneasy sleep. Galen shifted down to the ground, despite the mud. Contact with Mater Terra sometimes gave him his best ideas. Tagrun's line of pursuit was changing things. Any other Numen, Galen thought, would have never considered that the sages of Thogras could be bested in magics. His nephew did, though. Once, early in his career as an assassin, Galen had faced another necromancer, one just as crafty and deadly. One who had woven spells with such skill that only what she had desired to be revealed was shown. She had even twisted the power of the Ors Veritas, under scrutiny of those suspecting her, to avoid condemnation.

"Let me think this over. I have hunted others of his ilk, and perhaps I can try to predict his trail better." Galen reclined on the ground as he spoke, and once down, his face grew slack, and the eyes danced around seeking thoughts in another realm.

Tagrun removed and sipped his tea, as his uncle lay there, head against the stump seat, thinking. The young half elf remembered well his mother doing much the same when she had to "consult her memories and oracles". Galen would not answer to much now, not until his walk in thoughts was done. Instead, the young hunter thought over the way the grass had been, and what it had changed to. Raising images in his mind, seeking the path of their prey, and things he may have missed. Xibo and Drixaz, no longer able to hunt due to injuries, often sat along the edges of the sacred place, watching the hunters and beasts below them. He knew this as Xibo often had criticized or praised him with details of hunts he had been in near here.

Much like his mother, and Galen, his head cocked off to one side at the idea released by that thought. He had not just his eyes, but the eyes and minds of others. Just as he was the guide in the grass, and Galen would take over in other lands soon, so to could others have tracked their prey, even without knowing it. With the quiet of his namesake, the hunter left to find those who frequented the edges of the buttes, seeking the trail in the eyes of other hunters. Just as he would watch the birds of prey and carrion when seeking the herds when seeking to feed the clan. Their eyes saw from a different place, and thus other things led them to prey.

Near the west edge of the spire they were upon, the young hunter found the elders. Not being in the hunt, but watching from well afar with eyes still keen, though other parts of their flesh binding them from taking up spears and stalking it themselves. They were also rather noisy, speaking loud, arguing over which hunter was wrong in his position around the herd of vixgrin, the large beasts with the scoop antlers. These creatures were dangerous prey, standing nearly two spears high at their eyes, and were extremely territorial. So much so, they only bunched over the winter and in rare herds on the grass as they moved from the mountains to the west to the hills, and back each spring and fall.

Given his preference, despite the meat of the beasts, and the many uses of their other parts, Tagrun would hunt the auroch of the coastal plains over these beasts. These beasts, especially the oldest of them, could almost sense the approach of a hunter, even from great distances. This made getting close to a herd, during times like now, when they crossed the river to seek the high mountain meadows and forests to the west, difficult, if not impossible. Most herds formed around those older beasts.

The elders were arguing over which herd should have been hunted and why. The fact that the pipe they passed back and forth gently still told Tagrun much that he had wondered over. Not just one set of eyes had evaluated his hunts here in the past. That had explained why so many young hunters got their first hunts here, near the high buttes. So others could watch as well as their mentor. This argument seemed to be all over on which hunting bands were right and wrong.

"It is a wonder we young can get close to prey, as our ears ring with your words at a distance." Tagrun was glad to see the jerking motions that told him the elders had been more intent on the hunts, and forgot to protect themselves. "You both know better than to sit with your backs to the trail. Perhaps I can regale the youngsters on how I caught elders sleeping when they were to be watching the young." Tagrun took a seat on a nearby rock, after checking for snakes.

Xibo watched him with a delight in his eye. "Your hunts, tusk-cat, were a bit beyond normal ones. Few wind up killing their namesake so early in life, and fewer still take no trophy from the beast." He smiled until his eyes had held Tagrun's for a few moments. "I see, this is about the hunt you are on now."

Drixaz stirred, turning away to look at the hunter as well. "You think he passed us by."

His hair floated around his face in the wind as he used it to mark negation. "Actually, we know that his kind needs many materials for the spells we have seen, but he travels light, alone. Can you ask if any strange parties have passed by in the past hand of days?"

The old men shared a look, Drixaz being the one to smile now. "You owe me a tender cut of your share tonight, Xibo. He noted it, though he says 'we', to include your elven friend."

"Yes, yet the totem powers spoke to the boy, not the Galen. That is strange. Perhaps our gods have chosen their own blade to hunt this evil." Smoke rings floated around the elder of the eagle clan, before he passed back the pipe. "You will have the meat, but I think in the end, I will be right."

The bells of elven laughter rolled over the elders, who shared a smile. "So, I am an elder and admitted to the friendly disagreements then?" Galen walked out of the scrub silently as the hunter had. Tagrun was troubled he had not heard the killer of men before in his own approach, but his father claimed his own skills in walking without a sound came from his mother, not him.

Xibo shushed him, suddenly leaning forward. Drixaz stood, looking down over the edge. Picking his way to the rim, the assassin had his blood frozen. Nine small crucifixes were on the slopes below them. The same dark purple flames dance upon the bodies decorating it, as had the one in the north, and still did the rocks covering the bodies buried there. Worse, by the size of the tortured bodies, he knew this time it was not Pumilio from the mountains to the west on the crosses.

"Children! Perfidio!" The curse was soft, but still all his rage was in it. Galen knew this one was mocking not just the tribes, but him in particular. Turning back, finding the hidden stronghold of the Kensori, letting them know the world could find the place they had hidden for an age.

Drizax trembled beside him. "No warning, this beast of hell can evade the protections of the gods."

Xibo seemed alone to be calm. "I have a bad feeling something from the past has followed a wandering one home." He looked into the eyes of Galen. "Once, long ago, one who still lives amongst us walked the desert to the west. The place of ashes and sands, during passing of the Sickle Star."

The Sickle Star of the tribes was the great planet Athalan, the rings giving it the appearance of bearing tools of a farmer on each side of its orb. The passing would be one of the eclipses, when Athalan passed before Andramakas, blocking the sun for fifty days or more each time. Yet still so many strange things happened during those eclipses, which came about once every seventy five years, that one could not pinpoint it out of the tales he had heard.

"Tell me more of this time, Elders. Tell me what it was that some clansman stirred up in the Shifting Grey Sands."

But beside them all the face of the half-elven youth was blank, tears coming down his face. Before the elders could speak, his words shattered the men forever. "Chanti left with nine children this morning. To the slopes above the hunt. There is no marker for her." Tagrun raised his face to the skies, as the howl of the Tusk-cat he was named for tore his throat, and the thought of losing one they had sworn to protect sunk into the elders.

It was only by force that Galen was able to keep the boy from leaping off the spire to the slope below. Tagrun was gone, when they looked in his eyes. The enemy had claimed another victim. In those eyes, Galen saw only an echo of many souls and spirits he had gazed upon before through those portals. The boy was now a killer, but one dedicated to taking just one life.

He hoped other lives would not stain the hands of his nephew with their blood, as they had his own. But the Parcae of his folk were not known for giving easy lives to those of half-blood, and the totem powers of Tagrun's human heritage demanded sacrifices still, some said. Of one's heart desire, if not the heart itself.

Blade of the Eagle Clansman - pt 5 - A Hunt of Scorpio Kenrai

It took the hunters two days to reach the place of the encampment, as the rain storm slowed them down. The longer he pulled the travois, the more convinced Galen became of his foolishness in carrying his possessions on the journey from his distant home place. That his nephew was even willing to pull the device he had made for Galen amazed the elf more. The young man, still a boy in his eyes, had scoffed at the materials, even as he used them. Something had changed, since the fight with the buhatar. What, he could not tell.

For Tagrun, it was a time of worry, the mud made the going slower than he wished, the Otter clan were allies and friends of his people. To reach them would let him rest in peace, if only for a night. The young hunter still did not trust his uncle all the way. Nor, after the setting fire to the grass, could he ever again. The elf was a danger to others, and traveling with the elf made him the one responsible. This had come home to him, despite the feelings Arklo had expressed for Galen. Friendship could end with the start of a clan war, or just the dangers created by one unknowing of consequences of his actions.

The rain was still falling, a mist with infrequent drops to disturb pools of water left standing by the long rain, or toss up bits of the thick earth of the valley they had descended into. The camp was on an outcropping of rock, what the elf knew was called a butte by some, with a spiral road that led up to a place of ruins and forests on the plateau its top formed. The ruins were older than the Old North Empire, Galen realized in sudden fear. Older indeed than his folks time in these lands before men had come from the lands around it.

It was the work of some race, one he had heard rumors of, but never seen the ruins from before. The stones were broken and well weathered, no structure stood beyond his hips, though the foundations and floors were still there, but fading slowly to smaller rocks. That took ages, not just centuries, Galen thought. Trees and bushes of all kinds now grew in-between the stones, filling the old yards and parks, anywhere they could sink a root. Compared to the grasslands below, this large high place left from the river carving its way down to the sea, was a jungle.

And around the edge, many tents were pitched, some even back into the brambles and ruins, but most were in a narrow area around the rim, where only grass could be found, and an occasional shrub that rarely lasted long before adding to some campfire or tool the clans that used the butte needed. The name of the place was just chovan, tower in the tongue of the clans. Yet in all his years of association with the clans heard of it, or even seen it with campfires coming from it. To Galen the revelation of the place being inhabited by not just one clan, but many, seemed strange. It stretched for two days walk, from northwest to southeast, and was one of only a few dozen such on the east bank of the river. While the west bank had hundreds between the river and far off mountains of the short ones homeland.

It was more a series of mesas, connected by a long dyke, the volcanic nature of the whole system shocking the elf, who had been told these lands never had eruptions or even the other hot rock things, like geysers. But this place proved his teachers, the scrolls and even some sages he knew, wrong. The rocks were all things he recognized from the places he had encountered volcanoes in the past, the pillow rocks flows, the fencepost of basalt, pumice on the ground around it, and gems. Laying there, some polished by the pumice grit and weather. The clans sat upon a wealth unknown of to them. Even the Sandor rulers of this land during the Old North Empire had not known of this place, or had been blinded to it by some twist of fate. As he had ridden up the eastern face of the central plateau, Galen noted topaz, amethyst, garnet, and even some diamonds. Perhaps even other stones lay on the ground, openly there for the taking.

And gold. Galen gasped as he saw the vast seams of quartz so rotten with gold wire that it crumbled at his touch when he tried to touch a piece that had broken off and fallen to the side of the path. The hunter of men had to remind himself what Arklo had told him, that this was holy ground for all the clans, and not to take anything unless told to. If the dwarves of the distant mountains knew of this place, the long peace between the stunted miners and the clans would end. Better to let the wealth lie, Galen thought, than cost so many lives.

Arklo had watched him when he touched the quartz, eyes dark with a wariness the old hunter had never shown around him before. Yet a smile touched his face as the elf left the gold liberated by his touch on the ground. Somehow, someway, the hunter was letting him into the greatest secret of the wild men of these grasslands. It left the elf worried if his body would be properly burnt after they killed him, as he knew his nephew had no knowledge of the songs needed to send an elf to his next life.

After they rounded a bend, Arklo was beside him suddenly. "You we trust. You have your own wealth, and need no more." The gesture to another pumice stretch littered with gemstones was negligent, as if inviting Galen to take some.

"Temptation is not wise, my friend. Even the most stable of people can fall victim to the call that riches sing, to gather in more of them. Especially baubles like these."

Arklo's laugh was not the soft thing he normally used but louder, full of mirth. "But you have to pass this test, my friend. You stand upon something given unto us for safekeeping. It is sacred to all the clans, for it is here that the Totems came to us, and freed the people of the enchantments, charging them to never again be swayed by magic, and to protect this place until the Hunter of Souls comes to claim it."

That was something that made even Tagrun look at the hunter. Galen realized with that glance of confusion there was more to being here than meeting the rest of the Otter clan. The boy had some rite of passage to take, perhaps one that would be offered unto him as well. Though he had many loyalties, he was not sure he could avoid telling of this place to the Allegiance of Blades. The final reports he filed had to be complete, not just from his reputation, but also as this was something the Allegiance may need to know. The guild charged highly for its services, all the buyer of a life taking blade could bear. It would not do for the guild to leave money on the table when dealing with the clans in the future.

Not that many of the clans ever bought such a thing. Those of these grasslands tended to be sufficient enough in violence to do their own killings, unlike those of the more "civilized" lands.

At the top of this central mesa, there was a path into the ruins and forest growing in them. It was a curving thing, one that Galen found twisted so many times, that had it not been for the sun above him, he was not sure where on the plateau he was. Every turn had paths branching off, and after a while it became a wide spiral, leading inward towards some old towers set in a low opening in this massif.

A last turn, and there was the central encampment, one with a vast area of monoliths still upright, stones marked with the emblems of the clans. A few lay on the ground, with marks of beasts that no longer had their own clans to protect them, like the scorpion and the long nosed tusk beast known to elves as the mastodon. Five hands of stones upright, with two more leaning over to fall, and three hands and one already back on the ground. The lowered area led to a great hole in the center. One the assassin shivered at seeing. This was the crater of a volcano, and it was still too sharp to be one dead, unless it had just died in the last few centuries. around the rim of the crater, many still softly smoking fumaroles let loose steam, rich in the yellow crystals that formed on the rocks around them as the air cooled letting it and the water coat them.

Many pools of water steamed in the rays of the lowering sun, seeking the embrace of the mountains to the west across the river, like a child does the arms of its mother at day's end. The steam tickled Galen's senses, telling him this place was deadly, yet they lived here, safely. And in numbers he had not seen in all his dealings with the clans over the millennium he had lived. And in lodges of wood and stone, not the tents they used on the lands below.

Arklo met his gaze, as he turned to the man he had known since the human's childhood. "Yes, you have earned this trust. But it has a price, hunter of men. It has a price you may not wish to pay." The voice was still friendly, but the bite of cold iron was in it, chilling to one allergic as his kind was to iron. His green blood felt like sludge in his veins suddenly.

Galen found his voice after a goodly number of heartbeats. "I think I understand. And there is the price of grass set to fire as well, is there not?"

The eyes crinkled in the silent amusement hunters used so often, used to the ways of silence when stalking prey. Something the assassin knew well. "That can be considered paid by the end of the dead beasts still walking the grass, spoiling the herds. If the clan elders agree. Fires come often of their own in the warm seasons. And your fire came of the earth, which would not have answered had it not wanted its flesh purged of that evil, my friend." Arklo turned then, leading them to a group of tents along the outer rim of the crater, not near the throat of the earth below.

There he saw the grim boy he had always known as his nephew change to a smiling adolescent. It started as a sweet voice began to sing, hitting notes a human could not touch. It was the voice of an elven woman. The song, though in the language of the grasslands, was obviously one made by this woman. It was a love song that broke ones heart, stirring the emotions deep within his cold exterior to flames themselves. And by the looks of those around him, this was not the first time they had heard the song.

The tone of it was one of longing, where distance and time tried to quench the flames of the love she had. Within it the winds blowing her lover from north to south up the valley of grasslands, passing her by so often while not letting him stop to hold her for more than a moment. The wind was a cruel thing in this song, the demons of the winds trying hard to end a love they themselves were damned never to feel. With a softening, she dropped to a delicate wordless set of sounds, the ululating cry of sorrow of his folk, one that bordered upon the Nenia sung to move a spirit on after death. There was an incompleteness, until from beside him, the boy raised his own song, in the same melody as she had sung, but a bit deeper in pitch, a resonance there that few of his kind could achieve, as his half human heritage gave him a dusky baritone sound, something few elves had, touching on the edge of what was called the bass range.

The song was of the hunter seeking to make the big kill, the one to make his own tent from one beast's hide, so he could take within the love he left on the high cold buttes, to be safe from the beasts of the fields, the grass fires, and furious storms. It was full of longing to be the provider she needed to let her have what she would need to raise a family, yet not get himself killed. Hints of their current situation slid in somehow, as the young hunter sang, as if this was their way of trading the things they had been through over the moons between their meeting. His words were of the love he had, the power of which was like the rushing of a flood down a gully in the emotions their voices evoked.

There were tears in Galen's eyes as the song went back and forth for a while, each time he sang, Tagrun walked a bit closer to the tents, each time she sang, he would stop, moving slowly back and forth, in dance of the hunt, listening, yet still evoking the hunter needing to make his kill to feed the people and keep his love alive. The elf had never known of such things amid the grassland folk, this love song duet he was hearing. It was more something from his folk. But the voice of the woman was that of an elven female, still young, perhaps just coming into her adult years. Definitely, he thought, this is her first love, one that had grown with her over a period of years, knowing his nephew was only eighteen years old, no more than two or three years, a short romance to have reached such a point, but the boy was perhaps the only other with elven blood in the clans.

Glancing around, he found other faces as marked by the trails of tears as his was. Some tried to hide it, others stood around him weeping openly at the feelings stirred by this love song. He would never have believed the clans to have romance in their hearts, even though he knew his sister and levir had a romantic number of years, until the family had come to haul her back to the west and the duties they felt she had abandoned. Now he wondered if that had perhaps made the clans he dealt with more reticent about showing their emotions around any of the elves they met, scared they would come and take this voice from them.

Tagrun at last reached the tents, and a gorgeous young elf came out, indeed in the first bloom of her womanhood, face strained with some pains, which among such a short lived folk as the humans was inevitable, but still open, warm and loving. The cold fingers of lost friends had yet to freeze her heart, though it might. Then again, by choosing one with half the blood she bore, she might not have that ice form around her spirit to lock her emotions away forever. Tagrun taking on this hunt, though, could be the thing that set the glaciers moving about her love, for there was no guarantee he would come back alive.

They held hands at last, letting their voices die to a soft whisper, as they turned from song to words. Then the winds they had sung kicked up a small cloud of pumice dust between them and the hunting band, making their forms like ghosts. For a moment, there was a hint of a dark hand in that cloud, reaching out to snatch them away forever. In the space of a blink, that was gone, as were they, though he could hear them, laughing and talking softly amid the tents, seeking some private place. Where they had stood, now and elder of the Otters stood. His face bright with hope, streaked with tears from the song as so many others were. A touch of wariness as they found Galen, though, appeared.

Arklo ran a hand across his face, no shame at his tears, something unusual in Galen's experience. "To be young again," he whispered softly, taking the elbow of the elf. "But we cannot, and you must tell the elders all you know. Or, given the blade you bear openly, all you may."

Business went on, was the implication in the words and grip. Among these folks, their business was living. Which made it very serious business, something that love was a part of but could not get in the way of.

With a heavy heart, he approached a man he had not seen in decades, the only Otter besides the hunters he had ever met before. Drixaz was the last of the adults from when he first entered this land still alive. Drixaz had been the young hunter in training then, when Galen had stalked a man across the prairies to the south. When the one he had sought, another rogue magician, this one who had combined the arts of knives with illusions to kill outside the purvey of the Allegiance. One who had been foolish enough to slay the member of the guild sent to offer him membership. It had been taken as a refusal, and an insult, by the head of the local chapter, and led to Galen chasing the woman across a half dozen kingdoms. At least she had not destroyed the souls of those she killed, as his current prey was doing.

They walked to the fire, seeking seats on stone benches around it, another thing of permanence the assassin had never seen before at the other camps he had visited. This place was shaking his conceptions of the people of the grasslands, there were huts amid the tents, not many, but obviously inhabited, and many other things these folk claimed to not use, like a water wheel to grind the grains gathered someplace he had yet to see, and a small vineyard to his right, as they moved west along the northern edge of this caldera. So many things, the cultivation, the permanence, told him there were two separate societies here. Yet it was the tongue of the grasslands they all spoke, as he moved into the settlement, the clothing of the hunters and gatherers he knew so well.

Galen felt angry at being mislead for so long by those he thought of as friends, and surprised that no one else seemed to know of this place and its contradictions, not even the sages of the Colleges at Thogras had ever given him a glimmer, yet he saw a sage he knew, sitting in talk with an elder whose left shoulder bore the mark of the distant Beaver clan, who existed not in this watershed, but along the far off Altorus River basin's northern and western sides.

So many clans, usually in some conflict, sitting together here, on a place the trails the hunters made to force the travelers of the land to avoid. So they lied, at last he accepted this. Or perhaps this was a sacred ground, as implied by Arklo as they climbed it, where different rules applied. Tagrun had disappeared into the crowded areas, with the elven girl. At the fire, with those already seated, he found many other elders he knew, or from clans not close to the land. Off to one side, a young runner was recovering from the climb, wearing the mark of the eagles, while two grey hairs listened to what he had to say. They were far enough off Galen could not overhear, but the reading of lip movements was a skill he had learned over the years, and he had honed it among these folk, who he now knew did have a secret hidden from others, as he had first thought of them.

He was led to sit by Drixaz, with a place beside him soon occupied by Xibo of the Eagles, the true elder, one he had thought dead for a hand of years now.

"You are here to give word of this thing that defiles the land, my old friend. We had never meant for you to see this place, and know that we have our own sacred lands that others may not tread, as the tales say of the distant plains you come from." Xibo's voice was not weak, but still strong. Still, there was a faint tremor in its timber, one the elf was all too familiar with from his many short friendships with the humans. The man had two, maybe three seasons of snows left in his frame. To get back a friend thought gone, only to find he may not be there the next time sorrowed the elf more.

"I never dreamed that you had a city." Then a twinkle entered the assassin's eyes. "And to think, you called me a deceiver when I first came to the grasslands."

The old human chuckled softly. "Yes, for you kept seeking the secret you sensed somehow from those first meetings we had. We will ask you to join with the grass and stones, to vow not to let this place be known of again until the Redeemer comes to renew the lands we live in now."

Galen shook his head to clear the fogs more revelations were causing him. "Redeemer?"

Xibo merely shook his heads, and made the trade language sign for patience, as the others at last all turned to the fire, and the Council of the Clans came to what passed for order amongst them.