559 PF

Two figures stood on a moonlit hill.

One, a burly youth of perhaps fourteen; his sky-blue eyes stood framed by shoulder-length dark hair and a brow like the first clouds of a thunderstorm. At his side rested a longsword, and from his back hung a round wooden shield.

The other, a tall and raven-haired young woman; she leaned easily on a wicked long-tipped spear. Long knives at her hip glinted in the moonlight.

Both were clad in the hard saurscale garb of the Makspool, tribe of the Ilvorn Hills, painstakingly crafted from the hides of their own reptilian livestock. Their arms were bare, revealing olive skin and the lean muscle of trained warriors. Their gazes rested on a forest below, woods so deep that even in daylight the tree trunks vanish three paces in.

The young woman yawned. She leaned over casually and punched the boy in the arm, breaking the night's silence with a resounding smack. “You look all serious, Thoros. What’s the matter? Got a twig in your ear?”

The burly Makspool rubbed his arm, giving his companion a sad look. “Ow. No, Alissadi, but apparently I’ve got a thorn at my side.”

“Oh, that hurts!”

“Says the girl who just punched me in the arm.”

“The pain! The pain!”

Thoros sighed. It was going to be a long watch. Still…he glanced sideways at Alissadi’s smirking, sun-bronzed face, clearly visible in the moonlight. There were worse ways for a saurherd to spend the night.

Thoros and Alissadi had been friends as long as they could remember. It was a good way to grow up, all told. The clan looked after them well, as it did for all its children. They had four good meals and twelve hours of hearty exercise each day, and the best possible tutors in all the important skills, like Yelling, Sharpback-Chasing, Brush-Burning, Getting Mad, and Stabbing Things. It made for a wonderful bonding experience, if you survived.

Makspool training was harsh, violent, and demanding. And Thoros loved every minute of it. Alissadi was the only one his age who could keep up with him - and more; she could hand him his ass five fights out of six.

But it was not always glory and blood sport; and today the boy's mind was on more serious matters. Today, the Makspool tribe set out to hunt the trees.

It was an ordinary spring day in the Ilvorn Hills, deceptively peaceful. The wind blew up waves in the sea of grass, swirling until it reached the branches of the Loamen Wilds, which breathed it in and held it and never let it out. That was what the Wilds did to a lot of things, Thoros mused. They sucked them up and disappeared them. And spat out plants that ate sharpbacks alive.

It was that time of the year, the time when the Wilds would creep forward, setting its roots in the hills where the Ilvorn tribes like the Makspool made their homes. Trees would appear overnight, looming over fields where the sharpbacks grazed, and overnight the herds would be replaced with bloodied grass or bloated trunks. Thoros tightened his grip about his sword. No weed would get by him this day.

A rustle grabbed the young man's attention. He gripped his sword and leaned forward, squinting into the darkness. He thought he saw the grass twitch faintly. “Hey 'Lis -”

“I saw,” she murmured, leveling her spear at the disturbance. Thoros unslung his shield and drew his sword in preparation.

It was all the warning they had. The grass emitted a sizzling rustle and a long thin root darted forth, seizing Thoros around the ankle. He jumped backward - or tried to, realizing belatedly that his foot was grabbed. He staggered, barely catching himself, as the root yanked at his feet. From not far away, earth rumbled and shoved up in a mound as a knotted scraggly shape hauled itself skyward. A hole opened in the grassy earth. The root dragged Thoros towards it.

"Hold on, Thoros, I got you! Aihoen'hanek!" Alissadi screamed a Makspool war cry as she charged the writhing mass of knobbly roots, stabbing her long-tipped spear into its mass and shoving to tear a long gash. She stepped on the gnarled mess attached to Thoros and brought the blade of her spear down hard at its base; it twitched once and went limp, severed. Thoros pulled his leg free and readied his sword. It was time to have a go at this menace.

Together they rushed the creature, weapons ready. Thoros and Alissadi had long fought together, and they moved in practiced unison. A spear thrust to the softer center of the creature's mass; a swift series of cuts along the side to keep its writhing tendrils at bay. Thoros busied its tendrils while Alissadi tore another gash to match the first. It was oozing ichor now, damaged and torn, but not giving up. It reached low with more roots in an attempt to trip up the Makspool.

In theory, they had only to wait for the blaze-riders; as kindlers, their primary role was to alert the patrols to an attack, not handle it themselves. But it was not the Makspool way to back down from a fight - at least, not until you were bloodied up a bit trying.

They hacked and slashed at the roots around their feet, but more emerged from the shifting ground to seize and slow them. Alissadi was forced to drop her spear and draw the long knife at her belt, slashing desperately to free herself from the entangling mass. Thoros turned his attention to his friend, adding his efforts to her own; she was the better fighter and he knew it. He had to give her space to move, even if it caught him and dragged him below the earth. He bought her a few precious seconds, but at a cost; half the questing roots now seized at him, entangling his sword arm after half a dozen strokes. From there they wrapped around his shoulder and inched towards his throat. But still the Makspool did not back down. He hurled his shield at the creature's center of mass, since it wasn't doing him any good; it struck with a satisfying thunk and bought Alissadi a precious moment to slice away the thrashing vines about her. With his former shield arm, Thoros tried to tug at the vines at his throat, but they only tightened further.

A roar interrupted their fight. Thoros heard the pounding of large feet upon the ground and smiled. The patrolling blaze-riders had heard their war-cry and come to their aid. Sure enough, several riders crested the nearest hill and dashed down astride their shriek-reapers, long sickle at the ready, slashing at the vines as their mounts tore them from the ground. Alissadi was free in moments, and she seized her spear to renew her attack on the creature. Invigorated, Thoros switched his sword to his free arm and began hacking at the vines binding his feet. It was not a moment too late, as the vines had begun to curl around his throat and squeeze.

A few slashes with knife and sickle severed the constricting roots at their source, and their movement ceased. Thoros ripped free from the stiff mess with an angry growl, and together the three of them made short work of the badly-wounded root creature.

Thoros and Alissadi stood panting for a moment, grinning as the battle excitement ran its course. But Thoros' face fell a little when he saw who was dismounting the shriek-reaper. “Thanks for the assist, Brice,” he said, a little sourly.

The older Makspool boy laughed, clapping Thoros on the shoulder, heedless of the boy's wince and narrowed eyes. “Always a pleasure to help out a friend.” He winked at Alissadi, who merely frowned.

Brice Falkaener was a head taller than Thoros, thin and wiry, but strong. Something about the boy had always rubbed Thoros wrong. Perhaps it was his boasting and swaggering, or the way he looked at Alissadi; perhaps it was just his quiet grumbling critique of Mel's leadership. Or perhaps it was simply how he acted like everyone was his best friend whether they liked it or not. His arm still rested easily on Thoros' shoulder.

Thoros ruminated briefly about getting spiked armor – if nothing else, it would ward off unwanted “friendliness” from Brice. But alas, it was an impractical indulgence, and more likely to cause him trouble in a fight than deal real damage to his enemy. Thoros released the thought with a sigh, shrugging off Brice's arm as he did.

This was not a night for petty rivalries or distractions. The sky was clear and cloudless, and the cool breeze carried upon it the sickly sweetness of a forest as deep as the sea.

It was a beautiful night for something else to die.

The rest of the watch passed uneventfully, and Thoros and Alissadi made it back to the Makspool camp before the sun rose. A short, stocky warrior stood to greet them. On the man's back was a sword nearly as tall as himself, its scabbard-tip brushing the grass below.

Since the day of his son's birth, Melchior Spelloyal, Head Man of the Makspool, had been preparing Thoros for leadership of the clan. Technically speaking, the status of Head Man belonged to the mightiest Makspool, i.e. the one who obtained the most heads. In practice, this meant Mel. He himself would boast that the next twenty mightiest Makspool were Mel's fingers and toes, and even the most jealous tribesmen (well, the ones still alive) would grudgingly agree. For one thing, he still had all twenty, which is a mark of rather astonishing mightiness when your main profession was herding dinosaur and your second main profession was slaughtering monsters fifty times your size.

It was a lot to live up to. Thoros waved at his father, grinning proudly. Mel dashed forward and enveloped his son in a bone-crushing hug. "Well hello, ya little raptor, I hear you whacked your first bush today?"

Thoros pulled away, embarrassed but grinning. "Yeah, you shoulda been there. Alissadi pulled my tail out of the thorns this time, though. It was rough going there for a while."

"That's my boy," Mel grinned. "Don't worry about needing help now and then. Even a good warrior relies on their team. And the greatest ones know how to recognize when someone saved their ass, and give credit where it's due." Mel winked. "Good way to get on a lady's good side, too..."

"Daaaaad..."

One Year Later

Thoros stood, grim and tense, to watch someone die.

Damn that Brice. Why now? But Thoros knew perfectly well why the ambitious prodigy of the Makspool had challenged Mel today.

Something was wrong.

Thoros stood grimly at the front of the crowd, watching the combatants circle each other. Brice had challenged Mel for the leadership of the clan; for the Head Man must be the mightiest of Makspool, able to defeat any warrior.

A year ago, Brice's challenge would have been laughed aside as pure folly, at best a plea for attention or an attempt at an honorable death. The tribe's shaman, Veerox Uffelweed, would have laughed in Brice's face, and perhaps pulled the lad aside for a long talk.

But that was a year ago, and today the shaman had let Brice's challenge stand. He watched impassively from the side of the challenge circle, eyes focused intently on the match. Bent and bearded, white-haired and wild, leaning on a staff adorned with animal skulls, Uffelweed was the image of nature's brutal judgment, there to bear witness to the fight.

Something was wrong.

Catching his son's eye, Mel grinned, all confidence, but the younger Makspool still felt uneasy. Ever since fighting in the Red and Black War, Mel seemed to have slowed. His physical appearance remained the same, all dense flesh and taut muscles, but his movements had gained a sluggish stiffness that belied his strength. His demeanor, too, had shifted, as though he'd aged twenty years in the last octule.

Mel had won every challenge, every fight, and established himself as the unquestioned strongest Makspool by a wide margin. He had maintained that position for as long as Thoros could remember. Opponents couldn't touch him, let alone defeat him. Yet Thoros still worried.

Alissadi was beside him, her grip on her spear white-knuckled and tense. Thoros hadn't even noticed her arrive. He felt an inexplicable urge to reach for her hand. He fought it down.

Something was wrong.

Another young man stood slightly away from the two warriors. His short-cropped black hair stuck out in all directions, and he carried in his left hand a torch whose flame had burned for centuries. Every tribe had its keeper of the flame, a ceremonial duty which became very, very practical during battles against the brush-monsters of the Loamen Wilds. Tarpren was new to the role, and his gaze shifted nervously from the fighters to the prepared bonfire beside him.

"Light the blaze, Firebrand," rasped the shaman, without turning his head.

Tarpren was new; he could be forgiven for the glance he gave to Mel for approval. Mel simply grinned and nodded to the boy. Hastily, Tarpren dipped the torch into the fat-soaked pile, which sprung to life with an eager, crackling roar.

Mel drew his sword, standing level and easy in a stance long-practiced. There was no formality for the Makspool; Brice nodded once and charged. He brought his sword up in a high, cautious jab, which Mel parried. Again he struck and again Mel deflected it, grinning, and turned the parry into a sweeping attack that forced Brice to retreat. But this did not deter the challenger. A third time he lashed out, testing, probing, and Mel twisted aside, but this time the backslash caught Mel slightly off balance and he backed off a step, narrowly turning aside the strike with his own sword. Mel was frowning now.

Brice advanced, eyes narrowed, pressing the attack. Thoros felt a sudden flash of fear. Unbidden, his mind conjured the look in a bigmaw's eyes when it caught sight of a wounded sawback.

Something was wrong.

Brice pressed further, driving Mel back. The Makspool leader countered expertly, but with slowness that seemed almost exaggerated. A long extended slash hung just a bit too long in the air; Brice saw an opening and struck. But Mel let out a sudden bark of laughter, moving as if to attack; Brice pulled back as suddenly as if he'd been hooked by a saurstick, but it was only a feint.

Jeers and laughter arose from the gathered Makspool. This was classic Mel tactics; leave himself open to a strike, but counter with far worse punishment for whoever dared take the opening. It would be a profoundly foolish move for anyone else, but Mel had the durability of a sawback and an unmatched ferocity, and his opponent would fare worse than he. Brice was clearly taking the cautious approach.

But Thoros frowned. Mel was breathing heavily, and the fight had barely begun. He was trying to hide it, but he had already slowed; was he really toying with his opponent? Or was this actually the best he could do? Thoros rejected the thought immediately; Mel must be playing around. The alternative was unthinkable.

But apparently Brice thunk it anyway. He charged Mel again, trying to get past his guard. Mel countered with a slash from his greatsword, but only succeeded in opening a shallow cut along Brice's shoulder as the younger man pressed further.

Mel's breathing grew ragged. To his credit, his form held; but his limbs moved sluggishly to a trained warrior's eye. He struck twice more in the next exchange, but took several hits from Brice. His forearms and left thigh oozed blood, and his sword shook. Brice pressed the advantage, lunging and opening a wide gash across Mel's chest.

In a feat of endurance that would be impossible for anyone else, Mel kept his feet. Both warriors were breathing heavily, but it was Mel whose saurscale was stained with red. Brice smiled that bigmaw's grin again.

Then Mel roared.

It was considered a great weakness to rage during an honor fight. Most Makspool would tell you that this was because a great warrior need not resort to desperate measures to win. But in fact, the real reason for the taboo was that most such fights took place in or near the camp, and berserkers tended to wreck things. But still, a taboo it remained, and a strong one. So when Mel's eyes glazed over with the Fury, Thoros knew his father was truly desperate.

A Makspool blood rage was an immensely powerful force. It let the warrior continue to ignore grievous wounds and fight with unparalleled ferocity. Mel, a master of the Fury, could transform from a mere champion into a monster of blood and death, when he chose.

It wasn't enough.

Thoros saw Mel stagger backwards, saw the spurt of blood and the look of surprise on his father's face. It burned itself into his memory.

Thoros didn't hear himself scream. He didn't feel his legs carry him to his father's side. But he did feel the slick blood beneath his fingertips as he embraced his father. "What's wrong, boy?" muttered Mel, the Fury dying from his eyes. "Didn't I win?"

"Hrivano'dokka shiin!"

A flash of blue light washed over Thoros, and his father gasped for air. Mel's exposed wounds ceased bleeding, knitted together by weak bands of magic, though the flesh remained red and raw.

Shaman Uffelweed lowered his staff, blue light fading from the eye sockets of a dangling raptor skull. "You do not die today, Mel," he rasped, voice low and sorrowful. "This, much, I can do for you."

Thoros tried not to cry. He was not sure if he succeeded, nor how long he sat there holding Mel's slow-breathing form.

A scraping sound startled him out of his reverie.

Brice stood panting above the wounded Makspool, bloody sword in hand. "See," he sneered. "You're not what you once were, old man."

Thoros knew what would follow. Mel was to be exiled from the Makspool; it was ill luck to keep a failed Head Man in the tribe. He would never be a Makspool again. And if he returned to the Ilvorn Hills, his former clan would kill him on sight. And yet there he sat, bloody and grinning like a fool.

Brice pointed. "Well, go on. Get out of here."

"What, now?" asked Tarpren, ashen-faced in the fire's glow.

"He lost, didn't he? Every minute he stays here is bad for the tribe."

"He's saved your ass a dozen times over, Brice," cut in Alissadi. "We can spare him a night or two." The Firebrand nodded fervently.

"I'm Head Man now," growled Brice, "and I'll be damned if I'll let this exile bring ruin on us. His honor is broken, he has no past with us."

"Enough," coughed Mel. Thoros winced as he watched his father slowly rise.

Mel breathed deeply, eyes closed. He made as if to stretch, but paused, as if thinking better of it. Only a slight twitch betrayed his agony. "It's a fine day for travel, don't you think, Veer?"

"A fine day indeed." The old man nodded at him, mouth pursed.

"I'll be going now," he announced.

"Pa..." Thoros began. But Mel's sharp look made his throat catch.

"Sorry, son. You best move on without me," Mel panted.

Thoros stood firm. "Not a chance."

Mel half-scowled, half-grimaced in pain. "You insolent little spud," he swore.

"That I am," agreed Thoros. "But I'm your insolent little spud, and I go where you do."

"Fine," Mel shrugged. "But you best be prepared for a long journey."

He didn't know how right he was.