§ one §

Dawns arrival brings with it the sounds of hushed business and small whisperings beyond the thin gohl-skinned tent. He lays there staring into the apex and listens as the tribe readies for the day. There is much to do with winter coming, the days that the Bright One travels farthest away from her people. It was said that the brightest star spent her time in winter to confer with the Others on how to conduct her works upon the world when she returned in the fruitful days. And in the cold days, the dark and gloom-filled days are unhappy without her.

These thoughts are too troubling for his young mind. "Mama...", Onuup silently mutters. He blinks...and sighs, throws off the warm blanket and sits up to look around. The fire is banked, yet a glow of still warm embers remains. A cold mist seeps through the vapor of warmth within the tent and a ray of light stabs through that sliver from the outside world.

A shadow flashes and the flap is opened.

"Bada. Come. Your father has a thing to show to you." Marichail, his mother offers with a smile.

"What is it, mama?"

"You will see, sleepy-head."

She enters and kneels, pats his head and strokes the side of his cheek. "Well? Come now. Get yourself ready for the day."

Her deep, caramel-colored eyes linger upon his face with utmost loving admiration. Her smile as radiant as the goddess herself. She tilts her head like she always does when a small silence comes about.

"Well! What are you waiting for?" her eyes widening in emphasis.

The still cool air invades his person as he steps from the tent and his breath wafts away. He glances around and sees his neighbors sitting around their cooking fires. Madach, the old one, there with his smoking-pipe, waving it around like a pointing finger. Banjir, Madachs' granddaughter passes in front of Onnup and glances down with a smirk, carrying a small basket of trew. She slows as she passes and then turns.

"Onuup? I know that today you are...what? Twelve seasons on now? Plenty on your way to being a right man of the tribe, uh?", she flippantly turns tail and continues on her way. Onuup, extends his tongue in derision, being the boy that he is.

He turns away to scan the camp for his father.

The sky is the pale-blue of a burdges' egg and the clouds are tails of stallions. Laughter and chatter resound throughout, whilst the children chase each other in games of tag. The steppe grasses are peppered with snow. Today, the wind is calm as his breath lazily drifts.

There.

"Papa...", he mutters.

He makes his way toward Blagans' tent where his father sits at the campfire fletching an arrow, carefully scrutinizing the shaft. Concerted eyebrows swiftly change to uplifted recognition as Onuup approaches.

"Son!"Jariri sets down his work and rises to greet his son. His beard wispy and rugged face shining with admiration.

“Father?” the boy raises his pointed finger to the horizon where the dust rises like a cloud of unearthly trepidation, a vast obscurity bearing down upon them. There was no cause for such a thing, they were puzzled.

“Onuup, stay here at my side.”

“Yes, father,” the boy asserts and glances up, “What is it...that is coming?”

“That I do not know with certainty, we shall wait here and see. Come; let us break the nights fast while we wait for our visitors.”

Father and son turn away toward the morning fire upon which mother is preparing breakfast. She glances up to her husband and then away to the impending horizon. And then again to her husband she smiles reassuringly.

“How is the meal Marichail. Onuup and I are starving here.”

“Jariri, you know very well tuok takes time to cook, and more so that if I don’t cook it long enough you’ll be running to the jacks at every moment. But, you love it so much…well, here I am. So don’t rush me or I’ll cut your beard off in the night and you can look like the Barryni tribesmen…”

“And look like a woman: bah! Then I’ll not pester you love…unless you prefer your men to appear as if a woman. In which case you should have told your father before we got married and he could have arranged for a marriage to a Barr...”
Jariri is suddenly spattered with the beginnings of the tuok, affecting a rousing giggle from Onuup and light-hearted indignation from Jariri.

With calm reserve father says, “My love, I regret to inform you that I have not delivered your morning kiss.” At which he begins to pursue her around the hearth fire causing wild eruptions from Onuup.

“Oh, no you don’t Jariri. You had that coming…you had…AAH!”

Suddenly with the hunter’s swiftness, he has her grasped about the waist and with the strength of a grot he has her spun around and planted a sloppy tuok filled kiss upon her lips.”

This further ignites Onuups’ delight that can hardly be contained.

After all is settled, father, son and mother kneel to eat, Maral one of Jariris hunting companion sidles to the fire.

“Maral, please join us.” Jariri says.

“Gladly, every opportunity to welcome the hospitality of your hearth pleases me.” He accepts a bowl of the tuok.

After a few bites he asks father under his breath, “Jariri, do you believe it is them: the Adorians?”

“That may be,” thoughtfully he gazes out to the horizon, “Two days ago I had come across Barryni hunters on the Hyuthe Plain and they told Uuthri and me that they had sighted Adorians farther south along the Serathe River.”

“I wonder why they have come so far north...you know...the raiding and all...”

“It surely cannot be as bad as all that. I hear the Adorian Empire revels in all that it could hope to have. What could they want of a simple tribe like ours?”

“It is puzzling yes. It may be I worry overmuch...”

“Don’t worry. For what is it that we have that could rouse the greed of a great tribe as the Adorians?”

With the morning meal come to an end, the daily preparations for the hunt begin. Hunters set about testing their huldja, named for the bones of that great animal from which it is made. It is a bow as tall as a Suuthe with the sinews of the huldja used for the string. The instrument itself is a prized heirloom passed from father to son, engraved with each predecessor’s name. It is said that once there is no more room to put a name to one it is too old to use any longer and thus put into safe-keeping and a new one crafted. The arrows or juhadu-yhe themselves are fashioned of juhadu quills and at an arms length can pierce the toughest hide and burrow through the flesh, eventually killing the prey.

Father and son sit beside the fire and although Onuup is too young to hunt, Jariri shows him the way of preparing for the hunt.

“See, my son, the juhadu-yhe must be straight. Here hold it at the end and sight down the length and turn it. As you do this, be sure it does not twist or twirl in any way....well, well here is grandfather, Onuup. Good morn to you Theule-hur, it is good to see you”

Father arises and bows to Theule-hur as Onuup leaps to his feet and calls out, “Grandfather! Grandfather!” and pounces on the old man.

“Oomph...grandson you are getting to be quite the young man. Oh here, I’ve brought you something.”

“What is it, grandfather?”

“It is a thing I have carried with me since the day I was ready to join in the hunt, I believe I was twelve seasons along in life then. It was given to me by my father and his father before him. And as it is, I have no son of my blood and so it goes directly from me to you. I believe you are ready for it.”

The old man reaches into his purse and draws out a pendant attached to a leather thong. He unwinds it and places it over Onuups shoulders. As the boy peruses his newly obtained heirloom he notices that it is a claw or maybe a tooth about the size of his middle finger.

“Onuup that is a fang of the juriki, I have heard it was a fierce beast and a magical beast but none exist anymore, or at least none within our hunting grounds."

"Thank you, grandfather. I will keep it with me always."

"Grandson, that lop-sided smile of yours definitely comes from your father. Right, Jariri?" Theule-hur then grasps Jariri about the arm, gently shaking with mirth glancing from the boy to the man. "I can never get over how proud I am to have you with this family. You are the son I never had."

"Theule-hur, you are the father I wished I'd had and I too am proud."

The old man nods once and turns to Onuup. "Well, what lessons are on the agenda today, eh?"

§

As the dawn turns to day the dust cloud upon the horizon grows. A distant chatter and rumble can be heard now. Like thousands of...crickets alongside a stampede of yaithe. All the women and children are sent to the tents, including Onuup and Marichail. The men form a line at the perimeter of the camp awaiting the visitors.

Mother and son kneel together peeking through the slit of the tent flap. Warriors stand rigid as Pruadathe, the shaman, paces back and forth in front of them performing the Glaedu, the rite of protection and strength.

Suddenly a faint 'whumph' can be heard followed by a whistling that quickly intensifies to a mind melting shriek. The explosion, less heard than felt, knocks every one man to the ground with a concurrent discharge of earth and grass. There is no movement as another salvo descends upon the camp. The air is soon enveloped by the grainy dust creating a surreal, dream-like haze. Shouts from the women can be heard as one by one they can be obscurely seen rushing to the aid of their husbands.

Marichail visibly shakes and furtively glances from one silhouette to another.

"Onuup..."

He looks to her as she steadily gazes on.

"Come with me." She reaches down without looking, grasps his wrist and the both of them dart from the tent. The strange rumblings have intensified as they make their way through the smoky haze. The intermittent concussions persist, throwing up debris. Marichail frantically whispers to herself, "Jariri..." over and over.

A blank disembodying sensation overcomes them. The concussion is stunning and drops them to the ground. Onuups head is pounding and his ears are buzzing as he comes around. He is covered in dust and his nose is bleeding. Dizziness and a stifling nausea overtake him as he frenetically searches for his mother. On hands and knees he crawls about in a daze, pausing uncontrollably to wretch nothing. He's calling out for her but cannot hear his own voice.

After a few moments he is able to stagger to his feet. He cannot tell east from west nor north from south as he fumbles through the dust-filled air. Shades move in and out of the gloom as he blinks back the seeping tears.

The last thing he saw in those fateful moments was the demon. It could have been nothing less.

Glossy red scales...and all spun into vertiginous blackness.