Rocky ridges surrounded the small camp, boulders jutting high into the cold night air. Small bushes grew in the crevices, leaves silvered by starlight.
Five men, tall, long-legged; walked in graceful single file through the rocks. Hoods dangled over their shoulders, the blank eyes of wolves, foxes, and eagles staring from the hides wrapping their heads. Their eyes searched in the manner of hunters. Mammoth hide wrapped around their loins like thick belts. Long darts, fletched with eagle feathers, were clutched in bony hands.
They didn’t see Raven Hunter or the rest of the young men hidden in the boulders. Fierce they might be, but they also walked arrogantly, heads high.
Heart thudding in his chest, every limb vibrant with excitement, Raven Hunter waited. Soon, now. Very soon. The first man had walked well within the trap. Wait. None must escape.
Despite his fear-dry mouth and the charged blood rushing in his veins, Raven Hunter floated on a crest of exaltation. Here, before him, walked the murderers of his people. Now, at last, he would strike back. By this act, the People would prove themselves, and under his leadership. Despite his youth, he would step into the circles of power and decision where he belonged. A feeling of invincibility and premonition burned in his breast.
“Shhh!” he hissed to Jumping Hare, whose foot slipped on loose rock.
The last Other walked within range.
Raven Hunter bunched his muscles, rising, his cast sure from years of practice. The dart pierced the man’s chest. He spun, gasping “no!” then quivered, dropping his atlatl, a look of incomprehension on his face as he tumbled to the ground.
A frightened murmuring eddied through the Others. Men raced, tripping over each other, raising weapons.
“There they are!” one shouted, pointing up into the rocks.
Raven Hunter nocked another dart, driving it deeply into the chest of the second-to-last man, his aim true. On all sides, Jumping Hare, Strikes Lightning, Three Falls, and Eagle Cries bounded to their feet, darts flashing in the air.
It ended quickly, leaving Others writhing on the ground. Blood smeared frantic hands as they groaned and gasped, clutching the shafts protruding from their bodies. Raven Hunter jumped lightly down the rocks. Two! He’d killed two! Brutally, he wrenched his dart from the body of the first, delighted with the gouts of coagulating blood that followed.
“Don’t! Don’t!” the man whispered. His eyes pinned Raven Hunter’s, growing still and sightless as foaming blood welled on his lips.
“Filthy murderer!” Raven Hunter growled, then spat in the Other’s face before turning to the second, lancing him through the heart.
Around him, the rest of his victorious party clambered down slowly, eyes wide, shocked at what they’d done. Moving from man to man, Raven Hunter dispatched them with calculated jabs of his bloody dart.
Jumping Hare shook his head slowly, staring at the man his dart had killed.
Raven Hunter eyed his cousin curiously. “They aren’t so terrible in death, eh? No longer will they run us from our ancestral lands—lands given to us by Father Sun! A new day has dawned, We are the People!”
Strikes Lightning smiled proudly. “The People,” he repeated. Then in relief and joy, he jumped high into the air, a yip of delight clearing his throat.
One by one, they caught the fire as Raven Hunter walked about, clapping each on the back, praising courage and cunning.
“And to think we ran? Ran, from such as these?” He raised a fist and shook it in the air. “No more, eh, my friends? No, indeed! Together, we shall drive these men back!” He bellowed a shriek of victory to the skies. “We won’t let them chase us like frightened caribou from the land where our fathers’ bones rest in peace!”
Eagle Cries pursed his lips tightly, nodding. “No more.”
“Follow me!” Raven Hunter urged conspiratorially. “Follow and we’ll drive these Others from our land!”
Softly, Eagle Cries began the chant, “Raven Hunter. Raven Hunter! Raven Hunter.” Then it was picked up by the others, growing louder until it boomed from the surrounding rocks.
Ice Fire let his soul sway to the chant of the White Tusk Clan’s singers. The elder, Red Flint, led the younger men in the ancient songs that would placate the souls of the animals, call them back into reach of the Mammoth People’s weapons in the future.
In the endless light of the solstice, summer had reached its peak. The sun hung like a growing golden ball in the sky, the gift of the Great Mystery. The shelters of the White Tusk Clan spread around, built higher in this season of moderate winds. Ice Fire could smell the odor of roasting buffalo and caribou. The memory of fawn backstrap, cut from the side of the spine, hung at the back of his tongue, a savory feast of wondrous delight.
Young women surrounded the dancers, clapping their hands, smiles on their happy faces. Dogs nosed about, seeking scraps, the males hoisting their legs on tent corners, lifting lips in the eternal pecking order of the pack. A constant babble of happy voices rose and fell with Red Flint’s singing.
The shelters reflected prosperity. The children were firm-limbed, with full faces. Clothing—newly made—graced strong arms and legs. Spires of flies hovered around the drying racks surrounding the ceremonial camp of the White Tusk Clan. Best of all, no widows watched from the outskirts, no short hair could be seen. Despite the horrors of the Dark, this long summer had graced them—a gift from the Great Mystery who’d all but forgotten them in the horrible winter.
Before Ice Fire, the young men leapt and danced, their feet stamping in rhythm with the wavering chants. He closed his eyes, drawing deeply of the smoke of the willow. A sacred plant, the willow; its odor soothed, purified the soul. In the annual clan festivals, the willow made them all whole.
Ice Fire opened his eyes again to stare into the fire, feeling the harmony of life around him. Flames licked and twisted, shafts of yellow light rising, sparks whirling. He stilled his mind, enjoying the peace of this evening.
In the coals, he watched the patterns flow and change by the second. Entranced, he watched the eddies of wind over
the burning eye, feeling the Power before he was really aware of it. Out of the curls of light, a face formed, staring back at him.
“Who are you?” he asked, the Clan Dance fading out around him, only the chant carrying him forward.
“You ask, Father?”
Ice Fire knotted a fist at his breast. “Who …”
“I threw you a rainbow once. Wasn’t that enough?”
“Father? You call me Father?”
“The man who raped my mother. Now you come for the rest of us? Go away. Leave our lands that Father Sun blessed for us. Give us—” He cried out suddenly.
A pain lanced through Ice Fire’s breast, a sharp sting like the cool keen edge of a dart piercing him.
“Death,” the face in the fire whispered. “My brother has killed the Others. See them? See their bodies lying bleeding and broken?”
A vision formed in the back of Ice Fire’s mind. Five crumpled figures, flies thick in the clotted wounds, their eggs lining the torn flesh in ivory piles.
“Hoop Thrower, Five Stars, Mouse Tail …” One by one, Ice Fire named them, the vision shimmering in the back of his mind. He stared at the face in the fire, swallowing hard. “You … you have done this?”
“My brother, Raven Hunter … your son … did this. I am Wolf Dreamer … born of your seed, man of the Others. You have reaped the actions of your lust. What you planted has grown in the rocky soil of the People. Pain, death, and misery walk with Raven Hunter.”
Ice Fire shook his head. “We’ll kill you. It’s now a matter of honor. Mine are a fierce people. Yours are soft, bleating like wounded caribou calves. My warriors won’t let you run any longer, they’ll hunt you down for this.”
“See the way you have made, Father. Your son, born of blood, comes. Your son, born of light, leaves. Which will you choose?”
“Choose? What do you mean? Wolf Dreamer, what is your message?” He stood, leaning forward. “What?”
“Death … or life. Is there any other message, Father?” And the flames crackled, a shower of sparks spiraling into the night in a crimson swirl.
“Wolf Dreamer? Wolf Dreamer?” Only the flames flickered, the slender branches of willow hissing, their sacred smoke rolling over him like a blanket.
Ice Fire looked about, blinking, the Power of the vision fading from his taut body.
“Old friend?” Red Flint’s voice sounded uneasy, hesitant in the silence.
Ice Fire rubbed his masklike face, feeling the warm hand of the Singer on his shoulder. He turned to look, seeing the dancers where they watched, casting wary glances at him and each other.
“What … what happened?”
Red Flint met his gaze, deep worry behind his brown eyes. “You stood, shouting into the fire. Like you were talking to someone there. I came quickly, and saw nothing but glowing coals in the fire pit.”
Ice Fire shivered suddenly, the image of the dead hunters in the back of his mind, the very humming of the flies roaring in his ears. “Death. He said death was coming. My son is coming. And he was born of blood.”
Slowly Ice Fire walked through the still dancers, hardly aware that they stared at him, faces ashen.