- Portent -
THE CAVES WERE ancient, hallowed, and worn. Ancient, as measured in cycles of mineral and water; hallowed, as sites praised in prayer and storied memory; worn, as befitted the only practical shelter in these hills prone to violent wind. Throughout recorded time, the noblest and humblest cowered and wailed here together while nature unleashed her worst on the mountainside. It was said the caves refused no one.
Had such things mattered to him, Eah, night shepherd and litter runt, would have considered himself one of the humblest to ever set footpads within this, the nearest of the fabled caves to his pasture, the Cave of Serenity. But his was a simple soul, content to have a useful place within his kin-group, and, within that place, he felt all the pride of any Primelord.
No matter the fear raising the bones along his spine, no matter the nervous bleating of his flock, no matter the ominous strength of wind in the valley—that pride made Eah stop inside the entrance to light his torch and show proper respect. The ritual three spits into the dust at his footpads, a gift from his body. The ritual claw scrape along the tall stone godstooth, a gift of his might. The ritual howl—
Before Eah could properly prepare himself to howl, the great depth and resonance of his voice something which had always given him profound satisfaction, his flock, which had never appreciated his voice, bolted for the inside of the cave, running between his legs and past him on either side. They almost knocked him down in their haste. He would have chastened them, but they were mindless beasts, always finding ways to challenge his authority. Surely the gods understood such things and would not take offense. To be safe, Eah sprinkled three handfuls of sweetened grain from the bag at his side on the dust, clawed the stalagmite once more, then drew breath to howl.
A runnel of liquid green trickled toward him in the dust, like a finger reaching out of the darkness. Eah leaped sideways and away, clinging to the rock wall. His ability to jump was another that pleased him, if not his mothers, but this time he trembled. Did he now offend the gods by marking their soft glittering stone with his claws?
Before he could decide whether to drop down or remain, one of his flock staggered into the light of the torch, still burning where he’d dropped it in the dust. It was the Old One, whose ability to find water in the dry season was more valuable than her age-bleached hair or tough flesh.
Hair that had disappeared along with the skin beneath . . . flesh that was oozing away from the bones beneath. Her next and final step landed in the runnel of green, her sharp little toes melting so she fell forward.
And fell apart.
Eah trilled like a kit for its mothers, his claws digging deeper into the stone, hearts falling out of synchrony when he didn’t leap away and run, as instinct screamed he should.
But the runnel, having washed away the Old One as Eah might wash dirt from his hands, stretched out its fingers across the entrance. There wasn’t room for his footpads.
Eah was not one skilled with tool or words, but things he put his hands to usually moved. Now, he used that strength, holding himself with one hand as he stretched the other as far as he could reach along the wall in the direction of the cave opening. The coming windstorm would drive sand through clothing and skin, blind and deafen those without shelter, but it was a threat he knew, a threat sent by the gods themselves. He’d rather die there, where his kin-group would find his body and carry it home again so his mothers could wash him one last time.
He drove in his claws, released the other hand, then pulled himself closer to escape. Again. Again. One claw snapped, and he almost fell into the spreading pool of green.
Drive and pull. Again! This time, his arm was bathed in light. He was almost outside!
Even as Eah gasped with hope, he realized something was terribly wrong.
The storm winds had a new, strange sound.
As if they carried rain.
