Brant left the hut, meaning to find some hot broth for Skala. The breeze had become a wind, blowing grit into his face, making him squint and cough.
The folk of his clan dashed hither and yon, gathering baskets, skins, and other light items that danced in the growing gale. Shadows trembled in the failing light as the clouds engulfed the sun, sending the temperature downward and throwing the village into semi-darkness.
Brant stopped in his tracks, trying to blink the dust from his eyes.
The entire sky was filled with clouds. The sun no longer shone down.
Yet the shadows continued to walk.
He stood thunderstruck as one of the shadows sprouted huge bat-like wings, enfolding Teela, a young girl only a month from her womanhood rites. She screamed, thin and reedy, her voice muffled far more than the wind noise could account for.
The shadow released her and she fell, blue and lifeless.
The nearest Makmorni gaped at her dead body, looking this way and that for the cause, passing right over the swarming shadow beasts.
The voice of Brant’s grandfather rang in his mind.
“Creatures of fog and smoke,” he muttered to himself.
The B’zuni had returned.
More shrieks sounded throughout the collection of huts as the shadows embraced the villagers, leaving death behind. Brant snatched up his war axe from beside the entry to the Wise One’s hut and he ran toward the nearest, yelling his war cry, swinging the heavy polished stone blade toward where the B’zuni’s head should be.
The ululating cry died on his lips as the axe swept through the being with no resistance, and no effect.
The B’zuni turned toward Brant, wings unfurling in a slow, almost lazy motion. Brant braced himself and raised his useless axe. His time had come, but he’d not go down cowering. He would fight to the end.
From the branches of the sacred oak burst a hissing, spitting creature in a whirlwind of fur the color of sunset clouds. It tore into the B’zuni’s head clawing and biting until streams of tarry ichor flew threw the air. The B’zuni emitted a head-piercing keen which Brant felt more than heard. And then it faded into the night, and its attacker landed on the ground, growling deep in its throat and looking for another target.
It was one of the great lynxes that dwelt alongside the Makmorni. One of that animal tribe which were the only creatures held taboo to hunt or harm since long before the telling of stories.
Behind him, Skala cried out.
“Brant! Take this!”
He turned and caught the object Skala threw at him. It was Garm’s war club. Brant’s palms tingled with…something, and he felt new energy course through his elderly frame.
Brant whirled and swung the mighty weapon at the nearest B’zuni with all his force.
Instead of passing through as his axe had done, the club smashed into the thing with the popping sound of a burst apple. A bright flash stung his eyes, and the creature exploded into tendrils of smoke that dissipated quickly in the rising gale.
Around the village, more furry bodies flung themselves against the B’zuni, screeching their own battle cries and shredding the insubstantial creatures.
Brant raced through the huts, swinging Garm’s club, striking down shadows left and right. Before he realized it, he was out of the ring of dwellings and into the forest.
To his rear, the battle between lynx and B’zuni raged, although he could hear more of the wildcats than the shadows.
Turning to rejoin the fray, Brant nearly tripped over a bundle at the foot of another great oak tree. He started to step over the pile of fur and skins, until it moved.
Brant froze, but the pile was of hides no longer attached to their owners. He reached down to toss it aside, and saw a small face.
A boychild’s face.
Had one of the village women fled to the forest with her child, and then dropped it?
Brant scooped the boy up and ran back to the hut of the Wise One. Skala could watch the babe until all was safe again.
He was still many body-lengths from the hut when a swarm of B’zuni shook off their feline harassers and swooped through the air toward him.
Clutching the child in his left arm, Brant raised the heavy club in his right, bracing his feet.
The child reached out its chubby pink hand and touched Brant’s wrist with two fingers.
Cold ripped through Brant. Not the dead chill of the B’zuni, but rather the pure cold of clear snow, new ice.
A blinding silver flash shot forth from every embedded not-stone in Garm’s club, rays spearing out and skewering the B’zuni between him and Skala, burning images of exploding shadows onto the back of his eyes.
Brant ran toward Skala again, bright spots hiding her tent even as his feet carried him unerringly to the low opening. He thrust the child into her arms, then turned and ran back to the fight.
Time passed as Brant swung Garm’s club, destroying shadows with every blow. The lynx pack brought down nearly as many, although far too great a number of their golden-furred bodies lay strewn across the village.
Finally, the remaining B’zuni melted away, slipping under rocks, behind trees, into the dark places. Brant leaned on his club, panting with his efforts.
But not sore, save for the places where icy claws had drawn burning lines on his arms and back. In fact, although exhausted, he felt better than he had in many summers.