baking, fishing, skinning; women were washing clothes, tending to animals, preparing meats for the evening’s meals. From over the rooftops in one corner of the village, smoke and the clang of metal on stone suggested a smithy. Children played together, running through the village centre, small dogs yapping at their heels, tails a-wag and tongues a-lolling. All (save the dogs) possessed the same healthy, olive skin and dark hair as the chief and his family and, with them in mind, he began to make his way to the largest building.
As he walked through the village, his height and his pale skin stood out, people watching him pass as they performed their tasks, neither over-friendly nor hostile, just curious to catch a glimpse of the newcomer they’d heard so much about. A gaggle of children, no older than five or six, eyed him, giggling, as they darted from hut to hut, keeping a safe, watchful distance as they tried to keep out of his sight.
An old man was sat on a stool outside a hut, a long, curved bow leant against the wall behind him and a long, curved pipe hanging from his lips, gently smoking in the breeze. He had an arrow in his hands, four feet long, polished to a sheen, with a looped hole at the flighted end of the shaft, like the eye of a needle. He was busy tying a bronze arrow-head to the end, expertly lashing it in place with thin cords of cured hide. Tanned, leathery face creased with the lines of years, his hands gnarled and calloused with hard work, but his fingers moved with the dexterity of a man a quarter of his age. He finished the arrow, setting it down with care on a pile of its finished brothers before looking up at Stone with impassive grey eyes.
“So,” he bega n, his voice quiet, hoarse, the rustle of dry autumn leaves. “You must be our esteemed guest, the Nagah-Slayer?” His eyes twinkled with amusement.
Stone didn’t know how to respond, instead, picking up one of the finished arrows, admiring the workmanship.
“Fine arrows,” he remarked, feeling stupid under the scrutiny of the old man, even as the words left his mouth. He frowned, puzzled, as his fingers probed the looped carved into the end of the shaft. “Why the hole in the shaft?”
The old man stared, one greying eyebrow raised.
“Fishing arrows,” he replied, as though stating the obvious, holding up a length of cord and making a tying motion with it.
“Oh.” He was still none-the-wiser. The old man sensed this and his leather face cracked into a smile.
“For the first man I’ve known to slay a dreaded Nagah, you have little grasp of river-craft.” He laughed, the whispering of gravel underfoot. “After you shoot a fish, how do you reel it in?”
Stone’s eyes flicked back and forth between arrow and cord, until finally the penny dropped.
“Oh,” he said again, again feeling stupid. The old man disarmed his embarrassment with another smile.
“I shall have to teach you, Nagah-Slayer; it doesn’t do a man of your summers to not know how to fish!”
Stone smiled. “Thanks, I might take you up on that. And please, call me Stone.”
The elder nodded and took another puff on his pipe, blue smoke wreathing him like some mountain-top mystic.
“Yalen.”
And with that, he returned to his work.
***
The interior was dark, even at this early hour, and thick with smoke from the fire in the centre and the pipes that hung from many and varied lips. His eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom and, looking about, he took in the crowd that stood waiting in the flickering light about the Chief’s hut. Both men and women stared at him as he entered, some young, some old, some welcoming, some guarded. It was with relief that he recognised some familiar faces, the Chief himself, his family, Wrynn.
The Chief rose from his chair, arms wide, and Stone noticed a terrible shape hung from the wall above him that almost caused him to start; the fearsome, mounted head of a huge serpent; the very
As he walked through the village, his height and his pale skin stood out, people watching him pass as they performed their tasks, neither over-friendly nor hostile, just curious to catch a glimpse of the newcomer they’d heard so much about. A gaggle of children, no older than five or six, eyed him, giggling, as they darted from hut to hut, keeping a safe, watchful distance as they tried to keep out of his sight.
An old man was sat on a stool outside a hut, a long, curved bow leant against the wall behind him and a long, curved pipe hanging from his lips, gently smoking in the breeze. He had an arrow in his hands, four feet long, polished to a sheen, with a looped hole at the flighted end of the shaft, like the eye of a needle. He was busy tying a bronze arrow-head to the end, expertly lashing it in place with thin cords of cured hide. Tanned, leathery face creased with the lines of years, his hands gnarled and calloused with hard work, but his fingers moved with the dexterity of a man a quarter of his age. He finished the arrow, setting it down with care on a pile of its finished brothers before looking up at Stone with impassive grey eyes.
“So,” he bega n, his voice quiet, hoarse, the rustle of dry autumn leaves. “You must be our esteemed guest, the Nagah-Slayer?” His eyes twinkled with amusement.
Stone didn’t know how to respond, instead, picking up one of the finished arrows, admiring the workmanship.
“Fine arrows,” he remarked, feeling stupid under the scrutiny of the old man, even as the words left his mouth. He frowned, puzzled, as his fingers probed the looped carved into the end of the shaft. “Why the hole in the shaft?”
The old man stared, one greying eyebrow raised.
“Fishing arrows,” he replied, as though stating the obvious, holding up a length of cord and making a tying motion with it.
“Oh.” He was still none-the-wiser. The old man sensed this and his leather face cracked into a smile.
“For the first man I’ve known to slay a dreaded Nagah, you have little grasp of river-craft.” He laughed, the whispering of gravel underfoot. “After you shoot a fish, how do you reel it in?”
Stone’s eyes flicked back and forth between arrow and cord, until finally the penny dropped.
“Oh,” he said again, again feeling stupid. The old man disarmed his embarrassment with another smile.
“I shall have to teach you, Nagah-Slayer; it doesn’t do a man of your summers to not know how to fish!”
Stone smiled. “Thanks, I might take you up on that. And please, call me Stone.”
The elder nodded and took another puff on his pipe, blue smoke wreathing him like some mountain-top mystic.
“Yalen.”
And with that, he returned to his work.
***
The interior was dark, even at this early hour, and thick with smoke from the fire in the centre and the pipes that hung from many and varied lips. His eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom and, looking about, he took in the crowd that stood waiting in the flickering light about the Chief’s hut. Both men and women stared at him as he entered, some young, some old, some welcoming, some guarded. It was with relief that he recognised some familiar faces, the Chief himself, his family, Wrynn.
The Chief rose from his chair, arms wide, and Stone noticed a terrible shape hung from the wall above him that almost caused him to start; the fearsome, mounted head of a huge serpent; the very
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