airway of the razorback remained obstructed until finally its strength was gone, all animation spent.
The arrogance of hunting any animal bare-handed would have earned Korel at least an hour of sword scrimmage with Felmerand, his old battle instructor and conscriptional tutor to the family, or perhaps worse punishment. But Korel had exceptionally strong hands . . . or so he had always been told.
Boar had been hunted to near extinction; the healing powers of its deadly tusks being highly prized and the manner of their harvest being highly brutal made the whole a blunt irony as the beast's ivory became both the animal's salvation and its bane, a contradiction that scraped along Korel's already raw sensibilities. He removed the tusks first with the makeshift knife he had fashioned from the same living rock as his bow, placing the tusks in his purse, then moved the kill to his rudimentary campsite for proper cleaning. Korel knew that by spilling its blood, he had entered into an unspoken pact with the boar. Life through death should be preserved, as the shedding of blood during the hunt was a hallowed act. He would not waste any meat. Wasted meat also left signs trackers might follow—or worse, the scavengers of the waste, things driven by the scent of blood and drawn by ancient, dark instincts. Some scavengers were of this world but others were not, and it would be well not to provoke them. Korel used what salts he had but knew he would fall well short of a decent cure. He would have to risk a fire, curing the meat to a scalded brown to arrest its rapid decay. With these preparations he might avoid the voices sometimes heard upon the wind, if he was careful and lucky.
Using a flint, Korel started a small fire under a rocky outcropping. Wood was scarce, but what little he used was dry and gave off good heat with little smoke. But the dry wood could not last long and he would eventually have to use dead brush, a fuel that would smoke darkly under the labors of brazing the hot meat as its grease dripped into the orange heart of the fire. The bones and inedible portions of the boar could be fired during the night, as these would give off the greatest smoke, nocturnal blackness obscuring the dark plumes. The ash and unusable bone would then be buried in accordance with the order of purification and revitalization. Korel knew that any true tracker would see his fire many miles away, but he did these things to keep the other trackers, the trackers between worlds, from seeing him better. Or so the Quenivorian (Kelmarian) sisters had taught him. He wasn't sure he believed all they had taught, but he knew enough not to underestimate the judgment and teaching of the Sisters of the Quenivorian Order of the Isle of Kelmar.
A day later, the meat was completely fired and prepared. Korel had packed it in the dry leaves that covered the floor beneath the outcropping. He then started off as quickly as he could, carefully picking his way down the slide as it flowed out toward the plain, the last remnants of his dying fire burping small, dark plumes of smoke. In the end, his use of dead brush to fuel the fire had been necessary to complete his preparations. At the bottom of the slide, Korel paused to take a few healing leaves from the warnoth bush. Somewhere in his consciousness it seemed to him that these leaves had grown here purposefully, as though the plant with its medicinal properties had taken root here many years ago in anticipation of the day when Korel would pass this very spot and pluck the green gifts it proffered. Korel's diffidence, not to mention his logic, told him to dismiss this strange impression. But it continued to linger in his mind despite the protests of a grounded outlook on the world, and in the end he let the impression stay. At last he turned, leaving the bush behind as he hurried across the sparse plain that ran up to the foot of the distant mountains rising in the east.
These plains were said to be desolate. Few
The arrogance of hunting any animal bare-handed would have earned Korel at least an hour of sword scrimmage with Felmerand, his old battle instructor and conscriptional tutor to the family, or perhaps worse punishment. But Korel had exceptionally strong hands . . . or so he had always been told.
Boar had been hunted to near extinction; the healing powers of its deadly tusks being highly prized and the manner of their harvest being highly brutal made the whole a blunt irony as the beast's ivory became both the animal's salvation and its bane, a contradiction that scraped along Korel's already raw sensibilities. He removed the tusks first with the makeshift knife he had fashioned from the same living rock as his bow, placing the tusks in his purse, then moved the kill to his rudimentary campsite for proper cleaning. Korel knew that by spilling its blood, he had entered into an unspoken pact with the boar. Life through death should be preserved, as the shedding of blood during the hunt was a hallowed act. He would not waste any meat. Wasted meat also left signs trackers might follow—or worse, the scavengers of the waste, things driven by the scent of blood and drawn by ancient, dark instincts. Some scavengers were of this world but others were not, and it would be well not to provoke them. Korel used what salts he had but knew he would fall well short of a decent cure. He would have to risk a fire, curing the meat to a scalded brown to arrest its rapid decay. With these preparations he might avoid the voices sometimes heard upon the wind, if he was careful and lucky.
Using a flint, Korel started a small fire under a rocky outcropping. Wood was scarce, but what little he used was dry and gave off good heat with little smoke. But the dry wood could not last long and he would eventually have to use dead brush, a fuel that would smoke darkly under the labors of brazing the hot meat as its grease dripped into the orange heart of the fire. The bones and inedible portions of the boar could be fired during the night, as these would give off the greatest smoke, nocturnal blackness obscuring the dark plumes. The ash and unusable bone would then be buried in accordance with the order of purification and revitalization. Korel knew that any true tracker would see his fire many miles away, but he did these things to keep the other trackers, the trackers between worlds, from seeing him better. Or so the Quenivorian (Kelmarian) sisters had taught him. He wasn't sure he believed all they had taught, but he knew enough not to underestimate the judgment and teaching of the Sisters of the Quenivorian Order of the Isle of Kelmar.
A day later, the meat was completely fired and prepared. Korel had packed it in the dry leaves that covered the floor beneath the outcropping. He then started off as quickly as he could, carefully picking his way down the slide as it flowed out toward the plain, the last remnants of his dying fire burping small, dark plumes of smoke. In the end, his use of dead brush to fuel the fire had been necessary to complete his preparations. At the bottom of the slide, Korel paused to take a few healing leaves from the warnoth bush. Somewhere in his consciousness it seemed to him that these leaves had grown here purposefully, as though the plant with its medicinal properties had taken root here many years ago in anticipation of the day when Korel would pass this very spot and pluck the green gifts it proffered. Korel's diffidence, not to mention his logic, told him to dismiss this strange impression. But it continued to linger in his mind despite the protests of a grounded outlook on the world, and in the end he let the impression stay. At last he turned, leaving the bush behind as he hurried across the sparse plain that ran up to the foot of the distant mountains rising in the east.
These plains were said to be desolate. Few
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