unhitching his spear. He picked up speed following the Woading. ‘If they return all hope is gone.’
Plainsmen stared at him. He raised his spear, crying: ‘Woading, I will not let you go.’
One of the men turned and went white seeing Carnelian urging his aquar towards him. Other Woading were turning too. One face distorted with rage. ‘Then we’ll kill you now.’ The man’s spear was in his hand. He rode at Carnelian brandishing it. The flanks of their aquar slapped into each other. Their saddle-chairs scraped together. Carnelian ducked and drove his spear into the man’s chest. Both he and the man stared at where the haft sprang from his robe, which was darkening with blood. Carnelian’s anger left him as he watched the man die. Someone was speaking. Recognizing Fern’s voice, he turned. He registered the shock in the faces around him.
‘Let’s give it until morning. If Hookfork’s not come after us by then, we’ll send him a message that we will give him the Standing Dead.’
Everyone agreed they should make for the Backbone, where they might camp safe from raveners. Fern announced he knew a fastness where it had been the custom of his tribe to spend the first night of their journeys to Osrakum. When he described it the Darkcloud gave their support. It was a place they used too.
It was nearing dusk when they reached the serried rocks of the Backbone that rose up from the fernland in a seemingly unscalable cliff. Fern and the Darkcloud found paths winding up into it. Though negotiable by aquar these would be too narrow for a ravener to climb.
When they reached the summits they saw a wide slope falling gently into the west, strewn with black boulders. As the sun swelled raw on the horizon they gathered fernwood for fires. Carnelian helped Fern build theirs among some stunted trees in the lee of the Backbone’s ragged edge. Afterwards he clambered up to survey the road they had crushed through the ferns. Poppy followed him. ‘If Hookfork comes after us he’ll have no difficulty finding us.’
Grim, they returned to where Fern was coaxing flames from a nest of roots. Osidian had clambered out from his saddle-chair then climbed a few steps to slump against a rock face. Swathed as he was in his Oracle indigos, all Carnelian could see of him was his narrowed eyes. On the horizon nothing was left of the sun but an incandescent filament that branded his vision for a while after it had disappeared. The slopes around him were dotted with huddles of Plainsmen illuminated by the fires in their midst. Further out, on their own, Marula in rings. It was Fern crisping djada in the flames that drew Carnelian’s attention back. The smell evoked times he had spent among the Ochre; happier times. His mind turned reluctantly to the fate of the Woading: another koppie that had suffered holocaust. Hope had once more drained away, leaving nothing but sapping despair.
Poppy called him to eat. As he approached she made a place for him by the fire. She talked brightly, trying to kindle some life in them. ‘Are you sure the raveners won’t come at us up this slope?’
Fern shook his head almost imperceptibly. Without looking up from the flames, he moved his arm vaguely. ‘The Backbone here runs unbroken north and south for a great distance. There’s no water west of here and so no herds. Any raveners will come from the east.’
Carnelian read Fern’s look of misery as he looked around him. The last time he had been camping here it had been with his tribesmen, all now dead.
Carnelian’s eyes snapped open. He could see nothing but the black between the stars. Terror clutched his chest. Raveners had been hunting him in his dreams. Tremors in the ground beneath his back. He sprang up. The slope was peopled by shadow men. The earth under his feet was trembling. A murmur of fear breathed up the slope as if a wind through trees. He scrambled up the incline, slipping, reaching the edge of the Backbone on all fours. Hair rose
Plainsmen stared at him. He raised his spear, crying: ‘Woading, I will not let you go.’
One of the men turned and went white seeing Carnelian urging his aquar towards him. Other Woading were turning too. One face distorted with rage. ‘Then we’ll kill you now.’ The man’s spear was in his hand. He rode at Carnelian brandishing it. The flanks of their aquar slapped into each other. Their saddle-chairs scraped together. Carnelian ducked and drove his spear into the man’s chest. Both he and the man stared at where the haft sprang from his robe, which was darkening with blood. Carnelian’s anger left him as he watched the man die. Someone was speaking. Recognizing Fern’s voice, he turned. He registered the shock in the faces around him.
‘Let’s give it until morning. If Hookfork’s not come after us by then, we’ll send him a message that we will give him the Standing Dead.’
Everyone agreed they should make for the Backbone, where they might camp safe from raveners. Fern announced he knew a fastness where it had been the custom of his tribe to spend the first night of their journeys to Osrakum. When he described it the Darkcloud gave their support. It was a place they used too.
It was nearing dusk when they reached the serried rocks of the Backbone that rose up from the fernland in a seemingly unscalable cliff. Fern and the Darkcloud found paths winding up into it. Though negotiable by aquar these would be too narrow for a ravener to climb.
When they reached the summits they saw a wide slope falling gently into the west, strewn with black boulders. As the sun swelled raw on the horizon they gathered fernwood for fires. Carnelian helped Fern build theirs among some stunted trees in the lee of the Backbone’s ragged edge. Afterwards he clambered up to survey the road they had crushed through the ferns. Poppy followed him. ‘If Hookfork comes after us he’ll have no difficulty finding us.’
Grim, they returned to where Fern was coaxing flames from a nest of roots. Osidian had clambered out from his saddle-chair then climbed a few steps to slump against a rock face. Swathed as he was in his Oracle indigos, all Carnelian could see of him was his narrowed eyes. On the horizon nothing was left of the sun but an incandescent filament that branded his vision for a while after it had disappeared. The slopes around him were dotted with huddles of Plainsmen illuminated by the fires in their midst. Further out, on their own, Marula in rings. It was Fern crisping djada in the flames that drew Carnelian’s attention back. The smell evoked times he had spent among the Ochre; happier times. His mind turned reluctantly to the fate of the Woading: another koppie that had suffered holocaust. Hope had once more drained away, leaving nothing but sapping despair.
Poppy called him to eat. As he approached she made a place for him by the fire. She talked brightly, trying to kindle some life in them. ‘Are you sure the raveners won’t come at us up this slope?’
Fern shook his head almost imperceptibly. Without looking up from the flames, he moved his arm vaguely. ‘The Backbone here runs unbroken north and south for a great distance. There’s no water west of here and so no herds. Any raveners will come from the east.’
Carnelian read Fern’s look of misery as he looked around him. The last time he had been camping here it had been with his tribesmen, all now dead.
Carnelian’s eyes snapped open. He could see nothing but the black between the stars. Terror clutched his chest. Raveners had been hunting him in his dreams. Tremors in the ground beneath his back. He sprang up. The slope was peopled by shadow men. The earth under his feet was trembling. A murmur of fear breathed up the slope as if a wind through trees. He scrambled up the incline, slipping, reaching the edge of the Backbone on all fours. Hair rose
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