Page 5

Chapter Three

Planet of Qaldreth

Meorri tribe

D rafe squeezed five droplets of water onto his tongue.

The sweet liquid nourished and cooled as it slid down his throat.

His pouch sloshed with the heavenly goodness, but drinking more than the allowance was taboo.

Still, he was tempted, hefting the bladder in his hand while trailing a thumb over his father’s star burned into the leather.

Sighing, he set it aside. Any water he returned with would add to tomorrow’s rations.

Not that he could recall having quenched his thirst. He, like all Meorri, survived on Osnir-blessed five drops at a time to hold back thirst.

On a pale-yellow stone ledge, he rested.

Enjoying the cool shade of a cucooya tree—its thick, bulbous roots offering him a backrest—he stared across the Aguura salt plains.

In the distance, hazy mountains rose, dark and mysterious.

The Riermus tribe reigned over the Ki’irinzi Mountains stretching as far as the eye can see.

He had never hunted far enough across the plains to meet a Riermus.

There was talk their skin was the color of pale-yellow rock, mottled green and brown.

He sprawled with two dead garaks beside him.

The length of his forearm, they would provide food for a few days, and their thick fur would please Larya, his sister.

It was nearing midday. Qaldreth’s two suns tortured the soil, burned the air, and siphoned what water trickled to the surface.

He slumped, resting against the spongy bark.

Having set out before daybreak, exhaustion drained him.

Every big prey he’d targeted had slipped through his fingers.

His symbiotes flooded him with memories of his past fathers’ hunts, hoping Drafe would learn from their skill and mistakes.

A poor substitute for a lost parent. When he had a son, he would share the symbiotes as his father had done with him.

So did the knowledge and condemnation of his ancestors survive.

“My thanks,” he grumbled.

None of the symbiotes’ guidance helped him. They slithered under the surface of his skin, rippling like a vasquva under the desert sands. Now that would be a worthy kill. The massive worm would feed his village for a year. Holy Osnir, even a baby vasquva would be worth the effort.

He shifted his legs, bare beneath the leather loincloth, his koq tucked into its pocket.

His feet and chest were bare too. To hunt clothed was cowardly.

To his right lay his father’s sword. The shimmering Borven blade caught the suns’ light.

The hilt had strips of leather, hinting at past kills.

It wasn’t a Cainus-made sword, but it had survived generations.

He had his spear beside that, the Borven head sharp enough to kill.

No vasquva leather wrapped around the butt, only garak.

One day soon, he would add a worthy kill to his symbiotes’ memories.

The pebbles beneath his hand trembled and hopped. He rested his gaze on the plains before him. His symbiotes whispered of vasquva, but he dismissed it. The worms didn’t travel the plains, preferring the Nadaar dunes west of him.

The whiskers bursting through the hard-packed soil proved him wrong.

A cold shiver shot down his back as he gaped.

Scrambling to his feet, he scooped up the sword, and bolted, sprinting across the sand with tiny puffs of dust under his feet.

As a Meorri, moving without disturbing his surroundings was taught from a young age.

Many a danger lay beneath the salt and sand.

He pumped his arms, chasing the swerving, slithering worm as it crossed the plains.

Salt crystals exploded, stinging his skin.

He shook his head to dislodge the white powder off his eyelashes.

If he could just reach its neck. Sweat beaded his forehead, drenching the plume of hair curling from his temple down his spine, now sticking to his skin.

His breathing labored, but he pushed on.

Such a kill would bring great honor and secure a good mating for Larya. As primary male, he had to care for her.

The amber beads in the guard of his sword dug into his hand.

He tightened his grip and leaped onto one of the vasquva’s many tails.

The slimy yellow skin burned where it touched him.

He scrambled up its length, dodging the other tails as they whipped over his head.

It tried to dislodge him with flicks and jerks.

He held on. Hand over hand, despite the burn of his skin flaking off, he climbed.

His symbiotes hurried to heal him, whispering curses in an unknown, ancient language. The tone was the same.

On the vasquva’s back, he wrapped one of its long hairs around his arm and tugged, pulling himself from strand to strand until he neared the creature’s head.

He needed an eye, its weak point. The Ki’irinzi Mountains drew closer, variegated greens changing the hazy grays into a riot of color.

Foq. He twisted, spying the cucooya tree he’d but moments ago rested under.

It was no bigger than his thumbnail. The hot wind baked by the suns whipped at his hair, dusting his skin with salt.

He grabbed a strand of hair and yanked to the right, needing the vasquva to turn around.

A laugh erupted at his silliness, but it didn’t smother the sadness claiming his soul.

If he didn’t abandon the hunt, it would take him days to reach home.

The annual challenge was tomorrow.

Even if he plunged his sword into the vasquva’s eye, all this meat would rot before he could gather the village.

He grunted, released the strand of hair, rolled down the vasquva’s back, and leaped off its ass, hitting the ground with a grunt.

With a final backward glance, he sprinted toward the cucooya tree, evading the vasquva’s nine tails.

A rumble behind him spun him on his heel. A whisker broke the surface of the plains too close for comfort. Gathering his dwindling energy, swallowing past the thick mucus clinging to his tongue, he ran, the sword still gripped in his hand.

At his heels, the sand cracked as the vasquva hunted him, its whiskers caressing his hair.

He shivered while his symbiotes screamed instructions he had to ignore.

Only the rock outcropping mattered. If he could just reach the tree surrounded by solid rock, the vasquva would abandon the hunt.

His feet burned from the hot sand and his heels itched at the constant vibrations.

Glances behind him revealed the creature’s persistence. He was close. Just a little more…

The ground beneath his back foot fell away.

Roaring a battle cry and with the power of his legs, he launched himself, hand outstretched.

Fear chilled his bones, so dark, whispering he would fail, he wouldn’t make it, his sister would fall to slave status.

For a moment, he succumbed to Kreta’s seductive words. The goddess of death awaited him.

His fingertips caught the edge. He scrambled to hold on, to pull himself up and over, scraping the skin off his shoulders.

A thunderous wail pierced the air and trembled the rock beneath him, but he lay there, on his back, his ragged breaths jarring his chest. Sweat trickled down his scalp, past his ears to the ground beneath him.

He threw out a hand to where he’d left his water pouch.

Nothing. Sitting up with a groan, he stared at the cucooya’s thick roots. Where the foq was his water pouch? His spear? The two garaks?

To steal one’s water was beyond dishonorable and was punishable with the loss of a hand. No one would dare. The tenacious vasquva circled him, wailing and sending out its whiskers to taste the air. South of him lay the caves. Home, half a day’s walk.

Here he sat, waterless.

H ours passed with him unable to head home.

The setting suns took the light while the vasquva ranted as it circled the rock.

The cooling temperatures racked shivers across Drafe’s exposed skin.

It lasted a moment before his symbiotes warmed him.

With his tongue swollen, he watched the moons cross the sky, the stars bright, beckoning.

One was the Ivoyan world where he longed to train as a Qaldreth warrior.

He huffed. Not if he stayed on this rock.

To witness the challenge, Ivoyan aldermen would descend from their sky crafts and choose the next trainee.

From when he was a boy, he had longed to join those who left the hot sands of Meorri.

Leaping to his feet, he gripped his father’s sword and carved a niche in the cucooya’s root, asking for nothing more but five droplets.

It conceded, and he gathered the sticky liquid on his fingertips.

One could not survive for long on the tree’s salty sap, but it should sustain him until he reached home.

The wind whipped his hair, tickling his back as he stared south, peering into the thick darkness.

Used to the suns’ light, his eyes didn’t handle night well.

Drawing in a deep breath, he squared his shoulders, rocked on his toes, and bolted, sprinting across the sands with the wail of the vasquva trailing him.

He was a fool to have tried to kill it alone.

Lessons came after he needed them.

His arms and legs burned, but he persevered, zigzagging from rock to shade, often resting on boulders when he could. As the moon crossed the sky, the vasquva persisted, hunting him. Its whiskers dipped and danced as it sought his scent. A mournful cry followed.

In the distance, the white bobbing globes of the venai stones served as guiding lights. He was close to home.