A Drum Is Empty

By Laura Haglund

Radovin, a young apprentice shaman, is screwed. Bound by an oath sworn on his life when he began his apprenticeship, he faces certain death if he betrays his master. He's in no hurry to die, but he cannot serve a murderer. When his closest friend dies in a contrived "accident", Radovin heeds a warning dream and runs away. His last hope is to reveal the truth to someone who can act on it, to give his wasted life some meaning before avenging spirits shred him.

His reappearance at a large gathering, some moons later, kicks the soup-pot of tribal politics into the fire. Justice seems to fall from the skies as Radovin's former master is struck down by a bolt of lightning and his cronies are discredited. The fatal oath turns out to have been a sham; Radovin is not doomed. He begins a new life with rediscovered family and a mentor who truly cares about him.

Of course it's all too good to be true. The dung hits the foehn for real when Radovin stumbles upon his late master's dark secret: an ancient amulet that devours souls and steals power. Its magical binding has become unstable; a wildfire of evil forces could destroy everything Radovin loves. Time is short--even shorter for Radovin's new mentor, kidnapped by henchmen of a madwoman under the influence of the amulet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Haglund
• Release date: May 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301507269

Laura Haglund

Laura Haglund is a native of Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin. Born on a rocky peninsula, she was always fascinated by...rocks. That, with a love of nature and a fondness for foraging, grew into a preoccupation with prehistoric life. An avid reader as long as she can remember, the author devoured mountains of science fiction and fantasy but found too little fiction that treated stone-age people in a satisfying way. Eventually, after a sudden spate of writing fan fiction parodies based on the characters of a well-known writer of prehistoric fiction, one of her original characters demanded to have his own story told properly. Ms. Haglund also works for NAMI of Door County, does free-lance web design and graphic art, and has a computer repair business on the side. She is better known on the Web as Matera the Mad.

Book preview

A Drum Is Empty

A Tale of the Old Stone Age

Laura Haglund

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Laura H. Haglund

Smashwords Edition, License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Author's Note:

This is a fantasy, not an attempt to portray people who lived before history began with perfect historical accuracy. However, I've tried to keep its roots firmly in the Earth. The Paleolithic era ended with an explosion of creativity. The human population was still too low for the kind of rapid technological advances that we are accustomed to today, but the people who lived then were every bit as intelligent and capable as their modern descendants. They were real people, not fake dumb savages with the limited vocabulary of 1950's B-movie Indians.

Cultural differences do not presuppose differences in intelligence. That is one thing far too many modern humans do not understand any better than their prehistoric ancestors.So read on, and remember Raven's good advice: If you can't laugh at yourself, you don't know what funny is. ;-)

CONTENTS:

Chapter One: The Last Spring

Chapter Two: A Raven Flies

Chapter Three: Tea and Trouble

Chapter Four: What a Picture Is Worth

Chapter Five: Luck

Chapter Six: An Unexpecting Guest

Chapter Seven: Dirty Laundry

Chapter Eight: Empty Dreams

Chapter Nine: Child's Play

Chapter Ten: Thunder Drums

Chapter Eleven: Fire from the Sky

Chapter Twelve: Priorities

Chapter Thirteen: Breaking Ice

Chapter Fourteen: Fuss And Feathers

Chapter Fifteen: Bull Baiting

Chapter Sixteen: The Lid Is Off

Chapter Seventeen: Questions and...Questions

Chapter Eighteen: Relativity

Chapter Nineteen: More Bloody Murder

Chapter Twenty: Fitting Together

Chapter Twenty-one: Something to Do

Chapter Twenty-two: A Fresh Start

Chapter Twenty-three: Initiations

Chapter Twenty-four: Dancing Lessons

Chapter Twenty-five: Loose Ends

Chapter Twenty-six: Shadows

Chapter Twenty-seven: Missing Persons

Chapter Twenty-eight: Raven to the Rescue

Chapter Twenty-nine: All Through the Night

Chapter Thirty: Out of the Fire, into the Soup

Chapter Thirty-one: One and All

Chapter Thirty-two: Not with a Bang

Chapter Thirty-three: Home

Chapter One: The Last Spring

I swear on my life to be true to the one who has chosen me. May the avenging spirits rise up from the Underworld to devour me if I betray his trust. May the blood freeze in my heart if I disobey him.

Beyond the low rise lay a place of the dead where the Bull band's winter camp should have been. Radovin wobbled to a stop, winning a short battle with the bundle of firewood on his back.

He shook off the haunting overlay of memory. This camp was not abandoned. Its people were not dead, but out gathering food. Sod and hide covered lodges basked in midday sun, inert lumpy mounds, fires gone to ash on this unseasonably warm day. A solitary trail of smoke rose from one outdoor hearth, where the two women who had not gone foraging tended soup.

Good, Ivergan wouldn't be back yet, waiting for him. He plodded on. The shaman's small hut lay a long spearthrow from the rest. Beside it, he turned and let his burden fall with a satisfying crash. He swung his arms a few times, gazing idly across the camp. Despite the sun's warmth, spring was still barely a promise. Dirty heaps of snow lay on the north sides of the lodges. The low rise beyond slept under grass weathered to a dull tan.

Wind teased him with the aroma of soup. No early taste for you, he told his stomach. He was beyond shame when it came to acquiring food, but he didn't need trouble.

Maybe being dead wouldn't be so bad. At least he wouldn't be hungry all the time. He turned, yanked out the quick-knot in the braided leather rope, and gave the sheaf a kick to loosen it. A few at a time, he added dry branches to the heap already piled high against the small lodge. It might be enough even to content Ivergan, who could find fault in anything.

He was about to coil the rope when he saw Vezanidi walking slowly toward him from west of the camp. Her growing need for that stick she used to help her along worried him. Not much he could do about that either. She was the oldest woman in the band; some said the oldest of all The People. He took his time, pretending not to notice her.

She stopped, close enough to poke him with her stick, and thumped it on the ground. He jerked around, eyes wide. Hai! Good day, Nidi.

The old woman smiled. A very good day to you, Rado.

D'you need me to do anything? A cup of tea for joint pain or a leg-rub was not real work. They could at least sit together a while and talk.

No, I'm fine, just out stretching my three legs on this fine spring day. She waved a hand, gnarled and brown as her walking stick, toward the smoking hearth. The soup should be ready by now. We can have a taste before all the rest crowd in.

Radovin grinned. She could get away with that. Sure. Thanks. He put an arm around her hunched back and they set off at a slow, old-woman pace.

Warm today, ah? Vezanidi tilted her head, her sly glance a challenge to Radovin's silence.

The bland remark unsettled him. She was not one for idle chit-chat about the weather. Yeah. Did you see anything good on your walk?

I saw a bundle of wood walking. Smile lines around her eyes deepened at his short muffled laugh. Everything was good. It's spring. Ah, Rado, I think it's the last one I'll see.

"Vahé! Don't say that!"

Vezanidi patted the hand that lay over her shoulder. Nah, one gets tired after a while. I've seen enough summers, and far too many winters. But what about you, you're young.

What about me? I'm all right. Lie. Facing his sixteenth summer with dread, he felt a lot older, and too close to the Underworld.

"Phtt! You should go to another band, should have long ago. It's spring, you could leave any time."

Those age-discolored eyes peered too close. He looked away. I'd bring 'em bad luck. The well-worn excuse shied well clear of deadly truth.

Ayah-kayah. Vezanidi shook her head. This band has what it asks for. One of these days there'll be a reckoning, and no one handy to dump all the blame on. It's time some people woke up. What do you owe anyone here? You go to another band, ask to be cleansed. Tell them I'll speak for you at the Summermeet. You know I would have long ago, if you'd let me, I've told you enough times. I still have a voice that some will hear. If I can't do anything else for you, at least I can do that.

Radovin clamped his teeth on his lower lip. Why did she always have to get onto that? She knew he couldn't tell her why he couldn't leave. He knew she was right, he had to, no matter what it cost him. Mostly just his life. It was too late to start anew; it had been from the moment he accepted Ivergan's offer of apprenticeship. He only hoped the good spirits would let him stay alive long enough to do what he had to. If he could.

All right, she sighed, when he didn't answer.

I will go. I--just don't know when yet. The problem was more where than when. How sent his thoughts running in panicky circles.

Vezanidi gave him a sharp look, but only nodded. They were nearing other ears.

The cooks had started before dawn. Wisps of steam escaped from the flat basketry lids of two rawhide-lined pits, close to the low stone wall of the hearth in front of the headman's lodge. The aroma of slowly simmered remnants of stored foods grabbed at Radovin's stomach. This year's batch of get-rid-of-it soup, the traditional last meal before the Feast of Rebirth, had the right stuff; odds and ends of dried foods, but nothing moldy, no rawhide scraps. He took a deeper sniff of it, anticipating the soup now that he was assured a portion.

Maybe.

The older of the two women, a little taller than Radovin and a great deal wider, turned a sour face toward them. Ambelda, headwoman of the band. She wore a loose shift of high-quality doeskin that exposed a long vee of saggy cleavage. Several heavy strands of beads flaunted her high status.

"Hnnn, here come the flies," she said.

Consider it a compliment to your cooking, Belda, Vezanidi said dryly.

Compliments draw bad luck, Ambelda retorted. She glowered at Radovin.

He bobbed his head. "Good be with you, Ambelda-mada."

Ambelda's expression mellowed to simple disdain. She bent over the soup, lifting the lids partway to sniff analytically at the steam like a hog seeking underground edibles. Satisfied, she left the hearth and sat on a rough wooden bench beside the low, open doorway of the lodge. It creaked in protest.

The younger cook turned toward them with a tired smile. It smells good, Vezanidi said to her. Done cooking, isn't it? Must be time to take a taste.

I'll get you a bowl, Nidi, the woman said, her smile warming at the wheedling hint. And one for you, Rado. She stooped to enter the lodge.

Thank you, Katalina, he called after her.

Vezanidi proceeded to the sun-warmed mate of Ambelda's bench, on the other side of the doorway. She sat with a contented smile, eyes closed.

Two girls and a boy sat on the ground nearby, playing with sticks and scraps of leather. They wore little more than breechclouts and simple foot coverings of hide with the fur side in. The older girl had a bandage of soft deerskin on one thigh. She had smiled and waved at Radovin as he neared the hearth, then turned back to moderate a dispute between her siblings. The little ones leaped up when Katalina reappeared with a basket containing bowls and spoons. Soup, soup, I want soup, the girl cried out, hopping around.

Yes, little bunny, soup, Katalina said. Sit down now and be quiet, and I'll get you some. The tots plunked down on the ground again with big grins.

She's a bunny, I'm a hungry wolf, the boy declared.

"Hoosh, don't start that again," the older girl said. He stuck out his tongue at her, but settled into a temporary truce of anticipation while their mother ladled the soup into bowls. She handed Ambelda the first.

Radovin carried Vezanidi's to her, and sat beside her on the bench, with a cautious glance at Ambelda. Though he tried to eat slowly, his small portion vanished too soon. He rose and stepped toward the stewpits. Ambelda's nasal squawk arrested his hand in mid-reach for the ladle.

"Hai! Away from there, hearthless!" She waved a threatening spoon at him. He backed away from the redolent steam.

"Och, let him have another bite, Belda, Vezanidi said. He earns his eats. He has a right to a decent share as one of the Dedicated, ah?"

He eats like a fire, Ambelda snapped, And he's not been initiated yet, nor likely to be soon.

He ought to have been. How much more can he learn from Ivergan, anyway? Any other would count him ready, I'd think. Besides, there's plenty of soup.

Hmpf. Maybe so, but they'll all be hungry when they get back, man, woman, and child. This bad-luck carrier can wait until the rest have had their fill. And why aren't you at work? The woman pointed her spoon at him again with a look of contempt. Not that you wouldn't bring it all back in your belly.

Ivergan told me to get wood while he was away, Radovin mumbled, eyes downcast.

Then you should get back at it, you lazy worm.

There's enough now. He ducked his head low and hunched his shoulders up to his ears.

Ambelda hoisted herself up, bowl in hand, and took the ladle. Good. You can clean the hearth and dump the ash baskets. She pointed the dipper toward the lodge.

Yes'm.

Nah, Rado, Vezanidi said. Sit and keep me company a while yet. You'll get more done if you take a break now and then. Her last words seemed to be aimed at Ambelda, who made no further objection beyond a disgusted snort.

Radovin sat and re-examined his bowl. He picked off a few stray bits with a fingertip, sucking it clean. Vezanidi shook her head. He shrugged.

The headwoman finished her second bowl. She rose with a surly grunt to Katalina, who got up to tend the fire. While Ambelda lumbered off toward the small ravine that served as both latrine and garbage dump, Katalina shifted the hot coals with a reindeer antler rake and added wood to one side of the fire. She deftly lifted stones one at a time out of the bed of coals using two pieces of antler, knocked some of the ash off against the hearthstones, and dropped them into the soup.

Radovin's mother had died in the winter following their move to the Bull band after the Raven band's catastrophic end. Her death firmly established his bad repute. According to Ivergan, the curse of ill-luck could be removed through strict obedience and discipline. Eventually he might join the circles of the Dedicated. It was better than being a homeless midden-rat. Or dead. At least the path of his heart was still open--so he once thought.

After five more winters of drudgery, he doubted everything. His head was stuffed with ritual and lore. How much did you need to know to enter the first Circle? As for the bad luck, all Ivergan had done was give him an amulet to shield others from his misfortunate aura. Nidi was probably right; it was only another excuse to hold him back.

One thing he didn't doubt: the gravity of the oath that bound him to the flint-hearted shaman. There was no way out of that alive. Whether or not he could muck up someone else's luck, his own was bad enough.

Rado?

Ayah?

Katalina had covered the stewpits and moved closer to the lodge. Could you look at Melina's leg while you're here?

Oh, sure. He stepped over to the children and squatted, facing the girl with the bandaged leg.

How's the leg feeling, Meli?

She smiled at him. It still hurts, 'specially if I bend it a lot. I try not to, like you said.

She hollered when she got up outta bed, the little boy offered.

You're a magpie, Niko, Melina told her brother fondly.

Niko stuck his tongue out again. Their little sister laughed. Tell us a story, Rado, the boy demanded.

Later, wolf-cub. If I have time. Radovin rumpled the little fellow's hair. He turned back to his patient. It will hurt for a while yet. That's to remind you to be careful. He touched the incised ivory disc that hung from a thong around his neck, then laid his hand on her bare thigh close to the bandage. The skin felt quite warm yet, but there were no dangerous red streaks creeping out from under the covering. He nodded to the girl. It's getting better. I'll wash it and put a fresh bandage on, ah?

All right. Melina pushed her empty bowl out of the way and let Radovin give her a hand up. They walked away hand-in-hand toward the shaman's hut. The girl hobbled, keeping her injured leg straight, and Radovin kept pace with her.

The two younger children went back to their play with the circle of pebbles that represented a lodge and the stick people that inhabited it. Katalina gathered the used bowls and spoons into a basket. Would you like a little more? she asked before depositing Vezanidi's bowl.

The old woman looked up, blinking. No, thank you. I think I'll take a little nap. I seem to need more sleep than food these days.

However are you going to get to the Summermeet this year? I think you'll have to ride the drags all the way.

Oh, I'll have Rado turn me into a little bird and fly. Maybe shit on a few heads while I'm at it. Her clouded eyes turned toward Ambelda, who was heading back toward them.

Katalina laughed nervously, glancing in the same direction.

#

He rested his arms a moment after dumping the last squat-basket into the ravine. Streaks of gold still glowed between long shadows. The intense blue sky promised a cold night. Tomorrow, the feast. The hunt had gone well, the spirits were pleased. Everyone would have a fair share, even the bad-luck boy. His stomach pinched at the thought of enough meat to fill it.

Radovin!

Ayah. He spun around to face Ivergan. The shaman stood out in sharp contrast against the sky, his scowl side-lit by the low sun. Radovin kept his gaze down, avoiding eye contact. He didn't like Ivergan's face all that much anyway; especially not since he had learned what the man was capable of.

You're filthy. Get washed up.

"Yes, o-denu." He picked up the empty basket and walked away, passing Ivergan on the sunward side. The shaman had not seemed to notice--so far--that his apprentice had lately made a habit of not crossing his shadow.

Not just a splash in the river.

Radovin turned again, startled, daring to question with a look.

Ivergan's eyes reflected the sun, twin fires in ominous caverns. Take a cleansing wash, that rat's-nest on your head too. I want you really clean tomorrow.

"Yes, Ivergan-anu. He hesitated, wondering why; not that he minded an opportunity to dunk his head in warm, herb-scented water. A flash of temerity, born more out of the habit of yearning than of withered hope, loosened his tongue. Am I--are you going to let me assist in the ritual?"

No, you undisciplined wall-rat. But you will be of some use to me soon.

"Yes, o-denu." Of some use. Vahé! Now that it was too late.

He returned the basket and hastened to the shaman's hut. As he reached for the door-flap, the loud crrruk! of a raven came from just above. Radovin staggered back a step. The bird sat atop the lodge, staring at him. It cocked its head, one beady eye sparked by the sun's last ray. Then, with another hoarse cry, it took off toward the southwest.

Radovin watched it vanish in sunset glare. Raven was his guiding spirit. Did it mean....

This was no time to gape at signs and omens. He had to fetch a lot of water before the light was gone. Turning back to go in, he saw a big, white streak of fresh birdshit down the side of the lodge. Ehh... ayah-kayah.

Chapter Two: A Raven Flies

Though Vezanidi often napped during the day, she did not sleep well at night. After lying awake for a time, she needed to empty her bladder. All was quiet in the long lodge. Everyone else had gone to bed, except for Bodisar; she had yet to hear his heavy tread pass by. Like as not he'd finish whatever business he was about just in time to keep her awake with his snoring. A fine headman, that paunchy, loudmouthed gobwit.

She shuffled the short distance to the lodge entryway by the flickering light of a night-lamp. With a firm grip on her walking stick, she squatted over the ash basket and rose again, her bones complaining all the way.

A few muffled words through the thick hide of the outer doorway snatched her thoughts from warmth and bed. Who would have a midnight chitchat out there in the cold? She leaned her best ear closer to the hide, held still, and listened.

The hardest part is still getting all the rest in line. They'd always rather scatter than bunch up.

Eh--Bodisar. Vezanidi made a grimace of disgust. The man spoke of his own tribe as if they were hunted animals. His notion of uniting all the bands under one leader was as foreign to The People as the wandering tribes he used for an excuse. It would be a bad day if he succeeded.

I can make sure of that.

Ivergan--of course. The two of them were always going hugger-mugger.

What, ah?

You'll see.

"Pah! You and your mysteries."

You'd soil your breechclout if you knew.

That's why I leave the spirit-business to you. I don't want to know about your mucking magicking.

That's a healthy attitude. Anyway, I'm ready at last. I've been preparing right under your nose long enough. The White Horse softheads won't make any difference now, even if anyone listens.

We could always arrange another 'accident' if they make too much noise, Bodisar suggested.

Getting used to it, ah? The shaman chuckled thinly.

The horror of confirmed suspicion made Vezanidi's skin prickle. The leaders of the White Horse band had not died by accident. She held her breath to keep from hissing with anger. No, it must not happen again. The Council will hear....

Her hand trembled, and her walking stick fell with a clatter that stopped her breath for a moment. No one stirred, thank the Good Ones. She groped for the stick, hanging onto the end of a mammoth jawbone that stuck out from the lower wall.

An arm snaked past the hide and yanked her outside by the neck.

#

Radovin's mouth watered. A great, savory slab of fat-rich mammoth meat dripped sizzling juices onto a bed of coals. Parched seeds, soaked and heated until they swelled and stuck together, were heaped in bowls and topped with fresh raw eggs, yolks glistening like golden suns. Smoked salmon and fresh roe lay on bone platters. Flat cakes of cattail root starch baked on hot rocks and slathered with bear fat filled a basket.

There were rabbits, hares, and hamsters stuffed with roots and fruits, wrapped in leaves and grass and roasted in pits. Rich soup made of ground nutmeats, mushrooms, and garlic. Boiled nettles with marrowfat. Dripping honeycombs, ripe berries, little birds soaked in hucha. Owoo, he didn't know where to start.

Radovin!

He spun around to see a man that he had never met, but knew by sight. Kayotar, of the White Horse band, Ivergan's archenemy, dead since last year. His mother had pointed the man out, that last summer before her untimely death. Kayotar, the shaman that Radovin should have been apprenticed to; murdered along with the headman of his band in a supposed hunting accident.

What do you want? His voice struggled out in a whisper. The old shaman's piercing black eyes seemed to look straight into his soul, gave him a falling-through-a-hole-in-the-ice feeling.

There's no time, Kayotar said. Go! Leave now. Tell them what you know.

What? Who? Tell who? Radovin's last tenuous grip on hope crumbled. The goal he had sworn to attain, worked so hard for, suffered so much for, neglected all else for, melted into slush and ran out of him for good. It left his heart empty.

The old man became a raven and flapped away into a storm-darkened sky. His voice came back mingled with distant thunder. It's time to go. Get up!

Get up! Get up! Get up! the words echoed. Radovin groped through sleep-fog to touch reality, which was his bed in Ivergan's hut, Ivergan's voice, and Ivergan's foot pushing at him.

Ah, ayah-- He scrambled up, his dream-haze blown away.

"Pah! Stupid worm. Build up the fire. I have to get ready. Hurry it up, ah? The sun's nearly risen."

Radovin dove outside, icy dawn air slapping him wide awake. He darted behind the hut to take a pee. Then he dashed back in, with a double handful of kindling grabbed on the way, toes aching. The weather was definitely back to normal.

He dressed and put on moccasins while the fire took hold of its breakfast of dry twigs, then went out for more wood. A piercing scream from the rubbish dump made him drop half his armload of firewood. Someone must have fallen, maybe got hurt. He abandoned all of the wood.

Ah!--a hard yank on his hair stopped him. Tend the fire, Ivergan snarled, and strode past, leaving him still regaining his balance.

Radovin blinked away a tear of pain. He looked at Ivergan's receding back, then at the scattered wood. His odd dream came to mind with a foreboding chill. He followed in blatant disobedience.

Others were gathering near the ravine, talking agitatedly.

What happened?

How did she get there?

You know how much she's been getting up in the night. Must have fallen in the dark. Bodisar, with feigned sorrow leaking out of every word.

Oh, my poor old Mama! cried one woman: Enari, daughter of Vezanidi. She began a high-pitched wail, keening for the dead.

Vezanidi--no! Radovin stopped. Churning ice filled his stomach. Sleepless or no, Nidi would not have gone out that far, in the dark, in the cold.

It's time to go, the voice from his dream echoed.

Ivergan turned away from the scene of mourning with a warped smile of satisfaction that froze Radovin's heart. In another instant, anger twisted the man's face. I told you to--

He was speaking to air. Flying feet carried Radovin back to the shaman's hut. He dove inside, grabbed his pack, began to stuff in extra things, whatever came to hand. Time to go.

Ivergan came in while he was still shoving it all down tight. Where do you think you're going? The man grabbed at him, but Radovin ducked and swung his solidly stuffed pack into the hateful face. Ivergan staggered back, tripped over a hearthstone, and knocked a basin of water into the fire. He disappeared in billowing steam.

Radovin shot out the door headfirst, butting aside the heavy leather drape. His head rammed into Bodisar's substantial middle, briefly stopping them both. Radovin bounced off running. He was out of sight before the obese headman recovered enough breath to roar imprecations at him.

#

He ran until his lungs burned and his sides cramped. Bending to drink at a small stream gave some relief.

The sun was low when he stumbled and rolled down a grassy slope. He remained where he lay for a while. A trio of crows crossed the sky, making raucous comments on the rare human presence. I'm not your dinner yet, little brothers, he whispered hoarsely.

The crows would have him soon enough.

He had to find the White Horse band, tell them the truth about the murders, that was what Kayotar meant. That was what he'd intended all along, but he had no idea where the band's new territory was. They had moved away before he knew the horrible truth, and winter came too soon after that. Ivergan had kept him so isolated that he didn't know the way to the winter camp of any other band.

The Lion band was nearest now; Vezanidi had told him how to get there. But would any other band believe him? A ragged stranger with a wild story about respectable people being manslayers? Pah! Most likely they'd hand him back, and that would be it. This last effort had to count. He didn't think he'd get a second chance.

His best bet was the Summermeet. All of the bands gathered annually at one of several locations, each one close to a place so full of power that only spirits held rights to it. This year's site was the same as the last one he had been to, the summer before his mother died--he could never forget. He wasn't sure how far it was, or how long it would take. It seemed more like a lifetime than a handful of years since that last journey. He was a boy then. Now...he was nothing.

The way was clear enough. Find the Veselta, the great river that flowed through the heart of the land, and follow it upstream. A small tributary joined the river near a distinctive landmark, a hill with a cave in it. The meeting place lay halfway between the river and Spirit Valley. No one else would be there until the Long Day moon. He could hide in the rugged hills nearby if too many others arrived before the White Horse band. It was a gamble, but with luck, he would make it.

Luck--Vahé! Sitting up abruptly, Radovin grabbed the ivory pendant that hung from his neck and yanked the thong over his head. With a fiercely whispered execration, he swung it once and sent it flying to disappear in a tangle of dry weeds. There! No one needed protection from his bad luck now--if they ever had. He wanted nothing that came from the hand of that curse-hacker, may his name be forgotten.

He got up and checked his pack. Nothing had spilled out. He had no food, but that was the least of his worries. If he'd had time to plan.... Yeah. Raven laughs at plans. Probably laughs at fools who put off making them too.

#

The next day there was more time to think. Would they try to hunt him down? Maybe they thought he would slink back. Ha, yeah. From the top of a hill, he scanned his back trail. He could see a long way over the nearly flat land, treeless everywhere but in sheltered river valleys. In dreams, he had seen all the way to the great ice. All he could really see of that from here was a hint of the vast bank of fog and clouds that often hung over it. There were no people in sight, not even a wisp of smoke.

Pah! Why puff himself up thinking anyone would follow him. They probably didn't give a toot-berry what happened to him. If they thought about it, they would expect him to end up as a snack for wolves before he got very far. The world was big, he was small. Very, very small, the wind's icy whisper told him. He moved on, as straight southward as he could, a course that should eventually take him to the Veselta with the least likelihood of encountering other people.

He took time to look for food. In the afternoon, he sat on a sun-warmed slope to let a few raw eggs settle comfortably in his stomach, and to savor another rare spring day. The season of rebirth came and went in a frantic burst, swift as the snowmelt floods. Look away too long, and it would be gone.

A sudden, early rainstorm had broken icebound rivers open to signal the time of the feast. More snow could fall and water still froze at night, but winter was over. In one day, swelling buds had transformed parts of the barren land with a haze of soft colors. Tiny dark bees appeared to dance among the first flowers. Flocks of returning birds called overhead.

Distant movement caught his eye. A long stream the color of dead grass rippled in a slow wave across a dip in its path; reindeer, following a trail worn deep by uncountable generations. They were headed in the direction he had come from. He couldn't tell at this distance, with the sun-shimmer, whether a band of the Reindeer People held claim on the herd. Either way, those he had left behind would have plenty to eat.

The nomads who followed the herds granted a few animals to the bands whose territories they passed through. Their offerings to the Bull band were usually old and tough, unless some trade goods changed hands as well. Bodisar gave little else in return besides a promise to keep his hunters from raiding the herds. It was no credit to the man that he kept his word. The shamans of the Reindeer People had a reputation for paybacks, and Bodisar had a prudent fear of spirits and magic.

That had not kept him from committing an abomination when it suited his purposes.

Spring is a rotten, stupid, piss-headed time to die!

Radovin leaped to his feet, hands clenched; then he slumped.

He stood still for a moment, eyes closed. Your will be mine. All spirits come from you, and all return to you. Though I have broken my vow, I am still yours. Use me as you see fit.

He took a deep breath. The world around him was unchanged when he opened his eyes, but he felt that he could go on.

When it was done...if the spirits were not too harsh in their judgment, perhaps he would see his mother once more.

Chapter Three: Tea and Trouble

The small river flowed steady as time. With the spring floods over, it was little more than a creek, but this stream was fed by sacred springs that never dried up. Low trees grew thicker and higher where the watercourse hugged the west side of the valley before curving eastward around a flat meadow. It turned south once more beyond a wide pool, meandering through grassland and marsh on its way to the Veselta.

The shaman of the White Horse band paused to slip his moccasins back on after wading across a shallow ford just above the pool. A few steps behind him, the band's headman steadied his mate, who found her feet hard to reach with a pack throwing her off balance. Then the three continued up an easy slope to the edge of the meadow, where nine groups of tents formed a rough circle.

Mid-morning sun brought out every color of the bustling encampment, sharp and bright. Smoke from burning wood and dung drifted on the wind. Voices in conversation, the crack of breaking firewood, someone practicing with a flute, and children's laughter blended in a familiar anthem of daily life.

Ottavar flexed his shoulders in anticipation. After many days of travel the pack straps bit. He studied the tents. Each band's totem animal was painted on the hides that covered the ovoid shelters.

A pair of enormous antlers framed the entrance of the Greatbuck band's largest tent, ahead and to their left on the west side of the campground. Ottavar's grandfather had always threatened to hang his sun-hat on them when he went visiting. Somebody else would have to make the wisecracks now. Last year his grandfather, the White Horse band's former shaman, had died in an apparent hunting accident along with the band's headman.

Ottavar considered the wide gap between the Greatbuck camp and the one nearer them. Over there, don't you think, Lovo? It's the widest space left.

Lovaduc nodded. It looks good to me. He strode toward the empty site, the other two following. They stopped midway between the two camps.

At least the only spot left isn't next to.... Sherilana didn't have to finish. The tents of the Bull band stood comfortably far across the circle, between those of Bison and Lion.

We'll set up here, Ottavar said. A frequently used path cut close to the best tent site, but latecomers couldn't be choosy.

Ayah. Lovaduc shucked his pack with a sigh of relief. Sherilana leaned her pack against the headman's. Ottavar added his, and gave his shoulders and sweaty back a welcome