Break! A Tale of Cursed Blood

By Eric Landreneau

Skugg Kragson could have been honored in his clan. A hero who broke a cycle of starvation. He would have had a beautiful wife. He could have been War Chief, High Shaman, or both. But that life is taken from him.
He is without home, without clan, without honor, and in less than a month he will turn into a monster, governed by the darkest urges of the deepest pits of his soul, beholden to a Demonic master from the nightmare realm beyond this one.
And it's his own damn fault.
Stupid bear.
With time against him, demons without and demons within, Skugg flees his mountain home and cuts a path of mayhem across the Empire of Tangonia, facing mercenaries, monsters, strange machines and his own most-hated inner turmoil. He has one impossible goal in his heart – to find the source of his curse, and BREAK it into itty bitty pieces.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Landreneau
• Release date: Apr 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311150899

Eric Landreneau

Author. Advocate for empowered creativity and the growing voice of the individual.

Book preview

Prologue

Through the light of a warm, white sun swam a gleaming leviathan, a monster of a gas giant, banded in luminous blue and green. Locals gave this sphere the name Oversea. As it made its eighty-odd-year elliptical trek about its sun, it brought along a sizable collection of moons. Being a titan among gas giants, Oversea's moons were themselves respectable masses of stone. Most were bare and black, or seething masses of inhospitable volcanism. The largest, however, was a perfect shining marble of emerald and sapphire; not the hues of Oversea's vast cloud-bands, but the rare shades of life. Oversea's other daughters had been stillborn, but this moon, Tethlo, thrived.

The overall system, so strange and vibrant, could almost be labeled a double-star, for Oversea was warm and bright in her own right, though the gas giant radiated in a stranger spectrum than common stars.

Most space-faring races would have trouble naming the forces which boiled up from Oversea's heart, but their children would not. Life, given will and consciousness. Spirit. Magic. Gleaming with this strange power, Oversea was warm enough to keep Tethlo alive through winter, when the little world passed through the gas giant's wide shadow. For weeks at a time the planet missed the touch of the sun, but it never left the warm bath of Oversea's vibrant power.

Tethlo and Oversea, so full of life, light, and magic, churn their way about the sun and, from time-to-time, through the walls of reality. Around these worlds, the border between this plane and others was less distinct than it should have been.

*****

A screaming wave of immolating plasma and unending high-energy annihilation tore across the trackless void of a reality tuned out of synch with ours. This was the Blazing Gap, and the wave was a hellstorm. Thousands of miles thick and unknown light-years long, the churning storm had raged in this un-space before the corporeal realm was even a dream.

A doom palace, a constructed planetoid and twisted city of demons, rode the hellstorm like flotsam.

The appointed time arrived.

Sameeno, Magawyrd and lord of this Palace, rose from his citadel of infernal matter, trailing strands of fell power. With these binding ropes the immense demon pulled his Doom Palace from the storm. The forces of the hellstorm resisted; the Doom Palace had ridden this storm for eons, and the patterns of the storm had shifted to hold it tight. But Sameeno anchored himself in the void, a feat of will and magic, to pull his citadel free. The hellstorm plowed on, racing into the distance, mountain-high claws and tongues of lightning tearing apart the islets and rocks where lesser things toiled – and now burned.

A cloak of blinding white flame spread like wings from Sameeno's broad, grey shoulders as he surveyed the progress of his greatest work. His thousand horn-skinned legs tucked close to his lower body segment as fanged feeding tendrils writhed and darted from his chest – his only outward sign of excitement. He inclined his crowned, statuesque face to his subjects and bellowed, Here!

Sameeno's elite cadre, rising from the Doom Palace, stopped below him. Sameeno's tainted changeling and favored killer, Brimbox, floated nearest. Below him drifted Grimmuck the soulsucker, little more than a formless wisp of spirit. Demon soldiers - corgs, undulating trogglobs, twitchy gorhunden, and the bobbing chrysalises of dormant scourstalkers - arrayed themselves in a ready formation.

Sameeno turned about. Above him were glimmering stars, the auras of distant major demons: Magawyrds, Immolatrixes, light-devouring Ergfiends, many-bodied Mindbinders and other Masters of the Blazing Gap. They would assist Sameeno in his efforts – or strike him down if his plan failed and he was left vulnerable. From their distant ranks descended fifty embers, resolving into the robed forms of high archons as they drew near. They dropped past Sameeno's cadre and ringed his Doom Palace.

Grimmuck writhed, a mote of uneasy energy. Sire, must we do this?

Sameeno growled. Brimbox, do you remember why I keep him?

The shadow-cloaked killer gave the most minute of shrugs.

With a derisive snort, Sameeno turned his attention back to his Doom Palace. He raised his arms and called for the archons to begin.

Violet motes lashed out from the fifty archons, crashing into the Palace. Towers, Escherian bridges, and millions of Sameeno's gaunt slaves split apart. The wailing of a billion tortured souls thrummed into the void of the Blazing Gap as their final undoing arrived, more excruciating than the preceding eons of torture. The archons' magics broke them down into raw energy – light, heat, despair and agony - and forced it all inward to a single point. The Doom palace collapsed in on itself into a whirling vortex of warped energies.

Sameeno forced his will upon the vortex, adding the necessary attunements to the vast collaborative casting.

Grimmuck quailed. But that is our home!

Silence! Sameeno barked. The Magawyrd reconsidered just how useful his only soulsucker would be on the other side. He could get by without Grimmuck, couldn't he? Probably. Return, if it quakes you so to leave! Sameeno gestured, indicating the remains of their home.

The Doom Palace was now a ring of colliding rubble in a haze of blood-mist, collapsing into the widening funnel. The archons shifted formation to intercept the next event. Far across the vastness, the hellstorm which they had abandoned collided with another. The limbs of the two storms sliced through each other, unleashing enough force to shake a galactic core. This was expected, and the reason Sameeno had planned his work to happen here, now.

The Doom Palace and its inhabitants were the raw materials. The shockwave from the collision provided the power. The other Lords descended to help their archons catch the screaming explosion and channel the power into the vortex, pushing the channel through to the Other Side.

Sameeno hailed the other Masters. Assemble your accursed forces here. This is where I will open a wider way for your armies. All our kind, at long last, will leave this place of deprivation and weakness.

An Immolatrix hailed back, her voice gravelly and piercing. We'll be here. For once I wish you well. Now go! Bring the fleshlings a reckoning for trapping us here!

Sameeno drifted downward, through the ranks of his cadre. His skin split and his body vanished into a bloom of white fire. Onward, minions! All those weary of endless starvation, follow me!

Sameeno flew to the churning maw, an immolating blaze in the shape of a stooping raptor, followed by his shrieking, laughing squadron. The way would only be fully open for an instant, but it was time enough for them to break through. At the bottom of the vortex, impossibly distant, shone a mammoth blue-green world, belted in succulent little moons.

Part 1: Flight of the Fell-Fleshed

1- Stupid Bear

The forest was silent, which made Skugg furious. All he could hear was the crunch of piled snow under his boots, the soft creak and clatter of the spears balanced on his shoulder and his measured breathing as he made for the clearing.

No drakes, he thought. No little mammals scurrying. None of my people foraging our lands!

Skugg's people were giants to some; they averaged six feet tall, and Skugg was already half a head over that. His face was broad, his cheekbones high. He wore a peaked iron half-helm with a guard flaring down over his long nose. A shoulder-length fringe of fur-lined hide hung from the rim of the helm. A thick-furred cloak draped his broad, well-muscled shoulders. He was a youth given to easy mirth, but none of that showed in the steely set of his thick-lidded eyes as he scanned each side of the narrow trail.

Winter was on the retreat early this year. Oversummer was coming; the time when, in her eighty-three-year orbit, Oversea and her moon Tethlo passed closer to the sun. For twenty-odd years summers would be longer and hotter, and winter would lose most of its teeth.

Sunlight shone down through gaps in the alpine forest. The drifts were high, but dampening to slush. The last snow had been over a week before - just a paltry wet thing. Oversea rode high and rising on the Western horizon, chasing after the Sun, the great orb casting a blue-green tint over the forest. As winter slipped away, Oversea would rise later each day, giving over more hours of the morning to the true sun. Spring was coming fast. The forests of Mt. Marhis should have been a riot of waking creatures burgeoning with energy. Instead Skugg cast his senses outward and felt only fear, creatures cowering in their winter burrows, starving.

Much like my clan.

Their winter stores were dwindling. Two weeks ago his people began foraging, as they did this time every year. The second day, Dora never returned. They found her torn to bits not far from the village, surrounded by prints from something large and clawed. But there was no trail. She was as good a woodswoman as any of them. Malo was next, followed by Mer two days later. They identified Mer by her boots. Now Skugg's clan cowered in their village while their warriors and hunters stalked the silent woods around their village, empty of natural game, seeking sign of the beast which left no trail.

And so we starve.

Skugg found the clearing he sought. Unbroken snow covered the ground around the stump of what had once been a mighty pine. The stump ended above Skugg's head in jagged shards, still black from a lightning bolt that had struck before he was even born. The clearing was a few hours' hike from his village, a place he'd often sought for a bit of peace. He did not seek peace today.

My people starve, besieged by some animal while our hunters sneak after ghosts!

Skugg circled the clearing, leaning four spears against trees around the perimeter. He placed the last on the ground near the stump. The warriors were wise to stalk with caution near the village, to remain vigilant for an opportunity to ambush the beast without leaving the village unguarded. Their Elders advised such caution, and their wisdom was irrefutable. Mer had been one of their most renowned warriors and yet, caught alone, she fell to the beast.

Being as yet unbloodied in battle, Skugg was considered neither a warrior nor an adult in the eyes of the clan, though he had trained all his life to follow in the path of his father, the War Chief. And so he did not consider himself bound by the wisdom of warriors and Elders. He had a less cautious tactic in mind than sneaking about. He'd risen early this morning, gathered the spears and a pouch of ground dehura crystal and set off into the forest. While others stalked, he aimed to make some noise.

Skugg squared off against the stump and hefted his grandfather's war-club. It was a blackened length of strider-oak, banded in iron, tapering from as thick as his wrist at the handle to a swollen, gnarled, iron-studded knot as big as his own brain-case. Like goes to like, his grandfather had said when he passed it on to young Skugg.

He drew in his awareness, focusing on the weight of the old weapon, and the space between the club's head and the head-high dent in the stump. It had taken three years of practice with the club before he started making a mark on the stump.

Exhaling, Skugg struck, turning his body with the blow, and the club thwacked into the depression. Controlling the rebound, continuing his turn, he reversed the weapon and clobbered it into the matching dent on the opposite face of the stump. Thok! The stump shuddered, but the old dead roots held.

Flow with the strike, Son. Through repetition, the strike will become instinct. Your weapon will be as your arm. Those words, recalled from years of childhood training, belonged to his father, Krag the Warchief.

He sank into the exercise. Hissed breath in, forceful breath out. Hiss, shout, thwack! Hiss, shout, thok! His father's words echoed through his mind, drawing him deeper into the moving meditation.

When you achieve inner harmony, any righteous strike will be directed not by you, but by the spirits.

Skugg's body warmed to the exercise. He increased the pace, threw more force into each hit, driving the racket deeper into the forest. Thwack, thok! Thwack, thok!

It is our way, Son. The Clans exist to serve the Pentaculi. The greatest of us have never been those of greatest strength or ferocity, but those who have found, through dedication and contemplation, the balance between control of themselves and surrender to the Spirits of the Peaks.

Having cleared his mind by turning inward, Skugg now focused outward. His awareness spread from his skin, blooming up and out, until he seemed to watch himself from above. He called it opening the senses; with a rhythm to focus on, he could push his awareness far beyond his skin, until he felt present and aware in the air all around him. In this state his mind opened to all sensory input, making connections through inference, from the smallest sounds and shapes, to build a complete sense of the world around him. He did not know if it was magic, and he'd never told anyone of the ability - it seemed a fragile thing, like a dream that would vanish the moment he tried to tell it. He rode the thumping rhythm as it pulsed into the forest - Thwack, thok! Thwack, thok! He took in each detail without distraction, inferring from each clue, and built a complete picture of his surroundings in his mind.

Terror was not the cause of the silence, not directly. The true problem was emptiness. A few small lives cowered still, but most creatures were gone. The shape of the canopy was different from when last Skugg had ventured to this clearing, and he sensed the massive gaps where strider-oaks stood not long ago. Once their roots were set those massive chlorobeasts moved for only the gravest of threats.

Skugg felt the beast out there, circling the clearing, drawing nearer. He struggled to name how it seemed to him; it smelled like black fire, felt like a roar from a lacerated throat. This thing had killed Mer, who was called the Silent Avalanche, and Skugg was drawing it to him. He quelled the rise of panic before it shattered his heightened awareness, and focused on studying his foe. He sensed intelligence of a sort. He sorted through the confusing sensations and named the being's character - wrath. It drew nearer, curious and wary of the racket Skugg was raising.

It charged. Skugg hooked his club onto his belt and hefted the spear at his feet. The shussssh of falling snow, the scrape of claw on bark, the rasp of breath past fangs told him the beast's direction, and Skugg whirled to face it, spear ready, eyes narrowed to penetrate the gloom under the canopy. All was still, except for the sound. It was only at the last moment that the creak of a straining bough clued him to the beast's true vector, and he lifted his gaze.

The drooping, snow-shrouded canopy ringing the clearing burst twenty feet overhead as the monster hurtled through, an airborne mass of bellowing grey fur. Skugg threw wildly, his form off, no time to aim, and dove forward, cutting under the beast's leap. He kicked, refusing to look back, scrabbling through the snow for the edge of the clearing. He heard a thud, scrabbling claws behind him, a low growl, the thunder of his own blood as his heart panicked. No training could have prepared him for the fear. He reached the trees and wanted to keep on going, deeper and deeper into the woods. But there was no refuge there. His fingers curled around the second spear – here was his only shelter. He spun, eyes locking onto his foe as it turned about, and drew the spear back to throw.

It was a bear, so he aimed low. Never mind that it swung from tree-to-tree, leaving no tracks. Never mind that its fur was grey and too filthy for the pride of any real bear. Never mind that the hate in its eyes was more like the emotion of a man than an animal. It snarled at him with the face of a bear, a foe Skugg knew, and he loosed his spear.

The beast stood as the spear left his hand, not in the awkward way of bears, but upright like a man. It had a head on him in height and weighed at least fifty pounds more. Skugg's low cast took it in the thigh. Of his first spear there was no sign – probably lost to the trees. This spear sank deep, the bear-thing's building roar collapsing into a scream.

Wasting no time, Skugg sprinted for the next spear around the edge of the clearing.

Couldn't put these closer together, could I?

Panting, Skugg reached the spear. He felt the change happening now, like the blooded warriors spoke of; the fear was turning into something like anger, but colder, sharper, and more intent. Warrior's fury, they called it. Skugg whirled about, planting his feet, arching back for a powerful spear-cast, his war-cry tearing from his throat in honest battle for the first time: SKUGG!

Anger withered back into its little cousin named Fear. ...ug?

The bear-thing landed right in front of him, crouching low within arm's reach. He'd never even heard it move. It sprang and swung out with a meaty paw tipped with great black sickle-shaped claws. Parallel lines of agony ripped across Skugg's chest and the force of the blow sent him reeling away from the trees, into the clearing. He staggered, curling around the blazing agony of his torn chest. His cloak fell from his shoulders, its ties severed. Gaping red tears across his chest showed through his shredded tunic, but none lower, no spilling tubes, Peaks be praised.

A hammer-blow to the back brought him to his knees, claws raking down his back, and the beast's shadow fell over him. The contrast between burning wounds and the freezing snow on his hands and knees focused his mind enough for him to reflect on just how stupid he was to have come here, to have done this. Fear once again transformed to fury. He listened to his senses, to the swish of air over speeding claws. He rolled, throwing himself under the blow, sprawling onto his back. He tucked his feet and sprang up, bringing the spear up for a low thrust. Caught off-balance, the beast dodged back from the striking sliver of steel.

HAH! Skugg pulled back, coiled, and struck again, his arm sure, the spear an extension of his will, the focal point of his fury.

The beast side-stepped the strike and slapped down with its right paw, claws spread wide, shattering through the shaft behind the spearhead. Skugg watched the head flipping away across the clearing, shining in the spring morning. He lost a moment, shocked, and did not see the bear-thing's left paw before it slammed the side of his head, claws shredding through the hide flap of his helmet and his skin below. He reeled back, blinded by blood, pain, and his skewed helmet, and barely kept his feet. He raised the ruined spear to guard against what he could not see. Shaggy arms rippling with knotted muscle crushed his arms to his sides, and a hot, reeking pressure bore down on his skull. If not for his helmet, Skugg's head would have been crushed in the monster's jaws. The bear-thing gnawed on his helmet, a few teeth pin-pricking through the hide flap. Skugg kicked blindly, finding each leg first, then slamming his knee up between them. The bear-thing lurched back, squealing, releasing him, yanking his helmet off in its jaws. It shuddered, pawing at the helmet, gnashing down, but the helm was caught behind its fangs.

Skugg's dark hair fell loose in dripping, bloodied coils as he caught his bearings. Where are my spears? He and the beast were near the stump, far from the two spears left at the edge of the clearing.

Brilliant fucking setup, Skugg.

Before he could run for a spear the struggling beast lashed out, a careless backhand that laid him out flat. It finally tore the helmet loose from its jaws and tossed it away. Then it pounced, the splayed claws of one paw on Skugg's chest crushing him to the ground, the other arching back to tear his throat out.

In this pain-wracked, breathless moment Skugg thought, What is the last thing I can do before I die? He reached blindly for the club, still fastened to his belt. Spirits, guide my hand! His fingers found the pouch of dehura crystals instead. He tore it loose, snapping the thongs which held the pouch shut, and smacked the spilling handful into the side of the monster's face.

Dehura sap, when boiled down, crystallized, ground and mixed with rendered lard made a bluish paste which did wonders as a topical ointment for burns and fleshwounds, though it stung like a bitch. Raw, powdered crystals, when introduced to mucous membranes like eyes, mouths and wet noses, was a blinding, reeking caustic that burned like a whole host of bitches.

Skugg screwed his mouth and eyes shut, pushed the ruined side of his head down into the snow and blew his last breath out through his nose as the crystal dust rained down. Some particles fell into open wounds and introduced a whole new kind of agony to him, but it was nothing compared to what the monster endured. The first particles entered its eye, and it released a very un-bearlike squawk. Still more burst into its open mouth. It drew in breath to scream again, and dehura particles flew into its lungs.

The beast lurched back, clawing at its own throat, and Skugg kicked to his feet, club in hand. He swung, pulling force from his back, shoulders and arms into the strike, and connected behind the beast's burned eye with a sickeningly wet, hollow thwack!

I am SKUGG! he bellowed.

The beast lurched to the left, then pulled itself up straight to strike back.

Skugg reversed his swing, this time putting every muscle, from toe to fingertip, and all the fury in-between into the hit.

I will BREAK YOU!

The venerable club, which cracked skulls for his grandfather through decades of inter-clan warfare without defeat, cannoned into the right side of the beast's skull, splintering bone with a sound like calving glaciers. The bear-thing's head snapped around, its body following a moment after, and it collapsed into the snow.

The monster groaned and shuddered, paws scrabbling for purchase in the snow. Skugg moved to the edge of the clearing to collect his spears – this beast felt seven kinds of unnatural, and he would take no chances with it.

The monster's groaning turned to a growl, its hatred overcoming its pain. It staggered halfway up, reached out, sank its claws into the stump, and rose. It looked for Skugg – one eye was a leaking fount of pus, but the other saw him, standing across the clearing, a moment before Skugg's hurled spear slammed into its chest.

Skugg came close after, bellowing, the last spear braced in his hands, and drove the blade through the monster's belly and inches deep into the stump behind. It gurgled, then slumped, pinned upright.

Skugg collected his battered helmet, his war-club, and threw his cloak around his shoulders, clumsily knotting the torn thongs with shaking hands. Then he returned to the dead bear-thing to inspect his kill.

It sickened Skugg. His people revered the works of Gaia, the beasts and plants and land which flourished under the Sun and Oversea. But this thing could not be revered; it could not be of Gaia. Its skin was badly stretched and scarred around its hips and shoulders, showing puckered scars and mangled cords of muscle, as if a real bear had been broken, twisted into a man-like shape, and left to heal badly. Its teeth belonged to some distant sea-beast, not a mountain bear of any kind. The sense of bottomless burning hatred still came off it, like echoes from a canyon.

Skugg reached with a gloved hand to inspect those strange triangular teeth, and barely pulled back in time as the monster jerked and snapped at his arm. The bear-thing roared, bloody pus foaming from its dehura-burned throat, and lurched at the spear which pinned it.

Skugg unhooked his club – his club now, bloodied in his battle – and snarled. What I break... he leaped forward, club high in both hands, STAYS BROKEN! He smashed the iron-banded warhead down, introducing the rest of the abomination's brains to the frosty air.

He took a few steps back and hunched forward, panting, as fading adrenaline left his body shaking and weary. Once his wind returned, he braced his foot against the stump and wrenched the spears from the bear, dodging back to let the corpse fall.

Skugg knew the Sagas well enough to know it was the time for famous words. By Uthunkar's throbbing cock, he said, and kicked the beast's side, I fucking hate you.

Now to get you back home before I bleed out.

*****

Skugg pulled the bear-thing along paths that wound through the high, snow-locked regions of the Five Peaks, lashed to a crude travois made from his remaining spears and cloak. He'd cleaned his wounds with snow and bound them as best he could with strips from his ruined shirt. It wasn't a great job, but he'd at least gotten the bleeding down to a trickle. He tried to push his mind away from his body, to distance himself from the pain of the ragged wounds on his head, back and chest. But then he would slip in the slush-mud, the weight of the travois would fall against him, and blazing pain would rip anew through his core.

Years of hauling logs and raising timber houses had not quite prepared him for the struggle; he'd never had to do that while deeply lacerated and weary from battle. He should leave it, he knew that, should drop it there and worry about getting home alive. But he held on and pulled the corpse, step after step. The elders had to see it, and Skugg did not trust such a vile, unnatural thing to remain if he took his eyes off of it. What if it vanished? What if there were more? It would need to be studied.

His pride compelled him more than anything. He wanted to be seen by everyone, to lay this monster in the village plaza and stand over it, so all would know that their woods were made safe again by Skugg Kragsson, blooded warrior of Clan Marhis.

Warmed by the promise of a hero's welcome, Skugg pushed onward through the wakening forest of Mt. Marhis. The Days of Song had come and gone and Winter was giving way to Spring as the warm sun pushed Oversea further and further from the daytime sky. Higher in the mountains arctic conditions reigned year-round. But here, as he wound his way downhill through quiet forests, patches of exposed earth showed through.

Early thaw this year.

That was good. Once the passes thawed he would join his clan's trade master, Erek, on a journey into the lands beyond the lower foothills – he'd spent all winter learning the plainsmen's stupid language in anticipation of his journey. The winter-night tales of the Tangonian Empire made it sound like a fanciful god’s country, but Erek said the tales were mostly true. The only outsiders Skugg had ever met were the rare traders who journeyed to his village. The sooner he got out to see life beyond the Five Peaks, the better.

And now I'll do it as a warrior!

The trail leveled and grew easier as he moved closer to home. As he got into a walking rhythm Skugg let his spirit bloom outward again. The pain eased as he did so, as if the tether between mind and body were weakening. Now he felt the little lives stirring as the miasma of fear the beast had brought with it faded. A distant sssiu, sssiu-sssiu heralded a furry garvh's return to courage as he staked his claim on a prime branch.

Skugg smiled. Yes, wake up and be brave again, beasties. The badness is gone.

It struck him now just how powerful his spiritual and extrasensory abilities were. He could sense what the beast had done, spreading pure fear through the forest like a pervasive stench. But he could only sense it now that it was breaking up. The thing had some powerful magic; he would have died today without the little spirit trick he'd kept secret for so long. Perhaps it is time to tell Retu what I can do.

The decision felt good; despite the pain, his steps lightened. Skugg didn't know when he'd first learned to loosen his spirit from his body. It had always been there. He did not remember why he decided to keep it secret – the choice of a child, fearing ridicule, most likely, but--

His jaunty stride ran afoul of a slush-filled rut, and he fell to his knees, jarring his spirit back firmly inside his own skin. The weight of the travois slammed into his back and the pain flared from red to white.

*****

Skugg awoke on a travois of his own, eyes opening upon the massive face of Oversea, filling the sky with its blue and green whorled bands. Sunlight came in at an angle – it was afternoon, hours after he last remembered.

The travois hit a rut, and Skugg gasped when the injured side of his face slapped one of the poles.

A thin, grinning face loomed over him, dark-haired and younger than Skugg. He wore a fur cap, untied chinstraps hanging loose like dog ears. Oh, sorry, did we jostle you? There was no contrition in his voice.

Skugg groaned. Hello, Tral.

The travois dropped, none too gently, and Mepo crouched over him, too. If we'd known we'd find you bleeding to death in the forest, we'd have brought a wagon. Mepo was as thin-faced as Tral, though ginger-haired and sporting a bad attempt at a beard. Maybe warn us next time?

Yeah, Tral chuckled, hur-hur-hur, then pitched his voice low like Skugg's. 'So, I'm gonna wander through the woods alone today when there's a monster out. Probably gonna get eaten. Peaks be with you.' Something like that, maybe?

Ugh! Skugg snorted in disgust, placed a hand on each of his crouching friends' knees, and shoved, toppling them over backwards. He sat up, grimacing as his poorly-tended wounds complained.

They'd brought him home. He was in the village plaza, the air scented with woodsmoke, herb-laden soup and the acrid tang of the smithworks. There were about twenty families in Skugg's clan, each living in timber homes with high-peaked roofs whose eaves sloped almost to the ground. Each roof wore a heavy shawl of perfect white; the winter's accumulated snowfall. The homes were scattered loosely around the plaza of flat paving stones cut and shaped from the surrounding mountains. Their Great Hall, with its flared peaks, heavy timber eaves, and carved dragons towered over one end of the plaza. The Clan's sigil, the Flamestar, hung over its main entrance; a red star with a hollow center and points gracefully curving like stylized flames.

A fire glimmered halfway up the far wall of the valley, in front of the shaman's cave. The wiry old man danced around his fire, performing the Midday Exultation.

Jardo the Huntmaster and Skugg's older cousin, Dilar, dragged the travois with the dead beast next to Skugg. Jardo set her pole down with controlled grace. Dilar dropped his and glared at Skugg from behind his master's back.

Jardo approached Skugg. She was a powerful, compact woman, a blooded veteran who wore her warrior's mohawk in seven long, red-dyed braids. In all his life she had said perhaps seven words to Skugg. Now she looked at him as if seeing him for the first time, a proud smile on her lips, and offered her hand to help him up. Skugg was substantially larger than her, but she bent no more than an iron statue would have as he took her hand and stood.

A fine and worthy kill, said the Huntmaster. A crowd was gathering, villagers pressing in as word of Skugg and the beast spread.

Thank you. It was not far from going the other way, said Skugg. He wanted to feel pride – his renown was growing by the moment, just as he'd hoped – but all the sudden scrutiny was just making him feel shy.

Jardo released his hand and clapped his shoulder. You live. It does not. What could have been is last year's snow-melt.

As Jardo turned to inspect the beast, her apprentice stepped closer. Dilar was dark-haired like Skugg, not quite so tall but twice as handsome. He was a skilled huntsman though, like Skugg, still unblooded in battle and thus regarded as a youth.

Welcome back, cousin. There was no such welcome in Dilar's voice and posture.

Erm, said Skugg. Hello, cousin.

Dilar's voice was quiet and menacing, like a dagger. For two weeks I skulk in her tracks, for nothing! Jealousy and loathing did not suit his comely features, but he was well-practiced at expressing them anyway.

Skugg shook his head. Dilar, you served the clan well, guarding--

Two weeks freezing in the night, arrow nocked, for nothing. I'm a better hunter than you'll ever be, yet--

Cousin, envy is not the way of Marhis.

Rage clouded Dilar's face, and his voice grew louder. You took what was mine Skugg! A couple of villagers took note of their confrontation. Skugg's blood warmed and he tightened his fist, anticipating coming to blows. Dilar leaned in closer. "That thing's blood was meant to be on my hands!"

Skugg pointed at Dilar's hands. Dried blood from the spear had flaked off, staining his cousin's palms rust. There. It is. Be satisfied.

Dilar's nostrils flared. "Some 'could-have-beens' would have been better if they were!"

There it was, an open threat. Skugg's blood boiled, but Jardo stepped between them, clamping a hand on Dilar's wrist and twisting. Dilar stifled a gasp and his face whitened in pain. Jardo pulled him away, hissing brutal admonishments into his ear.

Gathering clansfolk put more space between Skugg and his raging cousin as they pressed in to see the beast. Their disgust and excitement smoothed over the sharp, jangly state the near-brawl had raised in Skugg.

Is that what killed-- cried Dora's grieving mother.

Who slew it?

Peaks be praised!

Was it Skugg?

Mer's husband grasped Skugg's hand. She's avenged. She'll nev-- his throat hitched, and the widower looked down. Skugg reached out, squeezed the older warrior's shoulder with his free hand. The widower looked back up, his face hard as granite, though the tear-tracks still showed. She'll be the last. I thank you for that, lad.

Skugg nodded, his heart tightening.

A child tugged at his belt and pointed at the beast. What is it, Skugg, what is it?

I-- he said, but the jabbering clansfolk overwhelmed him.

Monster!

--those teeth!

Freak! A mother pulled back an adventurous son who sought to poke the corpse.

Must be Dharta clan, Tral raised his voice over the hubbub, then paused for effect as attention turned his way. They finally grew afraid enough of their women to start bedding bears!

Sata Merolsdotter broke through the laughing crowd, her heavy fur-and-leather skirt kicking up snow. For a moment Skugg saw Dilar, moving to greet her. But she glared him back and strode straight for Skugg. Shooting him a black look, Dilar fled the gathering, unnoticed.

Sata stood before Skugg, smelling like spices and sap, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing the same layer of winter fat as the rest of the clan. Her hair was pulled back in one thick braid the color of polished redwood and bound with a strip of dyed blue leather that matched her eyes. Her bare arms glistened from splitting firewood. There were woodchips in her hair. Skugg beamed at his betrothed.

Sata looked down at the corpse, her lip curling in fear and disgust. She looked at the wounds on Skugg's chest and her expression turned to loving worry, which grew more endearing as she saw the parallel gashes on his head. Then she saw his eyes, smiling back at her, and she socked him in the jaw. Idiot! Sneaking off before dawn! All day we feared for you, feared our quiet giant had gone and gotten himself eaten! And you did! Half your head is gone!

Skugg rubbed his jaw and beamed at Sata. She loves me still! Or she would have hit the wounded side!

Sata snarled. "Probably the smart half! And stop drooling at me, you stupid gllud! This last was a Tangonian word for oaf." Sata's study of the plains tongue had never gone so well as Skugg's, but she'd picked up all the insults and rude language very well. Gllud was one of the nicer word's she'd learned from Erek.

Skugg shrugged. The bear started it.

By Kraemer's eye! Tral bleated in boyish excitement, saving Skugg from another love-tap. He held up one of the beast's limp paws, splaying claws too long, curved and sharp for any bear. Skugg! How'd you kill this?

Mepo toed the beast's caved-in ruin of a skull. Beat its brains out through its asshole is what he did! But c'mon, Skugg, give! I want every detail! The gathered clansfolk echoed the chorus, clamoring for Skugg to tell the tale, elbowing in to get closer, to hear it first. Skugg hesitated. He was never a big talker, but he rallied to push past his stage-fright. I wanted to be a hero, right?

No! Sata's cutting voice quelled the clansfolk again. You won't stand here gloating while you bleed to death, you great brute! She shoved Tral and Mepo. You, rodents! Go.... go and get me some bandages and gut for stitching. Useless flitter-drakes! The rest of you make room. You've got all night to hear his boasts. Drunk as you lot'll get him, there'll be no shutting him up!

Skugg sighed as the two scampered off and the crowd grudgingly gave ground. Sata reached up to poke at Skugg's wound. No, really, it's not so bad as, he started, then winced at her probing finger. She’s wiggling it! "Yughh…" Nausea roiled through him, making his head swim. My earlobe's not supposed to swing free like that!

Shhh... Sata tugged him down onto his knees so she could get a better look at the clawmarks. I can see bone, and the top of your ear's good as off. Stupid ass. The chunk will have to go. Now I’ll have to marry a man with mismatched ears. She stooped to get eye-to-eye, and raised a hand, thumb and forefinger almost touching. "You came this close to losing an eye."

She pinched a nib of dehura paste out of a belt-pouch. Skugg hissed as she filled the skull gash with the stuff and sealed his earlobe. Oh, shut up, you big baby. She waited a few breaths for the ointment’s fire to give way to numbness, then deftly sliced through the last bit of skin and cartilage holding the dangling piece of his earlobe. She ignored Skugg’s startled yelp and sealed the wound, then hugged his head to her chest.

Skugg grinned. Suddenly it all feels so much better...

Sata knelt, pinning him with a stern glare. We're not even married yet! I want at least five children before I bury you. Can you stay in one piece until then?

Not if bosoms are the reward for getting hurt. He kissed her warm lips.

Sata held the kiss for a few breaths, then shoved him back by the shoulders. No bosoms for dead men. You want to be a warrior, be good enough to never be wounded!

Tral and Mepo returned with bandages, needle and gut thread. Skugg sat in the snow as Sata cleaned and stitched his wounds.

The Elders arrived and surrounded Skugg and the monstrous corpse; Coro the Eldest, Krag the Warchief, Erek the Trademaster, and Jardo the Huntmaster.

This disturbs me greatly. Coro nudged at the dead beast. She crouched, the creaking of her old bones like snapping boughs in the crisp mountain air. Coro was decades past her fighting days. She'd let her warrior's mohawk grow out long ago into wispy grey strands. Her limbs were thin, her battle-scars misshapen and white against her leather-dark skin. She opened the beast’s mouth. Its bite was wider than that of any bear's; raw, bald, new-formed flesh stretched around its jaws as it did across its hips, looking like the remnants of a hurried breaking and re-making. Krag, what do you think of this?

The Warchief crouched down next to Coro. He was a few fingers shorter than Skugg, but broader through the chest. Krag had a wide, kindly face like his boy, though most strangers missed that detail, too busy cowering before the taut bands of scarred muscle which wrapped his mighty frame. Then again, most strangers met the Warchief with his battleaxe in hand, rather than strapped to his back as it was now. Even in times of peace Krag bore his axe as a sign of office, a burden to remind him of his duty. He wore his hair in a great, dark mane, and only cut and dyed it to a crimson mohawk when war was on. He let out a low, humming sigh as he examined the monster. Evil. An abomination. There's nothing natural to him. Bears should be sleeping still. And, well, he's no bear anyhow. Jardo?

The Huntmaster set down the foot she'd been examining. These match the footprints of that which killed our own. Ursine, but not. See how the arch is long, like a man's? A stranger to Marhis, at the very least. The clansfolk gasped and clapped. Jardo shot Skugg a penetrating glare. How did you end it?

Jardo did not want a story; she wanted facts. Easy, even for shy Skugg. Proudly he said, A spear. Then raw dehura. Then the club. Then two spears. Then the club again.

Sata pulled roughly on the stitch she was making oh his back and whispered; "You planned on finding it. I knew it. You brave and mighty idiot." She kissed the back of his neck, then made the next stitch smoothly, her free hand firm and comforting on his shoulder.

Krag rose, crossed his arms, and glowered. You should be beaten three times; for stealing weapons, for stealing medicine, and for going out alone. His beard split into a broad-toothed grin. "But a father's pride impairs my discipline! Skugg, my son, has slain that which dared to hunt Marhis!"

The crowd roared with Krag.

Skugg fought not to blush, heart thumping at such high praise. Thank you, Father. Your training saved my life.

"My training saved you? Against this? Krag pointed at the monstrous thing and raised his voice for all to hear. You killed it with a club! I would have advised you to raise an army, and let them die for you!" He guffawed in the thunderous way of mountain men.

Erek, the Trade Master, moved close to Skugg and said, "Mel ghyydren grath zle hu llaf."

Skugg groaned. Now?

Erek arched an eyebrow to say, Yes, now.

And with everyone watching! Skugg blew out an angry snort. The Trade Master was always springing these little traps on him, testing his Tang. It was a trade offer – Skugg knew that much from the tone. Zle hu llaf – fifty-four. Grath was mouth? Chew? Jaw! Ghyydren – something about scour, boil, some sort of compound word he hadn't heard before, but Skugg couldn't figure the tense or-- I'll give you fifty-four for the jawbone, boiled clean!

Skugg set jaw and said back in his best Tangonian, "Rhudd zle hu llaf. Grath met llaf hzu!" The bung fifty-four. The jawbone four-hundred!

Erek laughed, clapping Skugg on the shoulder, and raised his voice so all would hear him. There is great honor in this, lad! This thing killed Dora, Malo, and Mer, and kept us hostage on our own land. We should honor you with a feast! The crowd cheered their assent; any time was a good time for a party. Erek caught Krag's eye, who nodded instantly. Krag gestured to Jardo, whose eyes flicked from Skugg, to the beast, then back to Skugg. She smiled her tight, measured smile. The three Elders looked to Coro.

The Eldest's face darkened momentarily, then she hid her worry with a matronly smile. She stood, slowly, and addressed the entire village. Indeed. Go and make the preparations. Send gatherers into the forest to find what they can. Pull double rations from the ice caves, and half the ale we'd set by for the Spring Revel. Tomorrow we hunt and forage freely. Tonight, we feast!

The crowd cheered and dispersed, but Coro kept the leaders behind. They gathered close around the corpse. Sata finished Skugg's stitches, and began binding his torso with clean bandages. The elders did not challenge them, though they could easily overhear what was obviously meant to be a closed conference.

Coro turned to the trade master. Erek, have you heard of such a creature in your voyages?

The Trade Master, shorter and more slender than Krag, was no less a blooded warrior than any of the elders. He wore souvenirs from his many travels, which set him far apart from the others; a vest of sea-drake hide, armbands in braided bronze, a pair of double-curved knives at his belt, and a scarf of diaphanous, shimmering orange material at his throat that he treasured over all else. He wore his mohawk pulled back in one long, red-dyed braid - represents the clan, without scaring the foreigners too much, he would say.

The Trademaster hummed, dark eyes flashing as he looked it over. No, not exactly like this one. No twisted man-bears. But there have been tales trickling up from the plains. Something hunts Siilahr. There are rumors of strange creatures, terrible murders in the city.

Krag scoffed. In the city of terrible murderers and strange plainsmen?

Erek eyed Krag darkly. Terrible enough to stand out from the usual news. People are leaving, those who can. They speak of fear in the air, terror piling up like snow. Something very--

Like the forest!

Erek verbally tripped, and the elders turned to look at Skugg. He was just as shocked at his outburst. He almost backpedaled before the venerable leaders of his tribe, but Sata jabbed his ribs.

Skugg stood, wincing, with Sata's help, and stepped closer to the others. There has been fear upon us, upon the forest. His mouth went dry; he was nervous under the concentrated glare of the Council of Elders. But he swallowed, wet his lips and continued. I never put my finger on it until... Coming home, I heard a garvh sing, the first all year, a month late, and I felt the terror in the woods breaking off like snowmelt. After I killed that thing.

How perceptive! Skugg heard a familiar rattling behind him, and turned to greet Retu, the village’s shaman. The wizened old man walked with a staff, the head adorned with carved wooden rings and charms. Long ago the shaman gave his sight back to the Pentaculi in exchange for blessed senses. His eyes glowed when he opened them, as if other worlds shone through his orbs. Retu tapped his way forward with the butt of his medicine staff and knelt down by the carcass. He put one hand on the beast. The charms rattled as he pounded the earth with the butt of the staff, communicating with the spirits of Peak Marhis.

Coro asked, Retu, what do you see?

Retu mumbled and scratched his staff deeper into the frozen soil under the snow. He waved Coro away and concentrated on his craft. Yes… yes. I know, Zhishi. No, no, the tangent! The vectors are wrong. Now burrow… Skugg always heeded when Retu spoke to the spirits. What was incomprehensible babble to most was fascinating to Skugg. He knew it must make sense, and wanted to understand the code. Since he was a small boy, Skugg had hovered around the old man between chores and training, trying to see the things Retu saw.

The elders waited in respectful silence for Retu to speak some sense.

"Calculate it. Sod the recursive aspect! Just do it, or it’s the sub-ether for you! Thank you, Zhishi… Retu babbled for a few moments more, then stood and faced Coro, bushy brows furrowed. I cannot be certain about this thing’s origins yet, but I don't like it. I’ll need it secured at my cave for further study."

Coro was not pleased, but conceded. Only a shaman could know best how to do a shaman’s work. Very well. Let us feast tonight, for we may not be feeling so joyful with tomorrow’s news.

*****

 The feast went long into the night. Tripit, bear (the natural kind), and great pine-drake were pulled from the ice caves and served up in stews and sauces of pine-fruit, winter mushroom, snowblossom and strider-oak acorn paste. There were even small portions of pelted serpent for everyone. Villagers danced around the great fire as it burned high into the night sky, warming the entire plaza. Skugg held a place of honor at the long table with the village elders while his clan heaped him with toasts and gifts. His father gave him a fine hunting knife with an antler handle. The handle was new, but the steel blade was an heirloom, forged by the master smiths of clan Pralhis. His mother, Danee, presented his helmet to him, free of dents and with a brand new fringe – a double-hide of weatherproof roan drake hide shell and garvh-fur lining. She'd etched bear-paws over each brow.

Ale followed mead followed ale, taking its toll as revelers staggered home, or flopped down snoring where they were. But stalwart Skugg was feeling pretty good about… just about everything. He liked the scabbed wounds on the side of his head, he liked the way his new (half-new) helmet flapped when he swung his head, He even liked the cute little urchins who came to him, bundled in furs and mitts, to beg him to retell the story of his meeting with the bear.

Each time he told the story, it got better. The creature would have eventually grown wings and spat flame if the high-spirited dancing drums had not started. Sata slid a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him from his audience. "Dance with me, Skugg." Her smile was sweet, but it was not a request.

Skugg grinned back. Her presence set him at ease. Their romance was young, but they had been friends for as long as he could remember.

She pulled Skugg away from his disappointed audience of children and they turned through the steps of a wild caper. She only had him for a short time before another toast was raised, and the cycle of drinking and eating started anew. Sata sat herself in his lap and amused herself by finding new ways to distract him. She did it quite well. If Skugg had not been so drunk, he would have been blushing crimson.

Krag rang a gong, the reverberating note drawing the crowd. He stood on a dais before the great fire, firelight making his facial tattoos dance. He tossed his cloak back off his shoulders, scarred arms bared to the night. His great battlefield voice carried out to the very back of the crowd. Skugg untangled himself from Sata to listen to his father. It is our way that a child’s life ends, and adulthood begins, in battle against our enemies.

In the back, Tral shouted, To battle! and tackled Mepo.

Krag snorted, then continued. "In recent years, with the Dusk clans battling the plague, the Dharta subdued, and the Silu vanished, we have had no battles for our children to fight. Consequently, we have suffered from a shortage of men and women, and a plague of little boys and girls." Krag glared at Tral and Mepo. They froze, a tableau of boys tussling in the snow and withered under the Warchief's glare.

The Warchief turned back to his son, smiling, then beamed at the gathered villagers. "The council has conferred on this day’s unusual events. There are many questions about the beast, but there is one matter which the elders are unanimous about. It is with great pride that I announce that, because of his actions today, which rid our clan’s forest of a terrible menace, my boy Skugg is no more. Today, my son became a man, a blooded warrior in the eyes of the Clan, the Council, and the Pentaculi!"

Skugg grinned, a giddy flutter in his belly. The crowd roared, raising toasts and cheering. Tral and Mepo jumped, whooping, pumping their fists to the sky, barking his name. Skugg felt apart from his body, so flush with pride that he detached, watching the proceedings from over his own shoulder.

Danee and his sister, Skala, pulled Skugg from his chair and led him to stand near his father. Sata came close behind. As the crowd chanted the Song of the Pact, the three women shaved the sides of Skugg's head, leaving only a strip of his dark locks, cut to only a few inches long. Skala dipped her fingers into a bowl of thick red dye and smeared two streaks under his left eye, from just short of his nose all the way to where his sideburns started, marking him with the twin slashes of their clan. His mother drew one similar line under his right eye, and a sickle-shaped mark from the outer corner of his eye down to the bottom of his jaw. This was the mark of his family. Sata worked the dye and a stiffener into his mohawk and shaped it into a crest of wicked spikes. They left Skugg on the dais with his father.

Krag beckoned to him. Approach the fire, son.

Skugg approached his father, and they shared an earthquake of an embrace. Krag stepped aside, and Retu took his place. Danee stood next to him, holding the bowl of red dye. Retu reached up to put his hands on Skugg’s face. Skugg bent his knees to help the old man, earning a few chuckles from the audience. Your childhood is over, young Skugg. Tonight, you are to become a warrior sworn to Clan Marhis of the high forests and the First Peak, to your family, and to the true path set by the Pentaculi of the Five Peaks. Retu’s voice thrummed with power. Skugg's drifting ceased. He slammed fully back into his own body, acutely aware of the impulses of every nerve. Retu's words hammered out, as real and weighty as falling rocks. Today, we recognize your power and authority to fight for yourself, according to your beliefs. But through action comes change, both good and bad. You will choose your path, and accept the consequences. Do you understand, Skugg?

Yes, Shaman Retu, I do.

Are you prepared to live, work, and fight, in the name of your family?

Yes I am.

Are you prepared to live, work, and fight, in the name of Clan Marhis?

Yes I am.

Are you prepared to live, work, and fight, in the cause of the Pentaculi, as our people have sworn to do since Uthunkar's reign?

The shaman's voice grew heavier as he spoke this last, deepening with the weight of the Spirits of the Valley of the Pentaculi. Skugg could almost see the beings, contours of light and air gathering behind the shaman, waiting his response.

He felt no hesitation, only the slightest intimidation in the presence of such strange energies. But he sensed that the gathered forces held only hope for Skugg. Yes I am.

The spirits moved through him with less sensation than the softest breeze, to touch his own spirit and depart, quiet as falling snowflakes.

Retu hummed and closed his glowing eyes. Pricks of energy brushed up Skugg’s spine – a sign of magic in the air. A sensation, like burning without pain, spread through the marks on his cheeks and through his Mohawk. The marks became a part of him, sigils which would never leave him. When he felt anger, love, hate, passion, or the heat of battle, they would burn like this and glow, becoming beacons, calling on the spirits for aid. Who he fought for would shine the brightest and burn the sharpest: right cheek for family, left for clan, or mohawk for self. He had seen the ceremony before, but had never imagined what it felt like to be touched by the shaman’s magic and have the red marks become his flesh.

Open your vest. Retu took his hands away. As Skugg unlaced his vest, Retu raised his voice enough for all to hear. Your life-journey will be long, and you alone must choose how to make it. Others will try to influence you, with both good advice and lies. Always listen, but your decision must come from here. He dipped his finger in the bowl, and drew a line up from between Skugg's brows to his hairline. It tingled as Retu drew it, also becoming a part of Skugg. Sometimes, though, even your own thoughts can betray you. You may know too much, and drown, or know too little, and not see the dangers circling. Sometimes, often in the darkest of hours, your thoughts will become your enemy. You will need to place your faith here… Retu dipped his hand into the bowl, covering his palm and fingers, then pressed it over Skugg’s heart. Tiny wisps of smoke escaped from under Retu’s fingers as his handprint burned into Skugg. Retu's voice dropped to a whisper, …and here alone.

Retu stepped back and swept his arms out to the side. Your journey begins, Skugg. Follow your mind and your heart, in the name of your family, the clan, and the Pentaculi. Keep your head clear and your heart strong, and your clan will sing your praises for all time!

The silence broke again in a renewed chorus of toasts, and Skugg was swept up in the arms of his family.

Most of the older folk retired to their warm beds before midnight, and took the little ones with them. Skugg and the other exuberant revelers stayed on as Oversea set and the stars came out, aiming to sing up the sun.

Before he left for his cave high up the slope of the valley, Retu approached Skugg. I’d like to speak with you, my boy… I mean Skugg. The old man grinned at his slip-up.

Skugg smiled back, You can still call me that. You’re certainly old enough to deserve the right. Skugg pointed away from the fire. Will we walk?

Certainly.

Away from the party, the night air was cool and calming. Retu was dwarfed in Skugg’s shadow as the towering clansman walked a step behind. Years of wisdom and a supernatural aura emanated from the wiry old shaman. Not even recognition as a full adult in the clan could