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Thread: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

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    Default Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    Hi everyone. I just finished this story and thought I should share it with you. While it is a part of a greater setting, it works as a stand alone story. I will post more chapters once I edit them. All feedback is welcome.

    Against the Tribe

    In the early years, the Alvor built no cities, lived in scarcity, with limited food supply, burdened by a retrictive religious system. Condemned to a hunter-gatherer way of life, they were hesitant to try a different approach. This is the story of Niomir, a hunter who came at odds with his own tribe...

    Chapter 1: the Hunt
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

    The deer’s head snapped up, ears twitching, the meal forgotten. Its head turned, seeking source of the peculiar noise. A nearby shrub rustled in a suspicious manner.

    The spear came from a different direction, the very one the deer just turned away from.

    The missile pierced the animal through the chest and brought it down before it could make another step.

    A nearby thicket stirred and Niomir emerged from it. His face was sprayed with mud and sweat. Long hair was tied behind his back. He made straight for the writhing deer. Before he reached it, the shivers had abated and it lay still. He knelt beside the fallen animal and placed his throwing hand flat on the deer’s breast.

    Niomir raised a solemn face to the sky. “I thank you, spirits of the Earth and Sky, for this bounty.” He lowered his face and gazed in the deer’s eye. “I thank you, brother, for granting me your flesh that I may eat of it. I will drink the sunlight in your name so that you may join with our Sky-kin.”

    He touched the copper bead, dangling on the slender braid at his ear, while he turned his face skyward again. The trees whispered their sage song. The sun’s rays caressed his face. Birds began to chime. Niomir felt that the deer’s spirit has successfully fled. What lay before him in the dirt was no longer a spirit brother. It was but meat and they were free to eat of it.

    By now, Nimmian had dislodged himself from the shrub and approached.

    “Good distraction,” said Niomir without looking up. He wrenched the spear free and pulled a pair of leather straps from his belt.

    “It’s nice to be good for something,” Nimmian said. He carried a thick pole.

    Niomir shook his head. “I had the better position this time.” He used one leather strap to bind the deer’s front legs. “Next time we will switch.”

    “You are a better thrower than I,” Nimmian said. “No point pretending otherwise.”

    “Concealment is more important than throwing,” Niomir said. The deer’s hind legs were tied together now as well. “Tracking too. You are good at that.”

    “I will never be as good as you,” Nimmian said. He handed the pole to Niomir. “None of us will.”

    Niomir took the pole and shook his head. “Sometimes I forget we share a bloodline. You fail before you even try.” He slid the pole between both pairs of tied hooves. Together, they lifted the carcass and carried it away, its head dangling with each step.

    Despite the load, their step was quickened. Sweat poured over their naked backs. It was close to noon in the middle of summer. With the deer’s spirit no longer guarding the flesh, the carcass would fall victim to vermin and corruption quickly. If they wanted to share it with the others, they would have to make haste.
    As they labored with the carcass, a thought began to gnaw on Niomir’s mind

    Once, Nimmian had been able to keep up with Niomir. But then Niomir had begun to surpass him at every turn. It wasn’t long before Niomir could outthrow, outswim and outrun him. Nimmian could not hide his frustration but he refused to talk openly about it.

    There was another reason for tension. The day of the Winnow was approaching. Nimmian had been having nightmares about being singled out as the weakest member of the tribe and proclaimed with the dreaded acronym – a Runt.

    They crossed a shallow but swift stream, tumbling from the highlands. They raised the carcass high over their heads and proceeded to cross. The frigid water numbed their feet, forcing them to stop and wait until circulation returned. As they continued, the deer seemed to have grown heavy as a stone. Niomir’s mind, however, had grown heavier.

    He knew that Nimmian had been falling behind in every race for a good long while. Not only could he not keep with Niomir himself, he could not keep up with most others of the tribe. Those few that were slower got picked off and had already been proclaimed as Runts, their hunting rights denied, their movement restricted to the lowlands. Nimmian had been watching his Runt status slowly creep up on him.

    I should do something, Niomir thought. The deer’s head dangled between them with each stride. But what could I do? If he’s Runted, he’s beyond my aid. Once declared, there is no chance of undoing it.

    The encampment was perched off a bluff overlooking the valley a thousand feet below. Eight crude tents built of hides surrounded a hastily dug fire pit. It wasn’t a permanent dwelling place. The tribesmen were constantly on the move across their local hunting grounds.

    A group of them had scattered this morning in search of game. They had all pretended it was for sport but no one could deny that larger beasts had grown scarcer with each season. Niomir made a quick count as they approached: six. He and Niomir were the last to arrive. From the look of things, they were the only ones who brought in a kill.

    With a groan, Niomir unloaded the carcass and stretched his back. A couple of tribesmen came forward and congratulated him on the successful kill. Niomir didn’t mind sharing the meat with the others. The remaining four remained as they were. Niomir was used to the cold stares they threw his way.

    The tribesmen of Winter Boar tribe were scattered into a myriad of smaller hunting groups. Each group had an unofficial leader, one that others would look up to, one whose word was more influential than that of others. The leader of this particular group was Setimika, a large man with a permanent scowl. Though Niomir never officially challenged him for the title, Setimika nevertheless saw him as a potential rival. The fact that Niomir could outhunt him only served to augment the friction between the two of them.

    “Thought you went boar hunting,” Setimika muttered in his direction. Niomir seemed not to hear it. He took a meticulously sharpened flint knife and proceeded to skin the deer.

    There were stories of Alvor once being so strong and swift they were able to go after boars. These days, one would have to be utterly foolish or desperate to go up against a boar. The danger was simply too great. The hunter would only chose to risk a boar hunt if he was vain and loved approval of others more than his own life. Proud hunters were said to have tried their luck going after a boar… and were never seen again.

    Accuse me all you like, Niomir thought as he skinned and cleaned the kill. It is nothing but your own envy, reflected back at you.

    A successful kill was a reason to rejoice. The deer would feed them for a week, two if they were cautious, enough to give them time to rest and prepare for the Winnow.

    As soon as the meat was distributed, the camp descended into silence. The men huddled in small groups, each hoarding his worries, occasionally glancing Niomir’s way as if he were the topic of their hushed conversation. Niomir felt the distance between him and them grow larger. It seemed he was the only one not concerned about the results of the Winnow.

    As custom dictated, Niomir got the heart of the kill. He planned to share the prize with Nimmian but his brother took the most meager portion and turned away from him. It felt like a slap in the face but Niomir chose to ignore it.

    Chewing slowly, savouring every bite, Niomir gazed into the valley below. The lowlands were draped in swaths of grass. Within two moons, they would be turning from green to gold.

    The verdant plain was speckled with brown areas. Tendrils of smoke rose from them. Niomir’s nose instinctively wrinkled. Those were the permanent Runt settlements. He could only make out five from his vantage though he knew there were eight of them.

    He could not imagine being forbidden to range and hunt as he pleased and to be restricted to those foul places, labouring in the dirt. After all this time, he could not understand why the elders have decreed this be done in the first place, just that it was the will of the spirits they were listening to.

    Why would the spirits condemn men to this pathetic form of existence?

    He caught pieces of other people’s hushed conversations.

    “I suppose I would consider it,” Setimika said, trying to sound bold. “If I were Runted, I wouldn’t last trundling down there. I would risk it.”

    “And you think Flat Face would let you leave?”

    Niomir knew what they were talking about. Until quite recently, trade with the neighbouring tribes was still open. Though tribesmen continually suspected one another of poaching, they exchanged what little they could dispense with. With trade came rumours. A particular bit of gossip caught on and refused to die down.

    It was said that all over the western ranges, Runts have been disappearing overnight. They were supposedly fleeing to the vast swamps further in the westlands. None ever returned. Some tribesmen believed that Runts turned mad and gave their flesh to the bogs while demons that dwelt there devoured their spirits.

    But there were also those who whispered of a whole tribe of runaway Runts, forming hidden from sight. They were even supposed to have a leader, a man by the name of Isurion. No one knew which tribe he’d come from, just that he ranged across territorial boundaries with no concern of the ire of native tribesmen, not to mention the wrath of the spirits for his impudence. All this danger and blasphemy just to deprive the tribes of their Runts. To Niomir, it made no sense.

    The elders across the tribes had unanimously dismissed the existence of such a man as idle talk, which was precisely why the rumour gathered merit. Judging from the hushed conversation Niomir overheard, the rumour was still very much alive.

    Life in the swamps would be nothing but hardship. If we have difficulty finding food here, what could they possibly eat there? Slugs? He nearly gagged with the thought.

    It was this very rumour that had caused Flat Face, the elder of Niomir’s tribe, to suspend all trade with other tribes indefinitely. He believed these rumors were nothing but a way of attacking their tribe’s way of life by planting treasonous ideas in the mind of the Runts. An idea that abandoning the tribe was a viable option and not a horrid sacrilege upon the will of the spirits.

    Niomir could well remember the words Flat Face would drill in the heads of each of the new Runts. “The Runt serves the tribe. Abandoning the tribe is a crime great and heinous in the sight of the spirits. Such a man would be put down by them, his flesh devoured by beasts, his spirit scattered in the wind.”

    All the men were tired from hunting and went to sleep as soon as the sun touched the faraway peaks. Each slept beneath a canopy of crude hide, his cloak under his head. With his belly full of meat and weary from the hunt, Niomir should’ve slept soundly through the night. Close by, Nimmian tossed and turned which kept him awake and caused him to think.

    Nimmian dreaded the idea of becoming a Runt. He’d managed to avoid it so far but now he’d run out of time. The only choice left to him was to flee for the swamps to the west. The trouble was even if he did, Nimmian wouldn’t be able to get there by himself. As clumsy as he was, he would be tracked and found before he left Winter Boar tribe’s territory. If the horrid fate Flat Face had promised wasn’t enough, everyone knew the threats some of the more aggressive tribesmen murmured for the Runts to hear when Flat Face wasn’t around. No, should Nimmian dare to dry to escape, he would most certainly fail.

    Unless he had help.

    Niomir sat up and climbed from beneath his canopy. The moon was up by now, casting the silver light upon the Woodland. He walked all the way to the edge of the bluff. The night wind greeted him there. Crickets sang in the swaying grass around him.

    What would happen if Niomir led Nimmian to the swamps where the runaway Runts were said to be gathering? Would Niomir himself return here? Would Setimika and the other tribesmen even let him return? If both Niomir and Nimmian disappeared at the same time, they would know Niomir helped his brother escape. Flat Face would not like the idea of a tribesman helping a Runt make away.

    If he helped Nimmian escape, Niomir himself would certainly be punished upon return. They might even declare him a Runt for it and make sure he would not be able to flee.

    If I do this, I would have to stay in the swamps as well. Could I do that? Give up my life and stay with the Runts even though I was not Runted?

    Niomir gazed up at the moon, his mind unable to flow anymore. It was not an easy decision to make.




    Chapter 2: the Winnow
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

    Niomir was going down a slight slope, leaving the favourable heights behind him. He didn’t need to take this route. He was already ahead of most of the men. The only thing that was important was to finish the Race. But it would feel wrong not to take this advantage since it posed no trouble to him.

    After all, that’s what the Winnow was all about. It was not designed to separate the strong from the weak but the gifted from the unfortunate. That’s why the path was designed this way. A man could prove his endurance by going around the long way or prove his courage, wit and balance to risk the dangerous path.

    His lungs heaved in a regular rhythm. Sweat poured from him in torrents but there was no need to reach for the water gourd that was slapping against his thigh just yet. The ache in his muscles was a delicious melody. His eyes scanned continuously for treacherous roots. Branches swiped at him. He dodged them gracefully without braking his stride.

    One more treeline slipped past him and there was the chasm, right in front of him. A single felled tree led across it, its lower branches cut clean to present a likely path. The successor sapling grew next to it.

    [Whenever Alvor deliberately fell a tree, they will plant a successor sapling in the same spot. The sapling is a direct clone of the felled tree so in essence it is the same tree. Alvor never cut down the entire tree – their tools are not good enough. They will dig it out, usually if the tree is already damaged.]

    Most of the Winter Boar tribesmen relied on speed and endurance and took the long way around. Niomir trusted his superior balance to take him across a shorter, more dangerous path.

    This is too easy, Niomir thought as he danced across the tree. The water rustled beneath him but it was not enough to make him hesitate. A few more steps and he was across and on solid ground. While most others were tromping around the gorge, adding at least 10 leagues to the their path, he had but one more league to go.

    He was about to spring into motion when a thought made him hesitate. Nimmian would no doubt take the same route. It was his only chance to come up ahead, even if it meant risking the rickety path across the chasm. But unlike Niomir, Nimmian’s balance was far from perfect.
    Niomir turned to face the chasm he’d crossed so effortlessly. Someone was approaching but there were too many trees in between to see who it was yet.

    Maybe it’s Nimmian.

    A part of him wanted to turn and race for the finish line. The other part of him knew that he could not move on without making certain if it was indeed his brother or not who approached.

    And if it’s not him? I’m allowing someone to get ahead of me.

    A moment later Niomir ducked into the shrubbery close by and concealed his presence.

    There are others who are still between me and the last place. I can afford to wait for a bit.

    Finally, the tribesman appeared among the trees. It’s not Nimmian. Niomir’s muscles coiled to spring out of the shrub before the tribesman reached solid ground and make for the finish. A thought stopped him.

    He would see me. In this one’s eyes, what reason would I have for concealing myself and then fleeing as he appeared? If this man reports my behavior to Flat Face, I might be suspected of foul play.

    The thought was enough for Niomir to lay still while the tribesman jumped off the tree and gasped his way past.

    Silence once more enveloped him. I should head out. I will not achieve anything by sitting here. Nimmian’s fate is in his own hands.

    And yet the plan to take Nimmian to the Runt tribe returned to his thoughts. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but the only thing that could be done.

    And what will Flat Face do when I come back? He will ask me where have I gone and why I disappeared on the same day as Nimmian. I could hide Nimmian somewhere and then move him out once the tribesmen had stopped hunting him. Won’t work either. As soon as he vanishes, I shall be suspect. They will keep an eye on me to make sure I’m not hiding him anywhere.

    The more he tried to think it through, the more it was obvious that if he tried to help his brother, he would suffer for it.

    I’m over-thinking this. There are still others to come. He might yet be in front of someone and not be Runted after all.

    Another tribesman came stumbling into the clearing. This one nearly lost his balance twice as he inched along the tree but managed to catch himself both times. Niomir watched him from his vantage and nearly ripped his nerves into shreds. Why did he even choose this path if he does not possess the balance to cross it? But the answer was obvious. Because this is his only chance.

    After that, more tribesmen came stumbling out of the woods and crabbed across the felled tree. Each time another ran past him, Niomir cringed inside at the thought of allowing someone to get ahead of him. They came so close one to another that he couldn’t break out unseen.

    What if Nimmian chose to go around the long way with the bulk of the tribesmen? No, that wouldn’t make sense. He couldn’t possibly keep up with all the fastest runners of the tribe. What I need to do is be gone from here or I will end up being the tribesman stupid enough to give up his hunting rights willingly.

    As soon as the last tribesman crossed the chasm and vanished from sight, Niomir sprung to his feet and yanked the branches of the shrub aside. That was when another tribesman appeared on the opposite side of the chasm. Niomir froze midstep. Nimmian. He could’ve easily seen him if he were paying attention to what was in front of him. Yet his head was turned halfway back, glancing behind him. Before his looked ahead again, Niomir quickly retreated back into the brush, making sure the branches of the shrub did not make too much of a sound.

    Another tribesman came gasping out of the treeline, trying hard to keep up with Nimmian’s pace. Niomir saw that this one had a distinct limp on his right leg. He could see the man’s grim face and the veins of his neck were apparent. He looked to be in pain. He was probably ahead of his competition until his misfortune.

    If I wait until both are gone ahead, I can still overcome the limper and avoid being declared a Runt this way. What will I tell Nimmian when he asks why I’m behind him?

    Nimmian reached the felled tree without allowing the limper to close in on him. He mounted the fallen trunk and began to proceed timidly across the chasm. The limper reached the tree a few moments later. He had difficulties maintaining balance with his damaged leg but grim determination propelled him on.

    Nimmian kept glancing back at his competitor which made his progress riskier. It’s not his balance that’s suffering. He’s grown clumsy from fear alone.

    It seemed to take an eternity for Nimmian to cross the chasm. At last, with solid ground just barely beneath him, he jumped off the trunk… and his foot slipped just over the edge of the chasm. He yelled out and grabbed for the successor sapling just in time. Wide-eyed, Niomir dashed out of cover but he stopped himself before he revealed himself completely. The limper was still there, crawling across the tree on all fours. If he should see him…

    Niomir nearly tore himself in two as his brother dangled by his fingers across the lip of the chasm. The sapling was not tough enough to last for much longer. The tiny tree’s roots were being ripped out by every moment.

    At last, the limper was across. He threw himself off the tree awkwardly with his good leg, rolled on the ground and slowly got up. For a moment, he turned towards Nimmian as if contemplating to help him. He turned away and limped out of sight.

    Niomir ripped through the brush that concealed him and dashed for Nimmian. He threw himself on the ground belly first, used his right arm to grab on the root of the felled trunk and reached down for Nimmian’s exhausted fingers with his left.

    “What are you doing here?” Nimmian rasped.

    “Shut up and grab on!”

    Nimmian grasped his hand and both pulled. Pain shot through Niomir’s shoulders. His gut nearly tore in two but he managed to lift Nimmian up. As soon as Nimmian’s shoulders were over the lip of the chasm, he could grab on the roots as well and lighten the load.

    Finally, both collapsed on the bank of the chasm, struggling for air.

    “Are we the last ones?” Niomir asked, his air wheezing.

    “Yes,” Nimmian said, defeat plain in his voice. He turned to Niomir. “Why did you come back for me?”

    “Because we are brothers and we will always be brothers, declaration of spirits be damned.”

    “That man wasn’t going very fast. We still have a chance to overcome him if we…”

    Niomir cut him off. “If you are not Runted now, you will be in a few seasons when Flat Face decides the tribe needs more Runts. No. We shall walk across the finish line together. We shall both be turned to Runts, wait out the winter and in the spring we shall leave this place behind and join the tribe of Runts.”

    Nimmian got up to his feet, leaned on his knees and breathed heavily. “You mean Isurion’s mongrels?”

    “Better that than to give up my hunting spear, don’t you think?” Niomir chuckled. He reached up. Nimmian took his hand and grabbed it firmly. Niomir put his weight on one foot and made to rise. He expected that Nimmian’s hand would pull him up. Instead, it shoved him down and back. Caught off guard, Niomir lost his balance and stumbled backwards. The chasm yawned behind him. He lost footing and fell, legs first. In the last moment, he grabbed that same sapling that Nimmian nearly tore out moments before.

    Niomir’s legs dangled in open air, unable to grab purchase on anything. He tried to grab on the felled tree’s root but it was out of his reach. Each time he lunged to grab the root, the sapling shuddered in his hand.

    Niomir looked up at Nimmian, his face a mask of shock. Nimmian looked down on him. There were tears in his eyes but he made no move to help him up.

    “I don’t want to be a Runt, brother,” Nimmian said. “But you seem to be looking forward to it.”

    And Nimmian turned his back on him and ran for the finish line. He disappeared in the treeline before Niomir could blink.

    The sound of ripping, a jerk in his clenched fist and suddenly he was weightless. The felled tree flew upward. His vision was swallowed by the twilight of the chasm.


    Chapter 3: False Judgement
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

    Each step meant another jolt of pain. Scratches and lacerations crisscrossed his flesh but he was astonished he could still walk. The water broke most of his fall but it was also water that pulled him across the surface of sharp rocks that cut him until his whole body felt like one huge wound.


    The water had carried him wildly off course, which meant more distance he had to walk across when he finally managed to pull himself out of the current. By the time the finish line was in sight, the sun had set and he walked through murky blackness of the forest.

    The fire pits were lit. Men sat around them. Wind brought the scent of roasted meat. His stomach roiled violently – the last meal he’d eaten was at dawn. He forced himself not to care about it and turned his mind blank, nothing but a queer form of pride pushing him on. The finish line had to be reached no matter what.

    He didn’t see who spotted him first. Men turned his way, stood up, walked to him. Soon they stood shoulder to shoulder like a wall. How many times did Niomir stand inside that wall, looking on as the loser of the race faced his judgement? He’d stopped counting long ago. At that point, the man who was to be Runted was not a tribesman in his eyes anymore. The outcome of the race caused the transformation. The elder’s declaration was just a formality.

    This was the look Niomir now saw in their eyes. That blank, neutral stare he used to wear to shield his soul from feeling the desperation of the man he faced. It was not anger in their eyes, or revulsion. He simply didn’t have a place among them anymore. It was as if his flesh had perished and he’d become a formless spirit.

    One of them stepped forward. Niomir expected the frigid glare of Flat Face, the elder of the tribe, but it was Flat Face’s aide who approached him.

    Why isn’t Flat Face here? This is his ceremony, he’d always performed it himself.

    Whatever the cause, the absence of the elder brought Niomir’s mind back to life. He could never contradict Flat Face directly, but now…

    “Just a moment,” Niomir said with a firm voice that caught Flat Face’s aide off guard. “I reject your judgement. I only failed the Winnow because I was attacked.”

    The aide froze. This is not how it was supposed to go. “Sabotaging a fellow tribesman is a severe offense,” he said. “Who did this?”

    Niomir turned his eye to the wall of men. They did not move but there was confusion on their faces. His eye found Setimika whose smirk spoke for itself. He of all people would relish Niomir’s fall.

    Nimmian’s face wasn’t among them but no doubt he was still close. “My brother did this,” Niomir said loudly.

    A wave of murmurs swept across the tribesmen. They turned, looking for Nimmian among themselves.

    “Can you prove this?” the aide asked.

    Niomir turned to the tribesmen. “You all saw me going ahead of you. You know I was faster than you.”

    No one spoke for him. Not that Niomir expected it. None of them would deny the fact either, not even Setimika. It would be a lie and no one was reckless enough to commit to a cause he had no stake in.

    “If you were ahead of us,” Setimika spoke up, “how come you ended up behind us?”

    Niomir could not allow himself to show hesitation. “I hid and waited for my brother.”

    “For what purpose?” the aide asked.

    Despite his best efforts, Niomir’s resolve faltered for a moment. “I… I couldn’t go on without knowing if he’d made it across the chasm. I waited in case he needed my help.”

    “So you hid and let other get ahead of you,” said the aide. “Once you’ve helped him across, what would you have done?”

    Niomir refused to hesitate. “I would walk across the line with him at my shoulder.”

    The silence was deafening. It seemed to last for hours before the aide spoke again. “You would willingly choose the life of a Runt? Why?”

    The wall of men stirred. Slowly, Nimmian emerged through them. His face was weighed with shame but it was curiosity that brought him to the front.

    Why did I want to turn myself into a Runt with him? Niomir turned to the aide. “He is the offspring of my mother. We are family.”

    The aide’s face twitched. “If you truly share the bond you claim you do, how would he be capable of betraying you as you claim?”

    Niomir found himself dangling on the edge of the chasm once again, looking up at Nimmian. Anger erupted inside him. His gaze wandered to where Nimmian stood among the others. Nimmian’s face was a blank mask and he refused to look at him. Sweat poured down his face.

    Why would he do this? The anger that bloomed in his heart made him want to accuse Nimmian of being the most profound villain but even as he thought of doing it, he knew it wasn’t true. His brother was a man whose actions were dictated by fear. Where did that fear come from?

    “Because some people are driven to desperate measures by desperate circumstances.” He could not believe what was coming out of his mouth. “It is wrong to make men of a tribe compete against each other in such hideous circumstances.” The men stared at him. They knew what was coming and could not believe one of them would speak openly of this.

    “This is not a contest. It is a crime.”

    The aide finally understood what was happening. He bristled and faced the tribesmen.

    “The Runts are a condition required from us by the spirits. We are of the Forest and live by the spirits’ decree.” He was clearly reciting from lore, trying to get on top of the situation. “In their wisdom, the spirits had decreed that only a third part of the tribe is to carry weapons and hunt. The rest are required to perform other tasks, important to our survival.” He turned back to Niomir, confident. “There is no shame in becoming a Runt.”

    Niomir refused to back down. “Then why did my brother rather betray me than become one?” He looked at the men. “My brother is not the villain here. He’s a victim, just like every one of us here. Just like everyone who has already been proclaimed a Runt and forced into submission.”

    More silence. They could hear the distant squeak of an owl.

    “This isn’t going to end,” Niomir told them, standing boldly before them. “More and more of us will be Runted and fewer of us will be allowed to hunt. Our numbers do not change. It will not be long before all of us are rutting in the dirt and ranging the Forest is nothing but a distant memory.”

    With each word he uttered, Niomir felt his anger dissolve. The men that listened fell more raptly under his spell. It seemed the entire tribe was there, listening to him, ready to discard the wretched Runt status.

    That was when the men parted in haste. In the empty space between them, a single gaunt figure appeared and stepped forward. A cowl covered his head, casting the face into shadow. A staff in his hand ended in a large bulge. Niomir felt his resolve shatter like a fallen icicle.

    Flat Face.

    “Your words betray your anger for the spirits,” said the elder of Winter Boar tribe with his notorious monotone voice. “You believed yourself above their judgment. Now the spirits have shown you your error. In your arrogance, you will attempt anything to turn our decision. But it is not our decision. It is the decision of the spirits. They’ve seen through your pride and deemed you unworthy to carry a spear.”

    With tremendous effort, Niomir turned and addressed the elder of his tribe directly. “If the spirits want me Runted, why do they not strike me down for speaking falsehood?”

    Flat Face extended a long thin finger and pointed it at Niomir’s chest. “But they have struck you down. You are cut and bleeding as you speak. They have made you fall for hearing the arrogance of your mind. They could have easily taken your life for such blasphemous thoughts. The only reason you still live is that you might atone for your impurity and serve the tribe. If they’d killed you now, they would only grant you your wish. No, your place is determined.”

    Niomir looked to the men for silent supplication. The spell he cast over them was already broken by Flat Face’s icy resolve. They were once more a solid front of blank faces, unyielding and alien. Nimmian stood among them, his face betraying not a single shred of remorse.

    As in a dream, Niomir watched Flat Face approach him. The elder raised the bulge of his totem staff in front of Niomir’s face. By this, he blocked Niomir’s view of the rest of the men. Nothing seemed to exist but the dour face of the totem spirit that was carved on it.

    “You will join the others of your class, Runt.”


    Chapter 4: the Grower
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

    “No, not like that!”

    Niomir turned with a handful of grass in his hand. The juvenile came running at him with a frightened look. He grabbed Niomir’s hands with urgency. “Don’t rip the grass out of the ground. You must cut off only the seed, like this.” The juvenile used a knife - it was the most crudely crafted flint knife Niomir had ever seen - to snip off the seed head. He left the rest of the plant untouched. Niomir gave him a queer look. “This is far too slow. It’s a waste of time.” He grabbed another handful and made to rip them from the ground. “This would be much fas-”

    “No!” The juvenile grabbed his hands again. He stared at Niomir wide-eyed as if he were about to rip someone's head off instead. It could be considered comical if Niomir were in the mood for laughter.

    “Why not?” Niomir's voice dropped to a menacing tone. Earlier in the day, he’d been shown how he was to use his flint knife. It was midday now and Niomir was exhausted. The work was progressing far too slowly for his taste and there was still a whole hillside to harvest. True, there were other Runts not far away, sharing the work load, but the swath of meadow that was his to harvest was immense. Unlike the trees of the woodland, the grass offered no protection from the sun. He could wear a skin but then the heat would kill him.

    “We do not murder the grass,” the juvenile said in apologetic tones. Niomir’s hostile tone shook him. “The grass must stay in the ground and only the seeds are to be removed.”

    Niomir fought hard to keep his voice in neutral tones. “There are only two of us here. Who will know?”

    “The spirits will,” the juvenile said almost in a whisper. “We do not eat the grass, only the seeds. Tearing the grass would be an affront to the spirits and they would punish us for wrongdoing.”

    Niomir stood, his face blank with disbelief. “I used to pull grass by the handful and stuffed it into my cloak for the night. No spirit took offense.”

    “But you are no longer a hunter, stalking about in the hills.”

    Niomir knew who it was before he turned. That voice was more recognizable than the face it belonged to.

    Grower.

    As each of the hunting groups had their own leader, so did the Runts of this particular settlement. Niomir had met him on the first day of his exile.

    The memory of his arrival into the Runt village was blurred, though only days had passed since then. The hovels he’d seen only as specks from afar had loomed close by.

    It struck him that he was not alone here. Men stood around him, looking at him.

    He was vaguely aware that someone was talking to him. Niomir was unable to focus his mind enough to understand what they said. He sensed that the words were meant for others as well, not just him. All he knew was that he was cold, hungry and exhausted.

    The world spun around him. Once more, he saw the tree that spanned the chasm from below. It flew away from him and the darkness closed in from both sides. His legs failed him at that point and he collapsed to the ground. He was vaguely aware of hands lifting him up, carrying him into one of the hovels.

    There was darkness, dry straw underneath him. And the voice. “I will let you rest for a few days,” it said. “Give yourself time. And do not fret about the future.”
    They’d given him no meat to eat, only a thick soup that tasted unlike anything he’d ever eaten. It was barely edible. It took him days to get used to the new diet without his bowels rebelling on him.

    “Why would tearing grass be different for a tribesman?” Niomir asked as Grower approached through the sea of grass. The juvenile that was plaguing him stepped away.

    “Because tribesmen don’t make beds with lowland grass,” said Grower.

    Niomir hesitated. It was true, highland grass remained green until the snow covered it, its blades lean and long, its seed stalks small. Lowland grass, the one they stood in now, had shorter blades, huge seed stalks and it turned brown in the summer as if the sun had scorched it.

    “Can you make the highland grass grow seeds as large as this?” Grower asked. Niomir shook his head, feeling strangely chastened by Grower’s voice. “Then do as you’re told and don’t rip them out.” It was said without menace but with a certain charge that suggested if Niomir continued with his headstrong approach, there would be repercussions.

    He found himself obediently turning to the task at hand.

    By the time the sun took cover behind the distant hills, his fingers were numb and his back was a blazing torch. Never knew how long a day could be. I could spend half a day tracking a single animal and never know it until I’d made the kill and looked up for the sun.

    What concerned him most were his eyes. He could not see clearly, not even after squeezing his eyes a few times.

    And this was only the first day, he thought as he stumbled into the hovel he shared with some of the Runts. Will I go blind before the winter comes? Are these Runts already blind? No, the juvenile did look at me when we spoke. Do they all see nothing but what’s in reach of their hands?

    It was a terrible thought, one that was sure to keep him awake all night. Or so he thought. The instant he lay down onto his mouldy mattress he was dead asleep.

    The hustle of other Runts woke him early the next morning. Niomir sat up and winced. His back was killing him no matter how much he stretched and straightened up.

    The insides of the hut were dark. It felt familiar, reminded him of the caves where he used to winter with his hunting group. The entrance was the only source of painfully potent light. Niomir closed his eyes and felt his way out in the open. The light hurt him through closed lids. He rubbed his eyes again, afraid his eyesight would still be wounded when he finally looked into the world.

    “Problems with your eyes?” a familiar voice said. Niomir nodded. “It happens if you focus on what is front of you for too long,” he said. “Learn to use your hands more and you won’t need to keep a close eye on the work.”

    Niomir nodded, still not opening them.

    Finally, he risked it. The world slowly focused into shape. With relief, he noticed his eyesight was still sharp.

    The hovels marred his vision, a mess of dead wood and dead grass. Beyond these, the brown grass swayed and beckoned him for another day of grinding labour. He cringed at the thought. In the distance, another group of hovels. The adjacent settlement.

    He turned westward with longing. In the distance, the green hills towered above the lowlands. He could recall the fragrant moisture of the forest as he stalked his prey. The smell of mud that squished beneath his tread. He could see before him the twitching ears of a deer and hear the call of the elk, fearless in his strength until the very moment his spear impaled him. The muscles of Niomir’s throwing arm coiled, his fingers flexed and gripped a phantom spear that was taken from him.

    Grower led him to a large stone bowl. It was big enough to fit a grown man’s head, its walls two fingers thick. It was empty save a single long stone with a flat end, perfectly fitted for gripping. “Today, you will crush the seeds you’ve gathered yesterday. Grind each handful into the finest powder and then pour it into this jar here.”

    Niomir found the idea preposterous. “How will we eat the seeds if there are ground into powder?” He tried to imagine gulping down a powder as fine as ash.

    “We will mix the powder with water and put the paste over heated stones. I take it you’ve seen these before.” Grower offered him a piece of flat dark bread. Niomir’s face puckered. So this is where the blasted bread comes from. He'd eaten these before but never knew what it was made of. They were hard and bitter things though he was forced to admit they did fill the stomach.

    The bowl was thick enough to withstand the assault of the long stone. He quickly learned the best way to hold it and how to apply strength to grind the seeds into the finest powder. There was hardly any husk to remove. Soon he was sweating but this kind of labour was preferable to yesterday’s. At least, he could unleash his pent up emotions.

    “You look like you’re blaming someone for what happened to you.” Niomir looked up. Grower watched him. “You’re crushing those those seeds with hate as much as with a stone.”

    “Do I look like an average Runt?” Niomir spilled a batch of powder into the jar and reached for more uncrushed seeds.

    “You are stronger than the others we get,” Grower said. “Usually, men are Runted once they can’t keep up with the rest. You, on the other hand, came to us because you were a gambler. I hear you risked the dangerous path and fell into the chasm. A gamble that didn’t pay off.”

    “I fell because I trusted the wrong man.” Niomir brought the pestle down with a resounding thud.

    Grower stood by in silence. “I believe you,” he finally said. Niomir’s stone wavered for a moment. He continued to punish the seeds without looking up. “Not everyone is here because they were feeble,” Grower said. “This world is many things but fair is not one of them.”

    “Is that how you got here?” Niomir nodded towards Grower’s leg. He’d seen him limping before.

    “That was part of the reason,” Grower said. “The other part is I volunteered to be Runted.”

    This time Niomir did look up, unmasked astonishment on his face.

    “Being aware of your strengths and weaknesses is an important trait in life,” Grower said. “I was good with herbs and plants even before the leg went bad. I saw Runts trying to survive on grass, struggle to make it edible. I knew this was something I was more suited for than going about in the forest, snaring squirrels and the like.”

    “I am a lot like you,” said Niomir. He removed the few filaments of grass fibers and poured a new handful of powder into the jar. “Except that I’m a natural hunter. This,” he pointed at the stone bowl, “is not what I’m good at.”

    Grower eyed him for a time. Niomir believed the conversation was over and continued beating the seeds into nothing. “You are new among us,” Grower said at last. “Some things are unclear to you. Permit me to enlighten you.” He leaned in, looking straight at Niomir. “The fact that you are no longer permitted to carry weapons changes nothing. You are still a part of this tribe and you still do everything in your power to ensure its survival. Hunters are out there to protect it from without. We are here to protect it from within.”

    Niomir found that last part odd. “Tribesmen protect it from without?” he said. “Against what? They bring no meat down here.”

    “There are other tribes out there,” Grower said. “Other tribes without fertile lowlands to fall back on if game should grow scarce.”

    Niomir stared. “They are our cousins. We are all offspring of the same spirits. Why would they come against us?”

    “Because the flesh we embody doesn’t care about us being cousins. All it cares about is eating enough so that it doesn't die.” Grower twitched an eyebrow. “What do you think our cousins would do if they were starving and they would stumble upon our grassland?”

    Niomir was speechless. He’d been a hunter all his life and not once he heard or even thought about any such things. “All we’ve been told about other tribes was to keep them from hunting in our territory if they should venture across the border by accident.”

    “By accident,” Grower said pointedly, turned and walked away. Niomir caught his meaning and realized he had no more words.


    Chapter 5: the Blame
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

    Niomir looked out into the sunset. The grass was aglow with sunlight. The wind brushed ripples across the swaying surface, made it seem like a golden lake, spreading towards the horizon.

    It was finally done. The Runts collected and stored every single seed that grew out there. Some of it was already crushed in the big stone bowls and baked into bitter bread.

    With the days of labour behind him, Niomir could finally look at his new home. He missed the life in the highlands, naturally. He missed the thrill of the track and the hunt. His hand ached for the spear that was taken from him. Even so, there was beauty in the lowlands if one was willing to see it. He could watch the endless flocks of birds, flying overhead, chasing the evening sun. He’d never thrown a spear after birds, they were too small a target and they would never allow a hunter to come close enough to make a successful throw. He thought about tossing a stone at them but they were too high up. He was content on watching their wings sail across the sky.

    The aches in his back and legs were so familiar now they failed to bother him anymore. And with the seeds all stored for the coming winter, there was an unmistakable feeling of satisfaction at the thought what labours he accomplished together with the other Runts.

    Sounds of commotion interrupted his thoughts. He turned. A single figure was approaching the settlement through the harvested grass. He knew who it was. Only one member of the tribe carried that bulged staff.

    Niomir joined the other Runts as they gathered in the center of the settlement. He kept himself in the background. There was something about Flat Face’s gaze that made him feel cold inside. From the looks of things, the others shared the sentiment.

    Flat Face walked past the grain cisterns and reached in the center of the settlement. He seemed to pay no attention to the swarm of Runt that had gathered around him. His demeanour suggested they weren’t there at all. No one dared to approach him to ask why he was here.

    The entire situation began to grow awkward. That’s when Grower appeared, dusting himself off in haste. Flat Face immediately turned to him.

    “Tomorrow,” he began, “you will begin working on the new houses.” Hushed whispers spread across the entire congregation. Flat Face didn’t hear them or he didn’t care. “You will build eight new houses in the next two moons.”

    Now the whisper that circled among the Runts turned into a groan of desperation. It quickly subsided as they realized it was loud enough to be heard. Niomir looked to Grower. He refused to look away from Flat Face but Niomir could see his jaw tighten.

    This was a mighty undertaking. Houses took several days to be built and were prone to collapse should the foundation be rushed.

    Flat Face, ignoring everyone and their anguish, used the butt of his staff to sketch the rough outline of the settlement in the dirt as a bird overhead might see it. He added the new houses. They encircled the settlement from all directions, leaving only small space between them. The view that Niomir had enjoyed just moments before would be the thing of the past.

    The Runts maintained silence as long as Flat Face was still in sight of them. Finally, as he took leave, the pent up tension exploded.

    “Two moons! We can barely build five in such time!”

    “If we hurry, we might make them unstable. They would collapse by winter.”

    “We can do it,” Grower said firmly as if the mere fact of him saying it was enough to make it so. Niomir could not help but admire him. This was a leader the Runts needed to meet their insane elder’s orders.

    “Did the other settlements get the same order?”

    “We can assume so,” Grower said.

    “But why? Why do we need new houses?”

    “New tenants,” one of them suggested.

    “Eight new houses mean our numbers here would double.”

    “Does Flat Face plan to Runt the entire tribe?”

    “They will winter with us,” Niomir said. He wasn’t loud but his words caused everyone to turn his way. Niomir fought the urge to look away from them. Until now, he had hardly exchanged words with anyone but Grower. Even though he lived among them, Niomir had kept himself apart from them.

    “Tribesmen do not winter down here. They have caves for that.”

    “Perhaps the caves are flooded.”

    After a time, the conversation died down. The Runts stood around the sketch Flat Face had made and eyed the proposed expansion of the settlement.

    “Look how they mean to encircle us,” one of them said.

    “To make sure we remember our place,” another murmured.

    Niomir did not share the opinion. The conversation he’d had with Grower kept gnawing on his mind. Because of this, he reached a completely different conclusion.

    If hunters serve as a defense against incursions of other tribes, bringing them to the Runt settlement means abandoning the uplands and concentrate their defence here, around their winter stores.

    What if diminishing game was a problem all tribes shared?

    What if other tribes were already on the verge of desperation?

    Niomir swallowed. He glanced at Grower. He was looking his way. As he caught Niomir’s gaze, Grower made a slight nod.

    What if summoning the tribesmen to the lowlands and surrounding Runt settlements was the last line of defense against their starving neighbours?


    *****


    Niomir dragged the crude sled in his trail. His arms were coils of strained muscle. Sweat came down his face in rivulets. This was how he used to drag heavy game after he’d made the kill. His body remembered it so well it was almost enough to trick his mind as well.

    A clanking sound came from behind. It’s not a pile of dead wood, he urged his imagination. Antler banged against a root. But it was too late to preserve the illusion.
    The air was heavy with moisture and saturated with familiar smells. Sunlight came in occasional streams through the canopy. Birds darted through the underbrush. In the grassland, the birds flew in great flocks, too high to be reached with spear or stone. Here, they were small and solitary things, too fast and nimble to hunt.
    It felt good to be in the woods again. He had Grower to thank for this. He could’ve picked anyone else to do this but he chose Niomir.

    He also put the juvenile to watch over me. Niomir wasn’t sure if that should’ve been taken as an insult or not. The juvenile walked behind him, picked up the branches that fell from the sled and placed it back on the moving pile. He could not hope to stop Niomir if he decided to flee. However, Niomir knew that whoever was with him would suffer punishment for not stopping him. The juvenile was the weakest of the Runts and that was precisely why Niomir could not bring himself to put him into trouble.

    Everytime he thought Grower had slipped in his cautiousness, he was actually thinking ahead of Niomir.

    The tree line came far too soon. Branches opened up and he was once again in the open, the grasslands spread before him. The Runt settlement was a group of mounds in the distance. At the sight of them, the aches in his arms and back turned into pain. Niomir wiped the sweat off his brow, sighed and continued on.

    He was still a spear toss from the away from the settlement when he heard the commotion. The juvenile caught up. They exchanged a glance.

    “Tribesmen,” Niomir said. “They’re finally here.”

    The first contingent of tribesmen had arrived days ago but they were settled in one of the neighbouring settlements. The group that just walked into the settlement from the opposite side was here to stay. Their arrival turned the settlement buzzing like a hive of bees. Runts scurried everywhere, excitement and fear mixing freely between them. With the juvenile’s help, Niomir dragged the sled through the gap between the walls of the new houses.

    It was a group large enough to fill the entire settlement. Roughly the same number as the Runts if not more.

    It’s been several moons since he’d seen tribesmen last. They were ragged looking and not very well fed. The hunting must not have been good since he’d been gone. They were ladden with their hunting equipment and every possible utensil. Each one had his spear even though there was no game in the lowlands. They brought everything they could carry.

    The tribesmen were visibly uncomfortable among the Runts. It was as if they had all been condemned to Runt status and had been forced to descend from the uplands.

    Only one of them did not act squeamishly. Niomir noticed how all of them revolved around him without knowing it consciously. The man’s back was to Niomir but soon he turned around.

    Niomir’s hands clenched. The corners of his eyes tightened.

    It was Setimika.

    Niomir could still remember his smug grin on the day he’d been Runted. He didn’t seem to be grinning much lately. His face was narrow, his jaw tight, a permanent scowl resting upon his features.

    Setimika’s gaze grazed Niomir’s face and moved on.

    He did not recognize me.

    Setimika turned to one of the nearby Runts but failed to make eye contact. “Food,” he said.

    The Runts scrambled for the food stores. Anticipating this, Grower had a large amount of bread freshly baked that very morning. Every day, the Runts baked a new batch so it didn’t go stale.

    The tribesmen sat on their cloaks, tired after the march. The Runts brought the flatbread in wicker baskets. Niomir saw the tribesmen’s faces grow long as they realized they will not be fed meat. A few of them bit into the flatbread. Their faces puckered but they kept chewing.

    Too hungry to complain, thought Niomir.

    One of the Runts approached Setimika timidly and offered him the basket. Setimika took a flatbread, bit into it and spat it out with revulsion. “This tastes like dirt!” He threw the remainder of the bread into the Runt’s face who yelped and scampered away.

    Niomir felt anger boil up inside him. “Savage!” he snapped quietly.

    What followed was a long moment of silence. All the tribesmen turned to him, their gazes boring into him. Niomir realized he wasn’t as quiet as he'd thought.

    Setimika zeroed in on him. “Who are you talking to, maggot?” he growled.

    It was no doubt meant to sow fear into him. It certainly worked on other Runts who retreated slowly from Setimika’s gaze even though it wasn’t directed at them. Niomir, however, found himself quite empty of fear. What he found instead was fortitude. “We laboured for weeks so that you could now eat," he said. “Show gratitude.”

    Setimika stared at him as if he could not believe he was spoken to in this manner. He made a beeline for Niomir, seething with rage.

    The world shrunk. The huts were gone, the Runts no longer stood around him and he could not feel the angry stare of the other tribesmen any longer. All that remained was his foe, advancing at him. Setimika was tall and muscular. It was natural that he would rely on brute strength. In this, he was no different than the more dangerous animals Niomir had hunted.

    With a quick move of his hand, Niomir slapped away the fist that came hurtling towards his face. He made a fist of his own and slammed it into the attacker's side. It connected just beneath Setimika's armpit where no muscles protected the ribs. Niomir’s knuckles roared with pain but so did Setimika. Niomir’s punch threw him off balance. Setimika fell to the ground, clutching his side.

    The world expanded. Niomir could register the surroundings again and found that the world had stopped moving. The entire congregation seemed to have turned to stone. The eyes of the tribesmen and Runts darted to all sides, eyeing one another, uncertain of what to make of the situation.

    Into this strode Flat Face. The press of men parted before him like grass before the wind. Even Niomir made a few retreatign steps.

    Flat Face walked to the center of the scene. “What is all this?” His voice droned into Niomir’s ears like a hornet's buzz.

    Niomir glanced at Setimika who threw him a sideways glance. “I slipped and fell,” Setimika said non-chalantly. Despite the effort, he could not hide the wince on his face. “It was a stupid move on my part, nothing more.”

    “What did you slip on?” Flat Face demanded.

    It seemed such a trivial question. “A pebble, most likely,” Setimika said. “It rolled underneath my foot.”

    Niomir felt relieved. Setimika agreed the situation had turned pointlessly absurd. To accuse anyone in front of Flat Face would be taking it too far.

    Flat Face turned to Grower who stood among the other Runts. “I thought I told you to keep the site clean and orderly.”

    Grower remained composed but Niomir could see a bead of sweat coming down his neck. “My men were busy preparing the settlement. They couldn’t keep an eye on every pebble.”

    Flat Face’s features remained cold like stone. “Then the whole effort was for nothing. I told you to make this place safe and comfortable for the arrival of the tribesmen. You failed.”

    The Runts and tribesmen looked about, unsure of where this was going. Niomir stared at Grower whose face was rigid.

    The silence stretched for what seemed like hours. Then Flat Face said: “You must be punished.”

    Flat Face’s hand flicked a minute gesture. Three tribesmen stepped in and laid hands on Grower. Instinctively, Niomir’s limbs coiled, ready to spring. Grower noticed this and fixed him with a stare. There were words in that stare. *Do not intervene now. You will only make matters worse.*

    Flat Face raised his totem staff and untied a slim rod that was tied to it. Niomir noticed the rod when Flat Face had proclaimed him a Runt but failed to grasp its significance at the time.

    Grower refused to be held by the tribesmen. He turned his back to Flat Face and placed his palms on the wall of the nearest house. Niomir noticed old scars on Grower’s exposed back. He'd seen them when they'd been working in the fields but took them for mundane working injuries, scratches from a low-hanging tree branch perhaps. Now he could see these weren't scratches. They were bruises, permanently etched into Grower’s flesh.

    With the first blow, the man vanished and turned to meat before Niomir’s very eyes. The transformation was so sudden his stomach heaved and threatened to bring forth his last meal.

    The skin did not break. Where the blows landed, it grew thicker as if it tried to fight the assault. Long welts sprouted across the flesh like the longest of worms, the color of bleeding meat yet no blood was spilled. The meat cringed with each blow but gave off no sound. Each blow hammered at Niomir’s ears and made him flinch. Forces awoke in his limbs and roared at him to make it stop, to offer his own flesh in stead. But Niomir found himself paralyzed. He could do nothing but watch and endure.

    The beating seemed to be going on forever. “Eight,” Flat Face’s voice eventually droned. Niomir gasped - he was holding his breath throughout the ordeal. Flat Face lowered the rod, snatched his totem staff from the hands of a nearby tribesman and walked away. As he was tirning away to leave, his eyes flicked at Niomir. It only lasted a moment but Niomir felt a wash of cold coming over him.

    The meat made a sound. Niomir turned back and just like that, a man knelt there instead of meat, clutching a wall for support. Niomir stared at the ghastly transition.

    The spirit could not endure what was happening to the flesh and fled until it was over.

    Two Runts took Grower below the arms and carried him carefully to the nearest of the huts. The rest of the Runts came to life. Their faces were pale, exhaustion visible in their every feature. Even so, they continued to distribute flatbread among the tribesmen. The day was not done and neither were their labours.



    Chapter 6: an Old Story
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 


    Niomir sat in darkness, the walls of the hut closing around him. Distant voices seeped through the small opening in the hut’s wall. Close by, Grower’s breathing was slow and even. The tribe scavenged their entire supply of the precious herb that could smother a man’s pain and gave it to Grower to ingest.


    They were alone in the hut. The others were still labouring for the comfort of the newly arrived tribesmen.

    “He knew,” Niomir said. His voice was raw. “Flat Face. He knew I started it.”

    “Of course he knew,” Grower muttered in the gloom.

    “Then why punish you?”

    “Because he was punishing you.” Besides dulling pain, the herb had other effects as well. In his peculiar state, Grower was barely able to form words. “You had to stand there… and watch someone taking it in your stead.”

    Niomir could not speak. Eventually words came trickling out of him. “I… refuse… to live… in a tribe… that treats its people this way.”

    “Sometimes,” Grower murmured, “we do not get the choice.”

    “There is always a choice,” Niomir said very quietly.

    A moment of silence passed between them.

    “No.” Grower’s voice was low and surprisingly strong.

    “There are rumours…” Niomir began.

    “I know all about the rumours,” Grower spat.

    “Joining with Isurion…”

    “Do not mention that name!” Grower hissed. He tried to rise. “You will be beaten or worse!”

    Strength failed him. Grower collapsed back on the mat with a thud, panting.

    “What could be worse than… this?” said Niomir.

    Grower sighed. “Going to live with his band of outcasts is not a solution. Isurion gave up on his tribe.”

    “Do not be naďve,” said Niomir.

    “He abandoned everyone who depended on him. I will not abandon these men.”

    Niomir said nothing. Grower’s regular breathing was the only sound in the night. For some strange reason, Niomir’s thoughts went to the oldest bits of tribal lore. “The Alvor are descendants of the spirits who chose to embody imperfect flesh rather than exist in perfect but immaterial form. But when I look at you, I see nothing but a piece of abused meat.” There was no disgust in his voice, only pity. “You are even less than the beasts I used to hunt.” Tears glimmered in his eyes. “This is not a life worthy of a spirit descended onto earth.”

    He heard Grower snicker. “You still believe that story?” His words were slurred. “Perhaps you are the naďve one.” After that, Grower said no more. The effect of the herbs pulled him into blessed unconsciousness.

    That night, Niomir could not sleep. The brutal punishment Grower received had shook him to the core. Even more so, he was struck by the words Grower had uttered just before he passed out.

    Is it true? Am I really naive for believing the old stories? They’ve always been a part of his life, ever since he was a juvenile. He had no cause to doubt them. But now…

    We used to live off the hunt. Now we squabble in the dirt. Are we slowly turning into the beasts that we used to hunt? Are we nothing but meat? Panic rose in him like a wall. Sweat poured over him. His heart hammered against the ribcage and refused to slow down. He leapt to his feet and dashed outside, unable to breathe.

    He caught his breath only when the huts were nothing but tiny mounds in the distance. He begged his mind to relent but it mercilessly ploughed ahead with the terrifying thought.

    What if this is actually happening? What if there are no more spirits? What if this meat is all we shall ever be?

    What if all of THIS is for nothing?



    Chapter 7: A daring request (Niomir)
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 


    In fits and starts, Niomir dragged a broken beech, thick as his arm, through the forest. It was only twice his height while it still lived but it was still heavy enough to force him into regular pauses. I should have tried to bring one that was closer, he thought a hundredth time this day. But there are no more dead trees close to the settlement.

    It turned out he was as good a hunter of dead trees as he was once a hunter of live game. Naked branches of the beech brushed across the path, the path itself gouged through the underbrush by his previous ‘kills’.

    Grower had proclaimed him the 'main procurer of firewood'. At first, Niomir failed to understand why. “It’s important that you manage through the first year,” Grower had explained. “It gets easier after.”

    Niomir snorted. I don't want it to become easier.

    His hunter's instincts came to life every time the trees closed around him. It was painful to not act on those urges but at least he still possessed them. He feared the day when they would not awaken.

    The sun smiled coldly from behind a coat of clouds. The days had grown shorter and would grow shorter still. The canopies above were already empty of leaves. Naked branches swayed in the wind, dry wood creaked and groaned. The woods were not a pleasant place anymore.

    He passed through the tree line out onto the plain. The lake of grass looked as if a herd of game had trampled it. The wind had grown stronger and more savage. More often than not it would turn into a howling monster that would rage across the plain all night. Now Niomir saw the sense of building huts out of clay. A structure of straw or wood would have been blown to bits by the first gust. But the wind blew around the clay houses, leaving them standing though it still worn them down with time.

    A sound made him look up from his path. A group of tribesmen was coming his way. He knew them all. Setimika eyed him as they passed each other but said nothing. Niomir glanced at the spears in their hands. Hunting.

    The rest of them gave him is a look he could not make sense of. It almost seemed as if they regretted that he wouldn't be coming with them.

    It was easy once you could tag along and take the credit for my kills. Half the time you ate because of my scouting and my spear throw.

    It was a proud thought but it gave him no pleasure. It wasn't just the tribesmen's bellies that needed filling. There were plenty of Runts who were in dire need of some genuine meat.

    The juvenile was one of them. He usually accompanied Niomir to his wood fetching ventures. Today he'd remained behind, too weak to get up from his matress.

    By the time Niomir dragged the broken tree to the nearest hut, the hunting party had vanished in the tree line. He made for the smallest hut where they kept the tools. He walked around to the entrance, about to enter, fetch the heaviest stone axe the tribe possessed and chop up his prize. That's when he heard voices coming from inside the hut. At first, he saw no reason not to disturb the conversation. It wasn't his concern who gets interrupted or why. His resolve faltered when he recognized the voices. One was Grower's.

    The other voice belonged to Flat Face.

    “This is your fault,” Flat Face droned.

    “Tribesmen are wasting food,” Grower spat. “If they didn’t, we would’ve had more.”

    Niomir was rooted to the spot. He knew he shouldn’t be listening but he also knew they might hear him if he moved now.

    “Do not try to weasel your way out.” Flat Face’s voice contained much more emotion than what Niomir was used to. “Your incompetence has led us to this situation.”

    Grower snorted. “If you think beating me with that rod of yours will fix the situation, go ahead. Otherwise, don't waste time lecturing me on something not in my control.”

    Niomir was rigid - no one had dared to speak to Flat Face like this before, not in his presence.

    “What do you suggest?” Flat Face’s voice was tight with self-control.

    “We start rationing the remaining food,” Grower offered.

    “Not an option.” Flat Face’s retort was immediate. “Tribesmen need to be well fed if they are to repulse a raid.”

    “You don't even know if a raid is coming.”

    “Are you willing to wager the future of the tribe on me being wrong?”

    “The future of the tribe will be bleak indeed if we are all starving by the next moon's turn.”

    The silence inside the hut stretched on. If the conversation was at an end, Niomir needed to move away from the hut entrance. Instinctively, he fell into his stalking stride. He prowled away from the hut but slowly enough that he was still close enough to hear the rest.

    “We will put the Runts on rations,” Flat Face spoke. “That will prolong your food stores.”

    “If all the tribesmen eat as before,” Grower said, “Runts will be forced to starve.”

    “If that's what it takes," Flat Face said, his voice flat as a lake and just as cold.

    Niomir heard the door flap move, saw Flat Face walk away. He moved behind the closest hut just in time before Grower emerged as well. He walked past Niomir’s tree without taking notice.

    *****


    Niomir’s mind was awash with what he’d heard. How could Grower talk so harshly to Flat Face and yet allow himself be beaten for a trifle? Did they have an arrangement of some kind? What did Flat Face offer to Grower in return for obedience?

    Or offered not to do?

    The two of them had discussed the food shortages. The situation had been growing more desperate with each day. As winter approached, wind and rain had damaged huts. The Runts labored incessantly to patch the damages but there were now twice as many huts to maintain. Instead of spending the winter safe in their shelters, they were forced to labour outside. Exposure to the elements was terrible on them but lack of food was worse.

    With malnutrition came disease. Many Runts and even some tribesmen had fallen ill, the juvenile among them. Work on hut maintenance began to fall behind. Huts remained in permanent disrepair. With everyone working on the shelters, filth and mould accumulated inside. This caused shortening of tempers which have not helped the situation at all.

    Niomir did not find it strange that Flat Face had decided to send out hunting parties even though chances of them making meat were close to nothing. Only truly desperate animals would dare to venture close to the settlements at this time of year. There were beasts further into the forest but Flat Face would not allow any hunting party to leave for more than a day. And even if he did, none of the tribesmen possessed the tracking and hunting skills to come near enough to a beast to manage a successful spear throw.

    Except me.

    No. The thought alone was preposterous. Flat Face would never allow it. He would beat Niomir with that rod of his just for suggesting it.

    Unless…

    What if Flat Face was not so impervious to other people’s opinions as he made it seem?

    What if Niomir talked to Flat Face alone, with no one around to witness the exchange?

    Only one way to find out.

    He'd already noticed that Flat Face made a regular patrol of the other Runt settlements to quell arguments and kept the situation from getting out of control. He was so regular that Niomir could predict him coming and so far made a point to be absent when Flat Face completed his round and returned to this particular settlement. He did not know if Grower or Flat Face had noticed this particularity.

    If he could time it correctly, Niomir could casually meet Flat Face out on the plain without anyone around to see or hear them.

    *****


    Niomir spent several nights tossing in his sleep, thinking about his plan. He might have chosen not to do it at all if the juvenile’s health had not deteriorated. His cough become drier and coarser and his fever increased. Niomir could not bear seeing the young one suffer, knowing there was something he could do about it.

    On the eighth day after he accidentally eavesdropped on the conversation between Flat Face and Norgilam, Niomir stood at the edge of the treeline, hidden from sight. He stood far away from the edge of the grass lake so that the steam of his breath would not betray his presence. The sky was dark. Occasional snowflakes drifted past his face. He’d dragged in another young tree, broken by the winds, and was now waiting for the right moment to stage an ‘accidental’ meeting.

    He saw Flat Face approach from the direction of the adjacent settlement. He grabbed the tree and dragged it out in the open. Without looking up, he heaved his load through the tall grass, now dry and crackling underneath his tread. The fangs of late autumn wind cut through his furs. His hair caught an occasional snowflake.

    He reached the path that connected his settlement with the adjacent one, barely visible in the distance, and turned to approach his home. Flat Face was far behind him but the going was slow and before Niomir got any nearer, Flat Face caught up to him, walked around him, began to move onward.

    “I saw a hunting party go out today,” Niomir said out loud.

    Flat Face stopped and turned. His expression was bland as always.

    “Not hunting,” Flat Face droned. “They went to scout the wintering caves.” He began to turn away.

    “You don't fight a cave flooding with a spear,” Niomir said a tinge too loudly. “They went hunting and brought nothing back. As the day before and the day before that.”

    Flat Face faced him. This time, Niomir saw a shade of anger on his face. Careful.

    “Your point?” Flat Face murmured.

    “Send me out to hunt instead,” Niomir said.

    Runts are not allowed to hunt.” Flat Face's voice thundered in Niomir’s ears no matter that he wasn’t shouting. He couldn't help noticing a few snowflakes, caught in Flat Face’s hair. They did not melt. He’s too cold a person for that.

    “You could allow it personally,” Niomir said. “Put a spear in my hand and I will bring you meat. All I ask is that you feed the heart to those Runts who are ill. You can give the rest of it to the tribesmen.”

    A strange look passed across Flat Face's features. “Why would you go through all the trouble of hunting and not demand a piece for yourself?”

    “Because if the tribesmen eat meat, Niomir said, there will be more bread for the Runts.”

    Flat Face's face remained an unblinking stone for more than a few moments. Niomir realized this was utter astonishment for him.

    “The laws of the spirits are clear,” Flat Face finally said but there was a tinge of hesitation in his voice. “You are a Runt. Runts are forbidden to carry weapons.”

    “I have more skill in tracking than anyone else in this tribe,” Niomir said. “Do the right decision and feed the tribe through my hands.”

    Niomir saw Flat Face’s eyebrow twitch. There was emotion there, bubbling just underneath the surface! It was as if his mind had become a battle ground, several thoughts fighting for supremacy. Niomir even noticed the snowflakes on Flat Face’s face were slowly but noticeably melting. Instinctively, Niomir held his breath.

    But then the bubbling vanished from Flat Face's features. Once more, Niomir stared at a blank mask. Once more, the snowflakes began to gather on Flat Face’s forehead. “What will happen with the tribe if I start to make exceptions with rules?” he asked, placing words like stones. “Rules are here for a purpose. If I allow you to carry weapons, you will want something else from me tomorrow. Or someone else will.”

    Before he could control himself, Niomir sneered with barely contained fury. “So you will let your tribe starve.”

    “I will keep my tribe’s traditions and preserve my people through hardships they occasionally face.” Flat Face glanced at the totem staff in his hand. The rod with which he’d beaten Grower was still fastened to it. “And I will keep the occasional malcontents in line by any means necessary.” He turned away, continuing his stride.

    Niomir returned to the hut, frustration tearing at him. He peeled off the working furs, hung them to dry. He sat on his mat and chewed on his meagre portion of the flat bread.

    His eye drifted to the juvenile lying close by. His face was pale, making him seem even younger than he was. The young one shuddered and coughed. It was the sound of stone scraping against stone. He won’t last a moon if he doesn’t get any real food.

    The ragged breathing of the juvenile kept him awake all night. He saw Grower come and check on him but there was nothing that could be done.

    Last edited by Boriak; November 15, 2016 at 11:47 AM.

  2. #2
    Boriak's Avatar Senator
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    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    Second chapter is up.


    Chapter 8: Brotherly Love (Nimmian)
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

    Nimmian pushed past the flap over the hut’s entrance. The cold air outside felt like a punch in the teeth. Angry murmurs were thrown his way as the cold air invaded the hut. He wrapped himself in a battered cloak and tried to walk as fast as possible. Everyone in the hut shared the single cloak for the unsavory walks to the latrine pits and sentry duty.


    Why don’t the bloody Runts dig the latrines inside the bloody huts? he thought even though he knew the reason. The fetid humors would be dangerous in a man’s dwelling.

    Frozen grass crunched under his feet. The chill went through his hide leggings and jabbed into his soles with every step. The sun had already set. Twilight would be descending before he completed his business.

    It seemed forever before he reached the barren depression where the latrines had been dug. Some of them seemed freshly made. How could the Runts dig through soil that was frozen solid? he thought miserably.

    Now came the moment he hated most. He hesitated before he thrust his hands out of the fur cloak to unlace his breeches.

    “Thought it was time we had a talk.”

    Nimmian jumped, stumbled and almost fell into one of the latrine pits. He felt heat wash over him as if he were doused in scalding water. Nearby, leaning on a shovel, stood Niomir, watching him.

    Nimmian had pointedly avoided his brother ever since his group of tribesmen had entered the settlement. When Niomir had taken Setimika to the ground and the head Runt was punished for it, Nimmian had stood at the back of the group, avoided being seen. But here, there was nowhere to hide from his brother's gaze.

    Niomir had not changed much. He wore one of the precious few fur cloaks used by the Runts. Frost clung to his leggings up to his knees and yet he appeared not to be cold. He was definitely leaner since the last time he'd seen him, the result of hard labour and living on that disgusting flatbread. The bones in his face were more pronounced but his gaze lost none of the resolve. Nimmian was used of being shielded by that resolve. Every time the other tribesmen would enjoy putting Nimmian to shame, Niomir would be there, his iron will forcing them into silence.

    It was terrifying to see that resolve turned against him now.

    Nimmian swallowed and somehow found his voice. “If you’re here to…”

    “We both know what really happened that day,” Niomir said in a voice that made Nimmian’s spine feel too weak to support its own weight. “You might have fooled Flat Face and everyone else but none of them are here now.”

    Niomir paused, looking at him. Nimmian could not stand his gaze and turned away. The thought of running away never dared to enter his mind.

    “It was a brilliant move, I’ll grant you. Didn’t see it coming at all.” Niomir grinned. It was the most terrifying sight Nimmian had ever witnessed. He came this close of dropping his evening load with his breeches still laced on. “But this deception can only work for so long,” Niomir went on. “The only thing you achieved was avoid being Runted this time. What will you do the next time Flat Face decides the fields need more workforce? You only had one brother to step onto.”

    Nimmian stared in silence. Ever since his brother had taken his place among the Runts, he managed to convince himself not to think about the future. Now, Niomir shattered that denial and thrust reality into his face.

    The despair must have been obvious on his face. Niomir smiled - strangely, it wasn’t a victorious smile. “You are joining me in misery, brother, whether you like it or not. And when you do, you are on my home turf again. No one survives as a Runt without friends. I’ve already gained their respect. If I tell everyone you are not to be trusted, they will believe me. What will you do? Run to Isurion’s outcasts? We both know I was your only chance of getting there. So you see, dear brother, your future depends entirely on my good will.” Sweat erupted under Nimmian’s cloak. He swallowed nervously. “You would be wise to get on my good side and do it fast,” Niomir said. “You could, for example, start right now.”

    Nimmian sighed in resignation. “What do you want me to do?”

    Just for a moment, Niomir hesitated before he answered. “I want you to bring me your spear.”

    Nimmian's eyes widened. “That’s not allowed.”

    “True,” said Niomir. “But you will bring it to me none the less.”

    “My spear has poor charms,” Nimmian blurted. “It will not fly well, you know that.”

    Niomir smiled patronizingly. “If you’d put so much effort into hunting as you put into making excuses, you would’ve been a better hunter than I.” The smile vanished. “I want that spear.”

    A panic gripped Nimmian’s throat. “If Flat Face finds out--”

    “Then it would be best for both of us if he doesn’t find out.”

    Nimmian stood there, wordless and defeated. Instinctively he looked to his brother for help but realized the stupidity of the thought. There was no remorse in Niomir’s eyes, no sympathy. And I have only myself to thank for that, he thought glumly.

    Niomir picked up the shovel and walked around the latrine pits. “Bring the spear here tomorrow at sunrise,” he said over his shoulder as he went past Nimmian, “or the deal is off.”


    Chapter 9: The arrogant man’s challenge (Niomir)
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

    The world had not fully come to light but Niomir already waited hidden in the frozen brush close to the latrines. If anyone but Nimmian approached, he would say he was digging a new latrine. He even had the shovel with him to prove it.

    He recognized the sound of Nimmian’s hesitant footsteps before he saw him. His brother never could learn to walk silently. Niomir stood up, stepped out of his cover and waited for Nimmian to approach.

    Nimmian had the spear with him. He handed it to Niomir without a word or daring to look him in the eye. Seeing his brother humbled in this pityful way, Niomir felt a stab of guilt. Immediately, anger for the sentiment followed. Why should I feel sorry for him anymore? Niomir took the offered spear and tore it from his brother's grip. Nimmian flinched and recoiled as if expecting a blow to follow.

    Niomir gave the spear a quick inspection. He had picked the tree and the limb as a favor to his brother. Told him how to sever it from the tree without hurting its heart, instructed him how to shape flight into it. The execution of those instructions was not to his liking but the finished spear did pass the elder’s inspection and was endowed with charms of obsidian and jade.

    “What will you do with it?” Nimmian asked pleadingly.

    Niomir shot him a glance. “Something the tribesmen are unable to do. Feed the tribe.”

    Quite the boast, a humbler part of him chided. Best take care the spirits don’t hear your pride.

    Niomir turned and went for the treeline. The easy part is done, he thought as he walked. By giving his own spear to me, he is my accomplice. He cannot betray me without betraying himself.

    He reached the edge of the forest. A shiver crept along his spine. Though hardened by hard labour and exposure to the elements, Niomir was not immune to the biting teeth of the wind that raced across the plain. This shiver, though, came from deeper within.

    Sour thoughts came creeping in as he stood there.

    My chance of finding a large beast in the middle of winter are less than slim.


    Hunting was a joined ordeal. He’d always had help before. If not for anything else, his brother was useful to help him corner and distract his prey. Now there would be no assistance.

    The spear in his hand felt odd, foreign. He should’ve practiced days with it to figure out exactly how it behaved in wind or in calm. Should he be forced to cast downhill, the spear might possess too much flight and the missile would overshoot.

    I could have fashioned my own spear but I would need tools and fire to do it properly. There are tools and fire back in the settlement but I could never do it unseen. Could I craft tools in the wilderness? Could I make a proper fire in these conditions? Even if everything went perfectly, I would need days to fashion a proper spear, test and correct it for imperfections. And after everything else, there was no one who would endow it. Every cast would have been bereft of the blessing of the spirits.

    It could have been done if he had time. He had time but others didn’t. With his inner eye, Niomir saw the juvenile’s pale face and his bloodshot eyes, trembling under the covers. They'd piled everything they could find on him to keep him warm.

    How can we expect him to get better if we all go underfed?

    He walked through the treeline.

    The sun was a smear of light on the high clouds. Niomir stalked through the frozen undergrowth, looking for signs of life. Not a single footstep in the frost. The forest was cold and dead and still. It was so strange and so foreign that his hunting instincts refused to wake as if they failed to recognize he was in fact hunting. Still, he pressed on.

    Hours went by and doubt started to creep into his limbs along with the cold but he pushed himself onward.

    The wind picked up. It hissed among the branches above. Dry limbs groaned as they swayed. The sound made him uneasy. The wind spirits are distraught. Are they telling me I've done wrong for coming out here?

    Hints of true fear winked into his awareness. It took all of his self-control to quiet them down again.

    No. What I do is not for my own good but for the benefit of the tribe. The tribesmen will be fed meat and the Runts will have an increased hardbread ration. If I bring back something… anything… everybody gains.

    At last, on the bottom of an old game trail he used to frequent: fresh trail. He felt his hunting instincts yawn and awaken from a long slumber. Relief surged through his limbs like a warm torrent. He crouched over the tracks, trying to estimate how far the beast might have gone by now.

    The inner warmth faded as if swept away by the wind. Niomir felt cold and alone in the menacing woods as he recognized the tracks.

    Boar.


    No creature of the Woodland was more dangerous than the boar. Even a bear, while bigger and stronger, was wise enough to turn away from approaching tribesmen. But a boar did not run away. They had the unfortunate habit of charging anything and anyone that came within twenty paces of them. Their weight and speed alone were enough to break a man's ribcage. The sharp tusks were more than enough to rend the belly of a tribesman.

    Worse, boars were meat-eaters. They would feast on anything they could get their snout on. There was a reason why no tribesman who went after a boar was ever found.

    Niomir heard mad laughter close by and realized it was his own voice. By chance, he'd found a living beast in the middle of a dead winter forest. Only to be confronted by a beast that no tribesman dared to go up against.

    “This is your doing, spirits,” he said out loud into the air. “You are challenging me, testing me for vanity.”

    In that instant, several things were perfectly clear to him. If he should abandon this quarry, he would not be permitted to encounter another one. The day was growing short alreday and if he should abandon this trail, it would mean spending the night in the woods. The wind was already cutting right through his cloak. The cold would be lethal at night. If he survived the night, his fingers and toes surely wouldn’t.

    This was more than a test. It was a trial. He’d boasted to Flat Face of being the most skilled hunter in the entire tribe. He’d said that he would succeed where all others have failed. The spirits must have been listening, decided to test the truth of his words. Now he had to make good on that promise or slink back empty-handed and receive the punishment for a rebellious Runt that he was.

    The only way was forward. But how? How could I possibly try to take on a boar with nothing but a throwing spear? A boar's flank was covered with coarse hair. He would have to come within ten paces of the beast to hope to penetrate the fur. Even if he got close enough, the boar could move so fast the spear could come in at a wrong angle and bounce off completely. And there was no guaranteed throw with another’s spear.

    All in all, he was as close to being naked and weaponless as if he truly were.

    Unless...

    There was a myth - a rumour really - that tribesmen used to hunt boars with heavy, long pikes. One would essentially had to let a boar jump him and then place a spear between them. Thus, the boar would do most of the work and impale itself on one’s spear. All one had to do was stand completely still as a raging, roaring pig was charging straight for him.

    Niomir realized the cold had crept into his extremities and made him shiver. The next move would seal his fate. He could still turn back and admit failure.

    He forced himself to make a single step into the direction into which the tracks led. He made another. Movement brought him a sliver of warmth and action brought back his resolve.

    No, there was no going back. This had to be done and he was the one going to do it.

    His spear was too light to be used as a pike but there was nothing for it. Either it would hold and do its job or it would break on first contact and there would be nothing that separated him from those tusks...



    Chapter 10: a Pair of icicles (Nimmian)
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

    “Nothing,” Setimika growled. “Not one deer or elk out there. The only tracks we saw was of boar.”


    Nimmian watched the argument from the opposite end of the hut. The leader of the tribesmen of the neighboring settlement had arrived to discuss the food situation with Setimika. This was a monumental event. Until now, hunting groups have never worked together. It was a matter of pride but the situation had gone dire enough. Pride was no longer the main issue.

    The inside of the hut was dark and crowded, the men restless. Everyone kept jostling around endlessly instead of sitting still. Nimmian kept bumping into the men around him, caught their annoyed looks. It was stifling but he had to confess it was warmer than outside where the Runts laboured to keep the huts from toppling by the strong winter wind.

    “I think the boar is the reason we’ve seen no other kind of game,” the leader of the neighboring group said. “We find its tracks everywhere we go. The boar have chased all other beasts away.”

    “Is it possible? One boar?” Setimika said.

    “Who said there’s only one?”

    “It’s as if something attracts them to this place.”

    Nimmian dropped his gaze. He knew some tribesmen were going to the forest, discarding their share of flatbread there so that Flat Face would not notice their lack of appetite. Flat Face kept insisting that every tribesman eats a double share. He wanted them well fed and strong but he never told them for what purpose.

    It was reasonable to assume the boar were kept in the proximity of the settlements by the steady supply of the flatbread drops.

    “It’s taunting us,” Setimika growled in a way that made Nimmian’s skin crawl. “It knows we won’t go after it.”

    “Someone needs to take it down,” the other leader said.

    “Who will do it?” Setimika sneered. “You?”

    “I’m not stupid enough to go after a boar. And neither are you. But together we might…”

    The flap of the hut moved and threw in a blast of frigid air. The tribesmen threw curses and complaints at the intruder who walked in but refused to hurry. In a heartbeat the hut turned silent. The tribesmen jumped to their feet.

    The intruder that just entered was Flat Face.

    "Put on all the garments you can find," he said to everyone and no one in particular. “If there's not enough for everyone, go to other huts and demand theirs. Then, come with me and bring your spears.”

    Nimmian felt the color drain from his face. The spear!

    “Where are we going?” Setimika asked, the only one who dared to raise his voice.

    Flat Face threw a cold glance at him. “We are going to hunt down that boar you keep talking about.”

    The men threw uncertain looks at each other.

    “No one is brave enough to go after a boar,” Setimika said.

    “That is why we are going after it together.”

    The moment of silence was deafening. Then everyone was moving.

    Men hustled about in a frenzy, jostled him out of the way. Nimmian stood still, unable to move, panic glistening on his features. Flat Face must’ve noticed him precisely for that reason. Suddenly he was right in front of Nimmian with that emotionless face of his. Those cold eyes bored into his soul like termites. Nimmian felt hot sweat pouring down his face. Doubtlessly Flat Face noticed that as well.

    “Where is your spear?” Flat Face asked.

    “I… don’t have it.” It was almost a whisper and yet the entire hut went stone silent. All eyes turned onto him. Nimmian felt as if he stood in the summer sun at noon yet he shivered.

    “What did you do with it?” This time, Flat Face's voice could have been an icicle, boring into each of his ears.

    Somehow, Nimmian uttered: “I gave it to my brother.”

    Nimmian could do nothing but stare transfixed into the blank mask that was glaring at him with eyes, cold with fury.


    Chapter 11: The Winter Boar (Niomir)
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

    The wind howled relentlessly as Niomir crept his way forward. He crossed a solid torrent, its icy surface broken by the boar’s pass. The trail led straight to a line of shrubs and vanished through it. He stared at it unmoving, waiting for the wind to die down so he could listen if the boar was behind the cover.


    Finally, the wind quieted down. He heard nothing but the faint creak of branches overhead. The boar must’ve passed through and moved on.

    And then he heard a sniffing sound in the shrubs in front of him. A shiver went up his spine but he forced himself to put it out of his mind and focus entirely on the task at hand. He lowered the killing point of the spear to the front, crept slowly on. The sniffing sound continued.

    It knows I'm here. It has to know I'm here. It won't charge unless it feels threatened. I don’t want it to charge but it has to, otherwise I cannot kill it.

    One more step.

    A twig snapped underfoot.

    The sniffing stopped. Niomir froze mid-stride, the light spear pointed at the source of the sound. The whole forest seemed to hold its breath. Even the wind was absent.

    The boar exploded from the shrub with an ear-rendering scream, a mass of muscle and fur and mud. It happened too quickly for Niomir to be afraid. A part of his mind noticed that the boar was not coming at him from the front but slightly from the side. He pivoted the killing point instinctively just before the boar reached him.

    It felt like being hit by a boulder. The impact pushed all air from his lungs and took him off his feet. His arms screamed with pain, sudden and sharp. Fingers brushed against coarse fur, rough as tree bark. His head snapped back, the neck protesting at the ordeal. The shock was paralyzing and for a moment he lay face up in the dirt, his head ringing, lungs empty, struggling to inhale.

    The boar!

    Niomir struggled to get up, certain that the beast would be upon him in an instant.

    The monster lay motionless at an arm's length. Nimmian’s spear was lodged underneath the beast's maw. The killing point tore through the back of its head.

    A perfect thrust.

    For a long moment, Niomir could not comprehend what had happened. He was chilled to the bone, covered in mud and exhausted. A moment before, he was being attacked by a lethal beast. Now there was no beast in sight. Just a huge mass of meat, draped in still warm fur.

    Niomir dragged himself closer to his kill. His legs were exhausted and there was that irksome throb in his right arm that suggested at least one bone was cracked.

    “I thank you…” he barely managed, “…spirits of the Earth and Sky… for this bounty.” He brushed his fingers against one of the boar’s tusks. He felt the sharp edge of the huge tooth. “I thank you too, brother…, for not turning me into a meal of your own.”

    He did not wait for the wind to answer his prayer. He collapsed to the ground, too tired to move.


    Chapter 12: Just Reward (Nimmian)
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

    It was easy to follow Niomir. He’d left a noticeable trail through the frozen underbrush.


    The tribesmen walked in a tight line with Flat Face at the fore. Their breath came in white clouds. Everyone held spears in their hands instead of in the sling on their backs, as if they expected to be attacked by the boar at any moment. Flat Face held no spear, walked with his shaman staff instead.

    Nimmian walked directly behind Flat Face. He was the only one unarmed. No one would lend him their own spear. Not that he expected it but he did not understand why he was brought along if not to participate in the hunt.

    The light behind the clouds had begun to fade. The sky turned from gray to grayer. They would not be able to return before night descended. It seemed unreasonable to continue with yet Flat Face moved on relentlessly.

    What will he do with me? Nimmian thought miserably. He tried his best to keep the pace. Will he Runt me today? Why bring me along?

    As they plodded on, fear crept into his bones along with the cold. Does he plan to use me as bait for the boar?

    A noise came from up front. Heavy footsteps breaking underbrush.

    Men rushed past Flat face and positioned themselves in a wide formation. Nimmian caught the fear written over their faces as they passed him. Their spears were lowered and ready. Nimmian felt utterly naked without his own. He glanced at Flat Face. He appeared unconcerned but then it was always impossibe to guess what he thought.

    From behind an uprooted tree, a figure appeared, dragging something heavy behind it. It wasn’t looking up, didn’t notice them right away. Nimmian recognized that crown of hair.

    Their eyes fell on the thing he dragged. On a crude sled, fashioned out of branches, lay a monster. It was too big for a badger, not long-limbed enough to be a deer.

    Nimmian could not believe his eyes - singlehandedly, his brother had hunted and killed a boar!

    One of them gasped, perhaps Nimmian himself. Niomir looked up then, saw them, stopped mid-stride.

    No one moved for what seemed an eternity. Nimmian stared at the boar at his brother’s feet. The beast must have weighed thrice as much as him. If it had fallen upon their group, Flat Face would not have been able to hold them together. They would have scattered like a clutch of forest hens.

    Nimmian glanced at Flat Face at his side. For the first time in his memory, Flat Face seemed unsure of himself. It was an easy thing to imagine finding Niomir, bringing him home, punishing him for transgression against the authority of his elder. But now he returns with the prize of all prizes. To punish him now would be… monstrous.

    Worse. It would be wrong.

    Before Flat Face decided what to do, Setimika stepped forward and approached Niomir. Nimmian could see his brother anticipated violence. He released the sled with the boar, stepped away from it, turned slightly sideways. It was a minute detail, something only Nimmian could notice but it told him his brother was ready to fight despite being visibly exhausted and possibly injured.

    Setimika closed in to grabbing distance but made no move of aggression. He beckoned to the others. Two of the tribesmen approached, took the sled with the boar, began dragging it forward. Nimmian was surprised at the gesture. Setimika was treating Niomir as a fellow-hunter, relieving him of burden. Setimika turned away from Niomir to stare after the boar as everyone else. There was awe in his face, in everyone faces. Nimmian saw the broken end of his own spear lodged in the beast’s throat. He attacked it from the front!

    As the boar vanished from sight, Nimmian saw darkness fall onto Setimika’s eyes. With one lightning-fast move, he turned to fetch Niomir a blow. Niomir had anticipated this, tried to block the attack but exhaustion made him miss the right moment. Setimika’s fist hit straight into Niomir’s plexus, caused him to Hoomph!, stagger and fall to the ground. Setimika gave him a savage kick.

    In a heartbeat, other tribesmen descended upon Niomir. Nimmian watched in mute horror as they used their spears like clubs. Dull thumping blows followed in rapid succession. Niomir struggled to protect himself but they were too many and they would not allow him to get up.

    Not once did his brother cry out for help. In a way, that made it worse. Nimmian could do nothing but stand and watch.

    Flat Face stood by Nimmian and calmly watched it happen. He made no move to stop it.

    They only stopped because they grew tired. They picked Niomir up, dragged him to the nearest tree, twisted his arms around it with him facing forward. They tied his wrists together with leather cords. The position must have been excrutiating but Niomir's face, smeared with blood and bruises as it was, refused to reveal suffering.

    Setimika stood above him. Niomir grinned at him through bloody teeth. Setimika bashed him over the face with his large fist. Niomir staggered but refused to fall. He turned back and spat a mouthful of blood into Setimika's face. Setimika recoiled in revulsion and walked away.

    He will not allow them to defeat him, Nimmian thought. A tinge of pride flickered in his breast. No one could defeat him. And that was the problem. He made the whole tribe feel insignificant.

    The tribesmen walked past Flat Face and Nimmian, followed the sled's trail and vanished from sight. The only ones that remained were Nimmian and Flat Face.

    Flat Face reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out an intricately carved flint knife. In that moment, Nimmian knew his life was forfeit. Flat Face had sent everyone away to spare them the ritual pollution of seeing his life's blood devoured by the cold earth.

    Flat Face flipped the blade in his hand and handed it to Nimmian, handle first. Nimmian stared at the knife. He stared at Flat Face's unyielding face. “This task is yours to perform,” he said in that droning voice of his. Nimmian did not comprehend. The empty moment seemed to be dwelling upon the earth forever.

    Nimmian watched his hand take the knife from Flat Face's own palm. Flat Face gave a slight nod, turned and walked after the others.

    Nimmian stared at the knife in his hands. It was not flint as he thought previously at all. It was obsidian, the rare material that came from the west. The tribe had not seen a fresh supply of obsidian ever since Flat Face had closed down the trade with the neighboring tribes. It was ironic to think that Flat Face would possess the last blade in the tribe.

    “What are you waiting for?”

    Startled, Nimmian looked up. Niomir was looking at him through mated strands of hair. He was smeared with mud and his own blood but there was still resolve in his eyes. Nimmian stared at him.

    “Cut me loose and let’s get going,” Niomir said.

    “Go where?”

    “To Isurion’s tribe, where else.” Niomir winced and spat out blood. “I’ve seen the boundary when I dragged the boar. If we move quickly, we can be across before they realize we’re gone.”

    Nimmian stared in disbelief. The idea seemed so preposterous, so outrageous, and yet his brother believed it possible. “There are eight territories between us and Isurion’s, all full of tribesmen who will not take kindly to trespassers and poachers,” Nimian said. “If we are caught…”

    “Then we better not get caught.”

    “You can’t run in your state,” Nimmian said, his voice on the verge of breaking. “You can’t even walk right now. We will be caught.”

    “Cut me loose and we shall see which one of us they catch first.” Niomir grinned at him through bloodied teeth as if he hoped his brother would take it as a challenge. But those words struck a different chord in Nimmian’s mind.

    For countless seasons, he’d been forced to stand in the background as his proud and skilled brother performed the feats of a true huntsman with little to no effort. Nimmian himself could not muster a single good throw. No matter how hard he would try or how lucky he would get, his brother would just smile and perform the same feat with a hundred times greater ability and a hundred times less effort.

    Every night he’d gone asleep with the same thought: How can I possibly be his brother? How can someone of such power, grace and skill be of the same mother and father as myself? I am a trinket of the spirits, being played and discarded at their whim.

    But now, I'm the one with the power. When I had betrayed him, it wasn't power, it was trickery. But now I have a knife in my hand and he is tied to a tree. This time, I decide how this ends.

    The feeling of power was delicious, even though on some level he knew the taste was poisonous. Pale-faced and fast-breathing, he stepped behind Niomir and the tree he was tied to. He grabbed the leather strip that bound his brother’s hands and brought the blade down.

    And Niomir screamed.

    Last edited by Boriak; December 04, 2016 at 11:28 AM.

  3. #3
    Boriak's Avatar Senator
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    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    Third chapter is up.

    Chapter 13: Meat
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

    The world turns cold and gray and pointless. Time is a meaningless river.

    Body feels distant as if the spirit that animated it grew small and all but vanished in its caverns and streams.

    Footsteps close by. Bond around wrists is no more. Ground rushes up but something intercepts the fall. Being lifted off the ground, swaying motion, carried. Eyes look but no one watches through them.

    Body has become meat.

    More meaningless river. Spirit climbs out of the cavern, makes a passing glance. Body feels empty, drained. Had it eaten? Had it slept? Don't know. And don't care.

    Care for nothing.

    Occasionally, a strange noise, like whispers on a wind. The spirit makes the climb, looks vaguely for it but it is gone before source can be found. It does not matter anyway. To be, to exist, is a wasteland, empty of thoughts and desires. Pointless.

    Fades into nothingness.

    ******

    The spirit wanders a barren landscape. Withered gray trees and dried putrid rivers mar the vision. The land seems familiar, something once called home.
    It's not home anymore. Life no longer possible here.

    Land rumbles and quakes. A chasm opens up in the ground, yawns beneath him. Terror roars. Grabs the edge of the chasm and holds with the strength didn't know existed. No use. Grip begins to slip, slides deeper into the chasm, away from the sky.

    He woke with a howl. Around him, the darkness of a hut.

    “Can you hear me?” a voice said.

    “I’m not deaf,” he said. Face felt swollen and the air refused to go through the nose. Voice sounded muffled.

    “You didn’t respond until now.” Grower held up a clay cup. “Water.”

    He was parched, he knew that. He drank but there was no pleasure, no relief as water trickled down the throat. Didn’t care about being thirsty or hungry. All he wanted was to not be anymore.

    “You went against the edict knowingly,” Grower said. “You knew there would be chastisement when you got back.”

    Chastisement? The word sickened him. “You call this chastisement?” He raised his left hand, his throwing hand. Pain shot through. He quickly lowered it.

    “He does it to keep us a tribe,” Grower said, his voice small. “So that we can go on.”

    “Flat Face is insane,” Niomir said. “What else do you call a man who punishes a hunter for making meat for the tribe?”

    “He wasn’t punishing you.” The words were preposterous. He thought laughter would be appropriate but forgot how it's done. “If this is his way of rewarding good work…”

    “It wasn’t punishment for you," Grower said. “It was punishment for your brother.”

    Paused. “For what?”

    “For putting a spear in your hand. No Runt may carry weapons. Your brother went against that.”

    “I forced him.”

    “I know that," Grower said. “Flat Flace knows that. But willingly or not, your brother acted against the edict. This is why Flat Face forced him into hurting you. By making him do this, he severed the last bond you two had between you. You will never trust your brother again after this.”

    Niomir stared. He turned away when a bowl of soup of herbs and grass seeds came closer.

    “Aren’t you hungry?”

    “Leave me.”

    “You haven’t eaten anything in days. You need to eat if you want to keep going.”

    “I don’t want to keep going.”

    Grower did not reply. After a while, he left him be.

    Niomir stared into his left hand. It was wrapped in thick bandages but he could clearly see the thumb of his throwing hand was gone.

    It’s all in the thumb. That’s what I tried to teach him about throwing. He robbed me of the chance of ever throwing a spear again.

    ******

    “You must eat.” Grower’s voice was kind but there was urgency in it.

    He didn’t care. Food was a pointless thing.

    “One finger does not mean your entire life is forfeit,” Grower said. “Spring will soon be here. Life will return to the Woodland. You will feel better when the birds return and water flows once again. But you have to survive until then.”

    Another mouthful of the dribble neared his mouth, seeking entrance. Niomir turned away in revulsion.

    The world keeps spinning as if nothing is changed. The spirits tell me this is the natural state. If this is considered natural, I want no part of it. Not this valley, not this world, not this life.

    “We all need to adapt in order to survive,” Grower was saying. “You are no different than any of us, even if you’d like to be.”

    Something stirred in Niomir’s mind. “But I am different than you,” he said quietly. “All of you. Everyone in this tribe is afraid.”

    “Of Flat Face?”

    “No. All of you are afraid, including Flat Face.” Niomir felt his mind quicken with these words. The naked truth revealed itself before him. “At first I thought he was afraid of other tribes coming and taking our food. But they wouldn’t want to eat the seeds any more than our own tribesmen would. Flat Face knows this but he still refuses to see that which is in front of him. And you...” Niomir’s gaze flicked at Grower. “It's easier for you to put yourself under Flat Face’s rod and endure punishment than to imagine a different way of living. You fear change and an unknown future more than you fear the lash. That's why you discarded your own elder status and joined the Runts. I had always wondered why the spirits proscribe to be two elders in charge of a tribe. Now I know why: to keep one another in check. You were the only one with the authority to resist him. Instead of confronting him, you submitted to his will and gave him unopposed authority. Unchecked, his paranoia grew and polluted the entire tribe.”


    Silence went on unopposed. Grower gazed into the distance, the bowl of runny soup in his hands forgotten.


    “Our nature has always been about duality," Niomir said. “We are offspring of a handful of spirits who left the sky and draped themselves into flesh that forms all creatures. We are the only beings in existence that have both Sky-kin and Flesh-kin. Now, fear has turned us into gnats we squash beneath our feet. That is what Flat Face’s vision has turned us into. He’d taken the Sky out of us.”


    “I think you’re right,” Grower murmured after what seemed an eternity. “Whatever celestial essence we had in us is long gone. We are creatures of the flesh now, nothing more. And that is precisely why we need to adapt to the new situation, become something else than we were yesterday. Or we will be undone.”

    Niomir turned away. Grower was afraid. Afraid to do anything but listen to Flat Face’s dogma of fear.

    ******

    He’d dreamed of roasted meat. The smell of it saturated his awareness. It seemed the smell alone would be enough to fill his stomach. His insides roiled violently. The smell grew so potent it wrenched him into consciousness. The familiar twilight of the hut surrounded him, the moldy mats and the clammy air.

    He was awake. And yet the smell persisted.

    Next to him lay a steaming piece of meat.

    Real meat. Where did it come from?

    He realized the hut wasn’t empty. Someone stood next to him, unmoving like a rock. At first he thought it was Grower.

    Niomir felt the hair on the back of his neck tingle. It wasn’t Grower.

    It was Flat Face.

    He stood above Niomir, peering at him with that remorseless gaze. Niomir glanced his way, looked at the meat. It was a roasted heart. The boar’s heart. His fingers twitched and his eyes grasped for it, his mouth watering…

    But it was brought by Flat Face.

    Still, Flat Face stared at him, saying nothing.

    “Am I suppose to express gratitude?” Niomir asked. His voice was hoarse.

    “That is not necessary,” Flat Face said.

    Again, Niomir's eyes wandered towards the steaming heart. “I swore to protect the tribe,” he said. “I did what I thought was right.”

    “You don’t get to decide what is best for the tribe,” Flat Face said. “I do.”

    “You are hurting the tribe, not saving it," Niomir said. "I brought them food when no one else could.”

    “And you still fail to see why this was strictly forbidden to you.”

    Niomir remained silent. It was strange but Flat Face wanted to explain his thoughts to him. Niomir could not fathom why but he found himself raptly listening.

    “The tribe is more than bodies and mouths,” Flat Face spoke. “What holds us together... What binds us into a tribe... Is immaterial as the spirits which we ask for guidance. Yet it is as fragile as our bodies. It cannot be harmed by cold or crushed by a rock, but it can be hurt and it can be killed. You were hurting the tribe.”

    “And you?” Niomir said. “What were you doing except hurting the tribe?”

    “The flesh is selfish,” said Flat Face. “In times of hardship, it wants us to forget what it means to be a tribe. If this happens... If we forget... Then we stop being the spawn of heaven. On that day, we turn into beasts. Your hunting skills might have fed our bellies but it made the soul of the tribe bleed. It I refused to have you punished, others would deem the edict unnecessary to follow. And that would’ve been the end of us.”

    Niomir realized Flat Face spoke with ardent emotion. He cared deeply about what he’d just said.

    “Is this your way of asking for my forgiveness?” Niomir said.

    “I’m here to do no such thing,” Flat Face said. The naked emotion that was visible a moment before was gone behind the familiar icy mask. “You willingly acted against the edict and were treated with accordingly. I’m here to uphold another part of that edict: ‘The heart of the kill goes to the one that made the kill.’”

    Niomir glanced at the boar's heart again. He swallowed hard. “I’d rather starve than accept that from you,” he said.

    “That is your choice to make,” Flat Face said. “It was also your choice to expose yourself to danger. But to take a spear and make meat when you were strictly forbidden... That is something I will not tolerate. That is something the spirits will not tolerate.”

    “Have no fear, you have succeeded. I am no longer useful to you.” Niomir raised his maimed hand, lowered it quickly once the pain erupted.

    “You can still be of use to the tribe.” From any other person, those words could have been considered encouraing. From Flat Face, they sounded utterly sinister.

    “You hate me,” Niomir said. “Hate me for the same reason Setimika and others hates me.”

    Flat Face shook his made minutely. "It is not who or what you are that vexes me. It is what you represent to the tribe. You are a dissentious seed, one that deems your own judgment above those of mine, your elder and superior. If you will not do as you’re told, it is my task to break your resolve… or break you in the process. Either way, you will submit to my will.”

    Niomir stared at him, unflinching. Flat Face replied with his icy gaze. “You’re thinking of fleeing,” Flat Face said. It was not a question.

    “You want to put me to use but you cannot have me out there if you’re worried about me fleeing.”

    “I will have you watched,” Flat Face said.

    “And what will you do if I try to run?”

    Flat Face's features were dead as stone. “You still have seven fingers.”

    Niomir felt the cold cut into his soul. He could withstand starvation, beatings and even lashes on his bare back, but his fingers…



    Chapter 14: Goodbye
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

    Grower watched Niomir choke down the last of the porridge. “I knew you would come around,” he said, smiling. “You’re too strong to wallow forever. You will be walking by spring.” Niomir glanced at him but said nothing, busy with the final morsels.

    His stomach nearly revolted on him every time he ate but he forced it down. He may have tricked Grower but he could not hide his despondency from his own flesh.

    Through the days after his mutilation, his spirit was a leaf, pulled underwater. Every time he would attempt to sleep, the desolate land was there, the chasm waiting. He could not avoid it, plead with it, reason with it. He managed to wake just before the chasm swallowed him. The nights left him exhausted.

    The chasm was Flat Face. It was Grower, the juvenile, the Runts, Setimika and his men. All of it.

    The chasm was living death. It was the place from which his spirit, should it fall, could never rise from. He would be reduced to a mess of fluids and ligaments, breathing and eating but not living. If he stayed, that was his fate, inevitable as the sunset.

    The only possible alternative was escape. Such a simple word and yet to achieve it? Madness. But a living, beating madness. First, I would have to wait for good weather. Outside the hut, winter howled like a dying beast, writhing in its final throes. I would have to wait until the tribesmen were occupied or dispersed so they could not corner me. I would have to find a way to shed whoever Flat Face would set to watch over me.

    He dared not think of what Flat Face would do to him if he were captured. If a miracle did happen and Niomir reached the boundary, he would be faced with nothing but another territory, another tribe that would treat him with equal disdain as his own. What they would do if they found him was anyone’s guess.

    As soon as I leave the settlement, I will have to run and could not stop until there was life still in this wretched flesh. The only place where my flight could stop are the swamps where Isurion and his outcasts dwell. But that is at least a moon's journey away. Niomir harbored no illusions he could make it that far. But the goal of his plan was not to reach Isurion's tribe. It was to get away from his own tribe. Flat Face said he will not let me die. Out there, at least I can die by my own choice, which is worth more than to keep breathing by that man's authority.

    Before anything else, he would have to make Grower stop hovering about. Perhaps it was guilt that kept him close. Escaping this attention was the reason why he shoved the food down his throat despite the desire to throw it all back up.

    Grower still deemed him weak, which meant everyone else thought the same. If the revolting porridge was the only thing he'd consumed, that assuption could have very well been accurate. But Niomir had also devoured the boar's heart Flat Face had brought.

    He'd told Flat Face he would rather starve than eat what the elder had offered him and he'd meant it. But the thought of escape was enough to make him swallow his pride. If eating the heart increased his chances of escaping this place, he would take it. And he did.

    Niomir glanced at Grower. You weren't gone long but it was long enough for the smell of roasted meat to have dissipated.

    A terrible sound came from outside the hut. It sounded like the earth itself was being split asunder. Grower rose to his feet and turned for the entrance flap. At the same time, a Runt dashed in. “The wind tore off a roof of one of the huts.”

    “Will you be all right by yourself?” said Grower.

    “I’ll be fine,” said Niomir, waving him off, his focus still on the bowl, licking off the last of the porridge.

    Grower nodded, followed the Runt outside and rolled the flap back to cover the entrance.

    As soon as he was alone, Niomir dropped the bowl and stood up. His cracked ribs throbbed and his fatigued muscles protested but he willed himself to movement despite it all.

    It seemed to take hours to lace up the leggings with just the good hand. He had to hold the laces with his teeth to finish the job, then took the blanket and wrapped himself with it.

    He stepped close to the flap, placed his ear to it. Nothing but the howling of wind. He threw the flap aside and ran.

    The force and the cold of the blizzard slapped him across the face. Propelled by the wind, snowflakes jabbed at his eyes, rendered his sight useless. Guided by memory alone, he turned for the closest treeline.

    The one serious flaw of his plan to flee the tribe: Runts were rarely alone. A torn roof was a rare event that demanded everyone’s attention. They would also find it difficult to track him in such weather. There would not be an opportunity like this again. Also, the longer he postponed his flight, the more time he gave Flat Face to weave a web around him. But at the moment he was still considered a cripple, deemed too feeble to stand, let alone run. Flat Face had probably not set a watch over me yet.

    The wind thrashed about like a great frigid palm. His back bent low, he walked with a slow pace to conserve his strength.

    The moment they would learn of my escape, they would take after me. They would guess what my intentions were and head for the western boundary, the direction where I would need to go to reach Isurion's tribe of runaway Runts. The tribesmen are faster than me and they would definitely catch me before I reached the boundary. So I must flee in the opposite direction. The eastern boundary is much closer. Before they would think of looking for me there, I could already be across.

    The wind buffeted him from every direction. Niomir stumbled and fell but got up and kept going. A terrifying groan came from up ahead. A tree collapsed directly in his path. Are you trying to humble me, spirits? Are you trying to send me back? You are far too late for that. I will not turn back, no matter what you throw at me. My plan is to die anyway. If you want me among you sooner, crash a tree onto me and be done with it. It makes no matter how I die, just that I arrive in your midst so that I'm able to spit in your face. If there is spit in the spirit world.

    He came upon a clearing where the wind momentarily abated. He recognized the sight. It was littered with collapsed trees, mounds of leaves and dirt, yet it was that same clearing where the finish line of the Runt race was drawn. Here is where the tribe awaited him, the loser of the Winnow, as he limped towards them. It was here that Flat Face shoved the totem staff into his face, proclaimed him Runt, then broke Niomir's spear and discarded the pieces.

    Here was where he’d lost his freedom, his sense of place. A profound sense of loss enveloped him. He dropped to his knees among the debris of wood and ash. The fingers of his good hand brushed against a smooth surface the size of his fingernail. Niomir picked it up, looked at it. It was a single bead of obsidian.

    Niomir stared in astonishment. This had been the charm upon his spear. After all this time, it was still exactly where the broken pieces of it spear were discarded.

    A gust of wind brought men’s voices. So much for them going the wrong way. Niomir got to his feet, clutched the obsidian nugget in his good hand and stumbled on.

    The wind picked up again. Whenever it would blow into his back, it would make him go faster but it would also bring sounds of his pursuers. They were getting closer.

    At last, he’d reached what he was looking for. The chasm where his fate was sealed. For a moment, the scene was so similar to the one in his dreams he froze in terror. But the chasm of his dreams had no tree leading over it. This one did but it was slippery with ice and snow, not an easy crossing.

    Niomir turned. The men’s voices were very close now, probably no more than a few spear tosses. He saw movement between the naked branches already. He turned forward and raised his face to the heavens. If you want me to discard this wretched body right now, all you have to do is nudge.

    He placed his foot on the slippery log. The tree twitched under his weight but it held. Niomir made a few hesitant steps, unsure of his once superb balance.

    The chasm yawned beneath him. The world spun around him and he knelt quickly, grabbed the log with his hands. It’s not the chasm from the dreams! This one will only destroy your body if you fall. It will not devour your soul!

    “There he is!”

    His pursuit has arrived. This renewed his strength. Slowly, he rose and continued.

    You aren’t afraid of the chasm. You’re afraid of being caught and being brought to Flat Face. And if you don't move faster, that is exactly what will happen. His pace quickened, slippery surface be damned. For a moment, his feet were light as they once were and danced gracefully across the fallen tree as if there was no chasm beneath him.

    Niomir touched the ground on the other side and turned. The pursuers had already gathered on the opposite edge. They glared at him, threw curses and threats but not one of them dared to step onto the tree.

    These are all tribesmen who chose the safe route. No one has ever tried to cross.

    That was when Setimika pushed to the fore. He issued no threat but his gaze was menacing enough. Niomir waited. He knew Setimika would try to cross. His pride demanded it but would his balance hold out? According to his expression, Setimika was thinking the same thing.

    Setimika barked for silence, moved to the tree and waited. Slowly, the noise subsided. Niomir saw him swallow. Setimika climbed on the fallen trunk and inched forward. Every time the wind picked up, he would crouch down and grab with his hands so as not to lose balance.

    Niomir watched his progress impassively. It was clear to him that should Setimika make it across, he would easily overpower Niomir. He might not be able to drag him back across the tree but he could drag him around the long way or he would wait for the others to make the trip around and they would simply drag him to Flat Face together.

    After he made it across, Niomir saw a sliver of hope to escape Flat Face’s wrath. Now, with each Setimika’s hesitant step, that sliver shrunk.

    Unless…

    Niomir raised his good hand and pressed it flat on the log. Setimika raised his eyes, met Niomir’s gaze and froze.

    Setimika’s foot slipped. He waved with outstretched arms wildly, maintained his balance for a moment, then he fell. In the final moment, he tried to grab the log but it was slippery and there were no branches to grab onto.

    Setimika made no sound as the chasm swallowed him. There was a long moment of silence.

    They heard the crack.

    Niomir watched the cluster of widely opened eyes on the other side of the chasm. The moment dragged for eternity.

    At last, one of the tribesmen moved. He took off at an accelerating pace along the gorge. Some of them followed him. Others went in the same direction they’d come from, already defeated. Niomir watched them slowly leave until only one of them remained.

    Nimmian.

    He stared at Niomir with a tortured expression. Niomir returned with his silent gaze for a time, then he turned and walked away.

    “Don’t go.”

    Niomir turned. “Why not?” he said.

    “We need you,” Nimmian blurted. “I need you.”

    Niomir stared. He shook his head. “You need to see me crawling in the dirt in your stead. That is the only thing that keeps you from going insane with fear.”

    In a spurt of anger - or was it bravery? - Nimmian made to climb the log but only after a step he careened wildly and just barely managed to jump back to safety. He stared into the blackness that had just devoured Setimika, eyes wide with horror.

    The wind abated, almost as if the spirits themselves were eager to hear the rest of the conversation.

    “We will starve without you,” Nimmian pleaded.

    “Yes, you will,” said Niomir, his voice flat and pitiless. “But that is no longer my concern. You've made certain of that when you did this.” He lifted his mutilated hand.

    They stared at each other.

    “Where will you go?” Nimmian asked in a small voice.

    “Does it matter?” Niomir said.

    “Whoever finds you, they will kill you for trespassing.” It almost sounded a threat.

    Niomir nodded. “Most likely, yes.”

    “Then why do this?” Nimmian pleaded.

    For a long moment, Niomir said nothing. Ice crystals swirled around them. The world held its breath.

    “Because I would rather be murdered by them than to be taken apart one finger at a time by you.”

    Nimmian cringed. “I didn’t want to do it!” he cried as he were the wounded one. “Flat Face forced me! He said if I didn't do it, he would… take your whole hand.”

    “Why would you care what he did to me?”

    The rims of Nimmian’s eyes turned red. “Because you are my brother! I’ve always loved you!”

    “Even when you betrayed me? Even when you mutilated me?”

    Stricken, Nimmian nodded.

    Niomir managed a sneer. “So you mutilated me out of brotherly love, is that what you're saying?”

    Nimmian’s face bobbed stupidly. “Yes.”

    For some strange reason, Niomir believed him. Something stirred within him where the love for his brother used to be. The only thing that remained of it was an ugly stump, even uglier than his hand.

    “If this is what your love looks like, brother…” Niomir raised his mutilated hand between them. “…, you can keep it for yourself.”

    Niomir turned and walked away. Words followed him but he paid them no mind. Whoever uttered them was a stranger anyway.



    Chapter 15: Stolen
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

    His pursuit had never made an appearance. The long way around the gorge took them too long to intercept him.

    He fled until the savage power of the blizzard had run itself out. Gradually, he became aware of the foreignness of the woods around him and knew he’d crossed into the neighboring territory.

    Niomir faced the unknown forest with empty eyes. He could feel the streaks where his face was burned by the scourging wind. His fingers burned as if they were on fire and his feet were lumps of agony.

    Finally, he could not hold himself up any longer. What a cumbersome thing this flesh is, he thought wearily. It will be a blessing to leave it behind.*
    With the final droplets of strength, he managed to prop himself up against a tree and assumed a half-sitting position.

    This is a good spot. Here, I make my place. My spirit will climb the tree and leap into the spirit world. He fell into a state that was part slumber and part death.

    He awoke with the sun’s rays in his eyes. The storm was gone, he bathed in sunlight.

    Is this the spirit world? He looked down. His left hand was still short a thumb.

    That was when he sensed another's presence. Niomir slowly looked up. The man sat on the ground a stone toss away, turned sideface to him. Propped to a tree within the his reach stood the strangest spear ever. It was bent in peculiar way, a rope was dangling on it and there was no killing point on either end. Not a spear at all. A walking cane?

    The stranger ignored him for the moment, casually nibbling a dried piece of fruit. He was the epitome of carefreeness but Niomir guessed it was an act.

    Not an act. A choice.

    “Just kill me and be done with it,” Niomir snapped.

    The stranger’s eyebrows twitched. “Why would I do that?” he asked with a full mouth.

    Niomir stared in disbelief. He expected he would be dispatched as soon as he was discovered. Now it seemed they were playing the waiting game.

    He gave the man a more thorough inspection. The more he looked, the more he was confused by what he saw.

    Under a fur cloak, the stranger wore a long yellow shirt. It was woven meticulously in a way such as Niomir had never seen. His tribe had weaved grass threads to fashion entrance flaps for their huts and built winter storage for seeds with it. But no one had ever thought of dressing into woven grass. The thread of this man's shirt was too fine to be distinguished from a distance. And it fit perfectly, as if the entire garb was not woven at all but molded onto his body.

    Footwear. Niomir couldn't stop staring at them. These weren't crude leggings such as he was used to. Not simple pieces of hide, peeled from a carcass and strapped around his feet. They were sown together from smaller parts of leather so that they took the form of an actual foot and fitted perfectly.

    A clutch of feathered throwing darts poked from behind the stranger's shoulder, too light to be effective as throwing missiles. And that strange roped cane he kept carefully in his reach despite giving off a casual feeling. Niomir's focus kept going back to it.

    Looks sturdy enough to crack my skull with it.

    He looked for a tribal totem anywhere on the man’s person, or regional paintings on his clothes. Nothing. Why would a man walk through his own territory and not display his totem openly?

    It dawned on him. “You’re trespassing as well.”

    The man stopped chewing, looked his way, nodded. “It’s what I do best.”

    Despite his best effort, Niomir was intrigued. “Are you a poacher?”

    The stranger thought for a moment, nodded again, this time a slight smile on his face. “You could say that.”

    Niomir couldn’t help but ask. “What’s your prey of choice?”

    “Runaway Runts,” the man said. The air had gone much colder. For a few moments, the words hung between them like a blade. The stranger felt it too. "I tend to give them a choice if they want to come with me," he said.

    The words made Niomir's mind quicken. “You are Isurion the Runt Stealer.”

    The man nodded with a slight smile. "One of my better names. I have some worse ones as well.”

    Niomir stared. This was the most despised man of the Four Nations. 'A vicious troublemaker,' Flat Face had called him once, 'a trickster whose only task is to disrupt the ways of the tribes in any way possible.' Some of the tribesmen had even blamed him for the latest scarcity of game. As if one man could change the travelling paths of the great herds.

    Or could he?

    He was also someone able to outsmart, avoid and outmanouvre every single tribesman who’d vowed to make an end to his activities.

    “I’ve heard of you,” Niomir said. “I’ve also heard you don’t venture this far east.”

    “I’m at home in the woods,” Isurion said. “But this far east, the woods turn to open grassland. I don’t like being exposed like this.”

    “Yet here you are.”

    “Yes,” Isurion said. “I tried to find good paths to the east while the winter kept the tribesmen in their caves and huts. But I was spotted and tracked by your neighbours. They cut off my retreat into familiar ground. I had no choice but to flee further east but I’ve never been this far east.” A peculiar emotion danced upon Isurion’s features. “To be honest, I’m lost.” He smiled at Niomir. “I could use some help.”

    Niomir could not hide his astonishment. “You need my help?”

    “I can’t do any Runt saving until I get saved first,” said Isurion and grinned.

    “I’m not sure I deserve saving,” Niomir said, averting his eyes.

    “Because you fled your tribe?” Isurion asked, at once serious.

    “Because I abandoned those that relied upon me.”

    Isurion chewed his berries thoughtfully. “I’ve met hundreds of Runts like you. Bereft of reason and faith. Wronged by the very tribe they grew in and loved. All felt betrayed and abused. Each season I take at least a handful with me.”

    “Some believe your actions caused the current situation,” Niomir said. “The paranoia of my elder started with rumours of your exploits.”

    Isurion eyed him. “Do you blame me for what happened to you?” He pointed at Niomir's mutilated hand.

    Niomir didn't reply. The emotion in which he swam was alien to him. Was it anger? Was it relief?

    Neither of them spoke for a while. Isurion chewed his berries, took a water bladder from his pack, drank, tossed it casually to Niomir. It landed just in reach of his good hand.

    Niomir eyed the gift. The last time he’d received one was from Flat Face. He tried to figure out this strange man of the dreaded name and of the innocent face.

    He peered at Isurion for a long time, watched him chew. “Why do this?”

    Isurion stopped chewing. “What do you mean?”

    “What reason do you have to risk life and limb to liberate someone you’ve never met before?”

    A puzzled expression came across Isurion’s face. “No one has ever asked me that.”

    Even his voice betrays naked emotion, Niomir noted. “I’m asking,” he said.

    “This is important to you,” Isurion said. He was intrigued, it was plain. “Why do you want to know my motives?”

    “Because I would rather stay right here and give my bones to the dirt than to change one madman’s fetters for another’s.”

    Niomir glimpsed a wounded smile. “So I am on trial,” Isurion said.

    “Aren’t we all?” Niomir said. Isurion smiled at that, turned serious and gazed out in the sky. For a while, he sat in silence. His features were naked to the point of innocence. Niomir stared. This is not how he’d imagined the dreaded Runt Stealer.

    “I suppose…” Isurion finally voiced, “…I see suffering of Runts as an opportunity.”

    “For what?”

    “To show there is a better way than what the elders consider to be the only way. Their ways were born in another time, in another place. But we are not in that place anymore. Rules are only good as long as they serve us, protect us, nurture us. If your elder had possessed more vision, he would not have allowed dogma to prevent him from using your talents.”

    Niomir’s eyes went wide. “How do you know about that?”

    “Why else would they cut off your thumb other than to keep you from hunting? You are a born hunter. I saw that in the footprints you left behind.”

    Isurion peered into Niomir's eyes. “You said you don’t deserve saving.” Niomir was struck by the sudden power Isurion’s voice carried. “I disagree. I believe you are very much worthy of that. Even now, your first thought was of others. Even when you were prohibited by the creed to do so, you acted to protect others. That makes you worthy of being saved. But I will do more than save your life. I will give you the chance to recreate the world around you as you see fit. Until you came out here, the law made you powerless. Out here, you have the power to make a difference.”

    “And the power to defy the creed of the spirits?” Niomir asked.

    Isurion shrugged. “I don’t think of the spirits as the stern mentors the elders made them into. I believe in benevolent spirits, spirits that watch us with great affection and provide guidance in the right moment.”

    Unexpectedly, anger erupted in Niomir. “Guidance?” he sneered. “You are as insane as every one of them.” He held up his mutilated hand. “Is this guidance, oh wise one? Why would the spirits want to do this to me unless they are cruel as Flat Face? I will never throw another spear.” The reality of it finally hit him with all force. Niomir reeled from the emotional blow. Tears came unsummoned to his eyes. He would not weep in front of this stranger, no matter what his name and reputation was.

    “No, you will not.”

    Something in Isurion's voice caught Niomir's attention. He looked up. Isurion stood up, picked up the strange cane and put his weight onto it. It bent so much Niomir thought he intended to break it. When he released it, the cane remained bent; the rope held it so.

    In one fluid motion, Isurion reached behind his shoulder, took one of the darts on his back and placed the feathered end on the rope that bound the ends of the cane. He pulled the rope with one hand as he lifted the cane with the other. There was a sharp twang! that made Niomir cringe. The dart flew through the air with the speed of an angry hornet and thudded into a nearby tree. A squirrel twitched around it, impaled.

    Niomir stared open-mouthed as Isurion walked to the tree and dislodged the dart. He brought the squirrel, still impaled, to Niomir and crouched in front of him.

    “No, you will never throw another spear,” Isurion said, lifting the kill to eye height. Then he extended the roped cane toward Niomir, offered it to him with a smile. “But you will be able to use one of these.”

    Niomir stared at the cane in wonder. A deep tremble began in his spine and overwhelmed his entire body. For a long moment, he could not name this sensation.

    Then he recognized it - it was his hunter’s instinct, at long last growling back to life.

    Last edited by Boriak; December 25, 2016 at 04:23 AM.

  4. #4
    Alwyn's Avatar Frothy Goodness
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    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    I enjoyed your story, particularly the relationship between the brothers and the tension as Niomir decides what to do, during the Winnow (as well as the tension between one of the brothers and the elder, in the third chapter). You have created an immersive story and an intriguing tribal society, I wonder if you will continue this story, or if you have plans for other writing.

  5. #5
    Boriak's Avatar Senator
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    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    I'm editting Chapter 4 now, I'll post it tomorrow. There's 13 chapters in all.

    Thanks for the feedback. I really appreciate it.

  6. #6
    Dude with the Food's Avatar Campidoctor
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    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    I hope you don't get put off by the lack of responses because this is looking like a pretty good story so far. +rep.
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    I am me. You are not me. You are you. If I was you, I wouldn't be me.
    If you were me, I'd be sad.But I wouldn't then be me because you'd be me so you wouldn't be me because I wasn't me because you were me but you couldn't be because I'd be a different me. I'd rather be any kind of bird (apart from a goose) than be you because to be you I'd have to not be me which I couldn't do unless someone else was me but then they would be you aswell so there would still be no me. They would be you because I was you so to restore balance you would have to be me and them meaning all three of us would become one continously the same. That would be very bad.


  7. #7
    Boriak's Avatar Senator
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    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    I'll keep posting the chapters until the story's finished. Feedback would still be appreciated.

    Thanks for the rep. Chapter 4 is up now.

  8. #8
    Alwyn's Avatar Frothy Goodness
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    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    I like Chapter 4, I enjoyed Niomir's discoveries about the village of Runts and the way that Norgilam is broadening his understanding. Your description of Niomir's collapse is nicely done. Norgilam is perceptive, I like your line about 'crushing the seeds with hate' - a sign, presumably, of Niomir's resentment about his new situation as well as Norgilam's perceptiveness.

  9. #9
    Boriak's Avatar Senator
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    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    Chapter 5 is up. Took me a bit longer than I thought.

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    Boriak's Avatar Senator
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    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    Chapter 6 is up. Feedback would still be appreciated.

  11. #11
    Dude with the Food's Avatar Campidoctor
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    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    Still enjoying this. It'll be interesting to see the interactions between the tribesmen and runts now they're together. Especially looking forward to catching up with Nimmian.
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    I am me. You are not me. You are you. If I was you, I wouldn't be me.
    If you were me, I'd be sad.But I wouldn't then be me because you'd be me so you wouldn't be me because I wasn't me because you were me but you couldn't be because I'd be a different me. I'd rather be any kind of bird (apart from a goose) than be you because to be you I'd have to not be me which I couldn't do unless someone else was me but then they would be you aswell so there would still be no me. They would be you because I was you so to restore balance you would have to be me and them meaning all three of us would become one continously the same. That would be very bad.


  12. #12
    m_1512's Avatar Quomodo vales?
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    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    Oh man, this is some of the most inspiring collection of tales I've seen written. It has almost a biblical feel to the style of writing. Looking forward to seeing some more.

    Have some rep...


  13. #13
    Alwyn's Avatar Frothy Goodness
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    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    Your description of what happens to Norgilam in chapter 5 is powerful, and Niomir's reaction in chapter 6 and the dialogue in that chapter are brilliant! I wonder what had happened to the tribesmen in chapter 5 - had they been pushed out of their usual hunting grounds? If that happened, I wonder if whoever did that will keep advancing and reach the Runt village where Niomir is living. I wonder, too, if Niomir will look for Isurion - if enemies are approaching, that might be his best chance for survival.

  14. #14
    Boriak's Avatar Senator
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    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    Hey. Thanks for the positive words, guys, really appreciate it.

    Just realized I have three characters starting with N: Niomir, Nimmian and Norgilam. Some have already said that Niomir and Nimmian sound too similar but I want to keep it like this because they are brothers and Nimmian sounds a lot like 'minion' which capsulates his nature perfectly. Niomir sounds sharp and determined which is why I also want to keep it.

    Norgilam, on the other hand, is not related to them, but he was a character I had planned a long time and just now realized that together with the two brothers it might sound confusing.

    Would it be Ok if I change Norgilam's name in the chapters I've already posted as well as the chapters yet to come?
    Last edited by Boriak; November 13, 2016 at 04:06 PM.

  15. #15
    Boriak's Avatar Senator
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    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    I changed the name. Norgilam is now Grower.

    Seventh chapter is up. Notice a name in the chapter title - this is POV character. Next chapter will be from another character's perspective.
    Last edited by Boriak; November 15, 2016 at 11:58 AM.

  16. #16
    Boriak's Avatar Senator
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    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    Chapter 8 is up. Couldn't get it on the first post so it's on the second one.

  17. #17
    Alwyn's Avatar Frothy Goodness
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    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    I enjoyed the new perspective and the dialogue between Niomir and Nimmian. (The change of name for Grower makes sense.) I wonder if Niomir will get the spear, what he will do with it (and what will happen to him, since Runts are not allowed weapons).

  18. #18

    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    This is just excellent. You managed to get two of humanity's great dramas (struggle with belief and with a privilege-driven society) and bring them to a really interesting setting. The collision between the world of the hunters and the farmers is great and it keeps getting better as we find out every character's role and way to deal with it.

    Have some rep and keep it up!

  19. #19
    Boriak's Avatar Senator
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    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    Thanks for the comments and the rep.

    Chapter 9 is up.

  20. #20
    Alwyn's Avatar Frothy Goodness
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    Default Re: Against the Tribe (fantasy story)

    Chapter 9 is excellent! Niomir is a brave and compassionate character, risking his life out of concern for others - putting himself in danger both from wild animals and from his tribe (if he is discovered with a weapon, which Runts are not allowed to carry). But will his spear break when he needs it the most?

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