Fire Country (6 page)

“After the Call you wo
n’t be able to be friends with him anyway. It’s just not proper.” His words sting, but not ’cause he’s saying them, but ’cause I know he’s right. The Bearers aren’t friends with the men, ’cept for their Call. But I can’t imagine not being friends with Circ, passing by him with a subtle nod, like we hardly know each other.

“Is that clear, Youngling?” he says.

“Clear as…”—Mud? Sandy water? Tug blood?—“…rain,” I say.

T
he good news: my wrist is fixed up in time for me to watch the Hunt. The bad news: it’s broken in two places and’ll take at least a full moon and a half to heal.

There are at least a dozen Hunts taking place today, all around fire country, at the usual
and rare spots, where the wildgrass and scrubgrass still flourish, growing in ankle-high clumps. The tug got no choice but to eat right where we expect them to. But that don’t mean taking them down’ll be easy.

Although Heaters go out on a daily basis to scrounge up ’zard and pricklers and other small animals and plants good for eating, the Hunt is the most important
event for our survival. It’s where the Hunters will—assuming everything goes well—bring home thousands of pounds of tug meat for the village, which’ll get us through the next few full moons.

I’m walking out to
one of the Hunts—the one Circ’ll be participating in—with a group of other Younglings. Well, not walking
with
them exactly, more like off to the side, but we’re all headed in the same direction. My arm’s wrapped up as tight as a pink new-faced baby, and strapped to my shoulder, too, using a tugskin sling. As usual, it’s hot, exceptionally so for this time of year, and I can feel beads of sweat rolling down my back already.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Hawk break off from a group of his friends and saunter toward me, but I keep my eyes forward, pretend
ing not to notice. When he gets close, he says, “What happened to you, Scrawny? Did the wind blow a little too hard and snap your arm in half?”

My heart starts beating faster, but I’m not in the mood to back down, so I ask
him a question of my own. “How come you’re not in the Hunt today? Still haven’t managed to pass the skills test?” I muster as much confidence in my voice as I can, but it still sounds high-pitched and weak to my ears.

To my surprise, Hawk laughs. “Haven’t you heard? I just passed yesterday.”

My eyes flash to his. He could be lying, but if he is, it doesn’t show on his face. “But then why…?”

“Why ai
n’t I with the other Hunters? Don’t you know nothing? First Hunt I get to come in all special-like. They’ve got me set up on the bluffs with the rest of the spectators.”

He’s right. Memories of Circ’s f
irst Hunt flash through my mind: the other Hunters set up en masse in one area, Circ away from the main body; Circ running up, so much smaller’n them, like a mini-Hunter, the sharp end of his spear showering sparks of reflected light around him; his first kill, a decent-sized tug with long black horns. Typically Younglings don’t kill a tug their first time out. But Circ did.

“
Took you long enough,” I say. Then, staring straight ahead, I think to add, “Don’t get yourself killed.”

“I’m not the one you should be w
orried about,” Hawk says, but ’fore I have a chance to reply, he veers away, back to his friends, who laugh and pound their fists into his.

What’s that s’
posed to mean?
I’m left wondering. I worry ’bout any of the Hunters getting hurt, but the only one I’m ever really focused on is…

Circ.

“Hey, Sie,” Lara says, coming up behind me.

“Sorry, Lara, I’m really not
in the mood to talk ’bout—”

“I heard about your wrist. I’m really sorry it happened.”

“Uh, thanks. It hurts like a Killer’s jaws are sunk in it, but I’ll survive. I’m feeling alright after MedMa’s herbs.”

“It’ll get well before the Call though, right?” she asks.

“Yeah, MedMa said it’ll only take a little over a full moon to heal. But why do you car—”

“Good,” she says. “See you later.” And just like that, she’s gone too, leaving me scratching my head with my good hand.
I want to chase after her, demand some answers to all her cryptic words, but I’m too scared about what she might say. That she’s involved with the Wilds, the Icers, or someone even worse. I kick a rock in the direction she left, half hoping it’ll hit her.

~~~

The tugs are restless.

They may not be the smartest animals, bu
t they ain’t stupid either. As soon as the Hunters come into view they start stomping their cloven feet, bucking their monstrous heads, and milling about like a bunch of Younglings at a Learning social event. They know something’s up.

The massive beasts look like hair-covered boulders out on the field, their heads as big and round and wide as the rest of their bodies.

The tugs ain’t exactly considered sacred animals to my people, but they’re not far from it. I mean, without them we’d have died off long ago. Although I don’t particularly like the idea of the Hunters killing them, I know it’s necessary for our survival. After all, almost everything we have comes from them. At over two thousand pounds each, a single tug can feed an entire family for a year, from boiled liver to spiced jerky to stacks and stack of ribs and rump steaks. It’s always a welcome change from the chewiness of ’zard stew or bitterness of prickler salad.

Tug hides are used by the tanners to make leather for our moccasins, dresses for the women,
britches for the men (and for Lara, I s’pose), hats, pouches, bedding, and most importantly, tent covers. There’re probably ’bout a hundred other uses for tugskin I can’t remember.

But it’s not just the skin we use. We use everything, which I’d learned by the time I was six.
Their sinew, bones and horns are used by the weapon makers to craft bows, pointers, spears, and knives, as well as to make glue and tools. From tug hair we get ropes and stuffing for our pillows. Tails are used for paint brushes—like the one Greynote Giza uses—and decorations. We even use tug blaze. This is pretty raunch, but it works wonders on getting a cook fire started, although I can’t say it does much for the flavor of whatever you’re cooking.

So, yeah, the Hunt is import
ant, ’specially the last one, ’cause if it don’t go well, then we starve.

From
high atop the bluffs, I can see for miles and miles, the whole desert spread out ’fore me, like I’m sitting in the sky. I flop down well away from the rest of the Younglings—even Lara keeps her distance today.

A few of the tugs look up our way, toward the spectators, like they know something’s up, but they’ll have plenty on their minds soon enough to worry about us.

I watch as one of the monstrous tugs circles t’others, as if hurding them, trying to keep them from scattering, where they’ll be more vulnerable. Their strength is in their size and numbers. This particular tug must be a leader. With a thick layer of brown shag, a body the size of a boulder and six-inch-long horns that’ll impale you quicker’n a mosquito sucks your blood, the male tug can be deadly to even the most experienced Hunter. And this male tug is bigger’n most, a real biggin, with brains to boot.

Stay away from
him, Circ,
I think.
Stay away from that biggin.

There are a few baby tug mashed together between a bunch of females who take their motherly duties very seriously, but still, there should be more tug calves. As we’ve been taught in Learning: the tug numbers are on the decline, which poses a major problem for us
and for them.

T
he Hunters hold their position ’bout half a mile away, maybe a bit less. I see Hawk strapping on his final pieces of gear: thick leather shin and arm blockers, a wicked-sharp curving knife, a sachet of pointers and a tightly strung bow. Lastly, he picks up his spear. He’s ready. Like Circ, lack of confidence is foreign to Hawk. Either that or he hides it well. Despite being on the verge of charging into the middle of a bloody battle, the likes of which he ain’t never seen before, he manages to crack a joke to one of his friends.

A horn sounds and everyone, Hawk included, gazes at the Hunters. My father stands out in front, clad in a stained black leather tunic, a hollowed out tug horn to his lips.
The future Head Greynote leads the charge. The horn is Hawk’s signal.

He takes off.

It seems to me that having the new Hunter run to catch up to t’others is a knocky tradition. I mean, all you do is tire him out ’fore he even gets to the starting line. I haven’t heard about many newbs getting killed in their first Hunt, but still…

I don’t like Hawk, but I don’t want
him to die.

At first Hawk c
omes out a bit fast, probably ’cause he’s full of adrenaline and excitement and all that first-Hunt stuff, but then he slows a bit, settling into a light gallop. T’others await his arrival patiently, in formation, bangers in the front, shooters in the back, and slashers on the wings. Circ’s a slasher and, as usual, I spot him right away. We’re maybe a quarter-mile away up here on the bluffs, but I can see him as if he’s standing not two feet from me.

After
three years, I’ve memorized everything ’bout him, from the way he stands, to how he holds the slasher-blade when he’s anticipating having to use it, to his pre-Hunt rituals, which he starts now, just as I’m watching him. First he squats and scoops up a handful of dust, letting it sift through his fingers until it’s just the right amount. He watches the grains of sand fall, gaining valuable information on wind speed and direction which’ll be vital in the event he hasta use the bow strapped to his back. The remaining dust is patted onto the handle of his slasher-blade to keep his hands sweat-free. When he regains his feet, Hawk’s nearly upon them. But Circ doesn’t panic, doesn’t rush the rest of his rituals, just calmly goes about them, as if the entire world is waiting for him. A cupped hand over his brow keeps the sun out of his eyes as he scans the tug hurd, looking for weaknesses. Then he checks and rechecks his equipment, making sure he has everything, that nothing’s loose. Finally, he assumes a runner’s stance, one foot in front of the other, knees slightly bent, head down.

Hawk reaches the Hunters at a dead sprint and the horn sounds
again.

~~~

For me the eeriest part of the Hunt is the beginning. The Hunters charge the hurd, making no sound. Not a war cry, not a yell, not even a hiccup. Their feet barely seem to touch the ground as the hundred or so men and Younglings run on silent tiptoes. The hurd knows they’re coming, sure, but the silent approach lulls them into a trance. That is, until the bangers start banging.

Wielding short, stubby hammers and long, pointed spears, the bangers arrive first, prodding at the tugs in the forefront, sneaking in a smash with a hammer where possible. The tugs pretty much go
wooloo, which is the point. They lose their cool, start to break off from the hurd, scatter. The only way to defeat a two-thousand-pound foe amongst a pack of two-thousand-pound foes, is to get him away from t’others.

But not all the tugs start running. The biggin does a bit of charging of his own, churning up durt and du
st and plowing into the line of bangers, who, realizing they’ve got a fight on their hands, start to retreat.

Sometimes it’s better to be quick than lucky.

It’s something my father once said that stuck with me. That was back when he wasn’t such a baggard. I’ve always been quick on my feet, even if a bit clumsy, and my father taught me to use that to my advantage. Now, in the midst of the Hunt, being quicker’n the guy next to you is crucial.

Out of fi
fty or so bangers, about five ain’t as quick as t’others. The biggin tosses two in the air like feathers, only they don’t come down all floaty and soft-like; they come down like a rockslide, probably breaking half the bones in their bodies. T’other half are broken when the madder‘n-scorch tug tramples all over them on the way to his next mark. To take out the third and fourth Hunters, he just lowers his big ol’ head and butts them over, leaving nothing but carcasses and guts in his wake. For the fifth one, he has something special planned. To the Hunter’s credit, he knows he ain’t gonna escape the biggin, and he turns to fight. But it doesn’t make one grizz of difference. His spear and hammer just bounce off the tug’s hide and he keeps on coming. With a deft flick of his neck, the monster tug gets under the Hunter enough to lift him up on his horns. The guy screams.

I look away when the blood starts spraying.

Stay away from him, Circ
, I think again. This time it feels like a prayer.

Well, the shooters start shooting, and their
pointers fill the air like a thousand lashes of rain running sideways in a winter wind. At least two dozen pointers pepper the biggin, sprouting out of him at all kinds of angles. He bellows, but I know it’s not ’cause he’s scared or hurt or surrendering. No, his cry is one of anger and defiance.
Not on my watch
, it says to me.

A banger with a death wish runs up and jabs his spear straight into the tug’s side, but it just breaks o
ff before it penetrates more’n an inch. In a move so agile a burrow mouse would be proud, the tug twists itself around and kicks out with his hind leg, which catches the bold (or maybe wooloo) Hunter directly in the face. He goes down harder’n a sack of tug dung and lies still.

Enter Circ.

Somehow I knew he was coming, one way or t’other. It’s exactly the type of situation he can’t seem to stay away from. One that’s impossible. One that’ll challenge him to the very end of, or perhaps beyond, his level of ability.