She did not eat, and the pangs of hunger soon passed, so that she floated, and all that her eyes witnessed shone with a luminous clarity. Water she licked from dew-laden grasses, the cupped holes of deer and elk tracks in basins, and once she found a spring, almost hidden by thick brush in which flitted hundreds of tiny birds. It had been their chittering songs that had drawn her attention.
An eternity of running later, she had fallen. And found no strength to rise once more, to resume the wondrous journey through this glowing land.
Night then stole upon her, and not long after came the four-legged people. They wore furs smelling of wind and dust, and they gathered close, lying down, sharing the warmth of their thick, soft cloaks. There were children among them, tiny babes that crawled as did their parents, squirming and snuggling up against her.
And when they fed on milk, so did Stayandi.
The four-legged people were as mute as she was, until they began their mournful cries, when night was at its deepest; crying-she knew-to summon the sun.
They stayed with her, guardians with their gifts of warmth and food. After the milk, there was meat. Crushed, mangled carcasses-mice, shrews, a headless snake-she ate all they gave her, tiny bones crunching in her mouth, damp fur and chewy skin.
This too seemed timeless, a foreverness. The grown-ups came and went. The children grew burlier, and she now crawled with them when it was time to wander.
When the bear appeared and rushed towards them, she was not afraid. It wanted the children, that much was obvious, but the grown-ups attacked and drove it off. Her people were strong, fearless. They ruled this world.
Until one morning she awoke to find herself alone. Forcing herself to her hind legs, helpless whimpering coming from her throat in jolts of pain, she scanned the land in all directions-
And saw the giant. Bare above the waist, the deep hue of sun-darkened skin almost entirely obscured beneath white paint-paint that transformed his chest, shoulders and face into bone. His eyes, as he walked closer, were black pits in the caked mask skull. He carried weapons: a long spear, a sword with a broad, curved blade. The fur of the four-legged people was wrapped about his hips, and the small but deadly knives strung in a necklace about the warrior’s neck, they too belonged to her people.
Frightened, angry, she bared her teeth at the stranger, even as she cowered in the fold of a small hummock-nowhere to run, knowing he could catch her effortlessly. Knowing that yet another of her worlds had shattered. Fear was her bronze box, and she was trapped, unable to move.
He studied her for a time, cocking his head as she snapped and snarled. Then slowly crouched down until his eyes were level with her own.
And she fell silent.
Remembering… things.
They were not kind eyes, but they were-she knew-like her own. As was his hairless face beneath that deathly paint.
She had run away, she now recalled, until it seemed her fleeing mind had outstripped her flesh and bone, had darted out into something unknown and unknowable.
And this savage face, across from her, was slowly bringing her mind back. And she understood, now, who the four-legged people were, what they were. She remembered what it was to stand upright, to run with two legs instead of four. She remembered an encampment, the digging of cellar pits, the first of the sod-walled houses. She remembered her family-her brother-and the night the demons came to steal it all away.
After a time of mutual silent regard, he straightened, settled the weapons and gear about himself once more, then set out.
She hesitated, then rose.
And, at a distance, she followed.
He walked towards the rising sun.
Scratching at the scarred, gaping hole where one eye had been, Toc watched the children running back and forth as the first cookfires were lit. Elders hobbled about with iron pots and wrapped foodstuffs-they were wiry, weathered folk, but days of marching had dulled the fire in their eyes, and more than a few snapped at the young ones who passed too close.
He saw Redmask, trailed by Masarch and Natarkas and another bearing the red face-paint, appear near the area laid out for the war leader’s yurt. Seeing Toc, Redmask approached.
‘Tell me, Toc Anaster, you flanked our march on the north this day-did you see tracks?’
‘What sort do you mean?’
Redmask turned to Natarkas’s companion. ‘Torrent rode to the south. He made out a trail that followed an antelope track-a dozen men on foot-’
‘Or more,’ the one named Torrent said. ‘They were skilled.’
‘Not Letherii, then,’ Toe guessed.
‘Moccasined,’ Redmask replied, his tone betraying slight irritation at Torrent’s interruption. ‘Tall, heavy.’