Planet of Qaldreth

Meorri tribe

Drafe squeezed five droplets of water onto his tongue. The sweet liquid nourished and cooled as it slid down his throat. His pouch sloshed with the heavenly goodness, but drinking more than the allowance was taboo. Still, he was tempted, hefting the bladder in his hand while trailing a thumb over his father's star burned into the leather. Sighing, he set it aside. Any water he returned with would add to tomorrow's rations. Not that he could recall having quenched his thirst. He, like all Meorri, survived on Osnir-blessed five drops at a time to hold back thirst.

On a pale-yellow stone ledge, he rested. Enjoying the cool shade of a cucooya tree—its thick, bulbous roots offering him a backrest—he stared across the Aguura salt plains. In the distance, hazy mountains rose, dark and mysterious. The Riermus tribe reigned over the Ki'irinzi Mountains stretching as far as the eye can see. He had never hunted far enough across the plains to meet a Riermus. There was talk their skin was the color of pale-yellow rock, mottled green and brown.

He sprawled with two dead garaks beside him. The length of his forearm, they would provide food for a few days, and their thick fur would please Larya, his sister. It was nearing midday. Qaldreth's two suns tortured the soil, burned the air, and siphoned what water trickled to the surface. He slumped, resting against the spongy bark. Having set out before daybreak, exhaustion drained him. Every big prey he'd targeted had slipped through his fingers.

His symbiotes flooded him with memories of his past fathers' hunts, hoping Drafe would learn from their skill and mistakes. A poor substitute for a lost parent. When he had a son, he would share the symbiotes as his father had done with him. So did the knowledge and condemnation of his ancestors survive.

"My thanks," he grumbled.

None of the symbiotes' guidance helped him. They slithered under the surface of his skin, rippling like a vasquva under the desert sands. Now that would be a worthy kill. The massive worm would feed his village for a year. Holy Osnir, even a baby vasquva would be worth the effort.

He shifted his legs, bare beneath the leather loincloth, his koq tucked into its pocket. His feet and chest were bare too. To hunt clothed was cowardly. To his right lay his father's sword. The shimmering Borven blade caught the suns' light. The hilt had strips of leather, hinting at past kills. It wasn't a Cainus-made sword, but it had survived generations. He had his spear beside that, the Borven head sharp enough to kill. No vasquva leather wrapped around the butt, only garak. One day soon, he would add a worthy kill to his symbiotes' memories.

The pebbles beneath his hand trembled and hopped. He rested his gaze on the plains before him. His symbiotes whispered of vasquva, but he dismissed it. The worms didn't travel the plains, preferring the Nadaar dunes west of him.

The whiskers bursting through the hard-packed soil proved him wrong.

A cold shiver shot down his back as he gaped. Scrambling to his feet, he scooped up the sword, and bolted, sprinting across the sand with tiny puffs of dust under his feet. As a Meorri, moving without disturbing his surroundings was taught from a young age. Many a danger lay beneath the salt and sand. He pumped his arms, chasing the swerving, slithering worm as it crossed the plains. Salt crystals exploded, stinging his skin. He shook his head to dislodge the white powder off his eyelashes. If he could just reach its neck. Sweat beaded his forehead, drenching the plume of hair curling from his temple down his spine, now sticking to his skin. His breathing labored, but he pushed on.

Such a kill would bring great honor and secure a good mating for Larya. As primary male, he had to care for her.

The amber beads in the guard of his sword dug into his hand. He tightened his grip and leaped onto one of the vasquva's many tails. The slimy yellow skin burned where it touched him. He scrambled up its length, dodging the other tails as they whipped over his head. It tried to dislodge him with flicks and jerks. He held on. Hand over hand, despite the burn of his skin flaking off, he climbed. His symbiotes hurried to heal him, whispering curses in an unknown, ancient language. The tone was the same.

On the vasquva's back, he wrapped one of its long hairs around his arm and tugged, pulling himself from strand to strand until he neared the creature's head. He needed an eye, its weak point. The Ki'irinzi Mountains drew closer, variegated greens changing the hazy grays into a riot of color. Foq. He twisted, spying the cucooya tree he'd but moments ago rested under. It was no bigger than his thumbnail. The hot wind baked by the suns whipped at his hair, dusting his skin with salt. He grabbed a strand of hair and yanked to the right, needing the vasquva to turn around. A laugh erupted at his silliness, but it didn't smother the sadness claiming his soul. If he didn't abandon the hunt, it would take him days to reach home.

The annual challenge was tomorrow.

Even if he plunged his sword into the vasquva's eye, all this meat would rot before he could gather the village. He grunted, released the strand of hair, rolled down the vasquva's back, and leaped off its ass, hitting the ground with a grunt. With a final backward glance, he sprinted toward the cucooya tree, evading the vasquva's nine tails.

A rumble behind him spun him on his heel. A whisker broke the surface of the plains too close for comfort. Gathering his dwindling energy, swallowing past the thick mucus clinging to his tongue, he ran, the sword still gripped in his hand.

At his heels, the sand cracked as the vasquva hunted him, its whiskers caressing his hair. He shivered while his symbiotes screamed instructions he had to ignore. Only the rock outcropping mattered. If he could just reach the tree surrounded by solid rock, the vasquva would abandon the hunt. His feet burned from the hot sand and his heels itched at the constant vibrations. Glances behind him revealed the creature's persistence. He was close. Just a little more...

The ground beneath his back foot fell away. Roaring a battle cry and with the power of his legs, he launched himself, hand outstretched. Fear chilled his bones, so dark, whispering he would fail, he wouldn't make it, his sister would fall to slave status. For a moment, he succumbed to Kreta's seductive words. The goddess of death awaited him.

His fingertips caught the edge. He scrambled to hold on, to pull himself up and over, scraping the skin off his shoulders. A thunderous wail pierced the air and trembled the rock beneath him, but he lay there, on his back, his ragged breaths jarring his chest. Sweat trickled down his scalp, past his ears to the ground beneath him.

He threw out a hand to where he'd left his water pouch.

Nothing. Sitting up with a groan, he stared at the cucooya's thick roots. Where the foq was his water pouch? His spear? The two garaks?

To steal one's water was beyond dishonorable and was punishable with the loss of a hand. No one would dare. The tenacious vasquva circled him, wailing and sending out its whiskers to taste the air. South of him lay the caves. Home, half a day's walk.

Here he sat, waterless.

~ * ~

Hours passed with him unable to head home. The setting suns took the light while the vasquva ranted as it circled the rock. The cooling temperatures racked shivers across Drafe's exposed skin. It lasted a moment before his symbiotes warmed him. With his tongue swollen, he watched the moons cross the sky, the stars bright, beckoning. One was the Ivoyan world where he longed to train as a Qaldreth warrior.

He huffed. Not if he stayed on this rock.

To witness the challenge, Ivoyan aldermen would descend from their sky crafts and choose the next trainee. From when he was a boy, he had longed to join those who left the hot sands of Meorri. Leaping to his feet, he gripped his father's sword and carved a niche in the cucooya's root, asking for nothing more but five droplets. It conceded, and he gathered the sticky liquid on his fingertips. One could not survive for long on the tree's salty sap, but it should sustain him until he reached home.

The wind whipped his hair, tickling his back as he stared south, peering into the thick darkness. Used to the suns' light, his eyes didn't handle night well. Drawing in a deep breath, he squared his shoulders, rocked on his toes, and bolted, sprinting across the sands with the wail of the vasquva trailing him.

He was a fool to have tried to kill it alone.

Lessons came after he needed them.

His arms and legs burned, but he persevered, zigzagging from rock to shade, often resting on boulders when he could. As the moon crossed the sky, the vasquva persisted, hunting him. Its whiskers dipped and danced as it sought his scent. A mournful cry followed.

In the distance, the white bobbing globes of the venai stones served as guiding lights. He was close to home.

Two tails flicked across the boulder, and he ducked, hissing as they brushed across his scalp. One caught him across the midriff, throwing him off the boulder. He rolled and burst into a run, weaving as he sprinted for his life. Another wail pierced the air, its whiskers brushing across his shoulders. Too close. It dived underground, spraying him with salt and sand.

Two guards rushed to meet him, their spears ready.

Umda hurried closer. "Young Drafe, what have you done now?"

Drafe stumbled to a halt, fighting for breath, to keep standing, to speak. Before he could answer, the vasquva keened, bursting out of the sands, its whiskers tasting the air.

"Holy Kreta." Umda spun his spear, roared, and charged.

Exhaustion trembled Drafe's limbs, but he raised his sword, throwing himself after the older male. The other guard, Tiyl, joined in the battle cry. Following the path he had taken earlier, Drafe clung to the vasquva's tail. Umda vaulted past him, so Drafe scrambled up the creature's back as well. At its thrashing head, Umda raised his spear and nodded at Tiyl, who stabbed the flesh of the worm's ass.

As it bucked and shrieked, Umda yelled, "Now," and plunged his spear into the vasquva's ear. It squealed, its whiskers splaying out, its thrashes more violent.

Drafe clung to a strand of hair, spread his legs wide, and buried his blade into the vasquva's black eye.

Its wail was deafening. With its yellow blood drenching him, he struggled to hold onto his father's sword. At his desperate cry, his symbiotes reacted, adding texture to his fingers. Able to tighten his hold, he yanked and slid the blade free. The vasquva arched its back on a forlorn squeal and slumped, crashing to the sand in a great plume of dust. Drafe tumbled off, slipping on its blood-slicked skin to land on his back with a grunt.

Umda and Tiyl leaped off the creature to stand beside him. As pain lanced across Drafe's body, he bit his lip, careful not to make a noise as he dragged himself to his feet.

"Well, this was fortuitous." Umda's grin was bright in the moonlight. "Osnir has blessed you, young Drafe."

Drafe accepted the thump on his shoulder, despite it almost bringing him to his knees. He doubted the god of light had anything to do with this.

Cries rose from the direction of the village, and more venai lights bobbed.

"Go, we will tend to this." Tiyl gestured to the mass of vasquva to be carved and shared.

"My thanks." Drafe splayed his hand on his chest, then swayed as he turned for home.

Umda halted him with a hand on his forearm. "Where is your water pouch?"

Drafe closed his eyes against the loss. To replace it required the bladder of a hudu. Regardless of the effort, his father had burned the star into the leather. Where his father had touched, that was now lost to Drafe.

"Taken."

Umda jerked back, raising a wide-eyed yellow gaze. "Your oath?"

Drafe nodded. "Along with my day's hunt and a spear."

"This does not bode well, young Drafe." Umda ground his teeth. "Leave this to me. Go, seek your rest, for the rite of Uhann is tomorrow."

Drafe stumbled to where Larya waited. A frown marred her delicate brow, and her mass of braids quivered as she hurried to him.

"What happened?" Her soft voice soothed him despite his dwindling energy. His symbiotes had no more to give until he ate something and tasted the sweetness of water.

"I endangered the village by bringing a vasquva to our borders." He accepted whatever fate the elders chose for him. "I am sorry, Larya."

She said no more, slipped her arm around him, and led him home. Taking the carved steps into the caves trembled his thighs, and bending his knees was beyond him. Placing his hand on the smooth cave walls gave him strength, but when she guided him onto his bed, he groaned.

"Here." She held up a stone bowl of water.

With trembling fingers, he tipped it to his lips, careful to sip and take no more.

"Drink, my brother. I saved from yesterday."

He hesitated, but she forced his hand, tilting the bowl with a finger. The coolness soothed his grated throat, and he groaned, savoring each drop. It wasn't enough, but it would do.

"Hungry?"

He shook his head.

She placed a flat stone beside him with strips of garak across it. "Your symbiotes need it, Drafe."

Taking a sliver, he chewed slowly. His strength had all but left him, and he slumped against the wall. She moved around their small home, gathering a bowl and a cloth. He trailed her with his gaze. The decadent splash of water followed as she poured it into the bowl.

"What are you doing?" His voice was hoarse.

"Washing you." She soaked the cloth and rung it out, but when she tried to touch him with it, he jerked away.

"We do not waste water, Larya." He glared at her, prepared to argue with her.

"You stink of vasquva blood." She met his glare, her yellow gaze clashing with his. "I will walk to the pools in the morning. For the injured, they will allow an extra ration."

"When?" He flinched when she ran the wet cloth across his arm. White spots marred where the vasquva's skin had burned his. "The challenge is at daybreak. I dare not keep the Ivoyan waiting while you fetch more water."

"Ulvus will be challenging you."

Drafe's breath hitched. That massive son of a Kreta whore had been a pain in his ass since childhood, worse so when Larya reached womanhood. "Holy Osnir, Larya, you cannot mate him."

"I know." She stilled, dipping her chin to hide her delicate face. Her tiny body would be no match against Ulvus's brutishness.

"If I let him win, the Ivoyan will choose him." It went against Drafe's very soul to do that, but he had to. One more year would not be too long to wait until the next rite of Uhann. He could train on his own, learn to hunt better, and take the time to find Larya a worthy mate.

She sniffed, raising her shimmering gaze to meet his. "As challenge victor, he will demand I go to his family and await his return."

Drafe winced. If Ulvus didn't survive Ivoy, Larya would never bear children. "The Ivoyan have to choose me then."

She leaped to her feet to refill the stone platter. Not that Drafe could recall eating it all.

"When I go, I leave you unguarded, Larya. Who will you mate?" Darkness hit his chest like a boulder dropping into the unknown caverns beneath the village. He couldn't abandon his sister without knowing her future was secure.

"Kael has asked."

Drafe sat up and groaned, slumping again. "He has? You like him?"

"He is a strong male and a good hunter."

Kael was honorable too, but not favored because of the jagged scar across his face. Drafe pursed his lips. "He will cherish you. Have him come see me, Larya. I want this settled before the challenge. Once the Ivoy arrive, your fate is sealed."

A sweet smile graced her dark lips, as black as his own. She gathered her leather skirts and ran, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Kael? Drafe was blindsided by the male's interest. Although, he could not fault him, for Larya was a typical Meorri woman with her black moonstone skin, her golden eyes, and the thick braids down her back. She had the gentlest nature and the biggest heart, willing to sacrifice much for another.

Kael was a massive male, scarred from childhood, ostracized because of it, despite having lost his family in the incident. The symbiotes were quiet on the details, except to say, Kael needed Larya's softness.

Drafe ate the meat, sucking the juices off his fingertips before dragging himself off the bed. While she was away, he used the bowl of water to clean himself. Its brown depths swirled with yellow blood when he was done. Slipping on a fresh tunic over pants, he settled onto his bed again.

Heat generated from a stack of venai stones warmed the rooms. Stories were told of tribes burning trees for fuel. He didn't believe them.

"Meorri aac Drafe," Kael greeted from the doorway.

"Meorri aac Kael." Drafe gestured to him to enter. "Larya tells me—"

"She speaks the truth." Kael stood before Drafe, his stance wide, his hands at his sides—a male with nothing to hide.

Drafe studied him. Kael was a big male, his presence filling the small room. When he sliced a glance at Larya hovering at the door, his face softened, and warmth glowed in his yellow eyes.

That was what Drafe had been waiting for. "On the love Osnir once bore Kreta, do you swear to honor Meorri aac Larya, to care for her and cherish her?"

Kael's chest puffed out, and in the steady light from the venai stones, his scar twitched. "As the suns bathe the sands, I do."

Larya gasped and ventured deeper into the room, her eyes wide, her smile more so.

"Larya, sister of mine, do you accept Kael's offer of protection, to bear his children, to care for him?"

She clasped her trembling fingers in front of her. "As the moon births the night, I do."

Drafe laughed, holding out his palms to accept Larya and Kael's hands. He guided hers to Kael's and released them. "It is done. Congratulations, Kael, brother of mine."

Kael roared and scooped a laughing Larya into his arms. Nuzzling her neck, he carried her out.

A deafening silence settled in the home he had shared with his sister and father. The night winds battered the walls but didn't intrude on his thoughts. Mating Larya before the challenge was frowned upon, but Drafe didn't care what the elders said. For tomorrow, he would die, or Osnir willing, fly the stars.

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