Razaad felt the edge of Arn’s aggression once more. The hunters pounded across the hilltop with muddied boot and poisoned spear. Arn’s knife hilt rubbed against his side—the raw flesh there felt like the line of water scales they chased. He moved the knife with his free hand, so it didn’t cause his recently healed wound to bruise or bleed again. At his left, Thalla cawed like a bird as she leapt over a small, dirt crevasse and into the side of a scaly beast. Her spear poked out its left eye and the two disappeared in the wake of Arn’s charge. They descended down the beach of Razaad, and Arn claimed his own kill.
“I was hesitant of you,” said a hunter named Shar. “I asked my friend, ‘how can a man lead the hunters from a wound bed?’”
Arn smirked. He waved for the man to grab the water scale’s feet. They began carrying it up the slope together. “But then Thalla cut your arm open.”
The other hunter chuckled and looked at the beige cloth bandage on his arm. “She did indeed,” he muttered. “And you now prove yourself daily. Torr was not fit to lead.”
Arn shrugged. “Tried to save Torr,” he said.
“I respect your deceit,” Shar said, with a grin. “None can tell you that you lie, and this is the best kind of lie.”
They walked in silence for a time. The tribe on Razaad did indeed respect deceit and cunning. Arn was plotting for his own ambition, but, in doing, he proved his membership. Logern had done the same—his ploy, losing intentionally to Taran, had rivalled Arn’s abilities of subterfuge and had saved his life and his position. The villagers spoke of Arn and Logern with praise, though never in their presence of course.
And Stone Spear continued to rule. He was training with a spear outside the village when Arn and Shar carried the water scale past. He gave Arn a nod. If he distrusted the new Chief Hunter, he did not show it. Keeya, Arn’s sister oversaw a number of tasks in the running of the village proper. Logern oversaw the fishers. Keeya had made a few suggestions to Stone Spear, but the leader trusted Logern the most. Logern had served as Chief Fisher for two years, without failure.
Shar left Arn’s prize with him in front of his hut. Later, Thalla walked by, still with dark hunting paint drawn in vertical bars across her face. Her hands were red stained from the animal she had killed, but she smiled when she saw Arn carving up his own water scale. He’d already oozed out as much venom as he could from the pocket glands in its mouth and drained its blood into a clay pot to cook with its meat.
“How does it feel to be back in the field?” she asked.
Arn smiled. “Good,” he said. He stretched his side, with one hand over his head, and grimaced. His side was still knotted and sore, and raw scar tissue greeted the sunlight with bright pink. “Sore. How does it feel to be a hunter?”
“Good,” Thalla said. “I’m getting stronger every time.”
There were only two female hunters right now, including Arn’s friend. In the histories recounted to the children of the tribe by Jorik, there were always female hunters, but never many. Thalla could pull her weight, and was quickly gaining respect among the band of warriors. “Watch out for Shar,” she said. “He’s got a voice to be silenced.”
“I know,” Arn said. “I knew that before I was Chief too.”
“I forgot,” Thalla laughed. She had a very flat nose, but a pretty smile. She tapped a stone near her feet with the butt of her spear and said, “I’ll see you at the cook-fires then?”
“Of course,” Arn said, as he pried off the water scale’s claws with the flat of his knife.