Arn’s village had been his home for his whole life, and he had never seen another settlement like it, just a few remote huts and camps at different points on Razaad. The village was built in the rocky interior of a lagoon, with a view to the west, where lay Scoa Isle. There were cliffs there, which rose above the soft swampland. Caves in the cliffs made for reliable shelter during storms, while the wooden houses above housed most of their goods and livelihood. Each house had a square eave, some three feet deep, before a ten foot peak rose up, like each house had a second storey. Only one actually did; the steeples on their houses were to channel the smoke from fires up, without losing the healthy humours produced by the aromas of cooking and burning.
As he had suspected, Torr had taken over the hunting pack after the disappearance of Loklar. No one suspected Arn of a thing. He was just a lowly hunter. He went out each day with Torr and the others, but they only hunted water scales three times each moon. As one of the most valuable animals on Razaad, it was important to the tribe that they were not overhunted. Most days, they caught birds, fish, and rodents. All life on Razaad thrived and failed together, unlike the politics of the tribe itself.
Arn sat in front of his pointed house. Its roof looked as grey and rocky as the cliffs; the mix of long grass and mud dried out completely when the sun rose, and kept out the rain when it didn’t. It wasn’t entirely his house; he shared it with his brothers. The next house was shared by his sisters, while across the street lived some of his aunts.
There were eight different bloodlines on Razaad—not that blood meant much in their society—and they were all large families. Arn himself had three sisters and two brothers.
He was pulling out feathers from a knot-bill bird’s wing while he watched children playing down the street. The horn beaked bird had black feathers with blue plumage. With practiced hands he yanked clumps of feather out. They would be used in cushions, pastes, and as individual feather decorations. Of course, only a small bit of poison was used to hunt birds, or none at all; for the water scales, a spearhead layered with poison would not taint the meat, only the wound.
“Arn,” called Thalla, as she strode up the path toward him. She was wearing a dried reed skirt, instead of her leather trousers, and a small, woven wrap around her breasts. She had long bones hanging from her hair, perhaps bird bones. During public gatherings, everyone dressed in full costume with little skin showing—though the Razaad were not a spiritually concerned tribe. Openness was a sign of weakness, one that would be exploited. During a busy work day, however, the Razaad were casual within reason. They were never carefree, though.
He didn’t reply until she reached him, standing between him and the glaring sun. He looked up at her, but couldn’t see any details in her eyes from this vantage. “What?” he asked.
“They’re throwing spears by the old tree. Crezik’s there, and Torr, and even Stone Spear, though he hasn’t thrown any yet,” Thalla said. A bug zipped by her, and she waved her hand in front of her face to protect it.
“Let’s go then,” Arn said, tossing his knot-bill back at the curtained door of his hut. He grabbed his spear from where it rested at his feet and followed her down the road. He did not stop his eyes from wandering, but they also glanced at the surrounding village as he walked. He would never be caught off guard because of another’s distractions. Everyone did everything for a reason, and Arn was no different.
When they passed through the playing children, the group of tanned bodies followed them.
“You going to throw?” Thalla asked, looking back at him as they walked. The village consisted of thirty-six huts, the thirty-seventh had burned down a few months ago. Even with all those huts, they were almost at the edge of town. A crowd had gathered to watch their competition, a mix of men, women, and children.
“Maybe,” Arn said. “You?”
Thalla laughed. She was young, still, but would get a position on the hunting group before long. Not many women did, but she was not like most of them. “Of course,” she said. Her laughing attitude was all a show, he knew. She was as deadly as any of them.
Torr was throwing, when they reached the crowd. He lifted the spear and balanced it across his palm. It was a show… a hunter with Torr’s experience knew his spear better than Arn, but Arn would never admit it. Torr wanted to demonstrate to the crowd that he was worthy of being their master hunter, but not so strong that none would challenge him. A challenger would provide sport for the tribe, and for Torr’s friends. If he had those.
Arn watched the throw, but looked around as he did. He knew how the throw would go. Ten feet away, a large wooden board had been constructed, leaning against the old, gnarled swamp tree. Black paint, of which the tribe had plenty, covered a large ring of it, while a small ring had been left unpainted. Torr’s spear slammed into that small ring, a moment later, and the crowd feigned their applause.
Stone Spear stepped forward, and everyone went silent. The man, an elder by the tribe’s consideration, was as massive as he had ever been. He had won the namesake spear from his predecessor with a spear sticking out of his leg and a knife in his muscular arms; with his sheer brawn, he had grabbed the old leader by the neck and broken him. Arn knew Stone Spear’s old name, the one he had before he won the sceptre of their tribe, but now the man’s name was Stone Spear.
The crowd waited to see what their leader would do. He nodded, once, to Torr, and then shoved the ancient stone rod into the mud beside him. “Spear,” the big man demanded. He was forty, and suffered both the wasting cough and age spots.
He was presented immediately with a rock-tipped shaft. He did as Torr had, balanced it briefly, and then hurled it at the target. It was only an inch off of the point that had been marked by Torr’s spear; slightly less accurate, but it broke through the wood with twice the force.
The crowd gave another round of attention. This time, their hurrahs and raised hands seemed more genuine. Arn tried not to smile. The tribe always wondered if Stone Spear’s strength would hold—every time he joined a competition like this, he was analyzed for the smallest weakness. He showed none, yet.
Another hunter stepped up, and then Thalla after him. Arn went next, but he purposefully threw his spear at the black paint; he didn’t want anyone seeing his skills. He had brought back a water scale singlehandedly, and his skills were well-known enough, as he saw it. He wanted to decide his fights, rather than having to deal with every challenger like Torr or Stone Spear now had to.
After the sport, Arn headed back home, though Thalla again trailed him. She seemed up to something, but she left him at his house and pranced down the street without saying another word. “Good throw,” Arn’s older brother added, as they watched her disappear down the street. Raal was more interested in women than Arn was, and had gained a few scars fighting for such interests… He glanced at Arn, and said, “Oh, you too.”
Arn shook his head and smiled as his brother went back inside. Raal should have paid more attention to becoming chief fisher—he was getting old enough he had to think about what he wanted out of life. Arn felt that urge himself, and he was only twenty-five. Gaining a position on the hunting pack was a true accomplishment, but there were so many things Arn would change if he could. He sat down and kept pulling feathers out of the bird carcass.