The skies over Razaad had slowly rotted into grey and black. Even some days were as dim as the evening. It was not rain, or thunder, nor any sort of storm. Grey flakes fell once, close to the end of the last Moon. Grey wind dried their rooftops and the tall reeds of the swamps and streams. Grey blocked the sun and grey reflected the water. What had happened across the Deep, to smite the heavens and turn them ashen?
For Arn, this changed very little. He spent each day prowling the salty bog with his fellow hunters, claiming the lives of rabbits or birds or reptiles, or helping the foragers collect berries, roots, and nuts for their cooking. He continued refilling his poison vial each time they used the stuff, just dabbing his little brush into its jar before poisoning his spear.
Though the bleak weather was interpreted to be a portent of the coming year, and looming misfortune for their people, Arn’s life continued as it had for the last year. He spent more time with Thalla than he had before, investing in a friendship she would feel, and he waited for his next chance to change the tribe, to gain status or give it to Thalla.
One day, Arn returned to the village with a wide-winged gull slung over one shoulder. He had managed to break its neck with the butt of his spear, one of the best ways to finish off the bird without ruining its feathers or meat.
Raal was still out with the fishers, on their rafts in the lagoon, so Arn returned to an empty house. He set to work yanking the feathers out of the gull on the old tree stump in his front yard. A shadow soon fell across him. He glanced up; it was Garem, one of Ollinar’s uncles. He had a few wrinkles, a few scars; he had been a hunter for many years, but had retired early instead of dying in a duel for his position. There was a little shame involved, but given that Garem had a young daughter of his own, it was acceptable. He still fished sometimes and was an experienced carpenter too.
Arn tensed. There was still no reason to suspect Bela’s death to be an attack on their family, but after the death of Ollinar’s mother—Garem’s sister—he had no clue what this visit might concern. “Good day, Garem,” he said, quietly. “Has the dry weather been treating you well?”
“Arn. Well enough. Got an offer for you,” Garem said. He had short dark hair, a beard, and a line of small bone piercing on his forearm. He had once been a fearsome warrior. “You’ve proven your skill, and I respect that. Last month, Stone Spear asked me to build him a balcony so he could watch the sun setting over the Deep.”
“That’s a nice thing to have,” Arn said. He pulled more black feather’s from the gull’s dark tail.
“I did, and I built him one quality deck. Built chairs and tables too, and got it all set up. Now, he said he owes me a favour. You see, this isn’t the first time I’ve helped him out—last time, it was more life and death, shall I say.” Garem leaned against the wall across the narrow road from Arn. He kicked a tuff of grass and smiled. “But Stone Spear doesn’t have what I want. So I’ve got an idea. I could tell him to bestow the favour on you… Or I could use the favour to worsen your family ties. Or get you kicked from the hunting pack.”
That was quite the threat. “Interesting. This is a good deal, to get a favour with Stone Spear.”
Garem nodded. “Bring me enough poison from your hunting groups to kill a couple people. Tell anyone about it, and you may not like the favour Stone Spear settles on,” the middle aged man said. He smiled and started to go. “You can have a couple weeks, if you’d like.”
“Let me know who your targets are, and maybe I’ll help out,” Arn said. “Though you might need to sweeten the deal.”
“It’s not a sweet deal, and it’s not going to be,” Garem said, with a sneer. “You bring me poison or I bring Stone Spear’s wrath down on you. Bring me a bit first, so I know you’re loyal, and I’ll tell you who we’re going to kill. But right now, you’ve got nothing with me.”
Arn set down his gull and regarded Garem with a pleasant smile. “I’ll bring you some poison in a while then, and hear what your plan is then,” he said. “Have a pleasant evening.”
Garem grinned and walked away. “You too, Arn!” he called over one shoulder.
Arn watched him for a while longer, before returning to his stump and slain gull. His own vial of poison, held between his pants and his belt felt warm against his side. Garem probably didn’t know anything about it—Arn was a hunter, and after the death of Garem’s sister and nephew, he was clearly one willing to get his hands dirty. All Garem knew was that he had access to the poison. He pulled a few more feathers out of the gull and swatted at a big mosquito that brushed by him.
As long as he didn’t lose anything out of this, he was just glad to be a part of whatever was going on. But it’d take him several days to collect enough toxin.