Read Industry & Intrigue Online
Authors: Ryan McCall
Industry & Intrigue (75 page)
They called themselves the
Nasufira, which in Alkon meant The Riders.
They were one of the few folk on the
continent who could tame the great malcan land serpents and ride
them. They would send out packs of hunters, who would track the
serpents’ movements through the earth and then laid traps. When one
of the beasts sprung a trap, a hunter would jump atop its head and
tame it. The beasts were then used to hunt for food for the
village.
On this particular day
the hunters were
well overdue for returning, it was almost sunset. The village
elders and the hunter’s wives anxiously awaited them at the village
entrance. When they had about given hope of the hunters returning,
one of them gave a cry and pointed.
Far in the distance,
a figure was slowly
making its way towards the village. There was little light, but it
was clearly a drakon. As he came closer, Crackjaw could see he was
limping. When he came within the village’s shadows he could see
that the hunter had an injured leg and was covered in blood. He
looked at the gathered villagers and collapsed in front of
them.
The elders called for help and
soon three younger drakons were carrying the hunter to the medicine
woman’s hut.
As they pulled him inside, space was cleared on the floor
and furs put down. They placed him down gently and the medicine
woman tended to him, gathering her herbs and treating
him.
He finally regained consciousness a
few hours later. The village elders gathered around to hear what he
had to say. The young drakon warrior sipped on water and told his
tale.
“
The
malcan…they…
they are maddened. The other hunters are all dead, I barely
escaped alive. The first one we tried to capture, it attacked.
Turned its head in a flash and bit Smokescar’s arm off when he
tried to tame it. As he fell, it ripped him to pieces.” There were
gasps and shocked faces. Smokescar had been the village’s most
skilled malcan rider.
“
There are hundreds of them on
the plains, churning the earth to pieces. We found ourselves
surrounded. We tried defending ourselves but it was useless. They
have gone mad. I have never seen anything like it in my
life.”
The oldest
of the elders, Crackjaw,
stepped forward. Most of his once green scales were now dark
burnished cobalt, the color changing with his advanced age. “This
is an omen,” he said. “Never before have the malcan behaved as
such. We must consult the witch.”
The hunter on the floor gave out a short
laugh. “That crazy old crone. What does she know about malcan?” He
winced as the movement of his humor inflamed his
injuries.
“
M
ore than you youngling,” he replied. “She
carries the memories of our people from long ago. From the time
before the Riders were even known as such, before the winds
separated the tribe of tribes. If anyone will know, it is
she.”
Crackj
aw stomped out of the tent, the rest
of the elders following. They marched through the village, past the
chieftain’s hut, past the main feast area and all the way to a lone
hut atop a small hill.
T
hey arrived at the entrance and Crackjaw
held up his hand; the other elders behind him stopped. No one
entered the witch’s hut without her permission.
Her
creaky voice sounded from the
darkness inside, “Enter Crackjaw and village elders. You have
questions.”
Crackjaw t
entatively stepped forward. His
clawed foot hit touched the ground in her hut and the flames of
torches suddenly lit up. The witch was sitting at a small, wooden
table. She was wearing a black shawl that covered her head and
body, only her pale green arms visible.
“
Sit
,” she said. Compared to the witch,
Crackjaw may as well have been a youngling; she had been practicing
her craft since he was a child. Crackjaw sat in front of the table
and the other elders followed suit, sitting behind him.
“
There was trouble with the last
hunting pack. Only one came back and he told us-” he
paused.
“
Yes?” she
asked.
He continued,
“He told us the
other hunters are dead. He said the malcan have become enraged,
maddened. Hundreds of them attacking anything they encounter. Is
this an omen?”
The witch tapped her claws on
the table with her left hand and with her right
clutched something. She moved
her closed fist out to the center of the table, turned it over and
opened her palm. Sitting there, were four runes of bone. She threw
them into the air and let them clacker onto the table. They fell
and arranged themselves into a pattern.
The witch hissed. “Yes, an
omen
. The
great serpents are not maddened or enraged. They are frightened.
They are fleeing.”
Crackjaw swallowed hard.
He wondered what
could scare hundreds of the great earth serpents. He heard shouts
from the village, but he ignored them. He needed to know what this
omen meant. “From what?” he asked.
The witch moved her hand and
threw the bone runes in the air a second time. They landed and
aligned themselves again. The witch stopped her claws from tapping
when she read what was on them.
Her right hand pulled away from the table
and she gave out another hissing noise, louder this time. For the
first time since he had known her, she sounded afraid.
Crackjaw looked at the bone
ru
nes, but
he had no idea how to interpret the intricate rune carvings. “What?
What is it?” he demanded.
“
The great serpents flee because
he is awake
.
They are fleeing him!” the witch cried.
There were more shouts
from
outside
and this time they were accompanied by screams and ear-piercing
shrieks. Crackjaw recognized the sound, it was a malcan attack
call.
He stood up and pushed his way
past the other elders. When he stepped out
side he saw the reason for all of the
noise, the village was under attack. The hunter had been right, the
malcan were enraged and they were directing their madness at his
village.
The few remaining hunters had grabbed bows
and were firing at the great serpents, but it was no good; the
serpents were everywhere, even swimming in the dirt beneath the
village. Crackjaw saw several huts tip over as the serpents moved
beneath them, grass, dirt and rocks spilling aside for the
malcan.
A
nother hut burst apart as a malcan thrust
its way up. The malcan screeched and thrust its pale white claws at
the hunters firing at it. Most of them managed to dive out of the
way, but one unfortunate drakon was impaled on the end of its
spiked claw. The malcan’s multiple black eyes lining each side of
its face appeared to be looking around the village. It gave out
another shriek and dove back into the soil, taking several
villagers with it.
Crackjaw ran back into the tent
and looked at the wi
tch. He yelled at her this time, “What is coming? Why are
the malcan fleeing?”
The witch’s shawl moved, the darkness
within felt penetrating and he shrank back. The witch stood up to
face him. She pulled back her shawl and revealed her
face.
Both her ey
es were pale-white with
blindness and the scales on the left side of her head were melted
into a horrible scar. The hut suddenly shook and the other village
elders began wailing and screaming. Crackjaw barely managed to
maintain his balance. The entire hill beneath them was ripped apart
as the malcan dug through it. The witch looked him directly in the
eyes, even though she had no way of seeing where his eyes
were.
H
e stared into her glassy eyes and she
spoke again, “It is the Tyrant. They flee the Tyrant! The Immortal
Tyrant is awake! He is awake once more and when he moves he will
sweep the land in flames, turning everything in his path to ash.”
Her voice had grown loud and fearful.
Befor
e Crackjaw had time to process the
witch’s prophetic claim, the entire hut fell apart, straw and
wooden beams falling down. He felt the ground give way beneath him.
The other elders fell into the earth with cries of fear, while he
tried to grab what remained of the hut and hold on. He managed to
wrap his claws around a still standing beam.
The witch fell into soil, as she did so
continued screaming “The Tyrant returns! The Tyrant
returns!”
Crackjaw felt his fingers
slipping from the wooden beam. He tri
ed to hold on but it was no use. A few
seconds later he followed the witch and the other elders. He
tumbled into the moving dirt as the entire hill
collapsed.
About The
Author
Ryan McCall lives in Taupo, New
Zealand. When not writing, he is busy with his day job as a
lab
chemist,
reading, exercising, or catching up on the latest episodes of his
favorite TV shows.
Contact
details
Website:
http://writermccall.weebly.com
Email:
[email protected]