but not very smart. Kill
a few and they will run away till they have eaten their
dead.”
“That is awful.”
“
They
are awful.” Bhlase finished grating
roots. He put the grater aside, sieved again, then took up the
cutting board. The jar he opened this time contained dead insects
the size of the last joint on Marika’s smallest finger. He
halved each longwise, cut each half crosswise, scraped the results
into the kettle. After finishing the insects he opened a jar which
at first seemed to contain only a milky fluid. After he poured that
into the pot, though, he dumped several dozen fat white grubs onto
his cutting board.
“What are we making, Bhlase?” Kublin asked.
“Poison. For the arrowheads and spearheads and
javelins.”
“Oh!” Marika nearly dropped her pestle.
Bhlase was amused. “It is harmless now. Except for
these.” He indicated the grubs, which he was dicing with
care. “All this will have to simmer together for a long
time.”
“We have never used poisons,” Kublin said.
“I was not here last time nomads came to the Degnan
packstead,” Bhlase replied. Marika thought she detected a
certain arrogance behind his words.
“None of us were,” she countered. “That was so
long ago Granddam was leader.”
“That is true, too.” Bhlase broached another jar of
grubs. And another after that. Kublin and Marika finished their
grinding. Bhlase continued doing grubs till the copper kettle was
filled to within three inches of its rim. He took that to a tripod
Horvat had prepared, hung it, adjusted it just so over the fire. He
beckoned.
“I am going to build the fire just as it must be,”
he said. “You two keep it exactly the same.” He thrust
a long wooden spoon into the pot. “And stir it each few
minutes. The insects tend to float. The grubs sink. Try not to
breathe too much of the steam.”
“For how long?” Kublin asked.
“Till it is ready.”
Marika and Kublin exchanged pained glances. Pups always got
stuck with the boring jobs.
Over by the other firepit, the huntresses and Wise were still
trying to get the prisoner to say something useful. He still
refused. The loghouse was growing chilly, what with the coming and
going of meth from other loghouses.
“Pohsit is enjoying herself,” Marika observed,
stirring the poison. She kept rehearsing the formula in her mind.
She had recognized all the ingredients. None were especially rare.
It might become useful knowledge one day.
Kublin looked at Pohsit, gulped, and concentrated on the
fire.
----
----
II
So time fled. Sharpening of tools into weapons. Making of crude
javelins, spears, and arrows. Males and older pups drilling with
the cruder weapons over and over. The initial frenzy of preparation
faded as nothing immediate occurred. The lookouts saw no sign of
imminent nomad attack. No sign of nomads at all.
Was the crisis over without actually beginning?
The captive died never having said anything of interest—as
Marika had expected. The huntresses dragged him out and hurled him
off the stockade to lie in the snow before the gate, mute and
mutilated. A warning.
Marika wished she had had a chance to talk with the prisoner.
She knew next to nothing about the lands beyond the Zhotak.
The huntresses chafed at their confinement, though their
restlessness sprang entirely from their minds. In winter they often
went longer without leaving the packstead. There were disputes
about whether or not the gate should be opened. Bitter cold
continued to devour wood stores.
Skiljan and Gerrien kept the gate sealed.
The weather conspired to support them.
Marika took her turn in the watchtower and saw the nothing she
expected to see. Her watch was not long, but it was cold. An ice
storm had coated everything with crystal. Footing was treacherous
everywhere. Males not otherwise occupied cleared ice and snow and
erected platforms behind the stockade so huntresses could hurl
missiles from their vantage. A few tried to break stones
a few and they will run away till they have eaten their
dead.”
“That is awful.”
“
They
are awful.” Bhlase finished grating
roots. He put the grater aside, sieved again, then took up the
cutting board. The jar he opened this time contained dead insects
the size of the last joint on Marika’s smallest finger. He
halved each longwise, cut each half crosswise, scraped the results
into the kettle. After finishing the insects he opened a jar which
at first seemed to contain only a milky fluid. After he poured that
into the pot, though, he dumped several dozen fat white grubs onto
his cutting board.
“What are we making, Bhlase?” Kublin asked.
“Poison. For the arrowheads and spearheads and
javelins.”
“Oh!” Marika nearly dropped her pestle.
Bhlase was amused. “It is harmless now. Except for
these.” He indicated the grubs, which he was dicing with
care. “All this will have to simmer together for a long
time.”
“We have never used poisons,” Kublin said.
“I was not here last time nomads came to the Degnan
packstead,” Bhlase replied. Marika thought she detected a
certain arrogance behind his words.
“None of us were,” she countered. “That was so
long ago Granddam was leader.”
“That is true, too.” Bhlase broached another jar of
grubs. And another after that. Kublin and Marika finished their
grinding. Bhlase continued doing grubs till the copper kettle was
filled to within three inches of its rim. He took that to a tripod
Horvat had prepared, hung it, adjusted it just so over the fire. He
beckoned.
“I am going to build the fire just as it must be,”
he said. “You two keep it exactly the same.” He thrust
a long wooden spoon into the pot. “And stir it each few
minutes. The insects tend to float. The grubs sink. Try not to
breathe too much of the steam.”
“For how long?” Kublin asked.
“Till it is ready.”
Marika and Kublin exchanged pained glances. Pups always got
stuck with the boring jobs.
Over by the other firepit, the huntresses and Wise were still
trying to get the prisoner to say something useful. He still
refused. The loghouse was growing chilly, what with the coming and
going of meth from other loghouses.
“Pohsit is enjoying herself,” Marika observed,
stirring the poison. She kept rehearsing the formula in her mind.
She had recognized all the ingredients. None were especially rare.
It might become useful knowledge one day.
Kublin looked at Pohsit, gulped, and concentrated on the
fire.
----
----
II
So time fled. Sharpening of tools into weapons. Making of crude
javelins, spears, and arrows. Males and older pups drilling with
the cruder weapons over and over. The initial frenzy of preparation
faded as nothing immediate occurred. The lookouts saw no sign of
imminent nomad attack. No sign of nomads at all.
Was the crisis over without actually beginning?
The captive died never having said anything of interest—as
Marika had expected. The huntresses dragged him out and hurled him
off the stockade to lie in the snow before the gate, mute and
mutilated. A warning.
Marika wished she had had a chance to talk with the prisoner.
She knew next to nothing about the lands beyond the Zhotak.
The huntresses chafed at their confinement, though their
restlessness sprang entirely from their minds. In winter they often
went longer without leaving the packstead. There were disputes
about whether or not the gate should be opened. Bitter cold
continued to devour wood stores.
Skiljan and Gerrien kept the gate sealed.
The weather conspired to support them.
Marika took her turn in the watchtower and saw the nothing she
expected to see. Her watch was not long, but it was cold. An ice
storm had coated everything with crystal. Footing was treacherous
everywhere. Males not otherwise occupied cleared ice and snow and
erected platforms behind the stockade so huntresses could hurl
missiles from their vantage. A few tried to break stones
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