red-spined snake, one hand clamping hard behind the powerful jaws, the other pressing down halfway along its length, trying to prevent the creature’s thrashing and avoid it curling around his arm. A year ago he’d witnessed a specimen smaller than this wrap itself around a hillhog and squeeze until the swine’s guts exploded from its arse.
‘Calm it, for the bastard gods’ sakes!’ he hissed. The snake seemed to weaken, and then its movements drew to an abrupt halt. He’d seen serpents feigning death before, a defence mechanism or a hunting ploy. He would not lessen his grip.
‘Fifteen spines. Shorter than they should be. Won’t catch anything with them.’ He lifted the head and pressed, its dislocated jaw dropping open under the pressure. Sickly yellow venom dripped from its long fangs, and he was careful not to breathe in any of its fumes. ‘Teeth should be longer to break through a hillhog’s hide. Hogs growing heavier and tougher. Don’t adapt, don’t survive.’ He stood slowly, then heaved the snake down the hillside. It twisted and rattled through theair, then fell in a clump of bushes and slithered away. He watched it go, wondering how it could still be alive and whether its offspring would persist for long. It was far from a perfect specimen, but then he was already certain a perfect specimen would no longer exist. On Skythe, perfection was further away than anywhere else. The snake hunted imperfect prey, living among flora that barely understood seasons. That confusion led to beautiful landscapes of many colours – lush greens and blooming wonders, as well as the autumnal hues of orange, red and brown. But such beauty was unnatural, and wrong.
His mind never still, Venden enjoyed retroscrying; trying to discern how these animals and plants might have been in the past, and how perhaps they should have been in the present. And he could sometimes retroscry back to the point when everything had changed – when Alderia’s assault had blighted the land, and polluted it for centuries to come.
Back where he’d come from the idea that Alderia had implemented magic was a forbidden concept, but here there was no one to forbid. Not this far north, at least. On the southern shores there were the slayers, and some people still foolish enough to fear uttering the truth. But here he was deep in the heart of Skythe, and deep in the wild past.
The war had changed things more than most people could ever believe. Discovering the truth was a challenge that had become a personal quest since he had come here to live, and every oddity he found only served to pique his interest more. Back on Alderia, his interest had necessitated the gathering of forbidden information – parchments, diagrams, whispered rumours passed on in dingy basement rooms. He had never questioned his strange interest in a war six hundred years old, not even when he was a child. But coming to Skythe meant that he could wander the corrupted site of the war and discover evidence forhimself, and his fascination seemed like the most natural thing in the world. It was what he had been born to do, and he felt more at home than ever before.
Especially since discovering the remnant, when in a flash his life had taken on new meaning. Since then, his retroscrying of local flora and fauna had become little more than a way to pass time during his journeys. What he sought now was something far less known.
Venden picked up the cart’s reins and started hauling it forward again. He had come this way once before on one of his scouting trips for further remnants, but any tracks he had left behind had been wiped away by the weather. The gentle slope of the hillside was relatively free of trees and rocks, and a good route along the valley towards his destination. Soon he would drop down to the valley floor and follow the river. The cart was small, light, but it was the object on it that might cause him some problems. It had taken eight days to come forty miles,
‘Calm it, for the bastard gods’ sakes!’ he hissed. The snake seemed to weaken, and then its movements drew to an abrupt halt. He’d seen serpents feigning death before, a defence mechanism or a hunting ploy. He would not lessen his grip.
‘Fifteen spines. Shorter than they should be. Won’t catch anything with them.’ He lifted the head and pressed, its dislocated jaw dropping open under the pressure. Sickly yellow venom dripped from its long fangs, and he was careful not to breathe in any of its fumes. ‘Teeth should be longer to break through a hillhog’s hide. Hogs growing heavier and tougher. Don’t adapt, don’t survive.’ He stood slowly, then heaved the snake down the hillside. It twisted and rattled through theair, then fell in a clump of bushes and slithered away. He watched it go, wondering how it could still be alive and whether its offspring would persist for long. It was far from a perfect specimen, but then he was already certain a perfect specimen would no longer exist. On Skythe, perfection was further away than anywhere else. The snake hunted imperfect prey, living among flora that barely understood seasons. That confusion led to beautiful landscapes of many colours – lush greens and blooming wonders, as well as the autumnal hues of orange, red and brown. But such beauty was unnatural, and wrong.
His mind never still, Venden enjoyed retroscrying; trying to discern how these animals and plants might have been in the past, and how perhaps they should have been in the present. And he could sometimes retroscry back to the point when everything had changed – when Alderia’s assault had blighted the land, and polluted it for centuries to come.
Back where he’d come from the idea that Alderia had implemented magic was a forbidden concept, but here there was no one to forbid. Not this far north, at least. On the southern shores there were the slayers, and some people still foolish enough to fear uttering the truth. But here he was deep in the heart of Skythe, and deep in the wild past.
The war had changed things more than most people could ever believe. Discovering the truth was a challenge that had become a personal quest since he had come here to live, and every oddity he found only served to pique his interest more. Back on Alderia, his interest had necessitated the gathering of forbidden information – parchments, diagrams, whispered rumours passed on in dingy basement rooms. He had never questioned his strange interest in a war six hundred years old, not even when he was a child. But coming to Skythe meant that he could wander the corrupted site of the war and discover evidence forhimself, and his fascination seemed like the most natural thing in the world. It was what he had been born to do, and he felt more at home than ever before.
Especially since discovering the remnant, when in a flash his life had taken on new meaning. Since then, his retroscrying of local flora and fauna had become little more than a way to pass time during his journeys. What he sought now was something far less known.
Venden picked up the cart’s reins and started hauling it forward again. He had come this way once before on one of his scouting trips for further remnants, but any tracks he had left behind had been wiped away by the weather. The gentle slope of the hillside was relatively free of trees and rocks, and a good route along the valley towards his destination. Soon he would drop down to the valley floor and follow the river. The cart was small, light, but it was the object on it that might cause him some problems. It had taken eight days to come forty miles,
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