Prologue
Near the end of the last Ice Age
Two muscular young men, members of the Ch’Var race, scaled the smooth sides of the ice cave, pulling themselves up on a sturdy ladder of corded mammoth hair. They carried minimal supplies—fat for the fire, dried fox meat to sustain them, and the most essential items, their killing weapons. One of them had a live, squirming animal strapped to his back.
The movements of both men were hurried, as though the pooled darkness below was about to overtake them.
“Faster . . . faster. Before the others waken,” the man in the lead called to his companion-brother. I’ll have made my first kill before you reach the top of the ladder.”
“I can’t move any faster, fornicator of the dead,” complained his brother, I’m carrying the hound on my back. Or did you forget?”
The taller man forgave the insult. He could smell the slight fear his brother gave off, and he held a few lingering doubts of his own. Lordmother’s Shaman would be angry if he discovered they were gone, and even more angry if he ever found out the reason for their departure. They planned to hunt Gweens by themselves and for the wrong reasons . . . reasons not approved by the tribe. There was another worry. The cold outside the warm cave swallowed life forces like a cruel enemy in battle. Still, he and his brother had agreed that too much time inside the cave during the long winter dark could soften a man and destroy his virility.
The taller man reached the outer rim of the cave, turned and hoisted his brother and the hound through the opening into a freezing blast of cold air. “The Ice Gods attack us,” he said, “but at least we’ve left the stench of the tribe behind.”
They hurried forward into the darkness and released the hound, one of the ferocious weasel-canines specially bred by Ch’Vars. The animal followed at their heels, his gait an undulating lope.
“He looks forward to the hunt,” said the taller man and patted the creature’s long snout. “Fresh Gweenmeat is what he needs. And so do we. The fox meat we carry is fit only for females and children. If we’re lucky, our hound will find one of the ice nests Gweens build to protect themselves, and we’ll dig them out and have a good meal.”
“Gweens!” spat the other man. “No better than the scum on a pot of boiling fat.”
“But good eating,” reminded his brother. “Lordmother doesn’t know everything. We gain the strength of our enemies when we eat them.”
Despite the heavy fur and leather garments they wore, the Ch’Vars walked swiftly along the ice plains, their eyes glowing luminous red in the semi-darkness. Eyes that could penetrate the darkness almost as well as the hound’s.
“We won’t need the stars to guide us home,” said the taller man and handed his brother a small, flat object. “The stone-that-gives direction,” he explained. “I stole it from the Shaman. He calls it magic and told me that Lordmother brought it with her from the stars. Ha! It’s a tool, no different from other tools. He tries to deceive us but wastes his time. He ought to spray his foolish words on Gweens.”
“Bad luck if we run into too many Gweens at one time,” said his brother. He rubbed his hand vigorously across his eyebrows and dislodged a shower of ice crystals. “We could outwit them with words . . . they are a stupid race of people with a simple language. Gweens have ceremonies for their dead, don’t eat them in the practical way as we do. And they take but one mate at a time.”
The hound stopped moving, lifted his head and sniffed the wind.
“He smells them,” whispered the taller man and gave the animal a silent signal. Immediately it ran ahead, snuffling and snorting as it went. It stopped suddenly . . . on point.
The brothers followed the hound’s line of sight. In the distance, across an endless sea of white, a small band of Gweenpeople trailed slowly toward the hunters.
“Three old men,” the taller hunter said. “The rest are children.” He knew the glow of his eyes could not be seen by the prey, for only Ch’Vars could see the tiny dancing lights within the eyes of their own kind. And he knew that Gweens could not pick up his scent. They lacked a fine sense of smell. With a fluid, practiced motion he removed his arrow gun from its sheath, loaded a projectile into the cradle of the weapon and cocked it.
His brother did the same and whispered, “The flesh of Gweenchildren is sweet. All the sweeter because Lordmother forbids it.”
They exchanged smiles.