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Chapter 2

Smoke

Dawn broke on the dead city. Most of the raptors made it back to camp, but the ground was still littered with a good number of those who were too inebriated to make the hike.

Sleet lifted his throbbing head from the sticky table. He ran a hand through his thick crest of feathers and was not surprised to find then clumped in what he hoped was blood, but guessed was vomit.

"Hellssss," he hissed.

The hall was a mess. It was doubtful the tribe would be using it again. Gore covered the tables and dripped to the floor. Leftover skins and organs would be attracting scavengers as soon as the tribe were out of earshot. The smell would be horrific.

The room began to tilt. Sleet closed his eyes and lowered his head. His stomach was bulged with food consumed at the feast. Vomiting it would be so wasteful.

He concentrated on the cool breeze that entered through the open doors. Brisk. He made a silent oath to never over indulge like this again. It was his own post-ritual ritual.

He rose and slowly staggered to the doors, nearly tripping over several raptors.

The gammas partied just as wildly outside as the higher castes had inside. Sleet noticed the charred remains of a raptor in a pile of dying embers from one of the bonfires.

Killing an omega was not a crime, but even if it was an inter-gamma murder nothing would be done. Gammas were below the notice of the law keepers.

Sleet's mind wandered as he looked over the scene. A group of young gammas had gotten hold of a slave. They were across the overgrown town square so Sleet could not make out it's sex. He squinted. Now he could not be sure the slave was even alive, as the eager raptors took turns violating it's every hole.

There was a creek that ran along the trail the raptors used to get to the city. It was too shallow to swim in. Not that that was of any concern to Sleet. He planned to lay in it and let the frigid water wash the scum from his feathered head.

This land was at the very edge of the ancient forest of the raptors. When Sleet was a hatchling he was told to never leave a trace of his presence in the outsiders lands. Now the raptors domains were pushing deeper into the deerfolk's kingdoms. Vast tracts of land were abandoned to the tribes unrelenting raids. Trails so obvious that even a city born furry could spot lead to the camps of many tribes as they pushed farther from the dark heart of the unfathomably old woods to get closer to towns.

Sleet could hear the gentle babble of the water now.

He would sprawl across the narrow water way. When he felt clean he would get on with the day's chores.

***

Heat. The sun was nearing high noon. Sleet awoke to find himself on the grassy bank of the little creek. His hangover was much better now.

He got up and put his clothes back on. Falling asleep out here had been a stupid move. Thankfully anyone who would have taken advantage of the situation was probably just as hungover as Sleet.

The looming edge of the old growth forest could now be seen from the path. The moss coated trees dwarfed any that grew in the deer's realm. The raptors had little use for industry and, until recently, farming was looked upon as witchcraft. Like their society, their habitat was insulated from the changes of civilization.

Rather than enter the shaded woods, Sleet turned south at it's edge. it was a few miles to his farm.

Sleet and a handful of other delta caste had taken up residency in a hamlet that had been conquered well before the city of the hall fell. There they took over the tending of the plowed earth. It was a strange task, making food rise from the dirt in such abundance. The alphas tortured many captives to assure themselves the crops were no more poisonous than their wild kin foraged by the gammas.

Sleet could make out the grouping of six mud-brick hovels and a fading deer road that marked the settlement.

The deerfolk who first tamed the land had a name for the place. But the raptors had no system of writing and if they did not commit the names of the cities that fell to tribal memory, why would they bother with a hamlet. It was simply known as the farms to the tribe.

The wind was blowing towards the east, dissipating a column of grey smoke before it could rise much higher than the roofs. There was no other movement that Sleet could see.

Not surprising. Last night's festivities would have thrown off everyone's schedules.

Sleet walked along the old walkway, cleared by deer. Rows of grain stalks bent and rustled with the breeze, brushing the raptor's exposed arms.

With a critical eye he assessed the state of the crops as he walked by. No disease was evident but he would probably have to spend the rest of the day in the fields anyway. The tenacious weeds that could appear over night were a constant burden to the deltas. If left alone the weeds would stunt the growth of the food plants. There was maybe one more harvest to squeeze out of the fields before the snows came.

Sleet reached the buildings. They were patched as best as the raptors could manage but it was clear that the deerfolk were far ahead in the area of architecture.

The cracking bricks were routinely splattered with mud to stop the crumbling. Thatched roofs were now mostly sheets of bark and animal hides.

There were still no signs of the inhabitants. Sleet wondered if they could all still be at the hall. No, someone had a fire going.

He walked into his hovel. Sleet never hung a door until the cold became unbearable. He enjoyed the wind.

He rummaged for the trowel he used when weeding. When he found it he decided to see if anyone else was planning on tending their crops today.

Sleet walked past Dest's home. there was no point checking to see if he was up for any work. The way he indulges, it could be a few days before he was up to anything.

The next hovel, just as rundown as Sleet's but it still had a crude wooden door on rusting hinges. He makes a twittering whistle sound to announce his presence, and pushes the door open.

His eyes dilate in the gloom. Before they can fully adjust he smells blood. Fresh. Not the clotted remnants that could have been tracked back from the ceremony. And a lot of blood.

Enough fresh blood that the metallic taste was palpable. Sleet reached for his belt knife. His hand stopped. There was something at his throat.

So this is how I die, he mused. What a waste.

The blade of his unseen attacker remained pressed hard enough to split skin, but the draw to open him up was not happening.

A whisper, as harsh a sandpaper, "resist and you die."

Sleet stood motionless. The attackers arm pressed into him as it groped at his belt and withdrew with Sleet's knife.

The raptor's eyes adjusted to the unlit interior. Two bodies lay in pools of blood. Anonymous in death. That was not what Sleet wanted his future to be.

"Don't kill me," a prayer, demand and question all rolled into one.

He felt a rope coil around his shins. A quick jerk and he was falling.

His fast reflexes got his hands up in time to soften the fall. But a foot stomped on his upper back. His head hit the hard clay floor.

"No sudden movements. Understand?" The voice was more than a whisper now. Soft with a cutting edge. The accent of a deerfolk.

Weight shifted and the heel of the foot on his back pressed between his shoulder blades.

"Gahh! I understand!"

The pressure left as the ambusher removed his foot and walked in front of the prone raptor, keeping both a deer made iron short sword and Sleet's hammered copper knife pointed at him.

Looking past the blades, Sleet saw that the buck was naked, save for an improvised loincloth made from a ripped raptor shirt. His antlers were intact...

"I know you," blurted Sleet.

"And I remember you."

That surprised Sleet a little. He was told outsiders had a hard time telling one raptor from the next. Of course, he was also well aware of the inherently docile nature of the deerfolk. Apparently he needed to rethink his faith in stereotypes.

The buck squatted down and edged closer until the tip of his sword was resting on Sleet's snout. "Did you enjoy touching me?"

"S-sorry."

"Yes. You are." He removed the sword and Sleet let out a breath he did not realize he had been holding.

"You are going to help me," said the deer. "Open your mouth and swallow this." He dropped Sleet's knife and produced a sprig of some kind of white leafed plant. Tiny grass like leaves. Maybe some even smaller seeds.

Before Sleet could ask any of the hundreds of questions that were coming to mind, the sword's point pushed closer. This would not be up for discussion.

Sleet groaned and opened his mouth.

Without getting too near the line of sharp raptor teeth, the buck flicked the herb onto the long reptilian tongue.

It was bitter. Sleet grimaced and would have spit it out had that sword not come to rest between his eyes.

"Swallow, lizard."

Sleet did just that. The sword pulled back. "W-what was that," his voice trembled.

The buck smirked down at the laying raptor. "Poison. If you want the antidote, you will assist me."

Sleet shut his eyes tight. "What with?"

"You will escort me around your camp."

"They'll kill you," Sleet despaired.

"They won't kill a slave if his master is right there."

***

Chapter 3

Tour

Sleet shook. He was dying. He knew it. His stomach was tightening into ball and he was starting to sweat.

There was no way this would work. And there was ample evidence this buck was insane. No escaped slave would want to enter the tribes camp. Not for any reason.

Regardless of Sleet's swearing to as many gods as he could name, the buck refused to agree to let him have the antidote before hand.

"No," he said. "A raptor's word is meaningless. Besides, this will keep you motivated. I don't want to be in that hellhole any longer than I must."

Sleet hung his head and tried to beat back the rising panic.

"As long as we're out in twenty-four hours, you'll live. You probably won't even have to feel the pain, that I hear is worse than the death, if we're out in less than twelve," joked the buck.

The deer took the rope he had used to bind Sleet's legs, and fashioned a collar with a noose knot. With a little effort, the buck slipped it over his antlers and around his neck.

The deer tucked his short sword under a pile of hides next to the door. He then handed Sleet back his knife.

"Remember, lizard, I die, you die."

Sleet snatched the blade with a huff.

They walked into the sunlight, Sleet loosely holding the end of the makeshift leash. He stopped and turned to the buck.

"Take that off. Slaves don't usually wear clothes."

Without the indignity Sleet was hoping for, "good thinking! We might both live to see another day, yet." Without a hint of modesty, the buck tore off the loincloth.

Sleet could not help but stare.

"Lead on, my feather headed master," said the buck. He gave an exaggerated bow.

Should've raped and killed him at the feast, Sleet thought. A tug at the leash, and he stomped off toward the camp.

When they left the disused deer road, Sleet attempted to reason with the buck again.

"This is a really bad idea. Just give me the antidote and I swear I can take you back to your lands."

"Leaving is not my problem. Finding where you savages are camped, that is what I need you for."

Sleet felt his stomach cramp. He was not sure if it was fear or the poison. "What's to prevent you from killing me as soon as we're finished with whatever business you have at the camp?"

"I guess you'll just have to trust me." Sleet spun to face the deer. "You have the knife. If you don't trust me, feel free to kill me at any time. Of course, that kills you too."

Sleet pulled the knife. The deer did not flinch, just stood unintimidated. Gods damn him.

They pressed on. The only time the raptor observed anything other than confidence in the buck was when he hesitated as they entered the old growth forest.

Moss and lichen, instead of grass, grew on the layers of decaying leaves. Ferns bigger than the two of them filled the gaps between the ancient trunks that jutted into the singular green mass of canopy.

Sleet was puzzled that the deer could not spot the obvious path the raptors used to get to and from the dead city even when they were on it. The deer kept straying. He considered dropping the leash and leaving the buck to an assuredly unpleasant fate. But where would that get him? He would be dead without that antidote.

It was not immediately apparent when they reached the outskirts of the camp. The tents and lean-tos were naturally camouflaged.

Sleet silently pointed to them. Soon there were more signs of activity. The large ferns were absent and the ground looked walked upon. Raptors were seen going about their tasks.

The deer closed in on Sleet and whispered. "Take me around the edge. I need to know how big it is."

That was fine with Sleet. Sticking to the outskirts would mean they were likely to only encounter gammas.

"Stop looking around so much!" Sleet hissed. He was beginning to doubt this buck had ever been a slave. "You're drawing attention. Just keep your fucking head low and look depressed!"

Two hours later Sleet informed the buck they were around where they started.

The deer did not seem satisfied. "Where are your warriors? Your_ alphas_?"

Sleet's mouth dropped. "Do you have some kind of a death wish?"

"No. Do you? The sands of time are ever falling."

Sleet was nearly at a loss for words. "If we go to the center, I can't promise I can protect you. The high castes can take what they want."

The buck was unconcerned. "We'll just have to risk it. I need to see it all."

Sleet was going to ask "for what purpose," but he did not really care. He just wanted to get out of this situation as fast as possible.

He tugged the leash closer as he tried to storm off. The buck was less than an arms length away.

Sleet showed the buck what there was to see. A natural clearing was dotted with yurts made from skin and bones of creature feral and sentient alike. The raptors had few fires. Meat was better raw, unless you needed to hide the taste of rot, and they had no advanced metallurgy. Aside from copper tools, the raptors looted any manufactured goods they might need.

Sleet pointed out the market. He tried to tell the buck not to get too close. Even from the distance they kept, more than a few raptors made inquiries to Sleet about what they could trade for the fine specimen.

The deer played his part well, keeping his head lowered and not saying anything.

Sleet surprised himself and declined the offers with a convincing lie about the buck being a gift he was delivering to an alpha. That seemed to work.

"What's that?" asked the deer.

He pointed to a wall of sharpened stakes.

"Is that your lord's keep?"

"No. It's where some of the slaves are."

The buck nodded in that direction.

"You don't want to see that."

The buck narrowed his eyes and stared Sleet down.

"Fine," conceded the raptor.

The tribe's camp was not busy in the sense that a town might be. But there was a fair amount of commerce conducted between the raptors. Sleet explained to the deer that they had no gold other than for jewelry or ornamentation. The raptors used the barter system, and if that failed, duels, occasionally to the death.

They stood in front of the stockade. It was a sorry sight. The tribe did not place much value on the life of a slave, and the conditions witnessed were evident of that.

At least a couple hundred furs were crammed in behind the stake wall. Living ghosts. They seemed to wait for their inevitable death with grim resignation. Mostly deerfolk, but several equines and canines could be seen. They all looked malnourished. Signs of mutilation were everywhere.

Without a writing system, some raptors adopted symbols to represent their names. A myriad of those were carved or burned into the flesh of most slaves, marking who captured them, who might have owned them, who fucked them. There was no standardized reason behind the scars.

A sharp scream broke the two out of their reverie. A doe was being beaten.

The deer gave Sleet a look far more chilling than the one he had used at the feast. The deer's face was reddening beneath his fine fur. "Savages," he spat above a whisper.

Sleet looked around. If he was overheard... "Come, buck. We need to leave. Now."

Sleet made directly for the camp's edge. The passed an exceptionally large tent. Sleet mumbled it was chief Hydarr's. The tent was stuffed with opulent spoils taken in raids and conquests. It was more of a warehouse than a dwelling.

The buck silently, but intently, took in all he saw. Sleet dragged him by the leash almost at a run.