Stalking Darkness

look at the newcomer.
    The Dravnians were a short, broad-set people with black, almond-shaped eyes and coarse, dark hair that they wore slicked back with liberal applications of oil. A few among them, however, had lighter hair or finer features that spoke of mixed blood—probably Aurënfaie, since few others found their way to these remote valleys.
    The headman of the village was one of these half castes. As he stepped forward, smiling broadly, Seregil saw that the man’s eyes were the same clear grey as his own.
    “Welcome in this place, Fair One,” the fellow greeted him in a patois of broken Aurënfaie and Dravnian. “I am Retak, son of Wigris and Akra, leader of this village.”
    “I am Meringil, son of Solun and Nycanthi,” Seregil answered in Dravnian.
    Grinning, Retak lapsed back into his native tongue. “We’ve not seen one of your tribe since my grandfather’s time. You honor our village with your presence. Will you feast with us in the council house?”
    “You honor me,” Seregil replied, bowing as gracefully as his thick clothing allowed.
    The upper level of the council house, used as a communal storehouse, was floored over except for the large central smoke hole. Rough stone steps led down to the lower chamber, where a huge fire of dried dung chips had already been kindled in a fire pit surrounded by thick carpets and bolsters. Women bustledexcitedly around a cooking fire across the room, preparing the ritual meal.
    Seated at the central fire with Retak and the other principal men of the village, Seregil closed his eyes for a moment as his belly did a slow, uneasy roll. The smell of slaughtered animals, mingled with the more immediate aromas of unwashed bodies and greased hair, was overpowering after the clear mountain wind.
    Every available inch seemed to have been filled by curious villagers. People talked excitedly on all sides, leaning across their neighbors to shout to someone else or calling down from above for details. Children ringed the smoke hole overhead, chattering like swallows. The women labored with noisy cheer, wielding cleavers and clattering skewers and bowls.
    Seregil felt all eyes on him as he stripped off his heavy outer garments. Posing as a traveler from his native Aurënen, Seregil had worn traditional garb. His long white tunic and close-fitting trousers were comfortable and unadorned except for thin bands of patterned weaving at the hem and neck. To complete the effect, he pulled a loosely woven head cloth from inside his tunic and wrapped its many folds about his head with practiced skill, leaving long ends hanging down his back. A small, ornate dagger hung at his belt, but he laid it and his sword aside as a gesture of good faith.
    An excited hum went around the room as he reclined at last and accepted a bowl of ll
aki
from Seune, the headman’s wife. He sipped the fermented milk as sparingly as good manners allowed. His duty as guest was to repay hospitality with news and he slowly related such events from the south as might be of interest to them. Most of it was thirty years out-of-date, mixed in with snippets he’d picked up since his banishment, but it was all fresh to the Dravnians and very well received.
    When he’d finished, the traditional storytelling commenced. Great lovers of tales that they were, the Dravnians had no system of writing. Each family had its own special stock of stories that only members of that clan could relate. Other tales were general property and were demanded of those who told them best. The children frequently chimed in with familiar lines and the women were called upon for the proper songs.
    Seregil joined in with tales of his own and was quickly hailed as a
biruk
, “one who remembers many stories”—highest praise insuch company. By the time a gigantic platter of roasted goat was set before them, he’d begun to enjoy himself.
    Roasted shanks, haunches, and ribs lay arranged on the communal platter in a great ring surrounding cooked entrails, sweetbreads, and boiled goat’s heads. When the guest and council had eaten their fill, the platter would pass on to the secondary guests, and after them the children and dogs. Seregil was served by Seune and her eldest daughters.
    The two girls knelt on his right, holding out slabs of dark bread that their mother loaded with choice bits of meat. Nodding polite acceptance, Seregil picked up a chunk of meat and bit into it, signaling his hosts to begin.
    The tough, savory meat settled