The Else

Hang in there! Ten kilometers left! cries Zeo, the cartographer, towards the back half of the horde.

A wave of determined grunts echoes across the procession. Their aching legs and their few beasts-of-burden could take no more. The pain of their journey is alive in their every nerve. They all press onward, despite.

In normal circumstances, the population of Green-Tree should have set down for several weeks before setting out again, but the threats of the wildlife had forced them to break camp in a hurry, resuming their journey with muscles that had only rested a handful of days.

Not all the atriarchs agreed with this course, to be sure. Sephil had proposed granting weaponry to the craftspeople, and allocating more materials towards fires, assisting the ranks of the warriors and lookouts in their duties. Akom had refused this proposal outright, insisting that this would only work to sacrifice ‘strategic’ members of the horde to the elements. Before Sephil could express her indignation about what makes a hordier ‘strategic’ or not, Master Eschêne sided with Akom, and the matter was settled.

Fleeing forwards.

It has now been 16 days and undays since they returned to the road. Their Cycle of travel has been thrown entirely out of balance; whether they catch up or adapt, the consequences of correcting it will be severe. But for now, their efforts will be rewarded.

However, barely a quarter of the way through the remainder of the journey, another wave sweeps across the horde: one of anxiety. Gradually, slowly, everyone comes to a halt, without setting down their things.

One young person is worried, at the end of their rope.

Why are we stopping? they whisper to those around them.

Don’t know, responds a girl of similar age.

The weather’s turning, a voice adds just behind them.

The two looked up, trying to scan the skies above the rows of their fellow hordiers.

I see no such signs, replies Sonya, doubtfully.

Me neither, says Emil.

Well, I’m saying, I can feel it! insists Gerfo.

Everyone seems nervous. It couldn’t be another attack, surely? Or an isolated torment?

Only a couple of rows away from the three youths, their fourth is in heated debate with the atriarchs, but it’s difficult to make out the exchange in the general verbal cacophony. From where the three are standing, all they can make out is tense gestures, difficulties, and sticking points.

Seems Ojzin’s struggling, either way.

Amongst the groups in the immediate vicinity of Emil, Sonya, and Gerfo, the noise of apprehension vanishes into the silence of anxiety, as the voices of the Green-Tree leadership, and their apprentice, raise louder. The word “storm” can be made out. Some of the children in the fore groups burst into tears.

Throats clear, despair is shushed. Finally, everyone falls silent.

It is then that the imposing figure of Akom puts his hands to his mouth and communicates the will of the atriarchs:

REST! TWO WEEKS’ CAMP. STORM IN TWO HOURS. SECURE YOUR THINGS!

A collective sigh of relief from dozens of mouths.

---

Emil’s objective is to set up their tent. Though exhausted from a weeks-long journey, rest is not allowed, until it’s properly installed.

The rocky ground resists at seemingly every turn to receive the rusty pegs hammered into them. Red dust, tasting of lead and omnipresent in the air, stings their face, surely turning their hair the color of blood.

They slowly wipe a hand across their sweaty forehead, smearing more of that dust across it, as they lift their gaze. The others are almost finished. On either side of Emil’s construction site, dozens of tents already stand proudly, their fading colors patched here and there with brighter, newer shades. The elderly and the young are already settled in, arranging their meager possessions with speed, and practiced precision.

Emil, ever determined, spent another half-hour anchoring a final, stubborn peg, before securing the tent against the elements with a set of ropes; a system that, if necessary, allows them to fold it up and make it transportable in no time flat.

Once their job’s done, they set their tools down near the tent’s entrance, catching their breath before entering.

They collapse rather than sit down. The last few days were far too long, stretched to their breaking point. Finding a new site was far from an easy task. But doesn’t matter now. Once again, the horde can rest, just for a little while. Emil closes their eyes, letting the heavy, familiar air of the tent fill their lungs in deep breaths, gently exorcising their fatigue.

Sonya’s shadow unfolds across the surface of the tent. Her head pokes through the entrance.

Emil?

They don’t open their eyes. Sonya isn’t offended in the least.

There a problem? they reply weakly.

Not from me, but the old folks’ll get on your case if you’re seen taking a nap now.

Punctuating her remark with a mischievous smile, she tosses down a belt with more pockets than holes, a water jug carved from a misshapen dried fruit, and a backpack that has seen better days.

Don’t leave your stuff outside. Storm’s in an hour.

That gets Emil up, grumbling, glancing at their friend and rubbing (in vain) the dust off their multicolored poncho.

Already…? Everyone’s ready, at least?

Don’t worry. Gerfo and I helped anchor everything.

Sonya steps fully into the tent, grabs the laces attached to the canvas, and seals the entrance with a series of expertly-tied knots.

But… what about your tent?

Already done, she replies quickly. Don’t worry. It’s not gonna fly away on us. We’ve put half our food stores in there.

When her work’s done, she casually throws the rest of her equipment — quiver, bow, and hunting knife — into a corner, before sprawling out next to Emil on her own sleeping bag, staring at the edge of the ceiling.

What a stupid venture, she continues after a long sigh and longer pause.

Not a great place, either.

For sure. But better than getting blown away, right?

The two turn towards each other; them sitting, her lying down, just like so many years ago in the children’s tents. Emil smiles. They think back to those long unday moments, when they talked quietly about everything and nothing, while the others tried to steal some sleep. Were Gerfo and Ojzin here, they could believe they’d gone back in time many a Cycle.

Oh, that reminds me. Soon as things calm down, they’ll want you to go south.

Emil raises an eyebrow, tightening their poncho around their shoulders.

We are in the middle of nowhere.

That’s what I said. And Ojzin said, all the more necessary for you to go take a look. The horde’s exhausted. It would really help everyone’s morale if the scavengers discovered something.

Emil rests their head on their knees, hugging their legs close. Outside, the pair of them can hear a distant, irregular, grainy whistling, growing louder.

What about you?

Hunting, in the northeast. Gerfo’s going northwest. I wanted to go with him, but you know him. He’s got some hard heads.

Emil gives Sonya a wry smile.

I wonder what could defeat that resolve of his.

Careful what you wish for, she replies with the same smile.

The silence between them makes even more room for the gathering of the storm. It won’t hit the camp for another several dozen minutes, but its presence was already being felt. A heavy wind is already rattling the tent fabric, painting the landscape with dust, tiny rocks, and branches of bonetrees.

Emil looks in an uncertain direction, beyond the tent’s pitched walls.

Better sleep while I can, then.

Wake me up before you depart, she requests in a drowsy voice, turning on her side.

‘Course.

Emil rummages briefly through their bag, their hands passing through a sea of objects: most small, some shiny, some more or less useful, and, they hoped, most exchangeable with another horde. From this sea, they dredge up an hourglass, its weighted metal frame fitted with a squeaky cogwheel, and a bell whose patina had long worn away.

Two turns should be enough. They turn the hourglass over, adjust the cog, and lie back down, turning their back to Sonya.

Sleep well.

You too.

Beyond the tent, the wind howls, like a wounded animal.

---

When the air around the camp is finally quieter, Emil doesn’t feel much better. Their joints are dry and brittle-feeling, like the dead vegetation and rocks that the wind has tossed at the horde. The taste and texture of the air’s improved; though for how long is anyone’s guess.

They slowly awaken and methodically massage their shoulders for a few minutes, before shaking Sonya’s shoulder.

Nngh…

Well, she won’t be up for another ten or twenty minutes. But Emil’s not as strict as the atriarchs when it comes to rest time. So, they gather their things, and leave the tent, without making too much noise.

Habitually tightening the already-perfectly-adjusted straps of their backpack, they glance briefly to the camp and its surroundings.

A good fifty percent of the horde has already stepped out, cleaning the dead grass, dust, and other debris that has accumulated against their tents. A few children kick at the traces of the storm, laughing, amidst adults engaged in lively discussion, looking for any possible damage or loss.

Among them, Emil sights Ojzin, busy talking with the atriarchs. His glasses and long black hair, still slightly ruffled by the dying winds, frame a thoughtful and controlled expression, typical of times when he’s searching for the right words to convince someone.

No, we really couldn’t have done better, Emil hears him reply with a reserved conviction. But we can count on…

One of the atriarchs notices Emil out the corner of her eye; in her other, missing eye socket, a flicker of red scales can be seen wrinkling in a look of surprise, a ripple that runs down her cheek to disappear under a grayish costume, patched but nevertheless beautiful.

Emil! Good lad. We were just talking about you, she says in an exhausted voice.

Master Sephil, Emil replies, bowing their head briefly, before turning to address each of the other atriarchs present. Master Akom, Master Eschêne…

Did Sonya share our decision with you?

Yes. I am… ready, they say, looking down, before offering an encouraging smile.

Very well.

A somewhat cold tone of voice, accompanied by a somewhat fake smile. The atriarchs take their leave, and Emil turns their gaze towards the south.

The matte black sky that they’ve always known. Clouds crawling across the twisted spine of a dark horizon, illuminated by lights both fantastical and dull. Hills intertwined into a steel palette. A vast grove of bonetrees with gnarled, spiral chalky branches dancing in the breeze. To be bypassed by them, to be pruned by others; their powder will make for good fertilizer for future crops.

A landscape that could not be more typical of their homeland.

Master Sephil’s unview—

AH!

Emil jumps a mile into the air; Ojzin has approached them, too quietly to detect for their liking.

Oh. Pardon me.

No, it’s… all is well.

Ojzin slowly lifts his hand towards Emil’s shoulder, looking them in the eyes to ensure this gesture will be welcome. It is. His warm, slender hand stabilizes them.

Sorry, he adds in a low voice. This storm is… unfortunate. You know well as I do that after our journey stopping like this, morale is low. For all we know, the torments are still on our tails. The sooner we find something...

The sooner your favorite scavenger finds something.

Emil and Ojzin exchange smiles; genuine ones.

…the sooner our best scavenger finds something, if there’s something to be found, around here… the sooner we should be back on the road.

You were talking about, uh… Emil snaps their fingers, trying to recall what their friend said before accidentally frightening them.

Ah. Yes. Master Sephil has unseen something in that direction. ‘An intricate and indefinite sense of presence,’ she said. That could be a ruin, maybe another horde. Sounds promising, but, of course, be on your guard.

Of course.

They exchange the ritual words:

Fly far, my falcon.

Enough to return, my falconer.

Ojzin takes his leave of Emil with a pat on the back, returning to the atriarchs to help organize the horde’s efforts.

Emil pensively watches the horizon for another minute, seeking any signs of danger. They don’t see any, but like everyone else, they have great confidence in Master Sephil’s uneye. They make way to the armsmaster’s tent.

On the way, they narrowly avoid a tackle from the children they observed earlier.

I gotcha! shouts a kid who is… sixteen, maybe seventeen Cycles old? Nobody has any idea what his age really is, not even those who took him in.

No way!

Yes way! I got your tail!

We said no tails! You don’t have one! That’s cheating!

Emil continues along, walking past most of the camp’s activity. In just about the center, a meager meal is being prepared for the most vulnerable, before they are sent out to exhaust themselves again. In a myriad collection of new (crudely molded) and less new (more harmoniously shaped) pots and pans, three young men barely adults are preparing a makeshift soup; lentils, gray rice, a piece of dried meat no bigger than a fist.

Akteum, too, of course, lots of akteum; the horde is nervous, and can only be more wary of the water collected along their path. Sonya’s mother is pouring handfuls of the powdered substance into the pots, her arms trembling from the physical effort.

Upon arriving at their destination, Emil lifts the door flap of the armsmaster’s massive tent. He greets his guest with a cheer in his tone.

Emil! Good to see ya, kid. What do ya need?

Emil replies in an awkward tone, avoiding looking straight at him.

Master Sephil… unsaw something in the south. Do you have a bow left? A sharp knife?

Still avoiding a glance at the armsmaster, Emil presents their own knife. The blade is still intact, but the handle has had to be replaced at least three times in the past two Cycles. It’s been declining again for many weeks now, half-eaten by insects and worn down by the rain.

Ahh. No bow for you, I’m afraid. Saving this one for Sonya.

They both turn towards a corner of the tent, where the master’s myriad “projects” are stacked precariously. For the most part, like Emil’s knife, they’re little more than wooden handles supporting elaborate blades, most found in the debris of ancient buildings. Few hordes have blacksmiths, and even when they do, they must take care of them and slow their workload, as what they do is invaluable. Affixed to unfinished handles, Emil recognizes blades that they themself scavenged and brought back.

Amidst the spears, knives, and axes, there is a single bow, carved with obvious care and patience. The string, stretched to a neutral, balanced position, suggests ferocity, strong yet contained.

Hers will soon need to replaced, the armsmaster comments. Honestly, can’t wait to see her put this one to good use.

Emil stands still, letting their thoughts rest against the bowstring, feeling its strength before their expedition.

It is truly magnificent. I wonder what name she will give it.

Perhaps mine! Come on, let me see your knife, kid.

Emil gives the armsmaster a long ten seconds to get to his feet. They see the trembling, skeletal hands slowly grasp the handle, as though it were an ingot of some precious metal.

Those hands truly break their heart. They’re afraid to touch him, afraid that his bony fingers would simply turn to dust. Those hands had lost everything, and yet continued to sand, to carve, to craft, day after day. Emil sometimes thought that this was all that remained of the armsmaster. A pair of hands.

That’ll do. Give me a short while.

The horde has no other armsmaster. He is all they have left. When he joined the horde, he was already so old. He could barely teach the youth how to carve wood. He refuses supplementary meals in order to spread his knowledge, and even that is not enough.

What else could he have done?

Emil nods idly, long after the armsmaster has set to work. They mumble a thank you and leave the tent.

Just outside, they sit cross-legged on the ground, their mind and gaze wandering aimlessly. They watch for a moment as the children get further opinions about whether or not a tail counts while playing tag.

Emil is notoriously not kayal compared to the rest of the horde. No tail, no scales, no eyes along the spine and chest, no phosphorescent patches of skin. Almost unique in having nothing physically unique about them. Sometimes they wish they were a little more… well, a little more something. Anything useful. Anything that would let them to help the brave old armsmaster, among other things.

For a long while, they stare into space, one hand in their pocket, feeling the reassuring touch of a lucky charm of theirs. A shiny brooch set with a large green stone, found during an unusually fruitful expedition. The gold frame had stood the test of time, but was too thin to be worth melting down, so the atriarchs allowed them to keep the small object, otherwise of no practical value.

The back-and-forth motion of their thumb on the polished surface of the jewel is interrupted when a friend calls out to them.

Damn, you look rough!

Gerfo plops down next to Emil, followed closely behind by Sonya, who prefers to remain standing.

He worries me.

Him? Gerfo asks, turning their left head to the tent.

No way, he’s indestructible. I wouldn’t be surprised if I fell before him, long as we’ve got wood to put in his hands.

Hands. Emil would really rather not think about hands. They also hold back from repeating the casual but revealing comment about the bow’s name.

Don’t say stuff like that, Gerfo, Sonya replies, embarrassed.

Like what? he exclaims with a pair of surprised expressions.

You falling, Emil clarifies.

Emil looks at their much more kayal best friend. Now that they think about it, they were not expecting both of his heads to be awake: he’s been alternating their use almost the entire trip. His short hair, the same charcoal color as his bare hands and feet, barely hides the discomfort on his faces.

…Sorry.

Feels bad to see him like this, too, honestly. Even though he still makes lots of good blades.

As if you need a knife, Sonya jokes, indicating Gerfo’s enormous claws.

But he’s the one who files them, thinks Emil.

But he’s the one who files them for me! retorts Gerfo. It’s…

He falls silent a moment, lowering his gazes, clearly ashamed.

I can’t… do it on my own.

Neither Emil nor Sonya point out that despite the heavy, sharpened appendages that make Gerfo such an excellent hunter, he’s always been able to use a pencil, a flint lighter, or just about any delicate tool.

The old armsmaster matters to him, and vice versa; and that’s all there is to it. Emil and Sonya mourn in advance, but they don’t have to rush their companion. To each their own pace.

Emil changes the subject.

So, what about the north? How’s it looking?

Sonya jumps on the opportunity.

Some good news for a change, she exclaims, crossing her arms. We have traces of erymars. With luck, there’ll be enough game to replenish our meat stores.

Furs, too, Gerfo mutters. We’re already freezing.

Now that he mentions it, Emil does indeed feel a bit cold. Winter is nearing, and traveling will soon become even harder. The elders are definitely hoping to link up with another horde by then, but who really believes in that? Only an abundance of supplies will save these eighty or so souls.

Gerfo rises to his feet and spends several minutes stretching in silence, and the everyday sounds of cooking, mending clothes, and craftspeople fill the air instead.

The conversation resumes between the two hunters. Sonya agrees on a particular route to converge with Gerfo, in case one of them needs help hauling their take. Emil, not party to the conversation, finds themself turning towards the armsmaster’s tent occasionally. Already eleven or twelve minutes have passed. The wait feels long. They gaze up at the sky; eternal, unfathomable, indifferent ink.

…Alright, let’s go. Fly well, Emil! concludes Sonya, their attention drifting.

Oh. Yes. See you soon.

Their friends walk away with a worried expression that goes unnoticed. They continue to stare at the sky, as if…

Emil!

The voice of the armsmaster, thunderous despite any physical weakness, calls to them. Returning within, Emil is handed back their knife, with a brand-new handle.

Thank you so much.

Yer welcome. Would ya do me a solid, kid?

Emil nods solemnly. The old man leans closer to them, and whispers in a low voice.

While yer out, find a nice claw-file for yer friend. Or a strip of something sturdy, so I can make one for him. That oaf won’t learn a thing on his own, if ya don’t force his hand.

He gives Emil a knowing smile, obscured on a face covered in wrinkles. Emil stares back for a moment, saying nothing, before stammering what sounds like an “okay”. They make haste from the tent, rubbing their eyes.

---

In the silence of Sonya’s tent, Emil pores over their map while nibbling on dried fruit, a privilege granted by the proprietor for helping her unload the food supplies.

Their eyes search the paths the horde has already walked, comparing them to the unknown route it has diverted onto. The enormous serpent of dashed ink, representing a standard Cycle, seems both so close and so far away, on a representational canvas at this not-quite-uniform scale.

Frustrated by a lack of data on the region, they can only content themself with filling it in on their own. Taking out an Extinct pen and a rudimentary pencil from their stuff, they begin to trace the path of their prior journeys in black ink. Then, with that done, they extrapolate in pencil the turn that the current traversal has taken.

Hey. Emil.

Sonya is back, apparently to retrieve a forgotten case of food. Her friend, sitting cross-legged on the bed, gently moves aside to make room for her.

Emil.

Ah, shoot. So she really does have something to talk about. They set their implements aside.

What is it?

She sits down in front of them, at a polite distance, before drawing a deep breath. This is quite unlike her.

Promise me you won’t share what I’m about to tell you.

They look up from their chart.

…Of course, they say in a low voice, a little fearful of what Sonya, brave Sonya, might ask them to keep quiet about.

She inhales and exhales again.

How much time do we have, you think?

Emil is speechless.

Nobody’s supposed to ask questions like that.

You know we’re–

Sonya.

No, listen to me. You know we’re about to lose the armsmaster. That Three-Wings doesn’t care about us, and that Lightning-Strike cares even less than that about our problems. Eschêne is on his way out.

Sonya, lower your voice, I beg you, Emil implores, reaching out their hands to her.

What’s the use?! she replied violently, though respecting Emil’s plea. If they exile me, what difference will it make? Be it in three days or thirty Cycles, all of Green-Tree will die. You hear me? Die! Me, Gerfo… They’ll take in all the best of us, and the others… won’t…

As she bursts into tears, Emil has already taken her in their arms. They know only too well the feelings stirring within their friend. They know that very little will console her.

The gods…

Curse the gods, she whimpers. Curse it all.

Emil doesn’t believe the words that come to mind, but they say them anyway. They’re the words they know, the ones everyone says.

We have to live. We have to believe in tomorrow.

What kind of tomorrow? she asks sarcastically, resting her head on their shoulder. Going round in circles?

She wipes her tears.

I don’t know.

I’ll tell you what I know. My family wants me to leave them for another horde. And there’s reason to that. But who will take care of them, if I leave them behind? And even if they could leave, too, who would take them in?

Nobody. Sonya’s family is too kayal, or too sick. Or both.

Her father’s skin has been covered, locked together, with rigid scales since the end of his childhood. Today, he can no longer walk. His mind remains intact, so he spends his time teaching young children to read, write, and count. The scale growth has now spread to his chest, and every week, he struggles to breathe a little more.

Sonya’s mother, on the other hand, has been robbed of the energy of a normal uuman since she was born. She only can bear to stay awake for half a day at most; a time she mostly devotes to her husband and to her children. The herbalist of Green-Tree, Foss, works to relieve her chronic fatigue with special tonics. But these tonics require precious ingredients, and are thus mainly reserved for hunters, warriors, and other defenders of the horde.

Such a remedy would undoubtedly relieve the same symptoms in Paliot, Sonya’s kid brother, if only it could be administered to him. A good half of his charcoal-colored skin bristles with long spines as soon as anyone approaches him. An impressive kayal gift to be sure, but useless against a careful predator. Sonya is the only one who can both touch him without frightening him, and get him to speak beyond monosyllabic interjections.

…I don’t know what to do anymore, she murmurs, drying her tears. Save for hunting.

Emil has always struggled to comfort those they love. But that does not prevent them from trying.

Then maybe you should hunt.

A small sarcastic sigh escapes her lips.

You serious?

It’s what Gerfo tells me. When things aren’t going well, he thinks about his next hunt. That killing an animal makes him feel more alive. And that when he sees others eating something he’s killed, he feels they’re more alive, too.

Emil slowly caresses Sonya’s head.

He makes things sound so simple, our Gerfo, she replies.

Yeah.

For a few minutes, Emil and Sonya’s universe is reduced to just this tent. The hustle and bustle of the hordiers outside, happiness both true and feigned, slowly pass them by like a warm breeze through tall grass.

You should insist on accompanying him, before he leaves.

I told you–

I can see that you need it. So tell him. That it’s a need.

She sighs.

You piss me off, always being right about this stuff.

Sorry, they apologize, stopping the motion of their hands. I did not mean to…

No! I didn’t mean it like… Oh, screw it. Never mind.

She gets up quickly, calming her nerves.

I’m going. Be careful, wherever you’re headed.

Sonya and them exchange a nod. She affixes her quiver to her belt, adjusts the bow on her back, smooths down the hair that Emil has stroked, and quickly vacates her quarters.

Emil isn’t sure if they succeeded in comforting her as they should have. But hey know they did their best, and that their friend is stronger than she thinks. She’ll hold out a little longer.

---

Compass. Knife. Small supply of water. The rest of the dried fruit. Mapping equipment. Emil checks their belongings one last time, and has not forgotten anything.

Time to make the usual quick round for any requests.

Anything but wood! the carpenter shouts at them with a sardonic smile. No, seriously. What else do you think I’d want?

I imagine you’ve already spoken to Otroe, so… candles, or something to make them with, one of the weavers whispers to them. You know who they’re for.

We’ve got enough metal, I’d say, confesses the blacksmith, crossing his arms. But, no complaints if you get me more. It’ll always be extra to trade, once it’s smelted down.

Emil makes the rounds to about half the adults in the camp, memorizing their requests. They don’t write them down on paper anywhere. That material is too precious, and a good scavenger must have (and keep) a good memory.

Of course, many of the promises made to them will go unresolved for a while. Patience is an essential virtue in a horde. But, they take care to listen those who have welcomed them, before each important expedition.

Once their social ritual is over, tightening the poncho around their neck, Emil looks out into the mire of the unday. The far horizon line crackles with electricity and murk, roiling above a palette of faded heat. A half-perpetual half-storm.

Their pockets are full, but their bag is empty; more than ready to carry as much of what they find back to camp.

They wave to the guards at the edge of camp. A few more scattered cries of “Fly well!” reach them, to which they reply with a weary smile and a nod.

As they take one step beyond the threshold, into the unknown, into the dark grey yonder, Emil says no prayer. For a prayer is useless without a recipient.