A Bicorn’s charge wasn’t an easy thing to avoid. Thaer Surtsson loosed his arrow when the beast came close enough for him to see the white’s of its eyes, then leapt to his right, rolling over his shoulder and consequently dropping his bow in the process. His spear was within reach though and…

Thud!!!

The Bicorn smashed into the trunk of a petrified tree and chips of stone like woods bounced off Thaer’s bare skin.

His arrow hung on the Bicorn’s wool, the stone tip probably didn’t even pierce into the hide. There were dozens of arrows tangled along its side, some fell off as the beast shook its head.

“Grauw!”

An angry roar. The creature was taller than Thaer, whose head barely reached its shoulders. The primary horn above its snout was longer than his arm and razor-sharp. The secondary horn was set just behind the primary, a tiny cute bump.

The entire tribe had contributed to Thaer’s ritual hunt, with men and women shooting arrows and throwing spears to weaken and bleed, but this Bicorn, the one they call the Grey Rock, was much tougher than even other members of its kind. Nothing but the best was needed for the Ritual though, so Thaer had to face the beast in melee alone, and he must deliver the fatal blow, else the Binding Ritual wouldn’t take.

He picked up his spear, holding it threateningly in front, while keeping his stance low and crouched. He shuffled to the side, away from a possible charge and slowly crept closer while the beast was still stunned by the impact. As soon as he came close, he jabbed the spear into its eye, but the stone tip bounced and deflected against the bony ridges around the target.

“Fool!” he muttered to himself as he backed up.

The Bicorn had regained its senses and two long plumes of steam snorted out from its nostrils. It pawed the ground before it seemed to scrunch in on itself. The next moment, a loud boom and a cloud of dust erupted by its hind legs and it shot at Thaer, head lowered and horn aimed squarely at the boy’s chest.

Thaer’s eyes narrowed as he jumped and rolled to his left this time, keeping a firm grasp of the spear.

Boom!

Again the Bicorn hit something else, this time, it happened to be a small boulder. Except unlike the petrified tree, the stone was nowhere near strong enough to absorb the impact. It split right in the middle and the halves were flung to either side as the animal flailed its head. From behind, Thaer could see its sharply clawed hooves, the long whip-like tail, and the meaty haunches which bulged as it gathered itself to turn.

The gully they were in was barely wide enough for the creature to turn without hitting the debris inside: boulders, tree trunks, and thorny bushes that have long shed their leaves in preparation for the Season of Water’s freezing cold. Alas, the thorns were too brittle to puncture the beast’s hooves, though they were sharp enough to draw long furrows along Thaer’s back.

As the Bicorn struggled to turn, the boy ran up to it, circling around its rear. He jabbed at the only place that wasn’t covered in steely wool, or leathery skin, and his success brought about a high pitched roar of fury and pain, as well as an undertone of loss and regret.

Thaer danced back, holding in cackling glee. Blood spurted out of the wound, painting the hard ground covered in early snow red. As the Bicorn flailed its head, he timed a blow to the neck, managing another gushing wound. Then he backed away, warily eying the creature as it bled out. It took five hours, but afterwards, the beast was still on the ground, chest barely rising with its rattling gasps.

Thaer stood near its head, staring at the Bicorn’s eye.

“Peace. And may you be reborn in better times.”

Then with a quick jab, the stone tip of his spear penetrated the eye. He leaned into it until he felt a pop and the weapon jabbed several inches deeper. The Bicorn shuddered and died.

“You’ve done well.”

A large man walked down to the gully, carrying a large hatchet in his ham-fisted hands.

Thaer smashed his fist over his chest.

“I am ready, father.”

Surt Biorsson nodded and handed over the hatchet.

“Take the Bicorn’s head to Nyuno Kwevha. Sacrifice it to the altar inside and the Binding will be complete.”

“Yes, father.”

Thaer stabbed his spear into the ground, raised the hatchet high, and chopped down with as much force as he could. The sharp edge bit into the neck, sinking an inch into the flesh. With a grunt, he pulled it out and chopped again, though he missed the mark by a couple of inches.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

It was close to dark by the time he cut past the spine. His hands and arms, not to mention his bare torso, were spattered with blood. The cold rays of the sun and the cold wind from the north were his only companions. His father and the rest of the tribe had left for the campgrounds.

Nyuno Kwevha was at least a day’s march south, though hills that blew burning steam from cracks on the rocks. Even now, the warmth of Cinderfield radiated far and wide. A coil of rope, made from the thick vines, looped between the Bicorn’s horns and was secured around the bony protrusions around its head. Thaer pulled and carried the head over his shoulders. It was probably half as heavy as he was but his heavy muscles were more than enough for the task.

He tried to keep his trousers clean though. Blood was hard to wash off clothes. He walked the entire night through, following the warm wind blowing from the south. He prayed to the Skylights for power and guidance the entire time.

This day marked his thirteenth year of life and he was more than ready to take the responsibilities of an adult. As soon as he finished the Ritual, he would be old enough to sire children of his own.

The Iron-Skin were never short of children but it was the blooded warriors that were in short supply. After the Ritual, he would be in the right position to be blessed with the blood of their enemies. His day of birth was fortuitous, or maybe a curse, depending on how one looked at it. It came just before the next year’s raids began, which meant he was the oldest of this particular batch of warriors, hence the most likely to survive.

“Ah, wish I could have Frida tonight,” he muttered, licking his lips.

The buxom girl’s wide childbearing hips, her long golden hair, and her teasing smile were more than enough to set his heart pounding. It was close to dawn by this time, and only thoughts of Frida, and Elya, and Sarinna, kept his energies up. He’d be with any of them given half the chance, but of course, he had to blood himself first. No self-respecting daughter of the Iron-Skin would give a greenhorn warrior like him a second glance, even if he was the son of the chief.

He felt himself swell when he recalled one of his most cherished memories, a stolen glance at the young and unbonded women bathing by the Icefalls. He knew he was grinning stupidly but well, nobody was around to look at him except maybe the Bicorn’s remnant Anima. Hie hie.

The flat frozen plain had now given way to the Cinderfield’s small broken hills, and he followed the prescribed route.

“Look for the hill cracked in three, walk to the west of it until I find the boulder that looks like a pair of hairy buttocks, then under an arch, and into the deep,” he said to himself.

The Bicorn’s head had stopped dripping blood down the severed neck several hours ago and he had to fend off scavenger birds that tried to wrest the carcass off his back. He’d had to scare off a starving wolf by growling back at it, too. Well, the path to Nyuno Kwevha was almost to its end.

He easily found the hilltop with the top looking like something had cleaved it twice. One side of it drooped down while the other thirds pointed straight to the sky. After another hour, he found the boulders. It didn’t exactly look like a pair of buttocks, but it was covered in some kind of grey moss and there was a crevasse down the middle. The arch was just down one side and from there, he went down into a ravine.

A small stream meandered down the middle of it, barely wider than his stride. He followed that until the sides of the ravine were three times his height. He placed the Bicorn’s head by his feet, bowed his head and prayed.

When he opened his eyes, a portion of the ravine wall had opened and lurid red light shone from inside. The opening was barely as wide as he was. Thaer squeezed inside and followed the cave a couple of twisting turns before it sloped down. The light came from the walls, barely brighter than the Chaos streams above. He must have walked for about an hour before the downward tunnel opened into a large chamber.

His eyes were immediately drawn to a statue. It was three times his height, made of smooth greenish stone. It was a bipedal creature, glowing with an inner radiance that obscured the finer details.

Thaer Surtsson approached and laid the head down at the statue’s feet. He knelt and bowed, intoning, “Oh great Progenitor, I offer this beast to you. Grant unto me your blessing that I might smite my foes and sire more warriors!”

He repeated the chant until his throat was sore and he could barely feel his knees. The stench of the decaying head filled his head.

“Progenitor…”

The head burst into flame and it melted into a puddle of goo. A spectral flame kept going for a moment before it flew into Thaer’s face and down his throat. He gurgled and gasped but the feel of something clawing down his throat, past his lungs and heart, almost made him faint. Heat burst out from within him and radiated outwards. His skin, of the tribe’s signature grey, deepened in colour, closer to their tribe’s eponymous name.

“CHILD, WHAT SEEK YOU?”

It was a deep voice that echoed in the chamber, echoed in Thaer’s head.

“Power! Women! Wealth!” Thaer screamed.

“...THAT’S IT?”

“Er, yes.”

“HAAAH, VERY WELL, BY THE TERMS OF THE BARGAIN, THIS GREAT ONE BESTOWS UPON YOU…POWER!”

Thaer felt worms crawling under his skin. He felt his muscles spasm, he felt the core of himself grow and pulse. He felt another thing take hold of his mind. When he closed his eyes, he could see it, a severed Bicorn head, with eyes filled with sparkling sunbursts. Those eyes…they stared at him with hate. Life brutally cut short. The Bicorn had been at the prime of its life with dozens of mates and children. Thaer and his ilk had come and attacked, driving him away from his herd. It wasn’t just that but because of the tribe’s actions, his herd would now have a different male. Someone else would reap the benefits of the Bicorn’s work!

“Come, we will do greater work! We will have all the women and the power! Come, join me, become my strength! Together, we will drive those savages from our land!” Thaer screamed in his mind.

The fire in the Bicorn’s eyes dimmed as Thaer continued to lavish it with sweet words and promises. At last, it gave up its ghost and assimilated into Thaer’s Anima. Strength and virility flooded into his blood, his loins. His body, finely honed as it was, grew bigger and stronger. Ropy muscles, bulging veins, tough skin! No weapon can pierce his skin. No fire would burn his hair. He was invincible!

“GO, CHILD, AND FULFILL YOUR DESTINY.”

“Thank you, Progenitor.”

“ONCE YOU HAVE RID THE LAND OF THOSE WHO GUARD IT, I WILL RETURN TO CHAOS. GO! FULFILL THE ANCIENT PACT!”

Thaer stood and bowed at the waist. When he straightened, he was no longer in the cave, but back at the surface. The Cinderfield Hills were bright with the morning sun, though the hundreds of little hills cast shadows in the valleys.

To the south, the so-called Empire lay, with its usurper people. Thaer and the rest of the Iron-Skin Tribe, ten thousand warriors strong, will lay waste to their forts, their villages, their towns! He will claim their women and make them his own!

He wiped the drool off his face and turned north. He was a boy no longer but not yet a man. He couldn’t wait to prove his mettle.