Of Clouds and Bells

IV. Tempest

 Nomadic magic was a fickle thing. Poppen had to make sure he drew the rune just right, murmured the right words at the right time, and made sure that he used the right joining runes to combine others and make a full spell rather than a fragment.

 Here, he decided he was feeling particularly ambitious. His crimson ink represented fire and so that was the main rune he used. The color of the ink didn’t always matter, but the more outside influences the spell had, the stronger it would be. It wold have helped if he had obsidian, or something else fiery to draw the runes on--but for now, parchment would have to do. Poppen then decided he didn’t want to kill the other children. Severely maim or injure would be enough, he concluded. So, he drew the runes of flash and heat. He drew the rune of thunder--normally a rune associated with air, but a special join rune would help with the confliction--to the left. Idealistically, the spell would produce a hot flash of light followed by  a loud peal of thunder.

 “What do you think, Cat?” Poppen asked. The cat was years older than him and had seen many a runic spell. The ginger beast looked up from his napping, eyed the runes through sleep-narrowed eyes, and nodded with a yawn. Poppen gave an impish grin as he unhooked his sling. He rose to his knees, crumpling his parchment rune into a large ball and placing it into the leather of his makeshift weapon. He squeezed one eye shut as he took aim, pulling back the stretchy bands, about to--

 Cat yowled--a fiercely inhuman sound. Poppen loosed his charge, but too late. The rune went wide off its mark as Poppen was lifted by the scruff of his shirt. The crumpled rune landed, causing a wide, but weak explosion. Dust and gas expanded afterwards in an opaque cloud. A second belated, a boom like thunder shook the ground, making the whole advent seem more dangerous than it was. The group of boys the explosion had missed jumped and looked around wildly--Poppen just caught sight of their stupefied expressions as he was whirled around to see a much less pleasing face.

 “Hello, mother,” Poppen coughed. Her frown deepened--though it was rare when Poppen saw his mother not smiling. She was one of the tribe’s best hunters--she always kept a spear tied to her back and daggers on her belt. Ever since the supply of food had started dropping, the tribe had mostly blamed the hunters for the slow starvation. While they did not give this disdain outright, it could be felt in the tension the air gained. The hunters had since recently joined up with the warriors, all of them doing both jobs since neither could do the one alone anymore.

 His mother gave a soft rumble deep in her throat, a sound similar what Cat did when thinking deeply.

 "Come,” she ordered, leading Poppen back to camp. She was fond of one word responses. Poppen felt terribly out of place as she brought him into the hunter’s tent. The abundance of tall people reminded him of a forest. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself as a tiny little mouse--one of th bravest of his kind. He had an axe and toppled the tall, dark trees that took sunlight form the tiny, benighted ones--

 “Are you listening?” his mother asked suddenly, making Poppen and Cat nearly jump in startlement. Poppen glanced down, unaware that Cat had even followed them inside. The animal snorted its welcome. The huntress sighed.

“You can’t use the elements to harm a fellow!” she chastised. “We are weak as it is--in-fight is the last thing the tribe needs.”

 Poppen dedicated himself to staring at her feet rather than his mother’s big, blue, disappointed eyes. Her weight shifted into a stance somewhat less aggressive.

 “I would punish you,” she said. “But I haven’t the time. We’re preparing an assult.”

 Those words caught his attention. He looked up quickly and caught the ghost of a smile on his mother’s lips. An assault was something the tribe almost never did. Unlike the idea border wardens seemed to have formed, the nomads did everything they could to avoid other human contact. It was because the warden’s were paranoid that they were forced to attack other people

 That word again, Poppen thought, frustrated.

 “I’m looking for a word,” the boy said. “Its whens something opposite of what you’d assume would happen, like... a double edged sword?”

 His mother knew Poppen too well to be taken aback by such a seemingly random question. “Like being killed with your own spear?” Poppen nodded excitably. “That’s irony, dear.”

 “Oh!” Then, “Who are we attacking?”

 “There’s a large grouping of people just over the horizon,” she said. “By word of falcon. Supposedly, its some kind of festival, but it seems much to big.” She shrugged. “And, it’s not ‘we’, dear. You’re too young to fight.”

 Poppen’s mouth opened instinctively to protest, but his mind worked over it and it shut with a snap. Every nomad wanted to prove themselves--and no one more than little, insignificant Poppen. However, if he complained, she would keep an eye on him. If he made no indication that he wanted to do so, she wouldn’t worry. And like the viper hiding in the grass, he would strike.