Tel-Marq wakes as the morning light shines through the small opening of his sealskin tent. Exiting into the bright glare of snow and sky, he squints to survey the horizon. Subtle indications of wind, light, and scent tell him that a storm is coming. It will be white snow, dry and cold. And much of it, indeed.
After feeding himself and his team of sled dogs, TelMarq gathers his gear. About 200 yards away, a hole is cut into the ice of the frozen lake upon which the camp is set. The dogs guard the equipment and the meat gleaned from the hunt so far. They and the sad bundle—the remains of his hunting companion, Tel-Ruq.
No time to dwell on such things, Tel-Marq tells himself as he sits next to the hole in the ice. It is only a matter of time, he knows, before a seal or walrus spots the hole from below and takes the opportunity for a breath of fresh air. Then Tel-Marq's spear will fly, and another kill will be added to the take for this hunt. Tel-Marq braces himself against the cold and begins what could be a long wait. He lets his eyes gaze off to the horizon and feels the calm and patient spirit of the land flow through him. Ice and sky. Wind and snow. Emptiness and endlessness . . .
Tel-Marq reacts in an instant as the water before him erupts, his spear flying straight and true as an old walrus breaches the surface.
Tel-Marq secures the carcass with the others. It is enough; the hunt is finished. He lets his eyes fall again on the bundle of Tel-Ruq's remains frozen among the carcasses. Tel-Marq had found him the previous day, by one of the more distant hunting holes, felled by wolves. Tel-Marq had driven off the lone, wounded creature that remained, then gathered up his friend and brother to return him home to the tribe.
The dogs bristle with anticipation as Tel-Mark mounts the sled. Looking again to the horizon, he squints into the glare. Could it be? Yes, there. A hundred yards away, the spectral wolf regards Tel-Mark with utter calm. A sense of peace washes over Tel-Mark as he acknowledges the presence of the spirit animal. It is a benediction of sorts, a sign from the animal spirits that the hunt has been well and proper. Tel-Marq drives the dogs hard through the afternoon, hoping to return to the village before nightfall. The predicted snowstorm arrives. There is little wind, but the large, dry flakes drift gently to the ground as if an entire ocean of snow were falling to earth. Navigating by instinct alone, Tel-Marq rides though the blinding white.
The snow begins to taper off slightly when Tel-Marq rounds a large rock mound and catches a scent in the air that makes his blood freeze. He halts the dogs, calming and quieting them with a series of hand signals. Convinced that he is safely upwind, Tel-Marq clambers up the glacial rock pile and peers down the other side.
Two figures clad in fur and skins—shifter skins, TelMarq notes with fury—are fighting over the scraps of a fox carcass. Sharpened bones pierce the barbarians' skin in multiple places, entire strips of flesh deliberately pulled and torn. The faces are a ruin of scars and dead or dying flesh. They are Kalaak.
Scouts, Tel-Marq thinks, and there were likely more, hidden by the swirling white. The wind and snow meant neither Tel-Marq nor the raiders would likely be able to follow a trail. Slowly, Tel-Marq nocks an arrow in his massive bow. They would not be able to scale the rocks before he felled them both. And they would not flee. Kalaak never fled. Tel-Marq gathers the cruel metal morningstars from the arrow-riddled bodies. Best to return to the village and warn the elders. Kalaak! This far south! A bad omen, indeed. Time to move the village again.
That evening, the tribal drummers whirl in a frenzy of celebration as other hunting parties return. Around the fire in the large black sealskin tent of the elders, TelMark makes his report—the death of Tel-Ruq and the appearance of the Kalaak raiders. Having done his duty by his tribe and his family, Tel-Marq sets off for his own lodging. Time now for sleep.