Chris Wraight - Dead end

Orand walked by his side. He had long since lost his smile. Even the hunters, used to such conditions, were finding the going tough. They had wrapped leather masks around their faces and only their eyes remained exposed. Just as they had been when rescuing the crew of the Jumper, they looked like pale ghosts toiling across the harsh landscape.

“How’re you doing?” said Orand to Ronon. His voice was muffled by the facemask and the wind.

“Fine,” said Ronon. “Don’t worry about me.”

Orand nodded. “You’ve done well,” he said. “Lapraik and Fai thought you’d have turned back by now. You’re made of strong stuff. Not like the others, I’m guessing.”

“I dunno,” Ronon shrugged. “Colonel Sheppard’s hard to wear down. And I’d trust Teyla with my life.”

“And the fat one? The one who eats all the time?”

Ronon smiled under his facemask. “He’s OK,” he said. “Maybe not the toughest.”

Orand pulled the top of his facemask down a little and peered ahead. The flat ice yawned away into the distance. Then, suddenly, there was a whistle from one of the hunters up ahead. Orand immediately pulled his facemask down again and screwed up his narrow eyes at the horizon.

Ronon did likewise, but could see little. Nothing appeared to have changed. The weak sun was still high in the sky, the landscape bathed in its pale light. The ice shimmered coldly and the wind continued its endless bluster. Aside from some jagged cracks in the surface of the ice, there was almost no break in the flat landscape.

“What did you see, Lapraik?” hissed Orand to one of his companions.

“Northwest,” came a voice from up ahead. “A big herd. They’re heading west. We can catch them.”

Orand nodded sharply. He cupped his hands to his mouth, and gave a low call through them. The hunting party immediately broke into a loping run. Ronon joined them, feeling his stiff limbs gradually respond. His blood began to pump a little more strongly. This was good. With the prospect of action, the cold was easier to bear.

“You came looking for excitement,” said Orand, sounding much happier. “I think we’ll find it for you.”

The team went quickly but stealthily, keeping their hunched bodies as low to the ice as possible. Ronon couldn’t match their stooping gait, but was nearly as invisible against the ice, covered as he was in the bleached furs. As they ran, the hunters slid their spears from their backs, and carried them in both hands, swaying as they went. Ronon did likewise, nearly losing the shaft in his frost-numbed hands.

They began to pick up speed. The outlying hunters drew together, and soon the dozen young men were running in a tight pack, guided by the instincts of the one called Lapraik. The snow crunched under their fur-lined boots, flying in little spurts behind them as they closed in on the distant prey.

Ronon still struggled with the light. It was near-blinding if he looked directly at the shimmering horizon. But as he ran, the objective began to become apparent. In the far distance, there did seem to be a break in the flawless sheets of ice. At first it looked like a rocky outcrop, a narrow fringe of dark against the glass-like terrain. But soon there was no mistaking it. There were huge objects, and they were moving. From such a range Ronon couldn’t make out much detail, but it was clear that they were big.

He kept running, determined not to fall behind the more experienced hunters. Now that they were on the move, his longer legs gave him an advantage. The jar’hram felt light and supple in his hands. Just as it had done many times when hunting Wraith in far-flung worlds across the galaxy, the thrill of the chase began to take control of him. He felt his heart beating, his lungs working powerfully. The last of the chill left him and a savage heat kindled in his heart.

The Buffalo had seen them and the nearest of them began to break into a lumbering run. They were still some distance away.

Orand looked over at Ronon as he ran. He had a feral expression of joy in his eyes.

“This is it, big man!” he cried, whirling the jar’hram loosely around him as he loped. “Are you prepared?”

“Believe it,” growled Ronon, picking up the pace.

The hunt had begun.

Unlike Ronon, Teyla had no trouble slipping under the low doorways and between the various chambers of the settlement. The big Satedan had taken several bruises with him on the hunt. Teyla found herself wondering how he was fairing. With any luck, he was enjoying the sun on his skin. She was glad to be in the relative warmth for once, not chasing around and having to use her own considerable martial skills. The chance to immerse herself in an alien culture, to take some time to try and understand how the people of another world ordered themselves, was a rare privilege. She intended to exploit it to the full.

“Where are we taking this?” she said to Miruva.

The Forgotten woman carried the product of her labor, a circular mat made from the dried plains grass. It was much smaller than others Teyla had seen. She guessed that the scarcity of materials forced compromises to be made.

“This is to be placed in the Hall of the Artisans,” said Miruva, proud of her creation. “There will be many other items there. In due course, the Elders will come to judge their merit. Those deemed worthy will grace the dwellings of our leaders. I am hoping that mine will be chosen.” She slid Teyla a rueful smile. “My position is somewhat difficult, of course. My father heads the ruling council, and is a fair-minded man. As a result, he has never used his vote in my favor, and others have taken the prize. But I’m proud of this one. You never know.”

Teyla looked at the woven disk again. Miruva had created a ring of geometric shapes around the rim, all of which tessellated with each other wonderfully. In the center of the mat, there was a depiction of a hunting scene, as there seemed to be in all the Forgotten artwork. The White Buffalo was woven using a series of swirls to indicate movement. The diminutive figures of hunters surrounded the great animal in heavily stylized form. The colors Miruva had chosen were muted and subtle. Each hunter was a different shade, though it was difficult to make out in the flickering torchlight.

“Look carefully,” she said to Teyla, her eyes shining. “What do you make of the blue hunter?”

Teyla took the mat from Miruva and held it up to the light. The figure was almost the same as the others, except that it had a female shape. The Athosian smiled, and handed the mat back. “Will you get in trouble for that?”

Miruva shrugged. “What if I do? I told you your ideas were beginning to have an effect on me. For the time being, women hunters will only exist in tapestries and weaving. Maybe one day they’ll take their places in the real world.”

Teyla wondered if Miruva herself could make such a leap. Though outwardly shy and deferential, there seemed to be a core of steel to the young woman.

“I hope that is so, Miruva,” she said, placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“We are here,” Miruva said, and pulled aside a hanging from the entrance in front of them.

They entered a wide hall, somewhat like the assembly chamber, but smaller and lower. Elaborate drapes covered every wall, and the floor was strewn with mats and weavings of many shapes. Miruva’s wasn’t the smallest, but it wasn’t far off. Many of the other items seemed to use grass recycled from previous artifacts. The hall could have held twice the number assembled there with room to spare.

Miruva looked confident as she placed her mat near the center of the chamber.

“This is all new grass,” she said, proudly. “I walked long and far to find it before the snow came for good. The key to this competition is detail. A larger object will not necessarily win the prize.”