Sol Survivor - Sample - OUT NOW!

Chapter Three

Planet of Qaldreth

Meorri tribe

Drafe squeezed five droplets of water onto his tongue. The sweet liquid nourished and cooled as it slid down his throat. His pouch sloshed with the heavenly goodness, but drinking more than the allowance was taboo. Still, he was tempted, hefting the bladder in his hand while trailing a thumb over his father's star burned into the leather. Sighing, he set it aside. Any water he returned with would add to tomorrow's rations. Not that he could recall having quenched his thirst. He, like all Meorri, survived on Osnir-blessed five drops at a time to hold back thirst.

On a pale-yellow stone ledge, he rested. Enjoying the cool shade of a cucooya tree—its thick, bulbous roots offering him a backrest—he stared across the Aguura salt plains. In the distance, hazy mountains rose, dark and mysterious. The Riermus tribe reigned over the Ki'irinzi Mountains stretching as far as the eye can see. He had never hunted far enough across the plains to meet a Riermus. There was talk their skin was the color of pale-yellow rock, mottled green and brown.

He sprawled with two dead garaks beside him. The length of his forearm, they would provide food for a few days, and their thick fur would please Larya, his sister. It was nearing midday. Qaldreth's two suns tortured the soil, burned the air, and siphoned what water trickled to the surface. He slumped, resting against the spongy bark. Having set out before daybreak, exhaustion drained him. Every big prey he'd targeted had slipped through his fingers.

His symbiotes flooded him with memories of his past fathers' hunts, hoping Drafe would learn from their skill and mistakes. A poor substitute for a lost parent. When he had a son, he would share the symbiotes as his father had done with him. So did the knowledge and condemnation of his ancestors survive.

"My thanks," he grumbled.

None of the symbiotes' guidance helped him. They slithered under the surface of his skin, rippling like a vasquva under the desert sands. Now that would be a worthy kill. The massive worm would feed his village for a year. Holy Osnir, even a baby vasquva would be worth the effort.

He shifted his legs, bare beneath the leather loincloth, his koq tucked into its pocket. His feet and chest were bare too. To hunt clothed was cowardly. To his right lay his father's sword. The shimmering Borven blade caught the suns' light. The hilt had strips of leather, hinting at past kills. It wasn't a Cainus-made sword, but it had survived generations. He had his spear beside that, the Borven head sharp enough to kill. No vasquva leather wrapped around the butt, only garak. One day soon, he would add a worthy kill to his symbiotes' memories.

The pebbles beneath his hand trembled and hopped. He rested his gaze on the plains before him. His symbiotes whispered of vasquva, but he dismissed it. The worms didn't travel the plains, preferring the Nadaar dunes west of him.

The whiskers bursting through the hard-packed soil proved him wrong.

A cold shiver shot down his back as he gaped. Scrambling to his feet, he scooped up the sword, and bolted, sprinting across the sand with tiny puffs of dust under his feet. As a Meorri, moving without disturbing his surroundings was taught from a young age. Many a danger lay beneath the salt and sand. He pumped his arms, chasing the swerving, slithering worm as it crossed the plains. Salt crystals exploded, stinging his skin. He shook his head to dislodge the white powder off his eyelashes. If he could just reach its neck. Sweat beaded his forehead, drenching the plume of hair curling from his temple down his spine, now sticking to his skin. His breathing labored, but he pushed on.

Such a kill would bring great honor and secure a good mating for Larya. As primary male, he had to care for her.

The amber beads in the guard of his sword dug into his hand. He tightened his grip and leaped onto one of the vasquva's many tails. The slimy yellow skin burned where it touched him. He scrambled up its length, dodging the other tails as they whipped over his head. It tried to dislodge him with flicks and jerks. He held on. Hand over hand, despite the burn of his skin flaking off, he climbed. His symbiotes hurried to heal him, whispering curses in an unknown, ancient language. The tone was the same.