Treading on Graves - Unfinished

Chapter 2

Kazic waited.

The branches of the tree were hardly comfortable and the tip of his torn ear stung, as did his clawed fingers and crooked nose. At least the thick fur lining of his old coat kept his body warm and safe against the bitter winds which heralded snow. He grumbled and rubbed an aching shoulder, stretching - and there was the bastard on the ground below. Lublin tribal scout in Krakowic territory. The scout's boots crunched on the frozen leaves and mud as he navigated his way around the old bomb blasted buildings, where ivy dominated the now crumbling walls. And he was a human.

Kazic slowly moved to clamber down the tree - his long toes and their curved claws were sticky with sap from where he had climbed up earlier, but the cold had rendered them numb to everything. With ease, his thick claws found purchase in the bark, and he crept down before reaching the forest floor and pulling his boots back on. The scout carried onwards as he was stalked by the surprisingly agile yet bulky man. Pulling his coat closer around him, the scout sped up a bit as he glanced left and right through the trees.

This was like the arena again – cowering, terrified opponents stalked by Kazic, throats torn out by his claws. He shook his head. No. Both men had guns, this was between them both, tribe matters. Not to amuse the upper classes, not as an alternate form of execution. He was free now, free to do whatever he chose. Kazic was sure he was well hidden – the natural markings on his face ensured that leaves and branches made good cover.

He leapt, pinning the scout down instantly and tearing the pistol from his shoulder holster with an agile swipe of his hand. A flash of pain across his cheek. The human had a knife in his hand still, and went for another swing before claws sank into his wrist. The weight of the Krakowic fighter was immense, and the scout struggled to move away as the man bore down on him.

“Why are you in our territory?” Kazic demanded, teeth bared and the scout’s knife now in his hand.

A thin line of blood beaded at the scout’s throat as the dagger was pushed up against his windpipe by the huge mutant. He gagged, squirmed, gasped for breath.

“I asked why! Tell!”

The scout trembled and tried to lean his head back away from the blade which was becoming so familiar with his slim neck.

“I was told to check what artillery you had! Our tribe needs it!” he finally said, voice shaking.

The lie was fluent, and ever-suspicious Kazic wasn’t sure if he believed the young man or not. He checked for other weapons and found none. Pulling the human up, he slammed him into a tree and growled in his face.

“You’ll come back with me. Lech will be interested in you. He can tell if you’re lying or not.”

The name of the Krakowic shaman sent a shudder down the scout’s spine. The shaman in his own tribe was strict, austere and mixed poisons and potions night and day, often communing with the dead. A small monster with slim limbs and a whiplike tail was his familiar. The scout had seen it feed on an injured prisoner of war before. The sickening crack of bone filled his ears once more. He flinched from Kazic’s calloused hands grabbing his shoulder and dragging him along.

The remains of buildings turned into shacks, into half-repaired houses with sheets of corrugated iron and scrap steel forming the walls where stone had been torn asunder by nuclear weapons or petty tribal warfare. Dogs roamed the streets, growling when they scented something different to their Krakowic masters. The ground was icy and hard, grass struggling between cracks in tarmac.

A Krakowic woman sat in the cold outside her house, skinning a young deer with quick hands and a sharp knife. She merely glanced at Kazic and the scout before returning to her work, arms painted to the elbow in deer blood. Her son sat by her, learning survival before he even knew what it was, but he dashed into the road when he saw Kazic. The scout struggled with the boy’s gabbled Krakowica, but understood the way he was pulling at the man’s coat and hopping around after him. Wincing, the scout expected the boy to be kicked aside, but instead Kazic laughed and gently pushed him away, replying in his tribe’s bizarre language.

The buildings looked more whole now – holes were patched better, and parts seemed scavenged rather than temporary fixes. A few people were working on an old bus, fitting new parts where old ones had given up the ghost years ago. For a moment, the scout forgot he was prisoner of this huge man with his sharp claws and knives. He was being dragged to an old church, or so it seemed. The spire had been destroyed years ago, but a surprising amount of stained glass remained on the proud old building. Off to one side was a churchyard, gravestones standing like uneven teeth. Kazic opened the great wooden doors and pulled the scout through.

The lights inside were dimmed, and books were piled on old pews converted into shelves. Symbols were painted on the walls in white paint, deer skulls placed in positions with the antlers facing towards the doors of the church. There were no generators powering halogen lights in here – a bit had been made in the aisle where a fire now flickered, flames dancing off of the bleached skulls and stained glass. Smoke circled at head level, and the scout couldn’t help hacking and coughing, eyes beginning to stream. Kazic muttered something in Krakowica, and proceeded around the other side of the fire, where an old man sat crosslegged, chopping vegetables for a pot. He was tall and broad like most Krakowic tribals, but the tattoos on his face marked him as different. His head had been shaved, and although he must have been approaching seventy, he looked fierce as his orange eyes flashed towards his visitors.

“Kazic. And a guest. What do you have for me here?” he said in soft Polish, winking at the scout.