The Binding Stone

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Screams, thin and high, shivered the night air.

In the camp that spread out at the foot of the ancestor mound, men, women, and even the smallest children of the clan touched their fingers to lips and forehead in a sign of obedience and respect to the great powers that dwelled beneath them-then went back to whatever they had been doing. Stitching clothes from leather or rough cloth taken in raids from neighboring tribes. Pounding pale yellow flour from the pith of dark gold reeds. Sitting by fires, telling stories beneath the light of Eberron’s moons and the glowing streak of the Ring of Siberys. In the case of the children, sleeping in knotted piles with brothers and sisters and cousins and such dogs as were allowed into the clan’s shelters.

In the case of Ner, leader of the Bonetree hunters, running a whetstone up and down the length of his sword until the metal sang. The ancient blade was the best weapon among the clan. When Ner paused and looked up as the screams continued, Ashi glanced away before he could see the envy in her eyes. “Che Harana shialo betgri jun,” she said. The Revered was praying late tonight.

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