Keith sat in perfect stillness. His perch, on the upper most branches of a large oak, gave him a perfect view of the pond. It was unusual for such a young boy to be the second in command. He was seven, but he’d been born with a natural affinity for the bow. The first time he’d knocked an arrow back and shot, he struck the target dead on.
It was said that the boy had never missed. Sharp, ash grey eyes studied the calm pond. He didn’t fidget. That iron control was the second reason he’d risen so quickly. Keith might not be able to take one of the older boys in an open fight, but he was patience personified, and boys who crossed him often suffered at a later date for their transgressions.
The underbrush swayed. Keith’s eyes narrowed. His lips twitched into a fierce smile when the large, Black haired boy stepped boldly out into the field. The Blacks were brutish boys, dangerous, but only if one was stupid enough to get within their reach. Their fearless nature also made them stupid. Easy pickings for the Blonds whose long range weapons protected them from the need to engage the Blacks in close combat.
Keith waited until the large boy, one of the largest he’d ever seen, knelt next to the pond and began to drink. Bringing his lips together, Keith gave a shrill whistle. The Black’s head jerked up, and his dark eyes searched for the source of the noise.
In an instant, the right eye exploded. A neatly feathered shaft had bloomed in its place. The large boy lurched to his feet, stumbled, and fell into the water. “Che,” Keith grunted before he shimmied down the tree. The water would ruin the fletching of his arrow. He prided himself on the ability to make a kill without damaging his prized arrows.
“Keith! Couldn’t you make him fall the other way?” Luke whined.
“No.”
The deadpan answer made Luke roll his eyes. He trotted over to the pond and waded in to drag the corpse out. Water sloshed around him, and he couldn’t keep his nose from wrinkling at the wet stink of the Black. With a loud groan, the gangly boy managed to drag their meal onto dry land. A stone knife, Luke’s prized possession, made short work of the Black’s loin cloth. He gave a low whistle when he got a good look at the boy Keith had managed to bag.
“Not bad, this one’ll feed us for a week!” Luke crowed as he plunged the knife deep into the midsection of the dead boy. It didn’t take long for him to clean out the carcass, he set the intestines aside. Sam would use those later to create more bow strings for the hunters. When he was finished preparing the body, Daniel and George tied it to a long branch and together the boys carried their prize back to camp.
Luke and Keith brought up the rear, with Luke carrying the offal. “Why don’t you carry some of this?”
“Because I made the kill.” Keith said fastidiously. The other boy’s liked to tease him about the fact that he despised handling the body after he’d made a kill. He preferred dealing with it only after it had been cooked.
Luke snorted, but didn’t say anything. He knew his place, and the fact that he couldn’t shoot a bow to save his life guaranteed that the little archer would always be above him in the clan. The brat made well over half the kills, and Luke wasn’t stupid enough to attack the boy.
That night, the entire clan feasted. The Black had been very near his returning time, and his thick muscular body insured that all the boys had more than their fill. After they ate as much as they could, there were still several pounds of meat that was smoked for later consumption.
With full bellies, the boys stretched out on the cool grass to sleep.
Jacob woke a few hours later, his bladder full and in need of attention. After he relieved himself, he headed back to camp, only to stop when he heard a muffled whimper. He followed the sound deeper into the woods while keeping a wary eye on the trees above. It wouldn’t do to be captured by one of the Browns.
The bushes thrashed next to him, but the soft cry of pain assured Jacob that it wasn’t a trap. He pushed the bush aside and stared in surprise at the naked white haired boy. One pale foot had been caught in a Brown snare, and the little boy hadn’t been able to remove it. The child saw him and froze, huge liquid green eyes locked on his face.
It was clear that the boy was newly born. The Blonds had driven the White haired boys out of their territory, and so they weren’t here to gather up this new arrival. Jacob was still almost painfully full from their earlier feast, so he didn’t feel the urge to kill the boy for food. Instead he looked the small one over, pondering what he should do.
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