The green sun of Emeran had descended below the horizon hours ago. In its wake, the cloudless evening sky looked like an immense curtain of deep green velvet, and the glimmering stars and three full moons were like adornments of brilliant jewels and pearls.

​

On such a clear night, the six Callis guards should have been able to see any enemy approaching through the forest surrounding their clearing. The trees were not densely packed and the lowest twenty feet of their forms were bare narrow trunks – both facts offering very little cover. Branches stretching up to support a leafy bluish-grey canopy above the trunks were too frail to bear anything larger than an insect, bird or small serpent. Across the forest floor, patches of thick grass and bush were sparse and short, thus an intruder should not have crawled unseen. Adding to the brightness of star- and moonlight, a cordon of torches had been speared into the ground at regular intervals to ward off any hunting predators. Since the torches and the presence of Callis warriors had already sent animals fleeing deeper into the forest, the area around the clearing was left almost silent: the snap of a twig or the rustle of leaves would have carried like a thunderbolt and should have alerted the sentries instantly...

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Yet, in spite of all the advantages of their location, the six guards had failed in their task. An intruder had indeed crept from the forest without detection...

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Now this enemy padded evenly towards the one large tent of the encampment – still unseen and unheard by the sentries, some of which were mere paces distant...

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For the guards’ single, disc-shaped eyes no longer turned in their narrow sockets. And, as for their twisted, twig-shaped ears... their assassin had sliced these off.

 

*       *       *

 

Inside the tent, five more Callis enjoyed the warmth of a large brazier that glowed and crackled at the centre of the structure. In accordance with Callis custom, a circle of clean cloth surrounded the brazier and this bore the scraps of a heavy meal: roasted fowl; cael, a cold soup made from pulverised grubs; narrow sticks of spicy black bread; and a dozen skins of wine.

​

Encircling the food-cloth were the Callis themselves. They were two-legged, all under four feet tall and covered in grey, hairless leathery skin. Callis heads were squat and dominated by the cyclopean disc-eyes set between their upward-jutting ears, under which lay flat fleshy noses and wide mouths of tiny hooked teeth. Their limbs and torsos had a spindly appearance. Legs were short and led to three-toed claw-feet. One set of arms rose up from what would have been a biped’s shoulders, another from hipbone joints – each ending with long skeletal hands. The hands had three fingers, plus upper and lower thumbs.

​

Like all feeding Callis, these five drooled constantly – down over their rough woven tunics, onto their breeches and into small pools on the earth floor by their bare feet. The Callis kept the spittle away from only one thing: the pairs of short scimitars sheathed below their lower arms. Weaponry was life, and so too precious to be fouled.

​

Tenes, leader of the scouting party, shovelled another load of soup into his mouth using the forefingers of his upper hands – spilling more broth onto the floor than succeeded to pass his slobbering maw – whilst his lower hands snatched the gambling-cup from the Callis on his right.

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“My turn,” he spat – literally – in shrill Callis tongue. “You win well, Sahk. Let’s see if you can lose well too ...”

​

He covered the top of the cup with his lower right hand and slammed the vessel down on the floor three times. The coloured teeth inside shook and clattered... Until, with a flick of his wrist, Tenes opened up the cup and allowed its contents to litter the spittle-wet ground before him.

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“Roast my eye!” Tenes growled joyfully.

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Nine of the fifteen decayed teeth were embedded into the mud by their points. The others lay on their sides and so counted for nothing.

​

Sahk counted the value of the teeth quickly. This was his job alone – for only he of the five Callis could count when drunk. Tenes himself could barely count or read even when completely sober.

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“Three reds – at six each... Four Blues – at five each... Two Yellows – at one each... That’s... twenty-two.” Sahk looked apologetically at his leader. “You lose, captain.”

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Tenes regarded the teeth with dismay. “But it’s a good score. Three sixes... Four fives... Two ones... Is that really just twenty-two?”

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“Would I lie, sir?” Sahk reached for the betting pile and took the dozen tarnished yellow coins. When Tenes looked away, Sahk couldn’t help but smile. At this rate, he’d have enough money from the fools before morning to buy himself a week’s leave.

​

“I just don’t understand it...” Tenes tossed his bowl over his head and heard the soup splatter against the heavy cloth of the tent. He picked up the teeth and returned them to the cup. “You just have the luck of the Unseen Gods, Sahk, you really do.”

​

Sahk rippled his upper arms, the Callis equivalent of a shrug. He took the cup and tossed a coin down to start a new pile. Grumbling and cursing, the other four Callis threw in their bets. Dhal, eldest of the group, rubbed at his eye until it squeaked.

​

“Tired, old man?” laughed Hadris, next to the older Callis and nearest to the tent-flap. “Maybe you should go to sleep?”

​

Dhal touched at the paler grey skin under his eye-slit, the sole visible sign of his advanced years. He retorted. “I might be double your age, but I’ve still got the strength you lack... Plus the wisdom of my thirty years!”

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Hadris laughed so hard that he blurted out a mouthful of wine. “Aye, Dhal... That’s why you’re down to three Dagmars...”

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The fifth and youngest member of the group, on the other side of Dhal, guffawed and pointed at the older soldier’s depleted coin-pile. Dhal swore and gave the eight-year-old a slap across the shoulder that sent him reeling.

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“Mind yer mouth, you scrawny pup!”

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Corfel was still laughing when he hit the ground with a slam that smashed the air out of his lungs. The tent became an uproar of laughter and ridicule as he struggled for breath and scrambled to his knees...

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The youngster glared at Dhal, his teeth grinding. It was a moment of decision: should he strike at the man and instigate a fight, or...

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Wisely, Corfel grinned: “You sure knocked the wind out of my sails...”

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He looked from Dhal to the others, unsure whether his reaction would be considered a weak one by his friends. From Tenes’ belly laugh, it was clearly accepted. Beside him, Sahk threw up three hands and used the fourth to guzzle from a wineskin...

​

Corfel’s features twisted into a scowl.

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“Where’s Hadris..?”

​

Tenes blinked hard at him – wondering if the youngster had gone blind – then turned to look at Hadris....

​

Or rather at the place where Hadris had been. Now an empty space before the wavering tent-flap.

“Hadris, are your bowels loose again–?”

​

Instead of a snarled retort, the missing man uttered another sound. One which made four Callis’ blood chill and their skins crawl with apprehension.

​

Hadris screamed – long and high-pitched. A cry of agony, cut off by an abrupt sickening snap.

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The icy silence that followed was broken only by two swift slicing noises...

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Corfel froze, his mouth gaping... “Hadris...?”

​

The reply from outside didn’t come from a Callis. It was coarse and guttural, distorting the Callis language.

​

“Hadris is dead.”

​