The next morning, Denor was about as restless as a cat in a room full of hissing cucumbers. Though how a cat would have got into such a predicament would be a better story than what he had been subjected to so far on this icy rock. Everything here seemed to get under his skin: the humble fare of leftover baked beans with onions that had been set before him as an afterthought by Ledo, that could only charitably be called food. His father’s insistence that Denor stay home because the inebriated mechanic was up to his elbows in work and couldn’t manage to keep their meagre home tidy.

The moment he had finished eating and cleared up the detritus Ledo had strewn about the place, Denor slipped out into the yard with his pilfered blaster.

It was never going to be called a thing of beauty, dulled from years of use and possibly non-functional. He certainly couldn’t take a pot shot at anything as a test when he was within hearing range of a gunsmith. It would be the combat equivalent of shouting ‘hey, I stole your gun, come and beat me to a bloody pulp!’ Instead he slipped out without his father noticing him, intent on seeing the beginning of the festival preparations. In truth he wanted to find and complain at Hevath, the eldest of the village elders. Not that it would do much good given his plight, but the old man was the only member of the village likely to listen to him. So long as Denor tolerated his long and winding stories that didn’t go anywhere.

Once a year, on the autumn equinox, the village youth buzzed with excitement from dawn. On the day of the festival, all young men who had turned fifteen that year got their chance to become real hunters and full members of the community. This ancient yearly custom had been observed by the Andronians for generations, even though the occasional Temrit raids kept their supply of soldiers low.

At dawn, each young man would take up a newly-crafted blaster from Ledo and head into the mountains that loomed over the village like brooding giants. They would return in the evening, their kills would be tallied up, and the village elders, experienced hunters and warriors scarred from countless battles, would judge whether the game was worthy, determining if the young hunter could now be called a man or if he needed another year of practice.

Then there was the whole eating of their respective catches, retrieved by trackers placed by the boys on a verified kill. Woe betide any who tried to game the system and fail! The trackers were numerous and separated into individual bags, but all of them were keyed the elders, so any tampering would soon result in quite the shock.

The young hunters had rarely failed in the past. Their catches—deer, wild boars, and rabbits—were quickly cleaned and cooked by their mothers and sisters. By evening, the village would be awash with the scents of roasting meat and the sounds of laughter and song, the festivities continuing until the break of dawn. Even the stern old men, usually gruff and demanding, would indulge in the revelry, reminiscing about the days when hunters were braver, heroes were stronger and not constantly slain by the Temrit invaders, and fires burned brighter. They enjoyed any celebration that placed them as the center of attention, and forced people to listen to them. Speaking of which, celebrations were more celebrated way back when! Back in the good old days, you really could tell when a celebration was a proper celebration, because you couldn’t remember it the day after!

This of course led rise to the philosophical conundrum of whether these celebrations were better in the past at all, since while the elders were certain that they had happened, they couldn’t recall what made them better, on account of not recalling anything about them.

While he looked ten in the face, Denor had actually turned thirteen that spring. He was just weak and small for his age, though he refused to acknowledge this, even though he had been bested by boys younger than himself in games and fights. He claimed he had brought down his first deer at eleven and his first bear the past winter. Not that anyone could verify this outlandish feat that he totally accomplished. He believed he was ready for the trials, but Ledo, and more importantly the rest of the adults, disagreed. A man’s worth was measured not just by his strength and skill, but also by his wisdom and quickness of mind. Or so they repeatedly waffled on at him. Denor was told to wait another two years, a wait that seemed as endless as a night in winter.

He finally found himself in front of the old man that he had sought out, who had been regaling him with stories of his own youth, which may as well have happened hundreds of years ago.

“Don’t be discouraged, Denor,” old Hevath, who had once been the finest shot in the region, told him. “Time seems to drag now like the introductory story of a great saga, but believe me, two years is nothing. When you’re older, you’ll wish you could slow down the multiple moons racing across the sky. They run like a shuttle with the stabilisers off, too fast for our liking, turning our hair silver and our teeth loose, which reminds me of a time that...”

Denor could only sigh and try to bide his time, his gaze drifting towards the mountains where his destiny clearly awaited, foolishly blocked by these old men and their ponderous back story. Just get to the good stuff already!

He shook his head stubbornly, like an Aurox swatting away a persistent fly, to the admonitions thrown his way, refusing to listen to another of the man’s long-winded diatribes about how the youth didn’t do something right.

“Coorn is barely any larger than me, and he will face the trials!” he proclaimed, offended to the marrow. “Valnin is as weak and cowardly as an Trunian maid! Neither one of them has faced down a bear or even a measly boar! The mountain rabbits are likely to give them a challenge!”

Denor failed to mention that said vicious mountain rabbits had sent him scurrying when he had tried to harass them, that fact totally wasn’t important right now.

Hevath, his beard yellowed with a decidedly healthy combination of age, tobacco and permanently spilled alcohol, chuckled warmly. “Denor, son of Ledo, in two years’ time, you’ll have the grandest trophies at the festival. The finest maidens will dance with you by the fire.” His smile creased his weathered face, taking in the sight of the determined youth as he successfully lied to the boy while simultaneously remembering the many dances he used to have.

The Andronians were a deceitful people, even to their own children. It was as Tamet willed.

Denor spat disdainfully and turned away, weary of endless chatter. The idea of having someone to talk to was all very well and good, but the reality of listening to Hevath soon dispelled the notion.

He wandered off, realising that the festival preparations were just frustrating him further, now he needed to bide his time for escape. Fortune smiled swiftly upon him as Ledo, finally wearing a padded jacket in begrudging concession to the freezing temperatures, staggered off to do some errands. Denor ducked under a log at the sight of him, but he need not have bothered. Ledo could barely see the path, let alone his son, whose attempt at skulking would have been spotted by any sober member of the village. He then edged his way to the perimeter of the settlement, noticing a warrior relieving himself and palming a bag of the trackers the man had been left to guard as he left. Tamet be praised for his luck! These would be incontestable proof that he was totally ready to be called a man! You know, provided he could place them on some dead animals. A feat that was tantalisingly within his grasp.

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Slipping out of the place unnoticed because nobody cared, Denor sprinted along the path leading to the outskirts. He avoided neighbors, his blaster safely tucked into his belt. Anyone he met might either smile knowingly or scold him harshly. On the day of the festival, it was an unspoken rule that non-participants stayed home, avoiding the mountain paths. You didn’t want to get shot by accident by some trigger-happy teen.

Fathers, grandfathers, and brothers of the young hunters spent the day in heated debates, even scuffles, over who would return with the most impressive haul. Denor would prove them all wrong, he would come back with the carcass of something truly memorable.

Or at least make a truly memorable carcass.

Out of sight from the village, he paused to catch his breath. Most of the hunters ventured south and south-west, where deer, elk, and wild boar roamed. Denor, however, chose the north, with its high, barren ledges and sparse wildlife—mountain goats and elusive snow leopards. Perfect. He imagined himself returning with two or three confirmed goat kills and a predator gunned down, watching their shocked faces as he casually sat by the fire oiling his blaster, which is what he assumed the men did after a victory.

Dreams fuelling his steps, he climbed the bare rocks, his feet toughened by his endless traversal of the land. The autumn sun shone brightly, the air crisp and invigorating. By evening, he’d have five, no, ten goats and a splendid snow leopard, he was sure of it. Let Hevath and the others then say he needed two more years and prattle on at him that wisdom was a man’s true strength! Only a smart, cautious soul could handle a wily predator, and they would have to acknowledge him! Besides, wasn’t their deity all about luck?

Despite his lofty thoughts, Denor’s eyes stayed sharp, scanning every movement, his ears attuned to the faintest rustle.

Which is why an animal immediately ambushed him.

Suddenly, he froze. Fifty paces ahead, a mountain goat with spiralled horns eyed him warily, having watched him approach for several minutes. This was his first chance to test out the blaster pistol!

Holding his breath, Denor reached into his belt, but the goat, sensing danger, bolted. Denor sprinted after it, abandoning caution. Speed was now his ally! Leaping over crevices, his bare feet gripped the rocky surface. Hands agile as a monkey’s, he grabbed at roots and thorny stems.

At least, that’s what the chase called for. The tumbling snow and skinned knees saw the young boy resembling a chastened snowball before the pursuit slowed.

The goat, clearly embarrassed for him and somewhat sympathetic to his plight, allowed him close enough to see its slitted pupils, seemingly taunting with its twisted horns gleaming in the sun. Each time Denor moved to draw his weapon, the crafty animal darted off, knowing it was safe as long as the boy’s hands were free. Patience waning, Denor’s eyes burned with determination.

His chest heaved like bellows, his feet burned like they were on hot coals, and his calves and palms itched from a thousand scratches by thorns and rubble.

"Wait! Just wait a moment!" he called out to the goat, his tone betraying his youth as his voice cracked. "I really need to test this blaster, you know? Just stay still and let me shoot you!"

The goat froze, as if moved by the boy's plea, contemplating a noble sacrifice of its splendid form. Denor, scarcely believing his luck, reached for his belt. Carefully, he took the blaster out, put his finger over the trigger, and with trembling fingers, began to pull... But the insolent creature, as if mocking him, sprang high and darted away.

"May you fall into the abyss!" Denor shouted, frustration boiling over. "May your legs fall off, may your horns rot, may a snow leopard feast on your flesh!"

The goat, perhaps offended by his curses or simply bored, stopped not a moment longer. It sped away, scattering pebbles from its strong hooves, until its light brown back vanished from sight.

Tired and defeated, Denor slumped onto the rocks. So much time wasted on that vexing goat! He told himself he could totally have bagged a couple of simple beasts or at least a dozen marmots by now. Returning with mere marmots, though, would be disgraceful—they were easy and dull prey. Or so he had been told, he’d never successfully caught one. He needed something bigger. At this rate, the only way he was going to get that was by attaching a tracker to himself and keeling over.

Sadly, the incapacitation of one Denor Kara, while it might bestow upon the village a general sense of well-being akin to the feeling of finding a credit chip in an old pair of trousers, wouldn't quite qualify as a grand prize. It was more like winning a lifetime supply of mediocre rations: pleasant, but not exactly life-changing.

Where was he anyway? In the chase, Denor had lost all sense of direction. Now, resting a bit, he decided to get his bearings. He spotted a high rock nearby, shaped like an old man bent over, and climbed it without much trouble. To his surprise, he found himself close to his village. The wretched goat had led him in circles! He had gone north, but now he was east of home, proving that he had all the sense of direction of a bat caught in a carousel.

Precisely fifteen hundred steps away and not one further, he could see familiar rooftops, their simple alloy tops transferring what scant heat the sun offered them for warmth, and even spied his own abode with the trash he had dumped out. Recognizing the area now, which initially seemed strange, he realized he'd been here a few times before in his getting lost… his wanderings, and had been scolded any time he had been noticed. This place was off-limits for play or hunting since it was the ancient burial ground of the Andronians who had lost their lives fighting the Temrit or Trunian invaders.

From his perch, he saw the cemetery: a green hollow among the rocks, vivid against the sombre stones. Rabbits thrived in the grass, their burrows like curious eyes in the soil. It was fortunate that they weren’t omnivorous, otherwise the villagers would be eating their ancestors every time they caught a brace of coneys.

No mounds marked the graves, there was a singular console with a scrolling list of names, where all those who had given their lives were buried. The common folk’s resting places were in the pig pen, and their names never made the terminal.

Denor lay back, arms outstretched, to rest before resuming the hunt. The rock’s shadow shielded him from the sun. He pondered his next move, trying to suppress his frustration, and hoping to return to the evening fire laden with trophies. Maybe he should head south, where deer were plentiful, though he risked encountering older boys who might mock him if he returned with nothing confirmed. This thought dangerously sounded like reality encroaching. Fortunately it was replaced by more youthful hope, as in the southern meadows, he could bag a deer, perhaps more...

Suddenly, he felt the ground vibrate slightly. Rolling over, he stared at the beeping sound from the terminal. Yes, a faint hum emanated from below, as if someone—or something—was there, and it had caused a change in the computer. Who could be talking inside a mountain? Was there some kind of hidden settlement down there? Adults always warned children to avoid playing near the cemetery… was this one time that they had been telling them so for good reason?

His first instinct was to run, but curiosity held him. He could always escape—his swift feet absolutely never failed him, with a top speed that saw marmots passing him in confusion. But what if he glimpsed the people who made the mountains tremble? He’d return to the village not just with the eventual kills he was definitely going to make, but with a tale so thrilling, even the fifteen-year-olds would envy him!

Denor circled the terminal, pressing his ear to the ground occasionally, seeking the source of the hum and rustling. It didn’t take him long to find out just what was causing it.

Finally, something interesting was happening! It took him long enough!