A/N: Here's a quick glossary of animals I use here:
Alkab(s)/Alkilab(pl)—wild canids like Dingos or African Wild Dogs
Thueban—general word for snake creature, anything that slithers across the ground
*Cahm—word for venomous, i.e. cahm thuelab
*Ghyr cahm—word for non-venomous, i.e. ghyr cahm thuelab
Alkubra—large venomous snake, apex predator in valleys
Nusar—large scavenger bird such as a vulture
Saqr—bird of prey such as a falcon or hawk
Namurr—a big cat of the desert climate, similar to a mountain lion
oOo
Rolling dunes of slick hot sand stretched around him as if the heat of the orn was enough to boil the land. The scorching bubbles were etched with ripples where wind tugged bits and pieces loose each time it blew through. The hood of his cloak was pulled up to keep the twin suns' hot gaze off his neck and head. Eddies of sand whirled in the valley between dunes where the wind was trapped. In that same valley were odd structures that didn't belong in the smooth roll of sand.
Cone shaped and with pale gold and white hides stretched across them they were otherwise unadorned and the strangest tents he had ever seen. Sand was starting to drift around them so they had been there more than a night or two. Yet there were only half a dozen at most, not enough for a clan. In better land it might have been a hunting party, but here in the hot dunes game was scarce. Ratchet and his raiding party had been eating well enough with rations and rousting burrow rats, but there were only four of them.
Ratchet had been watching the tents for a while now but he hadn't seen any movement or heard any noise. The wind blew strong enough to lift his cloak off his back cooling the condensation that had beaded there. Even through the fabric he had wrapped around his upper chest and shoulders and the other piece wrapped around his waist he could feel the heat from the sand close to burning his exoform. He had to move again soon whether he saw something or not. Staying prone on the hot sand wasn't something anything could tolerate long.
He canted his head when he heard footsteps behind him but wasn't worried. Save for this small camp of half a dozen tents the land was barren. "Anything?" Whistler asked in a normal voice. He didn't lie on his chest like Ratchet but perched on the dune's ridge. The wind pulled his dark brown cloak back revealing fabric of a matching shade wrapped around his shoulders and waist to protect him from the unrelenting suns. His dark frame gleamed where the fabric didn't cover and in startling contrast were five bright bands of color on his upper arms. White, red, green, yellow, and the final blue mark that proclaimed him a warrior grown. He'd gotten all of his colors at the same time Ratchet had, but he had been named leader of the raiding party. He was due some bit of deference for that, which was the only reason Ratchet didn't send him tumbling down the dune.
On the opposite dune the other two of their raiding party appeared as dark shadows against the backdrop of sapphire blue sky and golden sand. Ratchet shook his head and pushed himself up. "We all saw the smoke, but the fire has either burned out or been doused." It had been that small thread of smoky grey against the morning sky's vibrant orange that had caught their attention. They'd been wandering up and down the dunes for almost a septorn without hope of finding anything but more burrow rat colonies.
Whistler made an irritated sound and stared at the camp as if whoever was there had made it their personal goal to aggravate him. "Well, do we want to risk going down there?" he asked, not as a party leader, but as one friend to another. The final decision would be his to make, but if one of them went down to investigate there was a chance they would be walking into an ambush. Their party wasn't big enough to hold off more than seven or eight warriors. The odd conical tents down below looked big enough to hold two or three warriors apiece. An ambush would be the death of whoever approached.
Ratchet watched the eerily quiet camp and pushed himself up so only his feet were touching the sand. "I'll go," he said after a moment. Whistler shoved him and he had to catch himself before he went backwards down the dune. "Rockfall isn't quick enough to get up and down the dune and Charging Wind will try to fight instead of run if there are warriors waiting," he argued, shoving Whistler back. "And if you're attacked and killed and I have to go back to camp what do you think North Wind will think about that?"
The other warrior opened his mouth and then closed it and glared at him. He looked back at the still camp. Had they not seen the smoke Ratchet would have said it was deserted. But they had been watching the camp since the suns rose and nothing had happened. It was a disciplined group of warriors indeed if they could remain still and silent that long."If the wind blows the wrong way you get out of there," Whistler said at last.
Ratchet rolled his optics. "Yes, that's why we're not sending Charging Wind."
"Go, before I push you."
Ratchet climbed over the ridge and didn't fight when the sand gave way under him and he slid a quarter of the way down. Closer, the camp didn't look much different than it had from the top. The tents were clumped in a tight small circle that made seeing between them difficult, yet another reason to worry about an ambush. Ratchet breathed deep as he continued down but not even the scent of smoke was still in the air.
It didn't take long for him to reach the bottom in a cascade of painfully hot sand but still nothing stirred. He stayed crouched and ready to bolt along the length of the dune. Trying to climb back up it directly was a good way to get a bolt through his back. Nothing moved. The wind teased at ropes holding pale gold and white hides in place on the tents. They weren't colors he'd seen in hides before. The animals of the desert were similar in color to the clans that fought to survive, full of dark greys, blacks, and occasional dark dull gold. Ratchet's odd coloring he'd inherited from his sire, or that's what he'd been told. Both his sire and creator had been killed fending off an attack before Ratchet had even his first color. His dark frame was streaked with odd accents of sand gold. It made excellent camouflage from a distance, but this close it was obvious he was a mech and not even his odd coloring would save him.
But no one came charging out, he didn't see any shadows shifting on the sand between the tents. Every sense on high alert Ratchet moved forward on all fours like a hunting namurr. When he was a body length away the wind brought a scent familiar in the desert; death. He hesitated, breathing deep, and stood without fear. He gave the all clear—two sharp barks—and strode to the camp without fear. The scent of death was too strong on the breeze for it to be stray bits of dinner left out. Something much larger was rusting within the quiet circle of tents. The quiet rush of sand announced Whistler making his way down and through the small gaps in the tents he saw the shadows of Charging Wind and Rockfall descending quickly. Nothing in the camp stirred. Walking between two tents he took a moment to feel the odd hides and his shorter fins lifted in surprise. "Soft," he said to Whistler as the other mech came up behind him again.
Whislter reached out too and did make a low whistling sound when felt the hides. "We might've actually found something," he said. Ratchet kept walking into the camp. The tents were set in very precise circle close enough together Ratchet's shoulders brushed the hides as he walked. A bigger mech would have to turn sideways or risk being snagged on the ropes tying the hides together.
In the center of the camp was a shallow fire pit quite a bit smaller than Ratchet was expecting. It looked like the kind of pit a mech would dig for only himself, not one dug to warm and feed a band of warriors.
In the tight circle of tents were four bodies sprawled out where they had fallen. Rust was deeply set in and one had gnaw marks on her arm. They still held blades in their hands, the metal dull from a thin covering of sand. Sand had begun to drift around them and the tents, but given how close the tents were it didn't have much of an opportunity to bury anything. "At least a septorn," Ratchet said, crouching to look at the femme with the chewed arm. It was a bit odd that the bodies hadn't been reduced to struts by now.
A pack of alkilab could have made a meal of them for a few days. The small compact bodied canids roamed the whole of the desert in packs that could swell to fifteen strong during the Hunting Season. Right now during the Lean Season they would be quite a bit smaller with just mated pairs and their pups, but while alkilab were fierce hunters, they wouldn't turn their noses up at an easy meal. Glancing up he frowned when he didn't see scavenger birds. Whistler also looked up and then down at the bodies before looking at Ratchet with a frown furrowing his brow.
"Only four, maybe a pack drug off a few others," he said but looked at the sky again. Scavengers, not smoke, should have been what alerted them to the camp. And there was the troubling detail of the smoke. He walked over to the fire it and crouched down examining the ashes. As hot as it was, the sun could warm the ashes to feel freshly lit, but a quick puff of air found a few struggling embers deep in the heart of the ash. "Perhaps someone passing through," Rockfall said crouching next to Ratchet. "Even a camp of dead would be a good place to recharge if one was cold and weary. I doubt we find anything useful." The last was said with a long sigh.
A warrior of six colors, Rockfall was one of the oldest in the camp and should have been the party leader. This task of keeping an optic on Whistler was beneath him. Normally another more seasoned warrior of five colors would be accompanying them. Somehow though, the old warrior had run afoul the clan leader and this subtle snub was his punishment. Ratchet had assumed when they set out that Rockfall would be surly about the insult to his honor, but he'd taken it all in stride and had spent the last septorn teaching all of them new tricks and helping them refine their skills. Whatever punishment North Wind had intended, Ratchet didn't think it was going as intended.
Ratchet glanced at the old warrior as they both stood. "The hides will be worth something," he said gesturing to the odd shaped tents. "They're the softest I've ever felt." And there were at least a dozen on each tent. Even the best hides their clan produced weren't as supple as what they had here, and those hides could be traded for needed things like metal tools. These hides were worth twice as much.
"If we want to salvage them we'll have to move quickly," Charging Wind said with dismay. "The dead are inside, too." The other three looked at where she was standing in the doorway of tent, the flap pulled aside.
"Inside?" Rockfall said, aghast. Ratchet's fins bristled. "The attack must have come like the wind to surprise warriors still in recharge," Rockfall said after he had a moment to collect himself. Ratchet was already standing in the doorway with Charging Wind looking at the bodies she'd discovered. The smell of rust and rot was stronger in the enclosed space. If they didn't get the hides down soon they'd never get the smell out and they would be as useless as Rockfall had thought they were. Three bodies lay on their bedrolls, energon was caked on the blankets beneath them. One had his throat cut while the other two had clean punctures in their chests straight through to their sparks.
"It's like they didn't even wake," Charging Wind whispered. "But look." She pointed to the long dagger still held in the closest mech's hand. Dull energon coated the blade, so it had been used before his death. "And we saw no bodies outside of the camp. Where was the watch?"
Ratchet thought about Whistler's words and repeated them. "Alkilab are strong enough to pull apart a body. Their pups will not yet be big enough to leave the den. They would have carried pieces back for them." And while that explained the lack of watch, it could not explain the three warriors with bloodied weapons still on their bedrolls. They stood in silence in the hot sun for another breem before Ratchet shook his shoulders. "Come on, the more of these hides we get down the more the wind can carry the stench away." Drawing small utilitarian knives from their wrist sheaths they began cutting the fastening ropes and pulled the hides down dropping them on the ground.
As the hides fell away more of the grisly sight was brought to light and Ratchet paused in his cutting as he looked at the bodies again in brighter light. Charging Wind didn't stop what she was doing but asked, "What?"
Leaving off where he was cutting he stepped into the tent and crouched by one of the mech's with a hole in his chest. "There's some kind of rust leaf mixture on this wound." It wasn't well made. What had caught Ratchet's attention were the pieces of leaves and stems that hadn't been thoroughly ground down. The wound was mortal though, the mech had been dead before he even hit the ground, but someone had still taken the time to apply the rust leaf tincture. The mech with the slit throat also had some kind of residue on his neck but with as old as it was Ratchet couldn't identify it.
Charging Wind stood over his shoulder as he examined the other body, staying out of his light, and said, "That's ridiculous. There's no way to survive that." Ratchet rolled his optics and didn't answer. A warm hand pressed against his back as she leaned forward. "Those leaves aren't supposed to be there?" She wasn't a healer, but she had been injured enough to have a good idea of what the healing blends should look like.
"No," Ratchet said sitting back with a frown. "I don't even think they were dried, see how the pieces are torn? That wouldn't have happened with a dried leaf." He had no idea what kind of sun-glitched healer this camp had on its hands but it looked like even if the wound hadn't been mortal the mech still would have died. Ratchet was well aware not everyone was at his level of healing, but there was a difference between being a good healer trying to help and an untrained idiot trying to mimic what they'd seen a healer do. Shaking his head, Ratchet got to his feet and left the dead in peace.
The highest hides they didn't try to climb to. Unlike the tents of their clan that had five low sturdy wooden posts with fabric stretched above and around them, these tents had three long poles that were tied together at the top. The highest were far out of reach and after inspecting the posts to see how they were anchored Ratchet and Charging Wind looked at each other and shrugged. No reason to topple a tent on themselves for two more hides. There were more than enough on the six tents. With the wind able to reach the dead the smell of rot wasn't as strong in the air, but the hides they had still carried a faint odor. Leaving them spread out on the ground to air out a bit more they moved on to the next tent.
Pulling the tent flap back he was glad to see the tent empty. The warriors had at least been able to leave to try and defend their camp from the raiders. The inside was still thoroughly sacked. Blankets, furs, and bedrolls were tossed in every direction, in places revealing the sandy floor.
Ratchet ducked through the doorway as Charging Wind continued cutting away more of the hides. Ratchet shook out two of the blankets and set them aside. Broken pieces of pottery fell to the sand. "I doubt they left much," Charging Wind said not ceasing in her work. Ratchet still continued looking. Clans had different needs. Whoever had slaughtered this camp had taken what they considered needed and valuable, that didn't mean they hadn't left something behind Ratchet could use.
He found more broken bits of pottery and a blanket so finely woven it was like touching a cloud but nothing else in the tent. Charging Wind was already trying to barter with him for the blanket but he steadfastly refused every offer.
"I'll trade you that little chest, you've been trying to get that for vorns," she said as he set the blanket to the side and returned to sorting through the interior mess. That did make Ratchet pause for a few seconds. The chest wasn't big, maybe two hands high, but it was made with beautiful polished wood and thick leather straps. But he shook his head. He was already looking forward to recharging wrapped in the blanket tonight. Charging Wind swore at him and attacked the fastening ropes on the tent with more force than necessary.
Pulling out a fur from an animal he didn't recognize Ratchet took it back out into the sun and drew Charging Wind's attention again. She left off cutting to examine the new treasure. "Beautiful," she said stroking her fingers over the glossy black and white stripes. "And so soft! This fur is so dense, this animal must've died from heat," she laughed. Ratchet folded it so the fur was protected from dirt and sand and set it next to the tent. "Help me cut the rest of the hides down so we can see. And so you don't get all the good stuff." She pointed her knife at him before she returned to her task. Charging Wind was one of the fiercest warriors in the clan as well as one of the smartest. Her dull silver frame matched the blade she used to cut the ropes. The fabric she wore twined around her shoulders and waist was a dark blue that offset her dark violet optics. She wouldn't hurt Ratchet, but he'd never hear the end of it if he found something else interesting while she was stuck outside harvesting hides.
As the hides fell away the interior of the tent was put in the suns' spotlight illuminating a scattered mess of jewel bright fabrics. Charging Wind's optics lit when she saw the vibrant reds, sky blues, and sun yellows. While Charging Wind was a warrior, she had the same fascination with fabrics and colors as the weavers. She would spend the next joor carefully sorting through the blankets to find the most unique pieces. Since every clan had one way or another of making blankets there was little trade value in them, but the weavers and Charging Wind would enjoy looking at the colors.
Once the hides were down, Ratchet moved on to the next tent while Charging Wind gleefully dove into the mess of fabric and hides. Ratchet checked Whistler and Rockfall's progress. They were halfway done with their second tent speaking with the friendly camaraderie they had all begun to develop with the older warrior. The wind blew away their exact words but the eerily silent camp was made less strange by the drone of conversation.
Ratchet cut down one of the outer hides on the third tent and the pungent reek of decay flooded out. Snorting to clear his head from the sudden assault he tossed the hide aside to air out and looked inside. Only a single mech was slumped against the left side of the tent. The right was painted with a spray of energon. Muttering a curse, Ratchet moved to the left side to cut down the hides that weren't touching the body. The energon had baked too long in the sun to ever be scrubbed out of the hides and whatever was touching the body would also be ruined by the decay. He counted only four hides, plus the one he'd already cut down, that they'd get any use out of. The second hide dropped and a spear of sunlight fell on the sacked interior. The sandy floor was exposed where blankets and furs had been piled in a corner. The only blanket still spread out on the floor was the one under the dead mech. The edges of the blanket were a bright yellow, but the energon that had soaked it turned it a sickly turquoise. He started on the third hide when movement in his peripheral caught his attention. Whirling around to face the semi-lit interior he exchanged the short utility knife for one of his longer fighting knives.
The tent was silent and still but Ratchet moved with trained silence to another hide near the body. He wanted more light in the interior, he'd been in the sun too long and the second it would take for his optics to adjust would be just long enough for something to attack. It had been careless of him not to check them. The theory of a traveler passing through in the night to explain the fire had lulled him into a false sense of security.
He stared at the still gloomy interior. Creeping forward he cut the fastenings of another hide and ripped it down leaving the interior fully exposed to the light. The violence seemed amplified under the light. And on the mech's neck was a dark piece of fabric that looked very much like a poorly folded bandage.
Seeing him with a fighting knife in hand Charging Wind came up near him with her blade tipped stave held to the side. "Burrow rat?" she murmured. Ratchet didn't put his knife away as he stepped in. They'd be laughing at him for orns if it was just a stray gust of wind or a scavenger beast, but his pride wasn't worth anything if a raider still remained at the camp and came up behind one of them. Charging Wind didn't come in with him, her staff would be a hindrance in the small space. The mech against the wall was very much dead, given the fabric on his neck, he was the one most likely to have painted the other wall and ground with energon. Ratchet approached the pile of blankets and dropped to all fours. If someone was hiding under them they'd lunge for his legs first to knock him off balance. Now if they tried that he'd cut their lines before they got an arm around him. In one quick smooth motion he reached forward and ripped the top blanket back.
A high squeal of fear startled him more than any attack ever could. Terrified wide turquoise optics stared back at him from a tiny face. Fluid filled the optics and spilled over down his face as he wailed again with such terror Ratchet dropped his knife. The sound was like a saqr's talons in his processor. Even Charging Wind swore behind him. Like a flip being switched Ratchet's lifetime of healing training kicked in. "Shh, mechling, I won't hurt you," he said in his softest voice.
Despite his gift with the healing tinctures, he'd been told by everyone he'd ever treated that his idea of "gentle" was like being dragged through thorny bushes. But he tried, he tried very hard for the sake of the young mech he'd frightened to be soft. The young mech wailed again, tears streaking his face and Ratchet tried harder to find something, anything, in him that wasn't jagged as a mountain or scorching as the suns. "I didn't mean to frighten you, mechling. Shh, now. Shh." His mentor, Leaping Sand, was better at easing the fear caused by wounds and pain, and he wished desperately that she was with him.
The mechling cringed back when Ratchet started to reach forward. Forcing his frustration back down he withdrew his hand back to his side, making sure to keep it away from the handle of his other dagger. The mechling watched his hand and finally blinked rapidly half a dozen times. "Meyoh?" he said in a scared whisper. Ratchet blinked twice himself, he'd never heard the word. Tilting his head a fraction to the side his processor raced trying to figure out what he'd done to calm the mechling even that much. The mechling had small glyphs scarred across his forehead that seemed to glow in the shadow behind the blankets. Ratchet couldn't read them and they didn't look anything like the languages he knew from the desert tribes.
"Meyoh?" Ratchet repeated softly, hoping he wasn't saying he was a night monster. The syllables were a bit awkward in his mouth, smooth and flowing when his language used short and sharp words. The mechling pointed at his side and repeated the soft word. Glancing down he found saw the handle of his dagger and below that three tightly tied pouches where he kept his most common ingredients for healing. Tied to his waist with a thin piece of hide they were usually hidden under his cloak but at some point he'd pushed the fabric back.
The mechling reached down where Ratchet couldn't see. Ratchet didn't tense. The mechling was too small to do anything to hurt him. Even if he came back with a knife he had to climb over the pile of blankets and furs to get to him. The mechling held out his hand a moment later; a small bright red and blue pouch in his palm. "Meyoh," he said with more confidence. The pouch was electric with colors, so bright it stung to look at it too long and embroidered in bright gold thread with intricate designs of animals Ratchet didn't recognize. Ratchet's pouches were dark brown and plain, but the mechling seemed to think they had similar function. The mechling reached down again and set a bowl too big for his small hands on the pile of blankets and furs. The outer side of the bowl was painted with the same bright red and blue but with simple geometric shapes instead of animals. Inside, the bowl was smeared with the same greenish-yellow paste he'd seen on the bodies.
Ratchet's spark squeezed so hard and tight in his chest he thought it might fracture. He fought the urge to turn and look at the body against the wall not wanting to draw the mechling's attention to it. He already knew what it looked like anyway, his memory especially with something so recently seen, was diamond sharp. The oddly folded bandage starting to peel off as the poorly mixed poultice dried in the heat. Like the other three in the tent. Not an incompetent healer, but a young one. In the tight ball that his spark had become Ratchet found a small piece of warmth, something soft among the rough edges. "Oh little one, you tried so hard," he murmured. Holding out his hand he called the small mech to him once more. Still hesitant, the mechling nonetheless crawled over the pile of blankets.
The front of his small poncho was stiff with dried fluids and smears of the paste he'd tried to make. Ratchet's fingers were rough from his daily training with the warriors but his touch was light and gentle. The mechling cringed close to the ground when Ratchet touched him but when Ratchet didn't hurt him he pointed to Ratchet's pouches and repeated, "Meyoh."
"Yes," Ratchet said softly. "Meyoh." The mechling didn't fight when he gathered him into his arms and stood. His tiny body was heavier than he expected after Suns knew how many orns alone in the camp. Ratchet walked with him slowly, making sure to block the body from the mechling's sight, though he couldn't explain why. Clearly the mechling had been with at least some of them as they died. The small piece of warmth in his spark, like the first rays of sun at dawn, wanted to shield him from the horrors he had been living with. Leaping Sand would call it the healer in him, though others might take more convincing. Most in the clan were convinced that while he was gifted in healing, he lacked the spark for it. He was just as proficient with weapons, was often mistaken as a warrior first instead of a healer.
The small mechling clung to his neck, his head pressed under Ratchet's chin, as they left the tent. Silent as the dead around him, the rest of the raiding party watched with curious and suspicious optics. Charging Wind was the only one brave enough to approach. Quick optics took in the mechling's size. "Not even old enough for first colors," she said in a soft voice. The mechling squeaked and dug his small fingers into Ratchet, pressing close to his spark as if he could disappear from the world if he was close enough to the mech. Ratchet put his other arm around his shoulders and held him against his spark.
"Ratchet," Whistler said in an uncharacteristically serious voice, "if you take him, he will be yours." The mech was the same age as Ratchet and Charging Wind but was often mistaken for younger. He was the leader of their raiding party but everyone knew it was more of a test to see if the young warrior was capable of leading. And as leader, he was making sure Ratchet understood the depth of his responsibility. Ratchet looked down at the small mechling peeking at the others in the group. He couldn't just return to the clan and hand the mechling off to someone else. If he took the mechling from this place he would be honor bound to raise him, to teach him. As a young unmated warrior it was a massive responsibility. He had only received his blue band as a warrior three seasons past. It would be another seven at least before he would be allowed to take a mate. Bright turquoise optics looked up at him shimmering in the sunlight. Drops of dried energon speckled one side of the mechling's face.
The oldest member of their party, Rockfall, said not unkindly, "He is small and easily startled. He will not make a good warrior. It would be kinder to return his spark to the stars with his clan." Ratchet felt the rapid flutter of a small spark against his chest. The mechling was light in his arms; he probably hadn't eaten since the raiders came through. But there was still strength in his small body. Strength enough he had tried to save his clan as their lives bled out. Ratchet looked at Rockfall and Whistler. "I am a warrior," he said softly, "but first I am a healer." Tightening his arm a bit more around the mechling's shoulders he said, "And so is he." With those words he felt the thin chains of honor wrap around him. Until one of them breathed their last, they were bound together. The mechling in his arms was small and light but a heavy weight pressed down on Ratchet's shoulders. Whistler blinked once in surprise but nodded slowly. Rockfall looked like he disagreed, but Whistler had already approved. He couldn't say anything without dishonoring Whistler. His lips pressed into a thin line and his optics told Ratchet he had made a mistake.
"Let's see if we can find something clean for him to wear," Charging Wind said nodding at the crust of dried energon on the hem of the mechling's poncho. "He'll have to wait a few breems for us to get up to the sledge and our packs for food." Ratchet nodded and walked with her to one of the other tents that had been stripped of its hides. Rockfall returned to the tent he'd been stripping but Whistler stood and looked around the camp a moment longer.
"Ratchet," Whistler called jogging up next to him. He walked close enough their shoulders brushed. The mechling in Ratchet's arms watched him warily, wriggling to the other side of Ratchet's body and clinging close to his spark once more. Ratchet shot Whistler a glare, something he could get away with since they had known each other since they were mechlings. If he'd tried the same thing with Rockfall he would have found himself slammed to the ground. "You're certain about this," Whistler said not reacting to the glare, genuine concern in his dark blue optics. "Charging Wind is right, he's not even old enough for his first colors. And you've never been…let's say fond of having little ones underfoot." All true things, Ratchet was still a little surprised himself he was keeping the mechling.
Giving him a merciful death and returning him to his ancestors probably was the best thing to do for him. The Lean Season with little rain and scarce hunting had just begun. The clan would be stretched thin as it was and he bringing back an unknown mechling too young to earn his meals was going to stretch them even more. He looked down at the mechling again watching Whistler with more curiosity than fear now and knew sending the mechling to the stars was not an option. "I'm certain," he said softly. "He survived a slaughter and a septorn or more of being completely alone out here. The Suns saw fit to watch over him until we arrived, I'll not go against their will now."
Whistler considered that for a long moment while Charging Wind ducked into a tent and rummaged around looking for something for the mechling to wear. "You're right," he said at last looking around at the bodies covered in fine layers of sand and dust as they rusted. "All of that and here he is still alive. He would've been easy prey for the night hunters, so the six moons watched over him as well. The ancestors are not ready for him to arrive yet."
Charging Wind emerged from the tent with a shrug. "Nothing. He couldn't have been the only little one here." A frown creased her forehead. "Do you remember seeing any small clothes while you were stealing that blanket from me?"
Ratchet snorted at her but thought back to the tents they'd gone through and frowned as well. "No, I only saw adult sizes." That was odd. Their clan had almost as many little ones as they did adults.
Whistler crossed his arms and looked around. "There are few bodies for as many tents as there are," he said softly. "Whoever survived the attack is likely part of a slave caravan already." Ratchet and Charging Wind both flared their fins at that. Those clans that sullied their honor with slave trading had sparks too dark to ever return to the skies and ancestors.
"I doubt they let the little ones pack a change of clothes before taking them away," Charging Wind said, the snarl in her words not directed at Whistler but the dark sparks that had taken this clan captive. The mechling clung closer to Ratchet despite the heat until it was clear Charging Wind wasn't going to attack anything. Ratchet stroked a hand down his back in what he hoped was a reassuring way.
Whistler nodded in agreement and his brow furrowed as well. "This clan is odd," he said after another quick look around. "Did you notice how little there is? The pottery we found is masterfully made and painted in shining colors, but there's nothing…extra. No scrolls, no trinkets, there's nothing."
"They were attacked by raiders," Ratchet said.
Whistler gave him an exasperated look. "Don't be difficult, that's her job," he said pointing at Charging Wind. "If you use that head of yours and actually think, you'll know what I mean."
Ratchet rolled his optics but did consider what he had found in the two tents they'd gone through. Blankets, furs, pottery, and only a few garments. All things absolutely essential for travel. Ratchet's clan traveled light, but everyone had a couple things they didn't actually need. Like Charging Wind's chest; it was pretty but not something she needed to survive. Ratchet had two colorful tapestries he'd traded for that he didn't use for anything and scrolls with stories of distant lands written on them. None of those things would hold any real interest to raiders. The point was to get essentials, not bog down your clan with useless things. "They were moving fast," Ratchet said, but which way was impossible to tell and whether they were running from or to something would also remain a mystery.
"And I haven't seen even traces of beasts of burden," Charging Wind said tapping the end of her staff against the ground. "In a raid this brutal I can't believe at least one wasn't caught by a bolt or startled and charged through a tent." But they had to have had them, the poles for the tents were too long and heavy to have been moved quickly without a sledge. Ratchet looked down at the mechling drowsing in his arms and wished he could ask him questions about what happened.
"The language he uses is not one I've heard before," Ratchet said softly not disturbing the mechling's nap. "And he has a pouch with animals on it I haven't seen before as well."
The three looked around a bit more and the wrongness of the camp that Ratchet had ignored washed over him. It made his exoform prickle and a crushing need to get away drove itself into his processor, like hearing the warning hiss of a cahm thueban curled under a bush. "A clan moving fast," Ratchet murmured as his processor grappled with the problem. "They had to have used beasts, but…" he saw no tie-outs, didn't remember seeing any when he'd observed the camp from the hill. Raiders wouldn't have bothered with stakes, they would have just tied the animals to their own. Beasts of burden were not particularly smart or loyal, once they were settled they wouldn't have cared where they were going. "They must have set the animals loose before arriving in this place."
"But why?" Charging Wind said. "They wanted to move fast, but they set their animals loose, they might as well have tied stones to their feet. Even with two dozen warriors, moving these tent poles—"
"Unless they weren't taking the tents," Ratchet interrupted. Charging Wind stopped and both she and Whistler stared at him as they thought. "They set the animals loose to confuse the trail; the animals wouldn't have separated. Leaving a camp set up here would have confused it even more. If they were skilled enough to cover their tracks they could have disappeared in any direction."
"But they were attacked before they could leave," Whistler finished softly.
"Some of them had to have left then," Charging Wind added. "No small clothes, I don't know their markings, but these bodies out here are tall and strong. I would guess they are warriors." She turned to the small mechling in Ratchet's arms. "But why didn't they take him?" she asked, more to herself it sounded like.
"And yet there are those that were killed in the tents," Whistler said. "If they were that certain they were going to be attacked they should have had their weapons at their sides, ready at the first call to run out." He looked very troubled by that.
Ratchet shifted the mechling a bit higher on his hip. "That's assuming there was a call," he said. "If their watch was killed before any could alert them then it makes sense that those who were recharging were caught off guard."
"Cowards," Charging Wind snapped. Ratchet agreed. Attacking warriors while they recharged was a dishonor to the fallen warriors as well as the attackers. Slinking through the shadows like a night monster and killing mechs while they were as helpless as a little one was not a taint that happened overnight. "And they took who was left alive to the slave markets. Should the Suns see fit for us to find them, we are honor bound to wipe their filth from the sands," she said, amethyst optics flashing bright in the sunlight.
"I'll take this to North Wind, but we don't know who this dishonorable clan was. They've left no clue, not even a broken bolt." Whistler said glancing at the mechling in Ratchet's arms.
"They were looking for something," Ratchet murmured. "The way the blankets tossed and things broken…if they were simply raiding the camp they would have taken more care. You noted yourself Whistler that the pottery is well made and unfamiliar to these lands. That makes them useful and different enough for a good trade, yet most of what I found was broken by careless hands and feet."
Whistler looked up to the suns as he thought. "I…I don't know, Ratchet, Charging Wind. Should we take the hides to trade then? Whoever this clan is they'll know these hides if they come across it again and they'll trace it back to our clan." That was a leader's decision, one Whistler would have to make, but the mech had been Ratchet's friend since they were small. And no leader stood alone. This was a decision that would impact all of their clan, not just the small raiding party.
"I think," Charging Wind said slowly, "that if these low alkilab that attacked this clan didn't want anyone to find what happened here they would have burned it."
Ratchet nodded after a few more seconds of thought. "I agree. No matter who attacked them, they had to know leaving a camp like this out in the open eventually someone would come across it and go through it. So they found what they were looking for, took their slaves, and left." Whistler gave them both grateful looks and nodded.
"Let's be done with this quick, this place is…not right," Whistler said. Ratchet and Charging Wind nodded without needing anything more said. The mechling woke up a bit when Ratchet turned away from Whistler and then pushed at Ratchet's arm and chest trying to get down. Ratchet set him on his wobbly legs and the mechling darted to the tent behind them. Following a bit slower Ratchet didn't see anything different about the tent than any of the others. Charging Wind cut the first of the hides loose flooding the interior with light and a surprised chirp from the mechling.
"Sorry little one," Charging Wind said with a smile as she continued slice through the ropes. The mechling pushed aside a few blankets to the sand beneath and then dug his hands in and pulled out a small beaten pack that looked like a burrow rat had gotten ahold of it. The colorful cloth was dull with the coating of sand and dirt but the mechling flipped the top open and pulled out a few dried strips of meat.
"So that's how you're still alive," Ratchet said. "The raiders missed a pack." Charging Wind paused in her work to see what the mechling was doing. The mechling didn't pay much attention to her, more interested in devouring his small meal. The strips were gone in seconds and he poked around in the bag for more before sighing and setting it aside.
Charging Wind said, "I doubt that pack carried as much as a little one eats for even two orns much less the septorn or more he was out here." She went back to cutting the hides down and the mechling stood up and left the tent heading for the one Rockfall and Whistler were taking down. Ratchet followed watching the mechling. Little ones ate a lot and raiders would've taken every pack they found in hopes of bolstering their own stores. That even the one pack had managed to get hidden was impressive. He couldn't believe any others had been though. Still, the mechling ducked into the tent.
Rockfall and Whistler watched him rummage around and gave Ratchet questioning looks. "One of them managed to hide a pack with food in it," he said gesturing back at the tent Charging Wind was picking apart. "But he's still hungry and looking for more." All three looked in the tent as the mechling pushed all the blankets aside and dug around in the sand. Ratchet's brow furrowed as he looked over the ransacked interior. He glanced back at the first two tents they'd gone through. "Is this what you've been doing for—"
"By the Suns, there's one in here, too!" Whistler said interrupting Ratchet. He looked back and indeed the mechling was pulling a small pack out of the sand, this one in better condition than the last. The mechling flipped the top open and pulled out more dried strips of meat as well as a few other dried foods Ratchet couldn't readily identify and a water skin.
"How the frag did anymech miss something like that?" Rockfall said shaking his head. "That pack probably has two orns worth of stores in it and who knows what else."
"Well," Whistler said. "We take furs if they're worth trading or blankets if they're pretty, but I've never dug around in the sand under the blankets looking for things." Rockfall considered that for a few seconds and nodded. Ratchet had never considered it either, although it was a simple way of hiding things. It would be something their clan would now think to do now that they'd seen how effective it was.
Another thought occurred to Ratchet. "We never think to look because warriors don't waste time hiding things." He frowned and looked at the bodies scattered in the open but the several others dead in their tents. Rockfall and Whistler were quiet and looked at the campsite with him. "But they did. They died hiding these packs. Why?" Food was important, but even in the leanest seasons a colony of burrow rats could be rousted to make a tough meal. There was no reason for the warriors to die in their tents when they could have faced the enemy and possibly fought them off and kept their lives and their stores.
"If you had a little one with you and knew you were going to die, you'd make certain he would be able to eat, wouldn't you?" Rockfall said softly. "What's important is not always the enemy, sometimes; it's making sure those that live continue to do so." A chill raced up Ratchet's back even as the suns warmed his cloak uncomfortably. "I'm certain they left enough packs out to convince the raiders they had everything but it wouldn't be hard to stuff those packs with stones or sand and bury food enough for the little one."
"But…to do that, they would have had to do it before the attack." Whistler looked very much like the young warrior he was when he looked at Rockfall with wide optics. "There would be no time once alarm was raised to repack, bury, and throw down the blankets again. One of the raiders would have caught at least one in the middle of burying or covering."
Rockfall's frown deepened and he nodded. "Nothing about this camp, this attack, is right. Something more than packs of food is hidden here. Let's be done with this quickly." He and Whistler returned to cutting down the hides while the mechling was drinking from the water skin looking twice as drowsy as he had before his meal.
Ratchet ducked in and crouched next to him. "Why don't we find the rest of these packs," he said, softly tapping the dusty pack. The mechling stopped the water skin and put it back in the pack. Ratchet closed the top and slung it over his shoulder. He didn't expect it to have as much weight but didn't stop to go through it. They would do that later when they set up their own camp away from this place that wasn't right.
The mechling went to each of the tents and dug around in the sand pulling out at least two packs from each, all of various sizes and colors. Some were empty, but Ratchet kept them anyway because once the dust was beaten off them they would be pretty and unique. Something worth trading either in his clan or with another.
He made a small pile by where they'd entered the camp of the packs and by the time Whistler called for them to get ready to leave there was a pile of more than a dozen. "Traveling fast and light but with all these packs," Ratchet thought out loud to himself. He looked down at the mechling he had cradled in his arms happily drinking from the water skin again. "Your clan makes no sense, mechling. Not a bit." But whatever preparations the warriors had made Rockfall was right. They had made certain whoever was left alive would stay that way without the slow death of starvation hanging over them. The mechling held the water skin out to him and he shook his head slightly. Putting the stopper back in the mechling curled against Ratchet's chest with a wide yawn.
"We're going up to grab the sledge," Whistler said looking at the pile of packs with his optic ridges raised. "All of these were buried?" Ratchet nodded. "The mechling could have held on for a full moon turn with all of that." If all the packs had food it was true. Many of them had been heavy and he'd heard the distinctive slosh of water as well as he'd moved them.
"He would have run out eventually," Ratchet said and by that time the warriors around him would be nothing but rusted struts, the energon staining the ground bleached white by the suns.
"They were probably hoping at least one would survive to take care of him," Rockfall said walking by. The mechling woke up enough to watch them leave and then looked up at Ratchet and then down at the bags. He realized that they weren't going to be in the camp much longer and blinked himself more awake.
The mechling squirmed to be put down and Ratchet let him. "We do need to get you out of those clothes," he said to the mechling. "You shouldn't wear death on you." The mechling looked up at him tilting his head to and fro as he tried to make sense of the unfamiliar words. After a second he darted from Ratchet toward the tent he'd been found in.
"What will you do if your charge refuses to leave the dead?" Rockfall asked, with a trace of sharp amusement in his voice. Ratchet didn't answer and followed the mechling. He heard the mechling speaking soft words either to himself or to the dead Ratchet didn't know.
He looked inside and found the mechling had knocked over the pile of furs and blankets and uncovered yet another small pack and an assortment of jewel colored pouches. "Still hiding one more?" he asked softly. The mechling continued speaking to himself as he carefully put the small pouches in his pack. He picked up one that looked mostly empty and frowned a bit but put it in the bag anyway. Ratchet felt his spark squeeze once more as he watched the mechling. Ratchet had gone through the same motions countless times as their clan moved. The mechling's world was in chaos, but in this one thing he had found something familiar and Ratchet didn't move to interrupt him or try to hurry him along.
The mechling didn't dally around and had his pack done quickly, obviously used to a very quick move out. Ratchet again pondered over who this clan had been and what had driven them to move with such haste. The mechling set his pack in front of Ratchet and then darted back in and took off his soiled poncho. Down his back he had odd glyphs that looked like they'd been cut into his frame and stood out bright silver against his ash colored frame. Ratchet thought they matched what was on his head but really they all looked about the same to him. He dug around in the toppled mountain of furs and blankets until he pulled out another clean looking poncho, this one a beautiful and distinctive sun gold and fire red. "You had clean clothes all this time and you wore that?" Ratchet said softly nodding at the poncho. The mechling looked at him and then at the poncho and then back at Ratchet.
Picking up the soiled poncho he took it over to the body against the wall and arranged the garment next to it with the filthy front down in the pool of dried energon. Had the mechling still been in it he would have looked very much like another body. Ratchet's spark constricted and chilled to an ice ball not even the suns' warmth could touch. "Tokoh," the mechling said pointing to the adult's rusting body.
"Oh mechling," Ratchet whispered. The mechling looked at the adult a few seconds longer before he returned to readying for the journey. Ratchet tried to breathe past the pain in his chest. He kept his optics off the picture of death against the wall and on the mechling as he tied a cord around his waist that surprisingly had a small sheath attached to it. An unadorned bone handle stuck out from the top and the mechling took a breem to make sure it wouldn't get in the way as he moved his arms. Next he dug around in the furs again and pulled out short staff dyed the same colors as his cloak. "Your clan enjoyed colors. You'll be disappointed we don't have more," Ratchet told him softly. Ratchet's clan stuck to shades of brown with the occasional black or dark blue. The mechling with his bright poncho and staff would stand out like a gem against coal.
Running over to Ratchet he looked up imploringly and pointed to the loose laces of his poncho. Kneeling, Ratchet tightened them a bit and tied them in a loose knot. He liked how the poncho was cut. Lacing up the front, it was snug around the mechling's chest, but beneath the laces the fabric was split and hung more like a cloak on either side of his legs making it easy to walk without getting tangled in the fabric. He would also have no problem reaching his small knife, Ratchet noticed with even greater appreciation. He might have to ask one of the seamstresses to copy the design; he was smitten with it. "Ready, mechling?" he murmured once the laces were tied and the mechling pulled up a hood to hide his head from the suns. Wiggling into his pack his bright optics looked up at Ratchet from the shadow of his hood and he said a word in his own language that Ratchet guessed meant he was ready.
Outside, Rockfall and Whistler had the sledge outside the circle of tents and were busy piling the hides they'd collected on it. Charging Wind saw the mechling first and a bright smile lit her face. "Well, you look much better now," Charging Wind said crouching down and looking over the mechling. "So many colors," she said. "We'll have to keep him in middle or one of those sharp opticked treasure hunters might swoop down and snatch him up." She laughed as she stood again but the sound was kind and the mechling looked from her to Ratchet trying to figure out what he'd done that was so amusing. Ratchet smiled down at him and stroked the top of his hood. Looking up at the sky Ratchet gauged how close the suns were to the horizon. He was confident the raiders that had destroyed the camp wouldn't come back, but there was no reason to tempt catastrophe. And the wrongness still prickled his armor. He wanted to be well away from the camp turned graveyard before the moons rose.
Whistler tossed the last of the hides on their sledge and Rockfall threw a lashing to him so they could be secured. "Is your little one ready?" Whistler asked with a smile kicking up the corner of his mouth. "He looks like those jewels Rain Bringer is always telling us about in his stories." Yes, the mechling was going to be quite a sight at their camp of browns and blacks. Rockfall seemed to think the same thing as he looked over the mechling's garments. The old warrior shook his head and continued tightening the ropes until he was satisfied.
"You know what this means," Charging Wind said with mischief in her optics. "We've finally come back with hidden treasure." Rockfall snorted but Whistler laughed. Ratchet rolled his optics and called the mechling to follow as Whistler and Rockfall took the leads to the sledge and started dragging it to the dune. The mechling gripped the edge of Ratchet's cloak as they walked. He looked at one of the bodies tumbled in the doorway of a tent and his optics dimmed a shade.
Ratchet realized with a kick that while the mechs and femmes left to rust in the sun were unknown to them, the mechling would know each one by name. It was easy to forget at times that the bodies raiders left behind had names and families. And the mechling had tried to save some of their lives. As a healer, Leaping Sand had prepared Ratchet for being the one to hear the last breaths of life, but not until he'd gotten his second color. The mechling was still two full seasons away from even his first color and he'd taken the burden of being with the fallen as their sparks returned to the stars. Ratchet put a gentle hand on the back of the mechling's head wishing they could speak to each other.
The first time Ratchet had been present as a warrior died he'd been convinced for almost a moon turn it was his fault, his inexperience that had caused it. Leaping Sand had spoken to him every orn until the fire of his grief and guilt had been tamed. If the mechling was grappling with even half of what Ratchet had gone through he needed to hear the same thing Ratchet had. But there was no one to speak it to him. Not in a language he understood at least. His spark ached knowing there was little he could do to help the mechling after he had survived so much. He was a strong spark, but even the strongest warriors needed to lower their burdens every now and then or eventually it would crush them.
The mechling didn't stop again or look around at what he was leaving. He didn't use his little staff to walk but carried it parallel to the ground as Charging Wind did. And in the midst of his helpless pain, Ratchet's curiosity about the mechling deepened. If he was trained to use a staff and the little knife strapped to his hip they may well be bringing back hidden treasure to camp. A clever little treasure with knowledge of healing and the capability of becoming a sturdy warrior.
Whistler and Rockfall slowed on the incline as they took their time digging their feet into the slippery sand. A misplaced step by either would send both tumbling back down. Charging Wind sprinted past them and crested the hill in seconds where she paused and surveyed the high ground. Once she was satisfied nothing was lying in wait she strode forward and disappeared from view. Ratchet kept his pace and an optic on the mechling in case he needed to pick him up and carry him up the hill. The little mech surprised him though by crawling up the incline on all fours; perhaps not graceful or dignified, but effective.
They reached the top the same time as Whistler and Rockfall but while the other two warriors continued forward with Charging Wind keeping pace ahead, the mechling stopped and looked back. Ratchet stopped with him. Already starting to fall in shadow below the incline, the bare struts of the tents looked even more haunting than they had at mid-orn. The bodies in the middle of the camp were easier to see, the energon painted on the interiors exposed to any who would wander past. The mechling stared at the camp for several breems, sadness etched on his young face.
Ratchet kneeled next to him and put a hand on his waist. Even had they spoken the same language Ratchet wouldn't have known what to say to one so young. For all who lived in the desert, death was as much a part of life as the suns rising. But the little mechling with his colorful clothes and unfamiliar language was not part of the desert. He was a small gem somehow caught in the wind and blown deep into a new land.
Finally, the mechling said a soft word and looked up at Ratchet. Sorrow made his young optics look like older than Rockfall's. Impulse had Ratchet pulling him close and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I will keep you safe," he murmured. The fine chains of honor that bound him to the mechling thickened but didn't gain weight. Under his palm he could feel the pulse of the mechling's spark, steady and quick. "Come with me, little one," he said standing. The mechling looked back once more but reached up and held on to the edge of Ratchet's cloak and walked with him.
oOo
A/N: New Year, New Story!
At the behest of recognizer of unrecognizableI read nltdr's Iacon Prophecy over on Archive of Our Own and absolutely loved the concept of a primitive setting for the Transformers. And since I've been trying to think of a good story for Ratchet set in Ahnkmor everything just fell into place for this story. Lots of OCs in the beginning, but we'll pick up some more known characters in later chapters.
This will be a slow update, but it's been outlined to the end so it's all a matter of finding the time to write.
Thank you for reading and reviewing as well as following and favoriting!