Wrong Star
Posted on September 30th, 2012 by Ian Blackthorne

The Chieftain emerged from his hut, larger than the others, a ceremonial spear adorned with feathers firmly clasped in his clawed left hand. The old weathered wood of the razor-sharp obsidian spear bore his weight easily, supporting him as a constant traveling companion would; he, in turn, cared for the spear as his most valued possession, one that had saved his life on many occasions. His reptilian eyes squinted against the morning sun as he surveyed the village. Today, it would seem, would be a good day, blessed by the Old Ones.

The village was a circle of skin-and-wood huts built on on the leeward side of a tall ridge that shielded them from the prevailing winds. In the direction away from the ridge and toward the sun, the landscape sloped gradually down toward a river, which, along with several small lakes, was painted gold by the light of the rising sun. The village had a splendid view of their hunting grounds while being protected by the mostly impassable ridge. Truly, their ancestors had been fortunate to find this place, thought the Chieftain.

He strode to the edge of the village on two thick powerful legs, a spike-tipped tail aiding his balance, as did his trusty spear. His tribe was rising with the sun to go about their daily business; a hunting party was already forming, and some of the hatchlings were engaged in spirited play. Upon reaching his favorite vantage point, a rocky outcropping slightly above the village whose safety was his responsibility, he faced the sun and raised a feathery crest on his spiked head with a screech, letting the morning’s heat warm his blood and bring him vigor. Yes, he thought once more, today would be a good day.

His optimistic thought was interrupted by a sense of wrongness. The Chieftain tasted the air with a forked tongue, flicking rapidly out from his scaled mouth. Nothing seemed awry as of yet, but he could not shake the sense, nor could he yet see anything amiss. Nevertheless, he turned toward the village and let loose a shrill shriek of alarm, causing every able-bodied member of his tribe, both male and female, to arm themselves and stand ready to fight in a flurry of action.

Last night, he remembered, there had been reports of a wrong star in the sky, moving impossibly fast relative to the others. He had confirmed the sighting with his own eyes, but could not understand it. Their shaman had concluded that it must have been a lost spirit, fleeing the persecution of a hellish afterlife earned by evil deeds in this life. The Chieftain wondered if the shaman had been incorrect in his assessment and that the wrong star was something worse, or if he had been correct and the lost spirit was out to seek vengeance upon the living.

There was a flash in the air and the golden light of the morning sun started to acquire a gradually more reddish hue. Now the Chieftain was convinced that something was wrong, and he turned to run back to his village as quickly as his aged but still strong legs could carry him. Once there, several throaty growls and nasal shrieks directed his warriors to a defensive perimeter, while others sent a scouting party to higher ground to try to identify this new threat. His warriors were strong and skilled and had kept them safe against threats from other tribes and from the more aggressive local wildlife, so the Chieftain was confident that they would be able to fend off whatever was coming.

Nothing seemed to happen for a little while except that the sun’s light grew unnaturally red. The shaman was convinced that the Old Ones were angry and that this was a bad omen. Truly, the old Chieftain had never seen anything like this, nor had his father spoken of such an event happening before his birth. A quick consultation with the tribe’s storyteller confirmed that no record of the sun turning red existed within the oral history of their people. The Chieftain, the shaman, and the storyteller all looked toward the crimson sun with fear in their hearts, but with outward stoicism. They had to appear strong for the good of the tribe.

Illusions of strength shattered when, a few moments later, a wave of flame rushed toward them with impossible speed, as if the air itself was being ignited. The shrill cries of panic and pain were brief once the wave of fire hit the village, moving so fast that their huts did not even burn. The fire did not burn the villagers either, but instead caused some sort of transformation in them, dissolving their corporeal forms.

The Chieftain regarded a wavering monochrome image of his feathered spear on the ground where it had fallen when his hand could no longer grasp it. He now only knew that he must be dead and that this must be punishment from the Old Ones. Either his tribe had collectively angered them, or he had personally failed to keep them safe from this unforeseen threat. Later, when the strange interlopers arrived, he knew that they must be responsible for this calamity and had to pay. He would make them pay.