The sweet-crisp scent of the coming snowfall filled Tarn's nostrils as he glided over the snow-covered mountain-antelope path. To those not of Asgard, he traversed erratically, broken, pocketed ground that, at first glance, seemed not to follow a logical pattern, yet to his mountain-trained eyes the ram ran lay as clear as a cart road. His twelve winters in Asgard had endowed Tarn with more than just knowledge of the land and its inhabitants; it had driven all vestiges of Atlantis from him.
The Asgard sun had tanned his skin golden-brown and sun-bleached his hair light blond like that of his father. Though Tarn outweighed and towered over most of the grown men in his village, the fat of youth layered his man-sized, adolescent body. Though his hair colour and robust musculature belonged to this father, his emerald-green eyes and high cheekbones mirrored Jayleen, his Atlantean mother. And though most Atlanteans possessed dark hair, and olive skin tones, a blond-haired Atlantean was not unheard of, just rare.
A scowl contorted Tarn's mouth. He quickened his pace. A recent, fluffy blanket of powder snow filled in the old ram tracks, but newer tracks were in evidence. The route had been adopted by more than one individual. Cursing the ill fortune of a snowfall, he broke into a brisk loped toward the pass with the hope of discovering fresher sign. Animals possessed a keener nose than his and smelled the forthcoming snowfall. They would instinctively seek shelter in the lower ranges of under an overhang near a plateau.
Marta would be less than pleased if returned late. Though he feared no man or beast, he held a healthy amount of respect for his mother. He laughed to himself at his cultural fear of the honoured matrons. No village warrior dared to cross the feisty females in their domain. The hut and its food belonged to them, as was the law of the shelter. It mattered not who hunted the meat or procured the hides, the hut belonged to the females and that was that.
His comical musing ceased at the sight of the distinct sign left by a long-toothed snow leopard. The pug-marks were as deep, and wider than his palm. Never had he measured larger snow leopard impressions. Few hunters stalked the wily sabre leopard alone. The cat was too unpredictable and its poison-tainted claws and saliva too dangerous for a lone hunter to stalk safely. Named after the five-inch upper and lower cuspids that overlapped its whiskered-lips, its powerful jaws were capable of snapping a man's arm with singular ease, and pinning an adult steer to the ground until the cat's poison brought paralyses. In Marta disapproved of Tarn's games selection, she kept it to herself. The hunt belonged to the men, as would this leopard's ultra-warm hide, thought Tarn, a crooked grin curling the corners of his mouth.
The track was fresh―less than an hour old. It seemed to be following its prey down the mountain. Where had the prey it tracked gotten to? Perhaps it sought the lower pass and shelter from the coming snow. Tarn pushed conjecture from his mind and increased his pace, eye warily roving back and forth, ears straining to catch the slightest sound.
Fifty minutes after he discovered the leopard's pugmarks, it began to snow again, heavily this time. The falling snowflakes were more like round beads than flat ice crystals. They bounced off the existing snow cover and rolled downhill to a stop. They lacked moisture and cohesion. This kind of snowfall made travel risky. It provided a slippery bed upon which great sections of snow migrated. Avalanche conditions. The trail dropped steeply. At the bottom, at the limits of his vision, Tarn sighted the narrow mountain pass.
Situated between two mountains, the V-shaped cleft opened in the spring and remained passable until the heavy snowfalls of early to midwinter. Once closed, it rendered travel impossible. Despite the uncommon amount of snowfall this year, it remained open.
The leopard pugmarks grew fresher. A blood-curdling scream echoed through the pass. The snow leopard. No farther than ten spear tosses distant. Tarn increased his pace and doubled his wariness. The scream meant the snow leopard had caught its meal, for the carnivorous cats stalked their prey in silence. If he hurried, he would catch it while it fed. A meat-gorged animal moved slower, became more vulnerable to his spear. Tarn calculated the fading light. He would not find his base camp until well after dark.
A second, hear-withering, howling scream drew him forward like a beacon in the night. The ground trembled as the banks of snow gathered on the mountain's sharp inclines shifted. Although the falling snow drew a shite curtain across his vision, hiding the cliffs from view, he pictured the snow where it accumulated in great overhangs. He felt torn between turning back and the tantalizing prize that awaited him. Another throaty roar made up his mind. To return late without meat and a hide to soften Marta's displeasure, was out of the question.