By William Sarabande

Stunningly visible, terribly precise, powerfully dramatic, here's the 1st quantity of a extraordinary new sequence . . .The First Americans.  When people first walked the realm, while nature governed the earth and sky, a proud tribe is threatened by means of a sequence of traditional disasters.  A daring younger hunter named Torka, who misplaced his spouse and baby to a killer significant, leads the survivors over the glacial tundra on a determined eastward odyssey to the keep their clan.  Through assaults of savage animals and encounters with strangers now not not like themselves, they have to courageous the hardships of a international panorama and learn how to stay in an unique new international of puzzle and danger.  Toward the land the place the solar rises they need to travel.Beyond the ocean Of Ice,  toward a brand new day for his or her clan--and an grand destiny for the yank.

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He wondered if the wild dog had been surviving off the flesh of those infants whose mothers had not been as practical as the headman's woman, who had fed her family from the corpse of her newborn. His hands flexed. He wished that he had killed the dog. He wished that he had brought his spears with him, or at least one of his daggers. His long mouth twisted down into a scowl. If the dog came back, he would kill it with his bare hands. It would be his last brave deed. Perhaps then Death would not be bored by his stories and would decide to come to him in a more honorable manner than through the jaws of an emaciated cur.

The little boy frowned. He missed his father. Torka had been gone so long on the hunt. Kipu sat up and rubbed his eyes. His mother had an odd look on her face. Expressionless. As flat as a much-used cooking rock. And as smooth, with all detail worn away after years of marrow bones being rubbed and splintered on their surface. Cooking rocks were pretty things. Glossy. They looked strong, as though they could last forever, but stress them too much or put them too close to the fire, and they would crack.

They will bring game. " "I have seen this. He resented her sarcastic reminder of his title. Once it was said that he, Umak, was the greatest hunter of them all, that he could communicate with the spirits of his prey and command the herds of game to appear or disappear at his command. These days, it was growing painfully clear to him, as well as to the rest of the band, that he could command nothing. Especially the tongue of his grandson's cold-eyed woman. "Old men see many things," she said with a rude snort of derision.

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