CHAPTER TWO

Clerci swiveled in the saddle as a pulverized stone shot from beneath her pony’s hoof, the fragments’ airy passage seemingly etched in mid-air for her to study at will. Thirteen miniature glass spheres she counted, trailing one another like so many miniscule diamonds. She rose in her stirrups, only to see them disappear into the stream fed gully below, swallowed by layers of ancient moss and lichen. Her uncanny vision she took for granted, one of the more practical aspects of Urrel’s Sight. A geode…

“Hold, my Lady!” The harsh guttural order shattered her reverie.
      
Her Schalian escort had wheeled about at the snap of breaking stone, his silver gray eyes scanning the nearby hillside. A crimson flush betrayed his agitation, gill slits flaring outward; his armored mail rippling like the scales of an ocean leviathan—interlocked silver shells shielding a sand textured blue skin. Yet in body and stature he otherwise resembled a human, a brown quilted undercoat serving to protect his stocky torso. Even now his crossbow was at the ready, the feathered bolt locked firmly in place. Obey his orders instantly she’d been taught as a child.
      
“Hold, Hasche? Whatever for?”
      
His long limbed mount, a tri-horned deer-beast known as a jyetta, danced sideways across the hard packed gravel trail, its tan woolly neck snaking back and forth in anticipation of trouble.
      
“A moment, my Lady!” the Schalian’s rumbling growl already betraying a measure of uncertainty.
      
Poor Hasche! As always, over cautious. And she a grown woman! She would look out for herself! Yet she couldn’t help but tease...   
      
“My stalwart protector!”
      
Clerci deliberately leaned back in the saddle, pretending a portrait of overt innocence, her mist soaked scarf flowing from the back of her red chiffon headband. Yet even as she spoke she regretted her manner. Indeed she was reminded of how ill prepared she was for their journey. While the Schalian’s rough ribbed boots were fashioned from a horny black leather, her own were more suited to a ballroom floor than some muddy trail; her green forest outfit more appropriate for an afternoon picnic than this five day ride home. Half-frozen ride...
      
All about her the pines and cedars glistened from last evening’s cloudbursts, silvered water droplets cascading silently from moss shrouded branches. Though Hasche had warned that the coastal winds would prove chilly even for the time of year, she had stubbornly kept her riding cape folded across the saddle, not willing to admit he had been right.
      
Furthermore she was guilty of disrespect…

The Schalian people, after all, were loyal to a fault; their honesty incorruptible. A Schalian could be counted on to offer just appraisal; their non-human perspective making them sought after counselors by those who could afford their services. No question that Hasche would always put her best interests first.
      
“It was merely some stones,” she laughed. “Must you jump at the slightest noise?”   
      
The metal crossbow settled across the pommel, his four fingered webbed hand reluctantly easing its grip.
      
“I’m to see you home safely, Lady Clerci; my cherished right as the fifty seventh grandson of He-Who-Signed-The-Accord.”
      
That signing some twelve millenniums ago...
She no longer felt in the mood to argue.
      
It was good to hear someone address her as “Lady” instead of “my child” though she would not come by that title until she was eighteen years of age—next autumn. To these sea folk, all human employers were Lords and Ladies. Still his mention of rights irritated her. Even Schalian females were free to choose mates for life.

So unfair!
      
Why did all Windreach still cling to that Middle Lands’ tradition when most Northern domains upheld a woman’s right to approve her husband to be? What good was her training and education if she must subjugate herself to marriage? Men desired sons, not daughters, little caring that childbirth destroyed a woman’s independence.
      
She made her decision final...
      
“We’re not returning to Lychtly Hall! I’ve finished my studies. I’m going north for the summer, explore the mountains of the Kagaar. Didn’t my father tell you?”
      
Would he accept her outrageous claim?
      
She tugged Scepter away, not waiting for his reply; urging her shaggy pony into a trot though his flattened ears signified potential rebellion. Schalian service was regarded as a contract for life. She would have her work cut out to overcome any argument.
      
Now the trail descended, the waters of the Eastern Gulf beginning to glint through the branches. Here and there fern trees pushed aside the evergreens, limber fronds bursting from gray weather-beaten trunks, the newer shoots armored in dark golden scales. These newcomers appeared so graceful that she found it hard to heed the grumbling of those who prepared the almanacs—their outright warnings that the evergreen forests would eventually be destroyed by the reemergence of this aggressive species. Lychtly Castle surrounded by palm trees?
      
Not likely in her time...
      
Ahead lay the fishing hamlet of Narst where the trail they were following would diverge. The left fork would lead to a roundabout but well maintained road that ran a jagged coastline populated with peaceful towns and quaint villages. This so called Shore Way meandered north, eventually depositing travelers into the hills and valleys of Windreach proper. All in all a five day journey to Lychtly Hall, not counting a mandatory stopover at the entrance to the Urrel Valley—her grandmother’s estate, a scant day’s ride away.

Clerci was in no mood to visit.
Not with Summer Solstice upon her...
      
The right hand fork snaked along the Vargel’s eastern cliffs; a full day’s ride north bringing her to the mountain settlement of Neul’s Pass. Here again she would have a choice for Neul’s Pass was in actuality a crossroad. The westward trail would reconnect her with the Shore Way at Pieler—a ridge top route she had often taken, for it shortened her ride home by perhaps a day and a half. 

An eastward trail led down into forbidden territory—the Sheidrul—a land of ruins and caves populated by people inhospitable to travelers. This were lands ceded to the Leuun as part of the Great Accord, a diminutive race rumored to be as short with their welcome as they were in stature, though their proclivity for trading, and a fondness for dark ale, led them to frequent the trade markets of the Kagaar. Like the Schalians, the Leuun were said to share a mystical creation borne of the darkness that followed the Great Burning.
      
No choice, east or west...
      
She would head directly north from Neul’s Pass, down through the Scharen Valley and on to the fabled magnificence of Thyre Bay, its boundaries ringed by plentiful salt marshes and Schalian water castles. There she would connect with a much older trade route that led into the Kagaar, a welltraveled road which traversed a narrow canyon whose head lay in the foothills of the Northern Unification.
      
“Lady Clerci...”
      
She nudged her protesting pony into a canter, Harche’s jyetta adopting an easy lope alongside. The deer-beast maintained its position without noticeable effort, its faint whistling breath taking on a rhythmic cadence.
      
“I question your judgment, Lady Clerci,” Hasche shouted, “though I admire your will to make a free choice. While Kagaar’s borders are open to all, women traveling alone attract attention—often from the wrong parties.”
      
“They’re going to marry me off!” She could feel her pent up anger overflowing. “Am I to have no time to call my own before my studies are complete? I’m not yet eighteen!”
      
“A betrothal only, my Lady. I believe by human standards you are too young to marry.”
      
He knew! Damn them all!
        
“I’m old enough to be consulted,” she cried.
      
He made no reply, seeming to concentrate on the ocean waters below the trail. Had time any meaning to his people? Schalians were said to live for two hundred years or more. As it was his silver gray eyes were unreadable. She was afraid to stare lest he be encouraged to persuade her to return home.
      
“I welcome the services of your sword and bow, Hasche.”
      
Was it a smile that crossed his sandpaper countenance?
      
“For now, we’ll do as you will, my Lady.”
      
Just like a male! He made no attempt to pursue her feelings further. Still she wanted to hug him!
      
“At Neul’s Pass we will again discuss this matter. Perhaps a night out in this fog will discourage your plans.”
      
Neul’s Pass lay only a day’s ride away...
      
She had given no consideration about where they would sleep should they go north, nor what they would eat. The thought of Myrrh’s muffins tucked in her saddle pack made her mouth water.
      
“The east fork it is,” she shouted, kicking Scepter into a gallop with her heels. “Narst lies around the next bend. We’ll stop at the tavern garden for some muffins and tea!”

Clerci fairly flew down the trail, her eyes shining with victory, her pony determinedly lowering its neck as they cornered the narrow turns. He too took satisfaction in seeing the jyetta fall back...
      
“Hey!”
      
A young boy in a tattered blue sweater threw himself onto the embankment, his eyes wide in disbelief.
      
“You idiot!” she screamed.

Clerci managed to yank Scepter to a halt, almost losing a stirrup in the process. She felt a burning in her mouth, her own tongue bitten at her pony’s bone jarring halt. The jyetta’s horned muzzle flashed past her, its body momentarily obscuring the white surf and seaweed below the outer edge of the trail. Yet Hasche did not stop.
      
“I could have ridden right over you,” Clerci exploded, turning on the hapless child. That she had been traveling too fast for the rain-slicked trail hadn’t yet entered her mind. 
      
“There’s be soldiers, good Miss; down by the quay. They’s be strangers. My Ma says I’m supposed to lie here; run for help if need be.”
      
She had no need to query him further...
      
The village of Narst lay before her, a dozen ramshackle shingled buildings clustered about a stone jetty—a mist shrouded view she had seen a dozen times before. Now Clerci gasped openly… 
      
Three sailing vessels lay abreast the tiny quay; cargo booms splayed out, net loads of stores tumbling ashore. The village was alive with men and horses, the approach to the quay already churned into a sea of mud. Not only horses... but what appeared to be dozens of mules! Amidst the blowing fog and hazy blue smoke strode a tall red haired man wearing the knotted gold headband and black braided boots of a military officer. He looked to be not much older than herself.
       
“Hasche...”
      
She got no further.
      
Two men swiftly approached on horseback, metal vests and war helmets dulled to a dusty black. Their lean limbed mounts marked them as foreigners, equally dark horses with grotesque red hands painted across withers and flanks. Curved saddle scabbards spoke yet another warning...
      
They were armed!
      
Hasche’s crossbow was out, he and the jyetta holding their ground. The deer-beast too, was obedient to its training, its knees slightly bent as if ready to spring to either side. One of the riders laughed derisively.
      
The crossbow discharged...
      
Its feathered bolt streaked into the gravel in front of the oncoming horses, exploding in a hot white flash, the echo reverberating across the waterfront. The two riders leapt apart, halting to either side of the smoldering crater. The shorter of the two laughed again.
      
“Ya be shooting at stones, Fish-Man?”
      
At the crack of the explosive dart, the red haired officer swung around, his hands clenched at his sides in exasperation. Even from a distance, Clerci could see the annoyance in his green eyes.
      
“Hold them, Rogaar,” he shouted. “No one’s to travel north until after we’re gone. No violence!”
      
He appeared to have no doubt whatsoever that his order would be obeyed, his preoccupied frown melting into a self-satisfied smile. Still he scanned the hillside behind her, forming his own quiet opinion as to what real danger she and Hasche might present.
      
Clerci would have found such audacity repugnant had not the man’s order been tempered with unexpected consideration. Indeed his probing eye and self-assured manner rendered him somewhat likable. Still he made no move to rush over, turning instead to deal with an elderly companion dressed in a dusky patchwork cape with an equally dark hood. Even as she stared they were lost from view amidst the eddy of cursing men and lurching pack animals. The one known as Rogaar looked to his companion with ill concealed smugness, his pale facial skin resembling nothing less than a freshly dug skull.
      
“Aye, take care, Lutus. Touchy our friend here is. Likely this Fish-Man would carve up his own shadow should the sun leap out.”       
      
“This is North Lands!” Hasche made no secret of his disdain as he drew the crossbow against a stirrup claw in one fluid motion. Another explosive bolt was locked into place. “You’re trespassing.”
      
“As if we needed an invitation, eh Lutus?”
      
Who were they?
Clerci nudged Scepter forward, not entirely sure what she could accomplish.
      
“Ya best keep to the water, Scaly. We’d not want ya to dry out.” This from the one called Lutus. He was as tall as Rogaar was stocky with a tiny child’s head atop an elongated neck, his shrunken face bobbing up and down like a vulture. 
      
“You forget the siege of Danaar, Mesa-Man? Ask those spirits that remain who sacked those mud walls!” The Schalian’s words shot out in a dreadful hiss, his tiny triangular teeth bared in what Clerci knew to be a challenge. Hasche too, carried a short sword, his left hand even now resting on its ruby red hilt.
      
“Danaar’s been gone for eight centuries, Fish-Man. Only dust knows its fate.” Rogaar spat on the ground.
      
Were these crude men really from the desert lands far to the south? As it was she could barely understand their breathy chopped accents. She had nothing but her belt knife for protection.
      
“Be done with them, Hasche,” Clerci commanded, at last finding her voice. “That officer will tell us what’s going on.”
      
Lutus cast a glance over his shoulder. 
      
“Him, Lady? He wouldn’t know if his ass was on fire, if ya pardon the expression. He’s the cause for our being here.”
      
She could well believe it!
      
Yet again Clerci couldn’t help but notice the officer’s face; his appearance well groomed; strangely handsome in a clean shaven way. Though his officer’s headband gleamed with overt authority, his boots were sadly dulled by mud and grime.

“Then why are you here?” she asked.
      
“There’s a war on, Lady,” Lutus responded, “the Kagaar country north of the Thyre. There’s to be a great over turning that’s been due for some time. And damned if we Harmattan ain’t stuck all the way down here on some forgotten spit of land.”
      
Harmattan?
War? To the north? The Kagaar?
Thankful it was not Windreach they spoke of.
      
“Stuck here?” She looked once more to the officer...

He and his bearded companion appeared equally preoccupied. Both hovered over a brown leather ledger clutched in the old man’s hand, fluttering pages threatening to sail off with each stirring of the wind.
      
Were she and Hasche so unimportant?
      
“Not his fault if ya asks me,” Rogaar jumped in. “He’s just this morning found out hisself! Sons of powerful kings get kept to the rear...”
      
“About time he got a taste of battle,” interrupted Lutus who now seemed anxious to gossip. “He’s got twenty years on him already. That gold headband signifies the order of cherten sen—the Sword’s Master.”
      
Clerci could hardly believe the young officer a Sword’s Master! Her expression betrayed her thoughts…
      
“Trained he was by the King’s advisor, Lord Alaart hisself,” Lutus insisted. “Still orders is orders. He’s green for sure but least he’s more trustworthy than some we’s had to follow.”
      
“Better to wander about lost, I says,” Rogaar added, again spatting on the ground to emphasize his displeasure, “than spend another night aboard that stinking boat. Still when it comes to fighting, we cavalry prefers open land. Ya’s got too many trees up these ways. Harmattan means desert wind, my Lady. As is we’s only but a dozen of us.”
      
“Your mission...” Hasche’s gill slits flexed ominously.
      
“Quarter Master column, Fish-Man!” Rogaar chortled. “The bringing of food and supplies to them’s that’s doing the real fighting. We’s be babysitting a young prince and twenty mule loads of dried meat!”

(Chapters 1 - II - III)