“You asked for me,” Arn said, leaning against the shaky wooden wall and staring at a round clay pot. A vine of teba smoke rose along the opposite wall of Jorik’s hut and lost itself among the herbs tied along the rafter.
Though he hadn’t asked a question, Thalla gave him an answer. “I did,” said she. Continue reading Arn 42
Ellas and his troop of Highwaymen set out early the next morning, and Aralim and his friends continued along the Crimson road for many more days. They saw forests, they saw fields, and now, at last, they saw hills. The first ones were little bumps, where a single copse of trees here or there seemed to grow taller than the rest. Before they reached the Crossroads, the bumps had become rolling hills with rocky spines, scattered many miles apart at times, but growing fiercer nonetheless. Continue reading Aralim 82
Black streaks on the horizon obscured the rocky crags of the metal island, as Farek’s schooner trundled across the clear waters of Copper Cove. They were arriving at Starath this day, as they drifted into a harbour surrounded by over a hundred other vessels. A coupled barge from Numa’nakres rested on the waves as solidly as a castle on rock and Farek looked at the umber-skinned bodies of the elite loungers upon its high deck. A child waved to him, and he waved his finger to wag it back. Continue reading Farek 40
For some reason, to Neeko, To’cani had not made the savanna sound quite so far away as it was. They had hiked and tumbled and climbed and cut through dense foliage and canopied rainforest for over two weeks. They bathed twice during that time, stopping near shallows to wash away their sweat between the fish and the fowl. It didn’t really help—today Neeko’s weathered skin felt so crusty with salt that it added to the stiffness of the kibroot and left him in a rather sour mood. Continue reading Neeko 4
Streaks of chimney smoke and grey brick towers obscured the slate blue sky as Ren and his companions awaited their entrance to Vagren. Ren had never been to a city with a closed gate policy, at least not of this size, nor one with a maintained curfew. Quiet and contemplative, the camps outside the city waited patiently for entrance, and the cloud-emptied overhead seemed to agree. Continue reading Renado 35
Once again, Arn was training in the swamplands of Razaad. Since his return to the island after Scoa, he had grown his muscle mass substantially and each blow of his training staff smashed off an aged mathhar trunk with a thud. His metal sword lay nearby, wrapped in a scaly animal hide to protect from the elements—he trained with it sometimes, but it used control, not muscle strength, and he wanted both. He rotated around the tree as he trained, practicing his footwork in the moss and soft mud, scaring away any critters that ventured close enough.
He saw them coming early, thanks to his movement around the tree. Two men were walking down the slope with spears; they approached quiet-like, through the damp woodland. Arn continued training, paying them notice. He turned his back to them in his next rotation, but made certain he was facing them when they got closer. Continue reading Arn 41
Farek leaned against the wharf post, watching the churning waves below. It was raining a little, just a drizzle. The foamy water reflected the coiled clouds overhead. It wasn’t an excellent day to begin a voyage, but Farek wasn’t going to waste another day. A bird’s dropping landed in the ocean with a plop nearby, and Farek looked up at the spiralling gulls. Many were small grey ones, but a few enormous white ones, shadow gulls, reigned over the others. Continue reading Farek 39
As the humid fog began to disperse, around midday, the tribe on Razaad gathered in the large meeting area. Sizzling embers left trails of warm-scented smoke in the air, to be sucked in by the mouths and nostrils of a few hundred people. The entire village could not fit in one place, but they crammed the roads and houses around to hear the speech of their leader. Continue reading Arn 40
The tiny writing table that Farek had brought upstairs shook in unison with the wooden frame of the Riled Stead. A chorus of laughter and leering voices punctuated the tremor and Farek absently wondered if he should go downstairs. The barkeep, Eraal, had hired Farek to help throw the trouble-makers out, as well as serve drinks, but he’d given the disguised Prince the evening off. Farek sighed impatiently, having lost his place in the last quake, and reread his message in progress. Continue reading Farek 38
It had started to rain late in the day, a bursting downpour that soon settled into a gentle drizzle. The hunters had poor sport, but the craftsmen did alright. That morning, Logern, Bravar, Taran, and Arn’s brother Joroth marched through the village like some small band of their own. The band of merry reluctants reported that the third raft was done, that the project was done.
Arn beat the tree sapling a wooden rod, his muscles quivering as violently as the scattering leaves. Sweat dripped made his eyebrows feel cold. The little hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and the leather tunic he wore chafed his nipples, a distant paint, incomparable to the force of each blow reverberating the bones in his arms. He couldn’t see the source of this rage, but the skill would soon be necessary so he gave himself over to it. Continue reading Arn 39