Fourth of Harvest

Every land goes through a cycle of conflict and peace, of comfort and struggle. Not every story has a happy ending, and not every story has a clear beginning. The Kingdom of Svaleta had long existed in those misty regions of history, its course ever uncertain. Its geography demanded it, and its civilisation courted it. To the east lay the Artax Mountains, a towering fortress cloaked in perpetual fog. Long ago named "The Misty Veil" by unimaginative travellers, the fog was said to be impenetrable except by a handful of paths known only to the local towns. Beyond the mountains lay the Ikari Dominion, a land ruled by the iron fist of the Ikari orcs. Powerful magic-wielders, they rarely ventured beyond their borders but welcomed any who would bow the knee to their rule. Svaleta was separated from the mountains by two nations. In the north, Lustria was an economic powerhouse. Fully half of their land was mined for iron, gold, and most other resources that the surrounding nations needed. In the south, the Tios Principality was renowned as the moral playground of the continent. It had long been the crossroads between the Ikari and the western regions, and the citizens had developed a myriad of ways to entertain their temporary guests, raising an economy that rivalled Lustria's own.

Separated from them by the Archon River, Svaleta was the wilderness that protected Lustria and Tios from the far west. The northern tip was known as Rignar's Hold, and it provided the crops that fed not just the Kingdom but also Lustria. In the west, a small series of quarries provided a meagre supply of diamonds that nonetheless kept Svaleta's political prisoners occupied. Much of Svaleta was made up of forests and plains leading in the south to Narandir, the Dark Forest, an ancient region that none dared enter. It wasn't unusual to find goblins or other creatures wandering Svaleta, its borders too broad to effectively defend and its interior too inviting for those seeking to rob the unwary. Svaleta's people were a hardy, dark-skinned race used to hardship that existed alongside prosperity. The dichotomy had become just another part of the tapestry of their lives.

The real threat, though, lay in the north on the border with Rignar's Hold. The Aliri Empire, an ancient race of militaristic elves, had a longstanding rivalry with Svaleta. It had been a century since the last war, but the hatred ran deep on both sides. No one knew when another war would come, but few doubted that it would. These were trying times, not quite peaceful and not quite full of struggle. It was the misty in-between that characterised Svaleta's history, and its very character.

It was during a season of relative calm that a single horse driven carriage made its way along a well-trodden path. The horse rider never looked at her passengers, her eyes locked on the road ahead. Her instructions had been simple: go where you're told and forget that you saw anything. A heavy bag of silver had bought her blindness, and silence. The open-air carriage had only two occupants. A young woman slept despite the warm sunlight, a light blanket drawn up under her chin. Beside her was her guide, a heavyset man in his thirties, wearing a cloak that hid the short sword in its scabbard. Tired of watching the young woman sleep, his eyes didn't stop scanning the open plains around them. He stopped only when the Archon River came into view.

"Are we on schedule?" he called out.

"Aye," the rider replied, still not looking back. "If your man stayed true, then we'll meet him on time."

The man didn't reply. People smuggling was never certain, but he paid well enough to expect results. He estimated they were ten or fifteen minutes from the rendezvous. With a final survey of the area, he shook his passenger and leaned in close to announce,

"Belkai. Time to wake."

The woman's green eyes sprang open, and she glanced around before grunting. Ever the wary one, the man thought. Though perhaps not wary enough.

"It's about time." Belkai pulled off the blanket and wrapped it up, tying it with rope before slipping it into the hooks on the bottom of her pack. "Well, Milton? Any complications?"

He didn't answer for a second as he looked at her. She wore a simple grey cotton top, thin straps over her shoulders and a neckline that ended partway down her chest. She wore well-fitted leather pants and solid hiking boots, her pack made of cowhide. Smooth auburn hair fell to the middle of her back, a few stray strands hanging down her face. She had money, that much at least was clear. All the clothes looked brand new, and she carried herself with a confidence that characterised the higher classes. Not for the first time, he wondered why a woman with means was taking such a clandestine journey. Still, he didn't ask questions. That wasn't his place. He too had been paid for silence.

"No one took note of us," he finally answered. Belkai simply nodded as she checked that her pack was sealed. Milton didn't take it personally. Smugglers like him didn't have the kindest of reputations, but that was simply part of the business. She bent over and picked up her green linen cloak and fastened it around her neck.

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"So, what's the plan?"

That was simple enough to explain. A boat was waiting to take them over the Archon, where they would cross into Rignar's Hold in the northeast where border patrols were virtually non-existent. From there they could begin their trek to the south. A week's journey at least on foot with proper precautions. Less if Milton was able to secure transport, but Belkai had her reservations about taking that option.

"I do have to warn you of the dangers," Milton told her as the rider switched over to a smaller track. "We don't come to Svaleta in a time of peace."

"When have they ever known peace?" Belkai snorted, her eyes cold. "I don't expect a casual stroll. That's why I hired you."

"Nonetheless, there are things you should be aware of." Her arrogance grated on him, if only because he had enough of his own. "The Aliri are restless, I hear that the bandit raids have increased. Not that the elves would admit their involvement." He spat a ball of phlegm out of the carriage. "And travellers have been disappearing south of King's Crossing."

"And where is King's Crossing?" She knew the answer, but it served her purposes to appear weak to her guide. The arrogant were far more likely to make mistakes, and that was something that she could exploit, should the need arise. The last thirteen days since she had buried Saxon had taught her the need for caution.

Milton shook his head. "You should have bought a map, Belkai. King's Crossing is the southern point of the Hold. Three rivers meet near the town. It's the only safe crossing within a day's walk, as far as we're concerned. From there we can enter woodland and escape notice. But it's not without dangers."

"What's causing these people to disappear?" Belkai asked, turning to face him.

"No one knows." He shrugged. "Could be bandits. Could be feral orcs. Chances are, we'll find out."

Belkai smiled. "Well, that's why I have you and your sword."

"As requested," he confirmed. The rider said something and he turned to answer. Eyes locked on them, Belkai undid her pack and slipped something under her cape.

Milton finally turned back. "We're here. As soon as we're off the carriage, the rider will leave. Stay close to me and don't say a word."

The truth was, Belkai didn't trust Milton or his kind. Those who lived by money were only loyal until someone made a better offer. Not that she had a choice. Her entry to Svaleta had to be secret. Three knew – Milton, the rider, and the boat pilot. It was three too many in her mind, but it couldn't be avoided. She knew danger when she saw it, but she continued to act naïve as she fell in behind Milton, keeping her eyes lowered to the ground and arms crossed over her chest. She pretended to look nervous as the two men spoke, glancing this way and that as if she were feeling jumpy. When beckoned, she took her place on the ferry, still not saying a single word. She closed her eyes, filtering out the random thoughts that flooded her mind, and took a deep breath. She listened to her escorts' voices, satisfied that they both sounded dismissive of her. So much the better, she told herself.

The boat crossed the water silently, two wolves satisfied that they brought a lamb into their lair, unaware that they sat beside a bear.

* * *

They called it the 'Deadlands'. Like much of Svaleta, it had once been woodland. Maybe it still had been before the Aliri first invaded. Over the course of that ten-year war, several acres of land along the border had been poisoned. Now it was cracked earth, dotted by half-dead trees and dry grass. Some ancient magic had cursed the earth, working to annihilate anything that attempted to grow. Still nature fought back, and each year the cycle of birth and death continued without pause. It had become a no-man's land for the Aliri and Svaletan armies. Without official command or formal treaty, it was understood that no one would set foot in the Deadlands. A breach would lead to war, intended or not.

Standing on a rise a dozen feet short of the Deadlands, a young man named Roulson leaned his shield against a tree and took a drink from his water bladder. It was a hot day, and he had been assigned sentry duty, condemned to wander his sector for the next five hours while the majority of his company sat behind barricades inside the nearby tree line. The Aliri weren't the immediate threat that they once were. Though officially Svaleta deployed its troops to discourage invasion, there weren't enough troops to cover every stretch of the border. Roving groups of bandits were the real threat. Each year they slipped over the border, seemingly assisted by the Aliri, and raided the Hold's farmlands. So instead of preventing invasion, companies such as Roulson's were given staggered sectors to discourage raiders. No official plan was published, no set pattern was followed. The generals thought that the solution to bandit raids was random deployments. For Roulson, it simply meant a month of pointless manoeuvres that accomplished little or nothing. He'd joined the army for the adventure, only to spend his time looking over the Deadlands and smelling the faint odour of rot that never seemed to disappear.

No, the land ahead of him was as dead as were his dreams of glory. He clipped the bladder back onto his belt, lifted his shield, and continued his wanderings. The captain would give him the lash if he were found standing still. For King and Glory, Roulson thought. We chant it every day, but we never live it. He watched an eagle circling in the sky and for a moment envied its view. The bird found its prey and cut through the air towards the Aliri side of the border, disappearing into the forest on the other side of the Deadlands. Unlike the Svaletan side, nothing stirred over there. It was silent and empty, just the last whispers of life before the wasted earth.

Roulson turned away as he marched. It would be another hot, wasted day. Nothing ever changed on the border. Not in a hundred years. It was enough to drive a man insane, and Roulson was pretty sure he'd already reached that point. For King and Glory, he reminded himself. What a joke.