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A rudimentary sketch of the Stormheaths and nearby highlands on a bird-hide map was to serve as Maat’s primary navigation aid. Sara and Lloyd both got a copy, but as these had to be etched out by hand there realistically wasn’t enough time to produce a map even for all five guides.
Since arriving back home, Michael had been handling three or more defensive actions at any time when he wasn’t asleep. The riverside temple had been further fortified; A legion of traps outside the walls had been arranged; additional warclubs had been commissioned; plans to pick up the hidden supplies of imported fire slingers were established. Even now, in the dead of night, seeing the children of Secondhome off necessarily jostled for position with organizing a foraging exposition.
The children assembled in one of the few remaining unflooded glens on this side of the Torrent. They shared the space with a work crew; every capable adult was engaged in either sentry or labor duties, typically alternating shifts from one to the other.
The Quarterchief pointed out two specific twisted metal wrecks. He delegated the task of salvage to Hector.
“Chief wants this wreckage broken down.” Hector ordered. “Gather anything jagged-looking that isn’t rusted over. They’ll make nice spear tips. Sheets can be repurposed as armor. Anything else, throw in a pile, cart it all home, then melt it down for scrap.”
A third of the crew were the remaining Outlanders, who went about this work with the grim demeanor of a funeral congregation. Stormlander natives were the majority of the group (indeed, the majority of town) and viewed these strange, alien wrecks with some combination of fascination and fear. Still, they all worked as requested.
Michael stood over the largest pit, observing the scene, hands steepled.
“These wrecks…” he told Maat. “They’re the very craft we were riding in when we arrived in this land.”
Maat didn’t have the heart to tell his father that they’d discovered these chariots weeks ago. The metal was different, sturdier even than the smoother steel of the Jean’in firearms. The engines mightier than even the sun-oil boilers of the Jean’in paddle boats.
“Father… did you travel here from the stars?”
The Quarterchief started a slow flabbergasted chuckle that warped into a full belly laugh.
“What? What does that have to do with….”
Michael’s laughter gradually subsided. But not until he wound up doubled over, hands slapping his knees.
“So, no star chariots?” Maat found the laughter contagious.
“Nothing quite so fanciful. Man, I wish.” The Quarterchief let out one last chuckle, then reestablished his steely demeanor. “There is a time and place for everything. Ask Aminia when you see him in your travels. He should explain, may do it in riddles though.”
The pair looked out over the glen. The moon continued to advance, taking up a full swathe of the western horizon.
“Your uncle is buried out here,” Michael said after a time. “Among others. I suppose we haven’t spoken much about those days. The idea was always to wait until the last of the second generation was of age before explaining the, well, home isle. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll be reunited at the headwaters under the full moon. Then, we can explain to everyone at once. Speaking of, I suppose he’s also…”
The Quarterchief glanced towards a now-empty patch of the glen. All evidence of the Stranger’s odd ritual were gone, now. As was that tombstone. Moss now grew over the burnt-clean spot where that light-warping portal had spirited the interloper away.
“Hmmm. Where did it…” Michael began, then let out a quick, curt chuckle. “Ah, like he’s back from the dead. Figures that would be it.”
“Oh, you’re not just sending me off for my safety?”
“The adults will be fighting a rearguard action, booby trapping every glen and footpath on our way up to the mountains. Then, we’ll collapse every pass we can to try and keep the Jean’in from pursuing. We will be reunited, and soon. Just… get the children out of harm’s way, please.”
The importance of the role Ma’at was tasked with suddenly dawned on him. Escorting the children safely was as essential a role as any frontline fighter, with its own risks and dangers besides. And the adults, well, they weren’t fighting strictly to defend Secondhome; they were fighting to divert attention from Maat’s retreat.
The youth of Secondhome were all assembled in the field. They were briefed on the nature and importance of their journey. Few of the younger crowd truly understood the significance, but it was not so hard to treat it like just another extended class. Hector called it a field trip, whatever that was.
Every child older than ten got a torch to see them through the night. Keeping to the established route would remain the responsibility of the oldest five.
Just before setting off, Michael brought Maat close again.
“Once you reach the headwaters, seek out the witch of the fumaroles. She’ll lead you past the highlands to the central valley.”
“You’ve said to avoid the witch ever since I was a child!” Maat frowned. “Said she’d eat our bones!”
“We said that to keep you away from the fumaroles. They’re dangerous without a guide. Look, she’s an old friend. She’ll know you by looks alone. If not, just mention my name. No harm will come to you while she’s around.”
That explains why she’d apparently been looking out for him even down in the lowlands.
“One last thing.” Michael reached behind him and produced a slender war-club from its holster beneath his poncho.
The club was made of light-colored, alien wood with fine grainy texture unlike anything on the isle. Fissures and damage had been mended by locally sourced birch, giving the club white veiny fissures along one side.
“The ancestral war club,” Maat said in one quick, awe-struck breath.
“Take it. For defense, and mostly luck,” said the Quarterchief. “Oh, and it’s called a bat.”
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The youth of Secondhome just barely fit onto the raft with enough room to comfortably lay down to sleep. There was not enough storage space, forcing some to rest their heads on their packs.
Maat stood by the stern, manning the rudder while Sara and Kev took to the oars. With a free hand he twirled the ancestral war bat. It lacked utility as an oar, the range of a good spear, even the sheer mass and tearing power of a grooved war club. Repairs had left it brittle, far from its prime as a weapon of war, tool, or sporting good. In close quarters it could still mess up an unsuspecting attacker through sheer blunt force.
Under the cover of night, the raft passed through the quieter parts of the river, past the embers of burning villages and stealthily skirted around solitary paddleboats on patrol. Hunks of metal machinery were placed, as if at random, at various points on shore. They weren’t under guard, simply sitting there for reasons unknown.
Progress on the Torrent itself was swift despite having to travel upstream. In the day, however, they ducked down tributaries and up bayous. Shaded canopies protected them well enough from the harsh heat of midday and the odd patrolling condor high above.
It was here that progress slowed to a crawl. More than once, Maat had to organize the youths to physically drag the hefty raft through shallow wetlands back to the main river. After three days, they still hadn’t come within sight of Aminia’s river temple.
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On the fourth day, on Maat’s suggestion, they avoided a scheduled tributary that would lead directly to the foot of the highlands in favor of a riskier but more direct route upriver. This would, by pure coincidence, take them right by the immaculate river temple, furthest point they’d ever been upriver. Perhaps they’d find Aminia there. At the very least they could refill their canteens in the clear waters of the spring.
A thin cover of pre-dawn provided some stealth for the approach. There were no river boats to be seen all along this bend. Only when they cleared a thicket of reeds on their approach could they see three smaller patrol craft moored at the temple’s natural dock. Grated metal fencing had been erected around the temple, with barbed threadlike webs sprawling out into the wetlands on either flank.
“Not going to be able to get the raft anywhere near there,” Lloyd said. “Not without being noticed.”
“Keep to the reeds,” Maat said.
A paddleboat approached from downriver. Awaiting sentries on the shore produced three long gangplanks interlocking with each other. A crew of Stormlanders dressed in a mixture of their homegrown warrior tassels and foreign metal armor emerged onto deck. The turncoat Laval marched several times the number of their own clansmen off the boat and into the fenced-off temple.
Even as they were working together, the Stormlanders stared down the shorter Jean’in. The foreign interlopers kept their hands on their guns; it appeared that their local help hadn’t been granted that privilege yet.
The last person out of the boat was a familiar face. It was Lionli. He barked something at the humans, barely intelligible. The Stormlanders and Jean’in had yet to iron out a common language, so most of the conversation was a series of curt grunts. Maat did catch a “What will you do with them?” coming from Lionli’Laval.
“Boss has something planned,” one of the humans said with a shrug. “Don’t care. Neither should you.”
Lionli looked out to the reeds. He stared so intently into Maat’s eyes that he had to have seen the entire raft in its hiding spot. Maat forgot to breathe in a failed attempt to avoid panicking. Only then, Lionli turned back to the foreigners.
“Good luck to you all,” he said in a perfect Laval dialect.
The dead clan-chief’s son turned on his heels and walked back to the boat. What Maat and his fellow Laval could see, but the foreign sell-guns could not, was that he was smirking.
The lead human mercenary then unsubtly blurted out “slant ears” loud enough for the entire shore to hear once the Laval were safely back on the boat.
“They can’t be doing anything good in there,” Maat said.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
“Surely we’re not about to rescue these people all by ourselves,” Sam said.
“Maat, we’re leading a crew of five-year-olds,” Sara said, though she frowned as she did so.
If the entire raft couldn’t approach the temple of Aminia, perhaps Maat could sneak in alone for some reconnaissance. He traced a triangular path on his mobile map of the Stormheaths. Yeah, he could make that trip through the shallows.
“Give me fifteen minutes, then head for the tributary. If I’m not back within the hour, keep going.”
Lloyd puffed his chest up, ready to volunteer. Maat held a hand up preemptively.
“Just me. I know the temple layout better than anyone.”
And I should hopefully still have some river-luck going for me, went unsaid.
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The metal thorns on the perimeter fence would nip at limbs and tangle up clothes. He’d need a way over, and the raft provided.
A thin sheet of whitewood bark laid over the wire in a secluded part of the reeds helped nicely. Maat laid it down quietly, so the splash of the plank against ankle-high water didn’t alert any patrolling guards. With the bark in place, he had a perfect way in and out, hidden just well enough that it was unlikely the guards would find it for hours.
Now, Maat was able to advance up to the stone blocks of the temple under ample cover.
It appeared there was just a skeleton crew within the temple. There were no guards to be seen. Instead, sitting on column that had been toppled over by the invaders in a secluded corner of the temple, was a man neither human or Stormlander.
“Aminia?” Maat asked as he approached at a crawl. “Are you alright? Where are they taking everyone?”
Aminia kept his knees curled up to his chest. He looked up at Maat, but there was a dullness in his eyes.
“Hello, Maat. My power in this place is limited. The temple has been defiled.”
Maat touched the water priest’s arm, only to find it neither cold nor warm. It was like trying to touch a heat mirage. His hand phased right through.
“Travel to the headwaters,” Aminia said. “My powers will be at their zenith there. And with the rapids, I’ll be as straightforward as I’m going to get.”
“What are you talking about?” Maat asked.
Something leapt out of the water to Maat’s left. He looked away for a second, and when he looked back, Aminia was gone. In his place there was only empty space, with an unnatural stillness in the air.
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The strange quiet persisted as Maat advanced into the temple. Not even the sound of flowing water could be heard, though nothing had been done to dam up the current flowing into the temple. Indeed, rising tides had only diverted yet more water through the avenues; at full tide, it would overflow and bathe every walkway in a thin carpet of river water.
Above, a canopy of metal slits had been constructed above the temple walkways, to protect against frequent rains. No complaints from Maat; it helped him maintain stealth. Bare footprints marked a thin layer of mud and sand on the tiled floor. Prisoners — subaltern, captured fighters from clans that hadn’t yet turned allegiances, anyone captured out in the forest — would’ve marched down these hallways.
A skeleton crew of Jean’in patrolled catwalks above. There were eight of them in all; the crew at the docks had been more than half their number. The catwalks all looked out north and west, along the river. They never expected infiltration from the swamp.
With the element of surprise on his side, Maat could venture so close that he could make out individual buttons on their strange, foreign coats. He could even eavesdrop. To his surprise, he recognized every third word or so from various off-isle traders, enough to piece together the flow of conversation:
“So… which island you come from?” asked one of the foreigners, a woman.
“Last Moor. It’s out past the end of the Grand Line. You?”
“Centreport.” The woman shielded her head from the sun, then looked to the cliffs far to the north. “Kinda nerve wracking, being this far inland.”
“All the big tribes are on our side or wracked with infighting,” said another. “Highlands are sparsely populated; it’s as barren as the sunward shore. Same reason why there’s no snow in the mountains; too close to the equatorial nexus. Sun scorches everything.”
“Still, hope those reinforcements arrive soon,” said the first Jean’in. “I’d rather be more worried about heat stroke than enemy action.”
Maat paused to eavesdrop and observe. Jean’in looked so much like him. Oh, he’d known a few at Secondhome, sure, and they looked uncannily like the foreign mercenaries before him now. A few had a slight elongation to their ears around the mid-point usually reserved for half-clan that would indicate a bit of elvan in the family tree. Any given Jean’in, even those from different islands, did seem to have more in common with each other than any two given clans of Stormlanders. Women in the unit wasn’t so shocking; Laval and plainswalkers didn’t go for it, but the bird-herders further down the coast generally let them fight.
A third guard shuffled down the catwalk. “Quiet, you. Warden’s doing the rounds.”
Maat continued onward, following the footprints until he reached a sunken-in plaza now transformed into a cage. Four-dozen low-caste Stormlanders sat on a few tiles the waters had not yet flooded. They stirred as he approached, forcing him to bring a finger up to his lips, urging silence.
“Are there others?” Maat asked in his best Laval dialect.
“Just us,” rasped one of the prisoners.
“There’s a lever above,” said another.
Up on the walkways. Of course, it wouldn’t be so easy. He’d be spotted up there in an instant.
Maat thought about it. The Jean’in brought the bars prefabricated from off-island. It was an improvised cell, in a temple meant to greet centuries-gone pilgrims rather than hold prisoners. There had to be something about the temple layout they could use.
“Can all of you swim?”
The prisoners looked at Maat, almost insulted. What self-respecting Laval couldn’t swim through the holy waters of the Torrent?
“Fair enough,” Maat said when he received no response. “Wait here.”
Maat went in search of an entry way into the drainage tunnels below. He found them in an ornate grating in a far-off dead end. While heavy, it opened with a bit of effort. Maat inched himself down into the elaborate drainage system that was the backbone of this temple.
It was darker here without the cracks and fissures in the ceiling. But grating offered narrow rays of light near every dead end. And he already knew the layout.
There was no grating in the holding cell. But there was a narrow drainage channel he could peek out of. He poked a hand through the gap, alerting the prisoners.
“Help me dislodge some of these bricks.” Maat tugged at some brickwork, its perfect alignment having weathered down with age.
Five volunteers helped from the top. Within fifteen minutes there was a hole just large enough for the average lanky Stormlander to squeeze through, if they were willing to get their hair wet. The loose bricks were stashed in a corner of the drainage ditch; in a pinch they could be hastily reassembled, masking the ruse.
They’d have to sneak through one at a time. That would take a while with the sheer number of prisoners in the cell. Escape was delayed only once, as a guard patrolled the catwalk above. If Maat was right, the new hole would be just barely visible from above. A few Stormlanders lounged about near the newly widened gap, obscuring it further. The guard circled twice, shouted something in an off-isle language, then returned to the perimeter.
“Alright, go.” Maat waved them through.
Youngest went first, and fastest. There were a surprising number of children amongst the group. Elderly hobbled through next when it was guaranteed there would be a long gap before the sentries returned.
Jean’in really didn’t expect this pen to make a break for it, Maat thought.
Those adults who were most fit went last; in the event they were discovered, the least-able to fight would need a head start.
Once the last Laval was through, they hastily reassembled the brickwork. If they were lucky, and Maat was often lucky when the Torrent was involved, the foreigners wouldn’t even know how they’d escaped.
“Stay quiet and follow close.” Maat held his left pointer finger up to his lips. “The defenses are weak to the south. There’s a bridge across their strange fencing in the reeds. If we have to scatter, try heading there.”
The once-prisoners nodded, eager to escape. Maat led the way.
They passed by many more sunken plazas, visible from the thin but long drainage slits. All were in the process of being transformed into holding cells. While these prisoners were free, many more would be arriving in due time.
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The drainage tunnels opened out directly beneath the temple’s outer walls. A current siphoned waters in from the wetlands, but it was not so deep that they couldn’t wade through it. To the right was the Torrent, and that natural dock with the three miniature paddleboats. Fifteen minutes or more, and their escape had yet to register.
“Any of you know how to pilot those overlarge canoes?” Maat asked.
The group crossed their hands in a T formation, a near-universal Stormheaths signal for “negative.”
“Pity. Head for Secondhome, to the south. My father still resists the outsiders; mention my name, Ma’at, and he’ll let you join the fight.”
“You are an outsider,” said one of the elderly clanless. “But not of these outsiders. Not Jean’in. From elsewhere.”
Maat raised an eyebrow. “I’ve done nothing but rescue you at no gain to myself.”
Well, no gain but a clear conscience.
“And for that we are thankful. Laval shall formulate a less insulting name for the outlanders in your honor.”
Maat looked again to the boats. They could be used to pursue the escapees. It wouldn’t be hard to catch anyone trying to stick near the river, the most easily navigable route on this shore.
“Head for the reeds,” Maat said. “I’ve got one last thing I can do to try and help.”
The prisoners kept their heads low to the water as they waded into the reeds. With most defenses arranged to the north, they were as well-situated as could be. Maat, meanwhile, waded onto the docks.
Only from this vantage point did Maat see a metal obelisk running through the temple’s central skylight. He wondered if this had anything to do with Aminia’s waning influence on this leg of the river.
Nevertheless, Maat waited in shadow as two guards walked by. One examined the boat, while another scanned the horizon.
“Do you mind?” asked the man in the boat.
“Sorry. Just thinking of where I’m going to spend the sign-on bonus. Nice clearing just down-river that’s just begging for a farmstead.”
The two guards picked up a canister of sunoil and hauled it carefully, with two hands each, off into the temple.
Now alone, Maat made for the boats.
Each boat could fit the full crew at this lonely outpost. There was a mechanical contraption in a sunken compartment near the back. This was presumably the engine, but much of it was hidden behind a brass facade. A mural depicting some sort of bearded forge-master hammering away the darkness of night on one side and storm clouds and tangling vines on the other. It was as much a shrine as the temple ruins at Maat’s back.
A detachable tank of sunoil sat beside receptacles, the only part of the actual machine accessible without peeling off this mural. No doubt this tank provided power to the back wheel. But how to destroy it?
While he couldn’t scuttle the engine, sabotaging their sunoil supply proved easy enough. Drag the sunoil tank up three short steps, then hoist it over the edge. Despite the weight, it was quite buoyant. Let the Torrent carry it away. Then, Maat pulled and tore at every vulnerable-looking tube and wire peeking out from under this brass facade. Boat number two was scuttled in much the same way.
By the time he got to the third, Maat was beginning to think that it would be nice to just ride this thing out of here, deny this outpost any working boats at all.
The bow was taken up by a wide wheel and a series of levers and gauges Maat couldn’t hope to puzzle out. Even with the sunoil tank plugged in, there wasn’t even a hint of how to turn it on. While investigating, a low-pitched, droning alarm sounded from the metallic obelisk. Hopefully the prisoners were well into the swamp.
No time to throw the sunoil overboard. Instead, Maat hit the tank with his war-bat, spilling the viscous, flammable oil onto the deck. It’d have to do.
“Neophytes, check the boats!”
A bellowing voice advanced towards the dock at high speed. It was a Jean’in in a simple light cloak, blazer, and wide-brimmed hat. It was the Warden, the man who’d verbally sparred with Lionli.
The Warden rushed onto the docks, then leapt into the boat. He swung a sleek and curved knife. Maat had just enough time to raise his war-bat. The knife embedded itself in the wood.
“Knife ears!” the Warden cried, though Maat was in fact human.
Before Maat could object or counterattack, the Warden wound back and headbutted Maat, forehead to forehead. His attacker’s wide-brimmed hat fell backwards into a puddle of viscous sunoil.
“Rat!” The Warden headbutted again, then again.
Maat tried to headbutt back, but the foreign barbarian proved unaffected. Everything was spinning. One last bash against the head sent Maat reeling overboard. He kept an iron grip on the bat, and the knife that was coming along for the ride.
Swift river currents of the upper Stormheaths whisked Maat away from the temple. He emerged from the water just long enough to take a deep breath, then dived. A scattershot impact against the Torrent’s surface made it clear that someone was firing at him.
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Maat did not dare leave the safety of the river until he reached the shaded tributary. Any further and he’d waft into the deeper, wider river, the territory of alabaster catfish and other man-eaters. The raft was hiding up ahead, amidst heavy foliage. He only spotted it because he’d been expecting them.
In the distance, the alarm was still blaring.
“What happened?” Lloyd asked, maneuvering the raft out into the tributary.
Maat waded out through the shallows. He clambered aboard the raft.
“Freed the prisoners.”
“We saw a few,” Sara said.
“Not enough room on the raft though,” Kur added.
“They should be fine. Headed for Secondhome.” Maat sat down, suddenly out of breath. “Just take us up the tributary. The Jean’in won’t be following for a while.”
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