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“You intruded upon a holy site and did not die?” Sam asked when they returned to the raft.
“Thanks for backing us up there, you lanky jerk,” Lloyd said. “But yes, we go to holy sites all the time. We built this thing in one.”
“Yes, but this one.” Sam looked to the abandoned temple, then continued in a hushed tone. “Was occupied.”
“Indeed, it was. Take this.” Sara handed Sam the vial of river water. “Good luck charm. I think?”
The group pushed off and angled for deeper water, where the current was swifter. The raft took off down the Torrent faster than any of them could have anticipated.
Kur kept saying something untranslatable in his Stormlander dialect. He touched his hair daintily, still damp from the anointing.
“If that’s any indication, mom’s never going to let us wash our hair,” Sara said.
“We don’t have to tell her,” Lloyd said. “Stormlanders get really antsy about all this mystic stuff.”
“We’re half Stormlander!” Sara’s ears wiggled with an indignant huff.
Maat squatted at the edge of the raft by himself, deep in contemplation.
“Hector seemed to know a bit about… whatever that was,” he mused.
“Yeah, we’ll ask dad,” Lloyd said as if he’d thought of it.
Mutually, the twins agreed to consult the other half of their lineage as well. Laval clan should have some kind of legend about that place, at least.
It wasn’t long before they passed by the wide, low floodplain where the second of three temples had been. Maat saw it first from his position at port side.
“How long has it been since we pushed off?”
Sam looked to the sun.
“Maybe fifteen minutes? How come?”
It had taken three hours to push their way upriver. At this pace, they’d be home before noon.
“We’re making excellent time,” Maat said.
Supernaturally excellent time, he thought but did not say.
“Some blessing.” Lloyd poked at Sam’s trinket. “Might need to carry one of those around with me from now on.”
Indeed, the trip home barely took the first half of mid-morning. They’d have gotten home even sooner, save for one doldrum where the current seemed to die down entirely. The oars couldn’t reach the bottom, and the rudder proved useless with no current to carry them. The raft drifted at snail’s pace for about a mile as the air grew humid and bristled with static. Anvil-head storm clouds were building over the Torrent Delta to the south-west.
“It’ll be raining soon,” Lloyd said.
In time the raft passed by a landmass that wasn’t there yesterday. A raised, fleshy mass four times the size of their raft blocked the shallows, covered in scales and rotting profusely with built-up decay from several days’ past.
“Huh, it’s a whale,” Maat said.
Scales still clung to the carcass in places. They couldn’t see the great beast’s face, but they usually rolled up on their backs when they died so that was typical. The whole thing was bloating up with foul-smelling gases.
“Look there.” Lloyd pointed to a metal spear lodged into the beast that had taken out a dorsal fin.
“Jean’in,” Kur said. “Other-islanders. The holy waters are defiled. No blessing can operate here.”
“Must have gotten hit out at sea, then limped into the delta, died, and washed up here.” Maat concluded.
With no insect life on the world-plain, the portion of the corpse was remarkably well-preserved, prey to only the occasional carrion bird above the water line. Below, the river squirmed as legions of aquatic scavengers picked the creature clean. In time the whale would sink, the rest of the flesh would be picked clean, and the bones would go on to fertilize this entire shoreline.
No sooner had they used the whale carcass to push off did the current return in miraculous fashion, and they were pushed downstream just as quickly as before.
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Even with the minor delay, the crew returned to the ruins near Secondhome well before midday.
“That was quick. Welcome back!” the old man said. “Beat the storm by the looks of it. Have fun exploring? Learn anything?”
Maat nodded. Sara and Lloyd greeted their father, while Sam and Kur disembarked the raft in silence.
“Well, what did you see?”
The human and half-human trio looked at each other. So many mysteries were piled up these days. Where would they even begin?
“Did father, er, the Quarterchief ever visit that shrine?” Maat asked.
“Probably. He traveled to nearly every shrine along the river back in the day. Even several that no longer exist.” Hector’s gaze narrowed. “Did you see anything? Or anyone?”
“Something like that.” Maat sighed, suddenly quite tired. “A very eccentric someone, or something.”
“And?” Hector looked at Maat and his children expectantly.
“You know the guy?” Lloyd said.
“Not personally.” Hector shook his head.
“Has my dad had any kind of experiences with that, well, whoever it is?”
At this, Hector let out a stifled huff or chuckle. “Michael’s going to have to explain. Kept telling him to explain earlier, but hey, twentieth birthday present. Better late than never, huh?”
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Having dredged up more questions than answers on their river adventure, the quintet retired to their cavernous abodes. They slept through the afternoon heat, then through the early-night napping period, the period of night activity, then the early morning shift as well. A full thirty-plus hour day wasted, and they still felt groggy.
Several days passed with no word or even a signal from the Quarterchief. There were minor, walled trading ports hidden beneath high walls on the north shore, so there were a thousand reasons why he could be delayed.
“Should’ve set up a series of bonfires,” Hector would say at mealtime one day. “Could’ve sent a sign across the mountain ranges. Just need three fires – one at the north shore, one on the north mountains, then another on the barrier mountains here. Circumvents the valley entirely. Hell, make smoke signals and we could send messages in code. Near instantaneous, assuming the weather cooperated and the sentries were keeping watch.”
“You’d need people stationed at each mountain,” Lloyd said.
“Yeah. We’ve got one ally who’d be willing to help on the barrier mountains,” Hector said, but then grew extra hushed when questioned further.
Four weeks passed since Maat last saw his father. The Stormheaths lived up to their names; since returning from the river adventure, not a day had passed without a torrential downpour. Even with Hector’s elaborate signal fire idea, it was impossible to see the barrier mountains through the mist.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Secondhome’s drainage systems worked overtime, funneling rainwater down to the lowest levels, then siphoning the rain off into massive cisterns to be filtered and reused as drinking water.
Usually, the rainy season was reserved for bunkering down and expanding the compound. Maat used some utensils to update the map of the river valley. Still, the extended period of downtime left everyone feeling couped up.
On the first available sunny day, Maat took the opportunity to walk along the shoreline, which had advanced well inland with the influx of rainfall and ebb of the tides. And the waters would only rise further still. Maat suddenly felt fortunate that Secondhome was built into a hill.
Maat forged his own path, as most of the riverside trails were now flooded. The currents deposited layers of silt that altered the coast even from month to month, requiring constant editing of the southern shore’s map.
I should be taking notes, Maat thought.
The exploration took Maat downstream, in the direction of the river delta. He had no plans to venture into the Laval-clan’s territory. Again, being within line of sight of the Torrent just calmed the young man’s nerves. He swore he could focus better here than couped up in Secondhome.
“Maybe that weird blessing is still active,” he said aloud.
Maat paused when he reached the far bend that marked the border of their effective territory. There was smoke on the horizon, lingering over the delta in a haze.
Could be a controlled burn to harvest crops before the tides roll in. Or a lightning strike set off a thistle wood blaze the rains couldn’t douse. Whatever the reason, Maat jotted down a vague symbol representing “fire” on a rough scribbled pocket-map of the Stormheaths.
There was one other anomaly. Just beyond the bend sat the remains of a ship – a proper, seaworthy ship, nothing like the river raft they’d built as a summer project. It was made of hard steel caked with rust and bereft of luster. A far cry from their simple but mighty whitewood raft. It fit the description of larger foreign sailing ships that could brave the open waters. The wreck was caught on jagged rocks that made near-perfect steppingstones from shore to ship.
Well, Maat had time. He ventured past the bend to the rocks, then clambered over to investigate.
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There were just three chambers at the broken bow of this ship. Something had torn the craft asunder with no indication of where the rest of it had wandered off to. One of the three chambers was locked by a door the likes of which Maat had never seen before and likewise had no clue how to open. A great wheel sat in the center (that Maat couldn’t budge), with a deadbolt near the floor and ceiling.
The accessible holds were devoid of any goods, supplies, or anything that could possibly identify the origin of the wreck. It certainly didn’t hail from the Stormheaths. There wasn’t a settlement on the southern shore that could metalwork something this massive; the closest in readily available memory were the great canoes carved from full-grown whitewoods by the Laval and similarly sized clans. But foreign isles didn’t always have clans, or so Ma’at had eavesdropped off of wandering traders.
Other debris had washed ashore here. Wooden boxes with markings in odd foreign texts bobbed up and down in the shallows. There was also, further down shore, a long, flat white bit of driftwood. And on this drifting whitewood bark was a body, laying prone.
Maat leapt back to shore then ventured further down the shoreline, towards a silty mound that allowed him to pull the driftwood onto dry land.
The figure on the makeshift raft stirred. He was male, a typical Stormlander with a complexion that had turned dark green with his subclan’s own specific form of sunburn. He wore red ribbon ornamentation that marked him as a quite-accomplished warrior.
“Are you Laval-clan?” Maat asked, hesitating to put hands on the injured man
The castaway paused, wetting his lips so parched he couldn’t speak.
“Jean’in. Jean’in.” he said.
“What?” Maat pointed at his chest. “Me?”
“No, outlander. Foreigners. Vile Jean’in. Here in force.”
The word, Jean’in, was a shared phrase in many Stormheath dialects, even those with no other root words in common. It meant other-islander, or, alternatively, ‘barbarians of the other isles incapable of speech like the true people.’ It was separate from the word for Outlander-clan, the true translation of which was far more vulgar.
“Jean’in, jean’in. In force. Coming up river.”
The shipwrecked man rattled off other words Maat couldn’t possibly parse. The confusion showed on Maat’s face. A quick medical scan revealed some grazing wounds on the man’s limbs. He’d been a warrior in one of the Laval clan’s great whitewood canoes. Probably tried to attack the Jean’in ship when it came too close to the isle. Seems they succeeded in scuttling the foreign craft, but nearly went down with the ship as well.
“Laval-clan, Rife-clan, Shorehead-clan, banded together to attack Jean’in. Tried to board under cover of storm. Metal boats came upriver without sails or oars. Rammed whitewood crafts apart without even slowing down. Nearly overwhelmed them with sheer numbers anyway but we were ambushed by our…” The warrior doubled over in pain. “Jean’in only stopped when the storms scuttled their larger craft.”
The warrior motioned futilely towards the metal wreck. “Just a vanguard. More at the delta already. Come ashore… more clans will be needed to repel them. But Rife-clan’s every warrior is already drowned. And Laval is…”
The warrior just repeated “Jean’in, Jean’in” with his eyes wide with shock. Maat offered him half his remaining water.
“Can you walk?” Maat asked.
The warrior tried to move, only to double back in pain almost immediately. “Broken, broken. What is outland-speak for ‘broken’?”
“I understand. Please hold on,” Maat said.
It would take probably an hour to get back to Secondhome, rally a party capable of moving this injured figure, and bring him back to the healers. It was well over the unmarked border, and Laval warriors would likely prefer death to being treated or even touched by a subaltern-born healer. But this was an emergency, and the Rife-clan, or the Laval-clan, or whoever controlled this portion of the river had worse problems to deal with, by the looks of it. While getting this witness to safety took priority, there was likely to be plenty of evidence in the floating boxes they could use. The Quarterchief would need to hear about this when he returned, and the interim chief needed to know about this now.
Just as Maat was about to give this wounded warrior his remaining water and a bit of food to tide him over, the warrior pointed feebly out to the river. There was a blare louder than the scream of any condor or snap-wyrm, accentuated with a mechanical screech. Three boats pushed upriver, powered by great aft-mounted wheels, bellowing black smoke out of multiple stacks. Their hulls were metal over off-island wood. They moved quietly, until they decided to scream, and were so close that Maat could make out individual figures on deck.
There was a shout in some other-islander language. A sentry up in a tower angled some long rod or spear in their direction. Was he trying to chuck it at them? Maat waffled – he couldn’t just leave the shipwrecked fellow.
A puff of smoke came from the rod. Many moments of odd silence passed. The warrior slumped over several seconds later, having been struck by a massive ball of rock Maat didn’t even see.
The figure in the lookout pulled out a second rod. He aimed again, this time directly at Maat. Just as the puff of smoke appeared, a freak surge of water into the shallows grabbed hold of Maat’s leg and he went sprawling into the river. There was a metallic thunk as the projectile hit the metal wreckage and ricocheted harmlessly off into the river. Maat had just enough cover between the shallows, some reeds, and the washed-up boxes to slink away into the brush before the sentry could reach for a third lead-slinger.
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Ma’at fled through the jungle, ignoring the raised wooden pathways for a direct route overland. Carnivorous acid-drippers turned his pants legs to ribbons, but he kept running. He ran right up to the hidden door, nearly running into it as it did not move.
“Open up!” he said.
The door was supposed to swing open for any friendly face who approached, and Maat made a great deal of noise on his approach.
“Hector, you there? Let me in!”
After a considerable delay, the false panel rose. There was a relative unknown manning the gates – a plainswalker, someone Maat wasn’t on a first-name basis with.
“Where’s Hector?” Maat asked, catching his breath.
“Took his kids out on a raft,” the guard said in a stiff Plainswalker accent.
Well, that’s not good. They’d be sitting ducks out there if that new flotilla kept heading upriver.
Maat’s breathing steadied. He received a pack of water which he downed within a minute.
“The acting chief. Where is Kev’kurien?”
“Down in the meeting chamber. The minutemen are already rallying.”
Maat was running into the underground complex before the guard could even finish his sentence. He ran through the halls, yelling “Minute-meeting, minute-meeting!” It was the signal to rally anyone with free time who was within reach of a weapon.
While the Quarterchief typically held his meetings with trusted representatives of the settlement’s various factions in the map room, acting chief Kev’kurien held court in a circular meeting room near the surface around a typically dormant cooking fire. It was a Stormlander custom, the leader huddled in the middle of a circle surrounded by everyone who had taken up arms. There was a lot of barking in their own, separate Stormlander pidgin. A full forty-plus men of fighting age had answered the call, though mostly from Kev’kurien’s extended family network.
“Already, three river scouts report Jean’in – ahem, pardon - other-islanders claiming the river delta,” the acting chief began.
Maat arrived late and squeezed into the inner circle.
“We should join them, against the Laval!” came a voice from the Stormlander contingent.
“Pull back the sentries, we shall hide until they have destroyed the other clans,” said another voice.
“They’re already here,” Ma’at interjected.
All eyes turned upon Ma’at. He swallowed, cleared his throat, then continued:
“Three ships are at the river bend and moving fast. They’ll be at the temple within an hour at this pace. Laval and the delta clans have been fighting them for days, now. Sounds like they’re losing.”
Silence filled the hall. Acting chief Kev grabbed a pail of water, then doused the cooking fire. A column of white smoke wafted out of a ventilation hole in the top of the chamber, disappearing into the tropical mists.
Kev’kurien let out a mighty war cry, echoing off the walls and, gradually, joined by the majority of the chamber.
“Gather your brothers. Gather your cousins. Gather your neighbors and any half-clan. We marshal at the river ruins. Be ready for war, Secondhome-clan.” Kev let out another, smaller cry, then barked out orders in clicks.
Hopefully Sara, Lloyd, and their father could find some reeds to hide from those bellowing ships while the settlement was busy preparing for war. Securing the waterside ruins would be the easiest way to ensure they had a safe place to dock.
The impromptu militia moved through the halls, leaving Maat caught up in the flow. Nine out of ten raiders were Stormlanders a few years past their age of majority, and even the shorter ones towered over Ma’at. Younger men who were yet-unproven. They ventured to the surface-based armory at the entrance to the cavern system. Maat was able to grab a flat, grooved war club and a sling and followed the impromptu war party.
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