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“We’re not going to make it,” Lloyd said mid-row.

They were still only three people in a canoe built for five. They’d just managed to get ahead of the paddle-ship’s blockade, though not without crew on the decks taking a few potshots at them. What’s more, smaller row-powered craft were dispatched from the two lead ships to chase them down.

“Row faster,” Maat said.

“Trying,” Lloyd said, his voice scratchy.

Each of these smaller pursuit-longboats could crew twelve on the oars alone. Even though Maat felt each push of his paddle propel them far beyond what one man should be capable of running up-stream, it was simple numbers; they were paddling upstream, and would never outrun their pursuers.

The first ship pushed into firing range. More interlopers with wide-brimmed hats poked their heads up over a thick varnished railing, wielding firearms.

“Just a matter of time before they hit us,” Sara said nonchalantly.

“God damn them,” Maat heard himself rasp.

No sooner did the first firearm get brandished in the canoe’s direction did the pursuit craft suddenly twist at an unnatural angle. A great vortex had opened in the water in the wake of Maat’s oar.

“Did you lead us into a whirlpool zone?” Sara asked.

“I’ve never been this far south,” Maat said, panicking. “Just keep heading for shore. We’ll lose them in the woods.”

The pursuit craft twisted around the outside of the maelstrom. They weren’t sunk but would be thrown off course long enough for Maat and his friends to make their escape. Maat had plenty of time to dwell on the good fortune as he beached the boat.

“Riverborn,” he muttered, running his hands through the water.

“Keep running,” Sara said, already at the edge of the woods.

“Gah, not one to question providence.” Maat took off running as well.

He could puzzle out his strange blessings in relation to the Torrent later. Secondhome needed to be warned. The enemy could already be moving against them.

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The flight through the forest occurred in lightless silence. There was no telling where or when the interlopers with their wide-brimmed hats could pop out at any time, and the trio didn’t wish to expose their position. So, they ran, swiftly, along raised wooden platforms and skirted poison-drip ferns in the most direct route possible back to friendly territory.

Shouting near the Secondhome gates could be heard well in advance. It gave the trio ample time to sneak into the cover of a nearby fern. Someone was barking threats in a rough approximation of a Laval dialect:

“Come on out. Your chief’s already dead. Anyone at the meet who is not dead will pledge allegiance to us before the night is through.”

“You can’t hold out forever.”

A group of five interlopers stood before the camouflaged wall to Secondhome. The exterior camp for the various refugees was abandoned, but in an orderly fashion that left time enough to deconstruct the tents. It wasn’t a hostage situation. In fact, judging by context it was likely the refugees had mostly filed into the compound and were now under siege.

Three unarmed teenagers were hard-pressed to fight off even five mercenaries armed with both the handheld firearm variant and those metal vine-slicers for melee. What Maat and friends did have was the element of surprise.

Meanwhile, someone from behind the walls shouted out at the mercenaries:

“Go back to your home island and tell that cabal of shareholders you call employers that the Stormheaths are picked clean.”

“Sounds like dad,” Sara said at a whisper.

Hector would’ve been one of the last uninjured, ranking adult left with any kind of sentry duty. So many of their warriors were Stormlanders of Kev’kurien’s kin. And nine out of ten of them were dead or worse at the parley.

“We’re not here for your baubles and magic stones, loincloth. Bring us any Outlanders and clanless you’ve got. We’ll leave the rest of you alone.”

“I want that in writing,” Hector yelled, equivocating. “In fact, I want your commander here to write it out himself. And I want… uh, security guarantees. And, uh, a big wall constructed between Secondhome land and the clan of… er, someone south of us. I dunno.”

Maat snuck forward. There was a full twelve feet between the edge of their cover and the group of five. No way they could run that distance unseen, subdue all five guards without being hurt themselves, and alert the gate guards to let them in.

They’d need a distraction. Maat picked up a stone and tossed it of to the right.

“Huh?” one of the mercenaries held a torch up to scan the forest.

Still, the guard did not break off to investigate. Another three rocks were tossed out, of which two went unremarked on. After the fourth rock, two guards took notice:

“Someone’s trying to distract us.” The sentry pulled out a firearm. “I’m going to do the rounds. Spot for me.”

Now one of the five began to poke through the ferns looking for them, while a second mercenary always kept him in his sights.

Maat let out a hushed growl. It was harder to separate trained warriors from each other than it seemed.

There was a strange animal call off far to Maat’s left. Some kind of hoot, like a bird, but nothing from this isle. It sounded positively alien to Maat’s ears.

“What was that?” asked one of the warriors.

“I don’t know. This place has all sorts of animals everyone thought were extinct.”

“Sounds like… a blood owl,” said a third soldier. “It’s small but sucks your blood when you sleep.”

“Sounds terrifying. Why are we in this forge-forsaken hellhole again?”

“For the land bonus once the benefactor clears the loincloths out.”

One soldier scanned the open clearing near the walls. His hat fell off, having been struck with a particularly large stone. Only Maat had been frozen still trying not to be caught for a full minute now.

“Alright, someone is out there,” said the now-hatless mercenary.

Someone other than Maat, even. The youth stayed perfectly still as a soldier passed him by, mere paces away. If the man had looked down Maat would’ve been discovered. When the crew was distracted, he snuck back to where Lloyd and Sara were holed up.

“Wasn’t us,” Sara said matter-of-factly.

“Ouch!” another rock had nailed a soldier in the head, drawing blood.

“Good to know we still have some kind of ally out there,” Lloyd whispered.

With all five guards now distracted looking one direction, shadows moved from the treeline to the wall. This new crew climbed over the wall in relative silence while a still-unseen figure pelted the interlopers with increasingly large stones.

“When I find you I’m going to-” There was a cracking sound of splintering wood, and the lead soldier sunk down to his ankles.

A scream of pain came at a delay.

“By Patron Miel. Something’s got me!” the soldier cried.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Nobody move,” said the closest soldier. “They’ve dug traps.”

The soldiers shuffled over to their wounded fellow in a coordinated, cautious fashion. When they freed him from the trap his legs were so mangled, he couldn’t walk.

Silently, a false panel in Secondhome’s wall inched up. Warriors snuck out two at a time, keeping low to the grass. They were ten against five now, only four of which could walk.

Maat picked up one last rock and chucked it at an interloper’s shin, providing a timely distraction just as the crew from Secondhome struck.

Two interlopers fell without even noticing the attack. The remaining two capable of standing scuffled in melee combat, disadvantaged by the surprise of it all. Their injured compatriot got a shot off with his handheld lead-slinger, which struck one of Secondhome’s number and cowed the rest long enough for the remaining interlopers to grab their weapons.

A blade sliced through the barkwood armor of another warrior, while another volley injured two more Already, their number and surprise advantage was cut in half by superior firepower.

“C’mon,” Lloyd said. “We’ve got to help.”

“We have no weapons!” Sara said.

While they were arguing, the last mysterious figure who had been throwing all the rocks emerged. He leapt into the fray, beating one of the interlopers down with a spiked war club.

The last remaining interloper dragged the one with the mangled legs away as the later fired off both their firearms, providing some cover for their retreat.

“After them,” Michael yelled with an enraged and bellowing tenor. “Don’t let them report back. Finish them off with slingers from behind cover. And be sure to take their weapons! Kill 'em all!"

“Dad!” Maat broke cover and ran out.

This startled the war party, but Quarterchief Michael called them off.

“Maat?” Michael’s posture immediately lost its combative stance, and he roped Maat into a bear hug just as soon as he came within grabbing range.

“When did you get back?” Maat asked.

“Arrived just an hour ago. The outsiders were already here. Took a while to distract them long enough to get most of our away party into the compound and organize a counterattack. What are you doing outside the walls? And where’s the acting chief?”

Maat took a deep breath. Where would he even begin to start explaining the events of the past month or so?

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The father and son could reacquaint themselves within the safety of Secondhome’s walls. Sara and Lloyd did the same with their own parents down in the mixed-use common rooms. Ma’at and Michael, though, settled into the map room.

“I’m sorry for being gone so long,” Quarterchief Michael said just as soon as they were alone. “Know that it was related to these, ah, interlopers.”

The Quarterchief always tried to skirt around using Jean’in when referring to outsiders. Each clan had an exhaustive list of various slurs they used exclusively to refer to other clans and those of foreign isles. But at Secondhome they always tried to stop it at something as mild as ‘foreigner.’

Michael went on to explain how he’d ventured along a narrow coastal cliffside passage separating the swampy southern Stormheaths from the sun-scorched northern shore. It was there – two days into his journey – that Michael had seen the metal fleet offshore. The first of several fleets now encircling the Alabaster Isle. The party had almost turned back then, but it was Michael who insisted they push onward.

The north shore was home to trading ports feeding directly into sunoil mines, the isle’s one export (and only lifeline in or off) to the outside world. The goal had been to one) get information on happenings in the outside world, particularly with regards to the origin of the metal blades the Laval had introduced to them, and two) stock up with supplies and weapons the likes of which couldn’t be reliably found on this isle.

In the first instance, they’d learned a great deal. The doors to most ports had been shut to them where once they accepted any traders, travelers, or those willing to work. Sunoil mines carted out canisters of volatile muck to refuel the interloper’s treasure fleets. The workforce was a foreign import, and any locals who came looking for work in the mines were instead shipped off to parts unknown with promises of greater payments. The cold reception had slowed progress, forcing the party to forage for food.

Regarding the second point, though: there were always traders willing to do business, for the right cost. In secret meetings they contacted a series of off-isle black market traders and north shore bazars willing to trade weapons.

“We carried the first shipment of sunoil on our backs. It can be distilled into explosives with relative ease. There will be shipments of iron blades stashed at points along the coast. Even guns.”

“Guns?” Maat asked.

“Firearms? They’re like those automatic bows we have stashed in the armory, but they let loose with a burst of flame. Perhaps you’ve seen them?”

“Yes. I’ve become quite acquainted with those. Guns, huh?” The word sat better on Maat’s tongue than fyrearms.

“I’ve been told the acting chief attended a parley in the delta,” Michael said.

Maat let out a deep breath. Already, the events of that very night felt like they’d occurred some untold weeks ago.

“The interlopers – other-islanders, whoever. Chief Laval is dead, killed by one of his older sons, on behalf of the outsiders. Lionli was there, he warned us off before the ambush. We saw their leader. He shot Kev as soon as the meeting commenced.”

Ma’at realized he was breathing heavily. His skin was prickly with goosebumps. It felt like The Stranger was gazing into his soul even now – somehow knew where Ma’at was.

“Kev’s whole party is dead. Lloyd, Sara, and I snuck in to get information – Hector’s idea, don’t get mad at us! But we barely escaped with our lives.”

“If we’d made it home even twelve hours earlier…” Michael said, brow furrowed. “We could’ve stopped it. I’m sorry you had to go through that. There was… little other option, sadly.”

“It’s okay,” Maat said, still feeling uneasy. “It wasn’t all bad. Me, the twins, Kur, and Sam built a raft and took it up-river!”

Of course, the young man didn’t dare tell the Quarterchief about that Stranger who’d come to town looking for him, only to disappear in a burst of some fell magic. The raft adventure proved distracting, a brief respite directly before the late unpleasantness.

Michael tilted an eyebrow. “Did you now?”

“Yeah. There were several river temples along the way. I even updated your map. And there was this strange river priest. Called himself Aminia. I think he knew you.”

Michael’s face was implacable.

“Aminia? He’s still around, eh?” Michael closed his eyes. “It’s been a while.”

“Do you have a history with him?” Maat asked.

“Something like that. Did he tell you anything?”

Maat shook his head.

“Surprising.” Michael scratched his beard. “That’ll be a conversation for another day. Is the raft hidden?”

“In the reeds near the ruins.”

“It should still be accessible. We’ll have to garrison the waterfront for as long as possible. Still, good. Should come in handy.”

Some plan was formulating in the Quarterchief’s mind. What exactly, Maat could not say. Still, the younger man was feeling calm now.

“The leader of these interlopers. He said I looked familiar. Kev said he knew who he was.”

The Stranger. The topic had to be broached eventually. Those ears – shredded to ribbons at the ends. Ma’at had seen it once before.

Michael stopped him. “What? Like, they were from the same clan?”

“That’s the thing,” Maat said. “I think he’s an Outlander.”

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Quarterchief Michael’s demeanor turned dark and moody. He asked Maat to describe their foe, leaving out the initial encounter outside the gates of Secondhome and the use of that strange magic with no small amount of guilt at the omission. Try as he might, Maat could only describe the long hair, frayed ears, steely eyes, and the Outlander-jawbones. Even that basic description put a scowl on Michael’s face.

“Well,” Michael rasped. “That does explain the hats. Aminia promised…”

“You know of him?” Maat asked. “The interloper? If he’s an Outlander…”

“I can’t confirm anything without meeting this guy directly. And by the sound of it, that’s a death sentence. I will explain in time…” Michael began.

“… But there’s a time and a place for everything.” Now it was Maat’s turn to scowl.

“Point taken.” Michael gave his son a playful, harmless jab on the shoulder – enough to push him back a little, not enough so that he felt the blow. “I still need to hear from Hector and get acquainted with the situation on this shore. Go get some sleep, we can discuss this further in the morning.”

Maat didn’t move. He kept tracing the area around the river delta with his fingers.

“This outlander at the head of the interlopers. He’s from your home island, isn’t he?”

Seconds of silence passed as Michael chose his answer carefully.

“There are two possibilities, both of which indicate that, yes, he is.” Michael’s eyes darted around the room, remembering. “The first option is this is some stranger from our home… isle. Not someone we’d recognize, but someone who came after us. The second, well…”

“It’s always roundabout possibilities and half-truths whenever the home isle comes up,” Maat said. “Always ambiguous with you and that weird river priest.”

“What, Aminia?” Michael chuckled warmly, then scratched his beard. “I did pick up the roundabout nature of answering questions from him.”

Michael fell into silence once more. The mention of that river priest had him thinking.

“There may be a way to show you what I’m referring to,” the Quarterchief said after a while. “Come back after you’ve gotten some sleep and I’ve took stock of our defenses.”

Maat had skipped out on an entire night’s sleep cycle. The sun would be creeping up on the horizon by now. He’d have to sleep through the morning’s active period and the noon heat to catch up.

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Sleep came quickly, albeit without much in the way of dreams. Twelve hours passed in an instant. Only after the late-evening supper did Maat deign to get up and at it. At the banquet hall, he encountered Sara.

“Lloyd’s still out of it. Mom is in mourning over Kev and the delegation. Guess they were distant clanmates twice removed.” Sara shrugged. “But our dad and yours were up arguing over that map all night. Identity of that outlander must have them spooked.”

They went on to compare what they’d told their respective fathers. It wasn’t much, but both Sara and Maat agreed that Hector and Michael knew more than they were letting on.

It was an hour past nightfall when the Quarterchief ushered Ma'at into the map room.

Michael pointed at Sara too. “Come here.”

They were placed in front of the map and told to wait. Hector in time came in alongside Lloyd, still rubbing sleep-gunk from his eyes, and both Kur and Sam'ien. Kur’s wounds had mostly recovered thanks to those outlander treatments so effective they were clearly meant specifically for healing gunshots.

While waiting, Maat had plenty of time to examine the map. Dyed red silk traced a path up the river, diverting through narrow tributaries to avoid known paddle-boat patrol routes. This meandering path continued up to the point where the lowlands gave way to high cliffs and the lax, wandering path of the river turned to unnavigable rapids. It was a steep but manageable climb up centurion bird migratory paths, but once in the highlands the chances of pursuit were minimal.

The silk string stopped at the very headwaters of the Torrent. A second string snaked along a narrow path through the mountains into the wide, flat central valley that made up the isle’s highland interior.

The Quarterchief and Hector both entered the room again.

“You’re sending us away,” Maat guessed.

“The children are going to evacuate to the highlands, where they should be safe,” Hector said.

Michael nodded. “And you five are going to lead them there.”

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