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Maat awoke to a commotion among the camp. They were sitting multiple people to a yurt, and Maat’s tent had emptied out.

The first thought was that the compound was under attack. Maat leapt out of his cot, hands reaching for the nearest war club. Only there was nothing to be found beyond the broken handle of the old ancestral bat.

Outside, the noise revealed itself to be a raucous celebration. A thin layer of water pooled right at the yurt’s tent flap. Water tension kept it out of the tent, but the spring was still rising.

Despite the modest flooding of their camp, the gaggle of stormlanders were dancing about in the water. Swampy environs were their natural state, and their constitutions had been hard-pressed to adapt to the arid plains.

Also among their number were a gaggle of plainswalkers with their lankier builds and tanner beige complexions. While the stormlanders were in their element now that the grove had become a swamp, those of the plains had never known a world where the water flowed freely.

“Miracle!” was declared in various dialects.

Meanwhile, the twins waded out to the edge of where the spring had ended yesterday evening. Sara called back.

“Hey, Maat. Guess our water problem solved itself.”

All the youth of Secondhome and several neighboring clans danced about in the newly formed wetlands. Root systems poked out above the water line in places, the trees glad to have a new source of nourishment. Previously dried and shriveled leaves along the manse’s walls already looked a bit greener, a bit more lively. Water even spilled out from the grove into the cracked, fallow fields beyond, only to be quickly swallowed up by the thirsty ground.

“Did I do all this?” Maat asked himself.

“Well, there were miracles involved,” whispered Amina’s shade, looking a bit more defined in the early morning sun. “But for what it’s worth you were the catalyst.”

Maat flinched. Suddenly he was thankful nobody else was paying him much heed.

“When did you get here?” he asked.

“I’m always with you, child. Within fifty meters of that necklace of yours, at least. Rejuvenating these inland springs with my essence merely allows me to take over as this grove’s patron god. Blessing more springs will allow me to manifest more clearly.”

“This has restored water to the plains?”

“This one oasis on the plains, yes.” Aminia was looking out at the nearest copse. “Seven out of ten springs would have to be activated to truly return the plains to peak arability.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Maat said.

Aminia shook his head. “Proper irrigation allowed the ancient denizens of this valley to command an empire of multi-universal slavers from this very isle. Your homeworld may have legends about that. Think long and hard before acting on this charitable impulse.”

Up in the treehouse, the strategy meeting reconvened as if half the camp wasn’t now flooded. The only reference the overflowing spring received was a brief mention that they no longer had to rely on porting in water rations from the stormheaths.

Maat and the twins again snuck up the stairs to spy.

“So, Earthers among us – we are all in agreement that Richard’s ticket home comes at too steep a price?”

Michael stood over the makeshift map, which had received updates overnight to reflect rumors of additional Jean’in ships off the delta.

“It’s been decades,” Hector said. “Might’ve been nice to know at the time. But now? C’mon. Everyone still left is married or has half-n-half offspring, ‘cept you.”

“Right.” Michael’s eyes darted out the window.

With that, the adults settled whatever dispute they had over the schism of twenty-plus years ago.

A war-leader of the larger upriver clans grew impatient and beat on one of the map’s raised mountains with his fist, crumpling it.

“The foreign Jean’in dogs must be repulsed,” he declared.

“Not just held at bay, but routed,” agreed the rep from the bird-herders. “The stormheaths must be reclaimed.”

“What’s more, these camps must be liberated.” Michael pointed to the unfinished temple site. “One site has been confirmed. It’s likely that most of the river temples will be used for similar purposes.”

Any camp thwarted meant prisoners rescued, which meant more eager recruits for the island’s resistance as well as less sacrifices for whatever Richard had planned.

“The foreign Jean’in and Richard – er, their strange benefactor – have two competing objectives. Jean’in themselves are all soldiers of fortune, mostly out for thrills and conquest…” Michael placed tokens on the board representing troop movements.

Hector nodded, understanding where the chief was going. “… but Richard is out specifically to gather bodies for a mass sacrifice. In some ways these goals are related; rounding all the stormlanders into camps makes it easier to loot the place, displace the clans, divvy up the land. But it may be possible to use these competing goals as a wedge issue.”

“Bird cavalry helps.” Michael nodded at the bird herders. “But rather than fight it out on the open field, we should do hit and run tactics. Back home it was called guerilla warfare.”

“Mercs are here for the money. If we make holding the place particularly expensive,” Hector began.

“Then the Jean’in will tire and leave,” proclaimed a bird-herder chief.

“Or at least whatever stakeholders are funding the expedition back on their home islands put pressure on Richard to actually get results,” Michael concluded. “The man’s got a one-track mind. If the mercs are here to mine for gold or whatever, it can be guaranteed that Rick doesn’t care at all what happens to this world after his ticket home is ready.”

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In just a few days the newly swampy plains manse had received several hundred refugees from a dozen stormheaths clans. With the waters now overflowing into the parched fields, a few enterprising plainswalkers had joined the camp as well.

Alliances among the stormland clans were not uncommon. They generally lasted no longer than a single dispute over hunting rights or what have you. To repel the Jean’in would require a united front for months or even years. This manse would serve as neutral territory and martial grounds for the clans as they snuck war parties through the mountains to engage in hit and run tactics.

With days having passed with no additional orders, Maat sought out his father.

“When do we head out?” Maat asked.

“I’m leaving with the delta clans to raid the Laval lands. Most of their fighting-age men should be up near the headwaters now. Guess Rick’s put them to work.”

“Got a spare war club?” Maat looked around the treetop manse, now converted into a miniature armory.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“You’re not coming,” Michael said, focus still on the map.

“Why not? I’ve seen more fighting the past month than seasoned warriors in any clan but the Laval.”

“Oh, if you were back in Texas you’d be old enough to enlist,” Michael began. “Nearly old enough to drink even. But the clans here won’t respect and certainly won’t take orders from anyone who doesn’t meet their arbitrary limit for manhood.”

“The eclipse is currently overhead!”

“And we’re not even a fortnight past your birthday.” Michael prepped his own war club. “In two weeks, maybe, we can begin proper training.”

“Two weeks to start?” Maat asked. “Fighting’ll be over by the time I get to lead my first war band.”

“It’s going to be a long war.” Michael fiddled with his pack of supplies. “Possibly years. Throwing the younger generation into a meat grinder will kneecap us decades from now.”

“What is a meat grinder!?”

All these weird metaphors that Maat couldn’t possibly understand. The young man now had context to understand where they came from, but it didn’t mean he suddenly related to the older generation’s strange idioms.

Michael was unphased. “It’s a machine that chops meat up for you. Doesn’t matter.”

“You’re just going to leave me here?”

The Quarterchief turned, leaned in close to Maat, then spoke at a whisper.

“I’m asking you politely to hold the fort while we are away. Hector will be here to help, but I’ve instructed him to mentor you in a leadership capacity. This is not to sideline you or out of some sense of overprotection – though I am interested in keeping you safe. It’s prepping you to take over should the worse happen. Do you understand?”

Maat nodded.

“Good.” Michael looked down at the vial of consecrated Torrent water hanging off Maat’s neck. “Now, defenses around the compound have been reinforced. It’s doubtful that there will be a full-scale attack here. Whatever guard contingent you have at night, double it all the same.”

Again, Maat nodded. He followed the Quarterchief out to the wetland grove. Hector was waiting alongside the twins.

“Dad’s explained it all,” Sara said.

“Guess we’ve got the run of the place,” Lloyd said.

The Quarterchief mounted a centurion bird chariot and with a smack to the nearest bird, rode the cart out to the southwest, towards one of the many subterranean summoning grounds that had been unsealed and cataloged since Richard’s falsely-presumed death.

War parties were taking off in several directions to the east, west, and south. They’d have a narrow time to gauge enemy strength before the new year’s rainy season commenced. Then the assaults could really begin. Stormlanders knew which paths would rise over the floodwaters and which would be revealed by falling tides. Jean’in did not.

Hector approached Maat and the twins once the Quarterchief had disappeared into the horizon.

“Alright, so about the ins and outs of running a military camp…”

“Oh boy,” Sara said, ready for a lecture.

“It’s a lot like managing a sports team,” Hector began, to groans from the twins.

Hector lectured on for a time. Maat pretended to understand what a playbook and an assistant coach were.

“Well, have fun with that, you three,” Rita said after a time.

The youngest first-generation outlander was setting out alone with no less than six hefty packs attached to a leather duster along the back and at the shoulders.

“Off to go resupply my labs in the fumaroles,” she said.

“Good luck!” Maat said as she left.

Though he’d only known that she wasn’t a volcano-dwelling cannibal witch for a few weeks now, Rita’d become a bit of a cool older aunt. She’d spent most of her life on the isle, and while she lacked socialization from working out in the fumaroles for the last decade, she spoke in idioms that the island-born youth could understand.

Still, Maat put his mind towards trying to keep the camp going in his father’s absence. There were plenty of noncombatants to help build, a token guard force to patrol those walls, and enough home-sourced water and imported food rations to feed them.

The latter attracted starving plainswalkers. While the camp could ill-afford to give out their carefully portioned rations, but they could trade for other goods and information.

The moon angled to the east, allowing a few hours of sunlight a day to grace the island. Plainswalkers kept coming in numbers far beyond their population back at Secondhome.

By the fifth day of this, Maat had an idea.

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“Now, Mike insisted I make you stick around and play War Camp Tycoon,” Hector began. “But he’s not here, and you all are old enough to go on your own adventures. Have fun, y’all.”

Maat nodded, balanced unsteadily in one of the smaller, spare carts. The twins joined him, in a cart led by larger, more mature birds. Sam’iel and Kur’iel had their own mounts. Sam the plainswalker in particular possessed the knowledge of the region necessary to handle negotiations with the locals.

“Michael won’t be back for at least three weeks.” Hector waved them off.

“We’ll be back in two,” Maat said.

The group galloped north, towards a distant copse. It was further than it looked, taking the better part of a full morning’s ride, even with the chariots. The ground became sandy and plant life grew sparse as they ventured further into the interior of the island.

The copse was dead, its treehouses rotted-out, stairs broken. Not a soul stirred, the manse being long abandoned.

“What happened here?” Lloyd asked.

“No one calamity,” said Sam. “Decades of failing crops and drought. The odd turf war with a neighboring copse, perhaps.”

This was one of the smaller copses. No dilapidated worker quarters on the outskirts. Brick walls were close to the tree line. Barely any room for crops in the best of times.

Sam wanted to climb up to the remains of the carved-out treehouse and look for the compound’s written family history. Putting aside the fact that they had no ropes, the tree network was teetering on the brink of collapse.

A fallow spring sat, barely two feet in diameter, at the center of the wooded glen.

Maat offered two drops of Torrent water from his vial. The spring gave no response. Maybe it would miraculously recover. Perhaps it was too far gone. Either way, the group would use this dying glen as a base camp to venture further into the plains.

Noon was spent hiding from the harsh valley sun. The afternoon was spent planning out their next jaunt into other, more populated regions. By then it was night, and the group was tired from the long journey.

They went to sleep.

Come morning, the tiny fissure of a spring had was now a twelve-foot watering hole. Emaciated rodents from out on the plains were already stopping by to bathe in the shallows and drink from the waters. Grasses along the edge of the enlarged pool, once wilted, were now growing a little straighter, a little more greenish. Fish, too, had snuck up from some dark spawning ground deep in the fissure to explore the world of the surface once more.

“Starting to formulate a plan,” Maat announced.

The plains were destitute, largely depopulated. Worked as a redoubt to launch guerrilla attacks into the Stormheaths. But if the springs and oases of the plains could be restored, perhaps they’d attract the remaining population. Not to mention the benefits of restoring the fallow ecology of the region.

With the birds full-up on fresh greenery, the group of five galloped off towards the next populated copse. More were abandoned than not, but in this more densely populated region of the plains the next copse was never more than a three-hour ride away. Everything was built for foot traffic, after all. And while plainswalkers had a longer gait than the average human, the centurion birds cut the trip down to a sub-one-hour long jaunt. Their birds grazed on various nuts and dry grasses and drank water from the springs once they were restored.

Again, those still inhabiting the treetop plantations refused to see them. This larger manse had at least eight treetop abodes, one of which was guard quarters. Sentries up on the ornately manicured walkways brandished bows built to elvan specifications. The arrows were as long as a human arm span.

The crew retreated, not wanting to be impaled to the ground by an arrow volley.

They moved laterally, north and east, to the next forested oasis. This smaller farmstead didn’t want anything to do with them either. To the south and east there was a medium-sized compound of three treetop homes. While there appeared to be movement within, the residents ignored them.

Before noon the group retreated to a currently abandoned copse dead center in this circle. A half-finished treehouse was carved into the largest tree, which had petrified over the years. There was still a watering hole, though the water appeared brown and nonportable.

Maat sacrificed five drops of water to this pool. His vial of sanctified Torrent water was oly three-fourths full now. Then, the crew found a hollowed-out alcove at the base of a tree to ride out the midday heatwave.

When they emerged in the late afternoon, the spring had already overflowed, forming miniature streams that pushed out in the compass directions. The dried, fallowed fields devoured the drink up, having not encountered steady rain in years, possibly decades.

By nightfall, a network of irrigation channels siphoned the waters off in a grid pattern through all the land around the copse and out into the neighboring farms. The crew relocated their camp to a rare, raised section amidst the trees to try and stay high and dry.

Come morning, the first long-dormant seeds were poking exploratory shoots through the now-muddy soil. With a bit of maintenance, the farm could be up and running again in a few months.

By the next morning, a few curious members of the neighboring manses poked their heads in the now-fertile lot.

Sam’iel did his best to translate.

“The spring waters can be shared among you all. There’s an encampment near the mountains that may be able to trade for seeds.”

With that, the group of five set off for the next fallow field at the midsection of several estates. Another fraction of the vial returned this quadrant to livability. They repeated this in eight separate abandoned springs, often leaving only a note scrawled out by Sam to announce their presence.

At the final spring, the vial contained only a sliver of river water.

“Go on.”

A vision of Aminia appeared, faint, sneaking around in Ma’at peripheral vision.

“Communication is going to get fraught with so little water in that reservoir.” Aminia’s voice came to Maat as rough and hoarse. “But you’re doing great, kid! Just use a drop on this spring. Save the rest. There’s one more location that can spread this blessing far beyond any one tree manse.”

Maat put only one drop into the spring as instructed. It slowly bubbled up all the same. Still, Aminia couldn’t even manifest a vision with the paltry amount left in the vial.

“You’ll know it when you see it,” was the last message Maat received.