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A week and a half had passed since the youth of Secondhome departed on their pilgrimage to restore the plains. The compound remained pretty much how they’d left it. A bit more water was spilling out into the parched fields. The trees were greener. There were many more birds corralled in from the stormheaths to serve as food or cavalry, depending on the need.
Hector was there to meet them.
“Have fun on the ol’ sabbatical?”
“What’s a sabbatical?” asked the twins.
“Anything happen while we were away?” Maat asked.
“Haven’t heard from most of the war bands,” Hector said, forlorn. “Got a lot of new bird-herders to manage the stables. In the past few days there’ve been some old forgotten crop seeds wanting to pop up in the fields. And the locals have started stopping by, asking for seeds and crops.”
A line of plainswalkers queued outside the perimeter wall, such that it was. Maria handled the influx, shepherding those who needed medical attention to the healers, while assigning plains-born interpreters to juggle the dozen-plus dialects they found themselves negotiating with.
One of the plainswalkers noticed Maat’s party.
“It’s them! The water-gifters!”
“They who grant life,” said a few others.
“Saviors!”
Plainswalkers started bowing. Praying.
“That’s enough of that,” Lloyd said.
“C’mon, up on your feet,” said Sara.
An overcast sky let loose a heavy rain. Compared to the even the faintest drizzle of the stormheaths this was nothing. But to the parched plainswalkers it was a miracle.
Aminia appeared like a mirage amidst the rain drops.
“Careful now. Too much of this and people might think you’re a prophet.”
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Up in the treehouse manse, the crew described their miracle work to Hector as best they could.
“This seems like the start of a cult.” Hector motioned to a window, where rapturous plainswalkers danced about in the rain and irrigation canals.
“It… would take some time to explain.”
Maat’s father never mentioned the river god to anyone. How could Maat himself possibly describe any of this?
“That’s not a complaint. Just like that, the resistance has some new reinforcements.”
“The Jean’in have plenty of fanatics on their end already,” Maat said. “Let’s not start a holy war.”
“Already had some refugees from the Laval teach ‘em how to use spears,” Hector said.
Maat sighed. He’d wanted so much to help his father with the war effort. Now that he’d angled his way in, the tasks required of him grew ever more daunting.
“Speaking of war effort,” Lloyd began. “Any word from down south?”
Hector consulted a map on the floor, carved in imitation of that map back in Secondhome.
“In short? Not good.”
The old man pointed to a mountain pass with a long stick that ended in a hammer headed point.
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“Jean’in – er, invaders from the other isles – have started fortifying the mountain passes. Pretty smart, actually. Think Rich mentioned being in JROTC briefly… don’t think they actually discuss tactics or anything at that point though. Might just be common sense. Dunno.”
“JR-what?” Lloyd said. “Dad, you may as well be speaking bird-herder.”
“It’s an effective tactic is all.” Hector pointed at the map. “They don’t need to advance further and controlling the passes keeps us out.”
“Except for those tunnels running under the mountains,” Lloyd said.
Hector sighed. “As the Quarterchief has no doubt explained, the leader of the enemy excursion is an old high school chum. And he knows of at least one tunnel – we’ve already collapsed it at both ends, but they’ll be looking for others.”
Just like that, the element of surprise flitted away.
“Now, Michael lead the last of the sorties back into the rainforest about a week ago. He was aiming for the delta.”
Maat scratched his chin. “It’s the most densely populated part of the island. Should still be some resistance there.”
“If it’s bodies that they’re after, the delta’s also exactly where the invaders would focus,” Sara said.
“We’ll make strategists out of you young’uns yet.”
“About father,” Maat said.
“Haven’t heard from him since he hit the delta. Ran out of messenger pigeons most likely. Plan was to gather anyone still fighting, then push into Laval territory. All while avoiding Secondhome like the plague. Rich’ll be expecting us to hold out there.”
The Jean’in would be expecting them to rush to defend the area around Secondhome. Makes sense. The stranger knew that area as well as any of them. Going home would mean walking into a trap.
“There is one route back into the stormheaths that is neither a tunnel nor a mountain pass.” Maat eyed the map expectantly.
“What, the fumaroles?” Hector squinted. “Can hardly march an army through a toxic volcanic bog.”
“We don’t need to march an army. We need to march a small war party. It’s been done before.”
Hector mulled it over. Trying to think of some pretense by which to object.
“A fair point. But there are no more fighters left to launch a sortie.”
“We’ve got an influx of volunteers out in the glen right now.”
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Alright. No word from father in a week. Given his history with the Stranger, it’s likely that just having the Quarterchief on the field could be drawing any number of their enemies away from the headwaters.
Maat and Kur’iel spent three days on logistics. Gather rations, spare war clubs, and some hefty wood-bark armor that claimed to be able to withstand firearms.
Sam’iel and the twins used the same number of days to go on a recruiting drive. There were plenty of plainswalkers passing through the camp. Many were of an age where they wanted to leave their home copse and seek adventure. And what a coincidence, there was a war going on in the neighboring region. Plainswalkers were no stranger to small-scale warfare between extended families. Plenty of recruits already had the skillset. Lack of experience in the swampy environs of the stormheaths, though, rendered them unblooded rookies.
By the time Secondhome’s newest war party was ready to depart, they’d recruited thirty eager recruits, not counting the five of them, and provisions for thirty-eight. Only enough war clubs for twenty-four. The rest could carry the excess supplies.
They left in the afternoon, aiming to advance through the fumaroles under the cover of darkness. There were no birds to ride, so they were back to foot power, advancing glacially.
Moving even a small war party proved more difficult than simply journeying with a few close friends. A stretch of roadway that took an hour before now took five. And to think that his father managed entire refugee columns.
It was well past nightfall when they reached the fumaroles. An acrid scent lingered. What was missing was the hissing whine of toxic gas escaping from the underground.
“Something’s different,” Kur’iel said.
Maat checked a nearby pool. It was far from pure. It also wasn’t boiling.
So soon…
The camouflaged yurt waited. A puff of whitish smoke emerged from out of the top. Somebody was home.
Maat and Sara peeked their heads in. Rita was waiting, crouched over a cooking fire.
“Hey, you guys,” the older woman said. “Keepin’ watch on the pass every now and again. Wasn’t expecting anyone. If you’d sent word ahead, I could’ve made a larger meal.”
“We’ve brought our own rations,” Sara said.
The full war party couldn’t possibly fit in one yurt, even if it wasn’t full of Rita’s gadgets and cookware. The group fanned out in the narrow habitable zone and ate supper out of their rations. Rita shared what she could, though she’d been cooking for one.
“Trying for the headwaters again? There’s a garrison there.”
“We have a secret weapon,” Maat said.
“Your war party is outnumbered five to one, outgunned, and without backup. What possible secret weapon could help with this?”
“If the iron stakes the Jean’in have nailed into the earth at the old temples can be toppled, it should be possible to restore the river. It’ll wash the invaders away.”
Rita grew quiet.
“I saw some things. When your father fought Richard the first time. So you're summoning... that fellow?”
Maat nodded. "You mean Aminia, right?"
“Alright. I’m in. Have just what you need to topple that shrine they’re erecting. According to interrogations of some prisoners down south, they’re called ‘fetters’.”
“Fetters, huh?” Maat scratched at his chin, staring into the fire.
Okay, keeps the natural flow of the river at bay. Allows them to dam it. Fair enough. Let’s see how long that fetter lasts against Rita’s makeshift explosives.
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