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Another week passed in relative, if uneasy, quiet. Access to the riverfront was restricted and the shore that Secondhome controlled was under surveillance at all hours. A fleet of six Jean’in ships was constantly patrolling the area between the delta and the bend, with countless smaller craft zipping up and down the bayous of the far shore. Ships kept coming, but the warriors capable of patrolling the shore had to take shifts. There weren’t enough to form a permanent garrison at the beachhead, not while also protecting Secondhome itself, and not when fighters also had non-combat duties back at home to juggle.
No further attacks on the river temple had yet been attempted. But it would require every warrior who could lift a weapon to mount a defense against a squadron of the sizes now steaming past them on the regular. No subversion from within Secondhome was attempted like what they’d heard about in the Laval lands. Everyone had theories – it was possible their compound was still hidden, for one; Secondhome lacked the strict caste strata of their neighbors to circumvent, was another popular theory. There simply wasn’t a subaltern underclass or ambitious warrior caste to incite rebellion within.
By the third day, the first belated refugee columns began to arrive. Clanless, banished, and untouchables from at least eight nearby territories found their way to Secondhome. There, they gathered at the wall, begging for admittance.
Secondhome was nearly at capacity already. Most of the refugees could at least pick up a war-club. It was an endless supply of new militia – Maat argued. But the acting chief Kev wouldn’t hear of it. To have a clanless take up arms was simply inconceivable, despite the Outlander Elder’s promise of equality for all who dwelled in the compound. Better to have three cousins in good standing wielding the ancestral clubs at your back, than a hundred subaltern with common spears.
Kur’iel and the other injured warriors were recovering well under the watchful eyes of Hector’s chosen healers. Hector himself spent long days in the map room, trying to concoct his own strategies in a way the acting chief would be amenable to.
“Dad’s got me observing the northern mountains,” Lloyd said, polishing off freshly-crafted warclubs. “Not sure why. Unless a second front’s going to open on the north shore.”
Maat sat in silence, studying the firearms from another isle. The stock was easy enough to duplicate. The rifling and the trigger mechanism required specialized knowledge that would take months to reproduce, maybe even years. And even the lowliest of the interloper scouts carried at least one. How many skilled craftsmen did this enemy expeditionary force have waiting in the wings?
“Saw a fire on the eastern watch,” Sara said after a time. “Three nights back.”
No word on further raiding parties had come in at least three days. The refugees had stopped coming in two days ago. When no further news from outside of their lands were being relayed by the acting chief, Maat took it as a sign that there was no good news.
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Maat spent his early-morning shift maintaining weapons and crafting defenses. Once the noon heatwave died down, he would do rounds outside the compound walls, passing out water and rations to the refugee column outside their wall. Stormlanders were hardier than his squishy Outlander constitution, but the gesture was appreciated more often than not.
One evening on the cusp of nightfall, Maat reached the end of the line. He still had a few bags of water left; fewer refugees were reaching the compound lately.
“Got any jerky?” said one last figure in a particularly rough imitation of a Laval dialect.
Maat tossed some jerky the man’s way. This figure wore a wide-brimmed hat made of some kind of leather the likes of which had never been seen on the isle before. Indeed, Maat had seen similar garb once before, nearly in this same spot…
“Are you here to report another settlement under attack?” Maat asked. “We’ve been compiling a map of all the attacks so far. I can take a statement and pass it to the acting chief.”
“Actually, I’m here to discuss parley.”
The Stormlander dialect was passable enough, but a foreign guttural sound to the consonants was inescapable; no human could quite nail the exact tenor of the click on the equivalent of ‘parley.’
The man tipped his hat up, revealing the tanned complexion and scraggly facial hair of an other-islander. Instead of a leather duster he wore imitation birdskin jerkin, no doubt poached from a recently raided settlement.
Interlopers really did look quite a bit like Outlanders, a few subtle anatomical differences around the jawbones and languages with radically alien root words notwithstanding.
“You’re an interloper.” Maat scowled. He raised his hand, ready to summon guards.
“They don’t teach you knife-eared loincloths about flags of truce?” the interloper let out a bemused chuckle.
“My ears are rounder than a poisonbirch acorn!” Maat said. “Besides, we look practically the same. Stormlanders might either get mad at you if you call them ‘knife-ears’ or consider it a mark of pride, though. Depends on the clan.”
The interloper scoffed. “Don’t look like you’re from any isle I’ve ever heard of. Listen, loincloth, just go tell your knife-eared masters there’s going to be a parley tomorrow night at the place where the delta fans out.”
The figure dropped a folded-up piece of stationery and marched back through the jungle before Maat could react. The letter had text in a language none of them spoke. He’d have to take this to Kev.
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No self-respecting Stormheaths clan-chief would dare to spur an offer for parley on the neutral ground between territories. They’d be leaving their war clubs in the boats at the water’s edge, as was custom. Of course, they’d still carry knives with them; unilateral disarmament was honorable but encouraged treachery by more ambitious parties. It was always best to have a backup dagger on hand, just in case.
No sooner did the news go out than did Hector confront the acting chief.
“This is risky, Kev.”
Maat nodded in agreement.
“Interlopers always ask for tribute in their raids.”
“Before, yes. This group is different. If you just wait for Michael to return…”
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“No time. With the whale-chasers forced from the shore and the Laval routed, we’ll be able to claim more territory on this shore. But it must be done now, with a presence at the parley.”
No doubt, Kev was looking to maneuver for glory. Angling to acquire more land and resources on the backs of other clans hit harder by the Jean’in. Maybe even had an eye on replacing Maat’s father, in ways more subtle than a simple coup.
The remainder of the day and a half until the parley passed in painfully slow motion. Kev’kurien remained unconvinced by any argument. In time, Ma’at was roused from sleep by the away party.
“I leave now to the parley with the outsiders,” Kev announced in the main meeting hall. “Should I not return, clansman Bar’yev shall take my place.”
If the parley succeeds, then Kev gets the glory and political capital he wanted. If it fails, well, they won’t be notably worse-off than the day before. The enemy knew Secondhome’s location. Even a maximalist gain in the parley wouldn’t solve the waves of refugees. If anything, it may make it worse.
No sooner did Maat close his eyes to try and go back to sleep did he receive a quick kick to the pillow.
“Wake up,” Lloyd said.
“We’re goanna sneak into the parley.” Sara kicked his pillow again.
“Does Hector know you’re planning to play hookie?” Maat rubbed at his eyes.
“It was dad’s idea,” Sara said.
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The trio fell in line with the acting chief’s party. Acting Chief Kev’s party consisted entirely of trusted Stormlanders. The twins’ ears were close enough to pointy to pass in the dark. Maat just waited in the back, where his height and rounded-off auricle wouldn’t be noticed. They quietly fell in line at the rear canoe in a long convoy.
Rowing the canoe proved easier than maneuvering the raft. The trio just had to work in sync with another two Stormlanders in the front of their boat.
“So, what does your father want here?” Maat hazarded at a whisper.
“He wants us to find some clue regarding the leader of the interlopers,” Sara said.
“The old timers think there’s some kind of Outlander connection,” Lloyd said.
The river was abnormally placid tonight, making for an easy two-hour journey to a glen where the Torrent fanned out into a miles-wide floodplain. Bonfires were already lit at the river delta.
Secondhome’s fleet of canoes were beached upon a silt deposit between an extra-large whitewood kayak from the Laval and three smaller fleets from various delta farming clans. Duly, Maat noticed that he had never been this far south before. A lone paddlecraft sat, inactive, in the shallows to the east.
At some point in the ancient past this may have been another temple site. There were occasional sandstone blocks peeking through the silt. But this would’ve been centuries ago, and the river had changed beyond recognition in that time.
Kev’kurien went to go meet with the representatives of the neighboring clans. Lloyd, Sara, and Maat kept away from the bonfires, staking the area out.
“Don’t see any Jean’in,” Sara said.
“Maybe they’re running late?” Lloyd looked around. “Hell, they invited us.”
“We’re exposed out here.” Sara looked to each bonfire shiftily. “Something’s not right.”
Maat eyed the outermost ring of Stormheaths clan-folk. There was a familiar face among them.
“Wait here,” he told the twins, and walked over.
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“Lionli’Laval,” Maat said to a furtive figure trying not to be noticed. “When last we met you picked me up and threw me by the neck!”
Lionli’s eyes went wide. His ears perked up. He wore no accolades.
“Riverborn,” the Laval said. “Your settlement still lives?”
“Well as ever. Haven’t been hit yet. Repelled them from the coast.”
“Then the outlanders and forsaken clanless have wound up better than most.” Lionli looked down. His ears drooped.
“Your clan’s still in the fight?” Maat asked. “I found one of your warriors by the river a few weeks back. He didn’t make it, I’m sorry. Didn’t even get his name. He was commended to the river, though.”
Lionli sighed. He looked out to the river, then scanned a thicket of reeds.
“Get out of here, Riverborn. Flee, quickly.”
“What?” Maat cocked his head to one side.
“Flee.” the one-time rival clicked out at a whisper. “Don’t make a fuss about it; it’s too late. Take whoever you want to survive the night and flee under cover of dark. The Laval-clans have already turned. My elder brother – he used these strange interloper fire-slingers to kill my father and every other brother who resolved to continue the fight. He’s handed over all our prisoners, subaltern, and forsaken clanless over to the outsiders, and it’s not for purposes of liberation.”
Lionli’Laval produced a handheld fire-slinger, mostly wooden in make aside from the rifling. “There’s a bounty on Outlanders. Paying far more than any subaltern. You shouldn’t have come. I see no Outlander, have heard tell of no Outlander at this parley – this I swear upon the deified corpse of my great-great grandfather. But if you’re still here once the fighting starts…”
“You don’t want to do this, clearly. Come with us!” Maat pleaded.
“War chief Long’Laval’s orders are absolute.” Lionli shook his head. “Go. We never spoke.”
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Back near the bonfires, Lloyd had taken to chatting with some familiar figures amidst the bird-herding clans.
“What is he doing?” Maat asked Sara.
“Blending in,” Sara said with a frown. “That’s the point.”
“Not right now it’s not.”
Maat grabbed at her arm, eliciting some pushback.
“The Laval are on the perimeter.” Maat spat out a bit too loud, eliciting stares. “We are leaving. Now.”
Sara looked to the perimeter, where some Laval foot soldiers were peeking out of some reeds. She nodded.
“Lloyd. Quit flirting with the shield maidens. Raincheck. Uh, hoot. Damn. Should’ve had a code word.”
“You’re no fun.” Lloyd jogged back to his sister. “What’s up.”
The look on Maat’s face alone persuaded Lloyd. He gave no complaints when Sara dragged him by the arm back towards the canoes.
The outlander and the half-kin sneaking into an otherwise Stormlander-dominated event would’ve been the scandal for the ages, were it not for what happened immediately after.
A great whining tone wafted over the delta, carrying far in the still and quiet night. It was a whistle. Stormlanders couldn’t do that; their lips were built more for snaps, clicking, and yodeling throat displays. Humans of the other isles could barely do it if taught. No, on the Alabaster Isle whistling was a party trick the Quarterchief did to entertain new clansmen. Maat could with a little practice. Lloyd and Sara could do it, a gift from Hector, having taken after him rather than their stormlander mother.
A figure dressed in interloper garb under a long leather robe and wide-brimmed cap stood at the furthest bonfire. He was flanked by an honor guard all wielding long fire-slinging rifles despite the parley’s promise of neutrality. He had a smooth, tan complexion that marked him as separate even from the humans of other isles at his flank. What’s more, he was as short as Maat, dwarfed even in comparison to his Jean’in bodyguards.
The commotion Maat and the twins had made meant all eyes remained on them for now.
“Hell, in this light I reckon you look just like Mikey.” the man with the cloak and hat pointed at Ma’at. “Surprised the ol’ varsity cap managed to keep it together long enough to get busy.”
It was the Stranger, the very man who’d worked his foul devil magic (and nearly got Lloyd and Ma’at killed) weeks before this late unpleasantness started.
Kev, who had previously been about to admonish Ma’at for his interloping, turned.
“I know of you.” Kev eyed the stranger. “This is a parley, Outlander. Your weapons have no place here.”
Subtly, along the perimeter, the Laval-clan reached into the reeds and gathered their own cache of firearms. They were surrounded in a diamond formation, only the shoreline remained clear – and that wouldn’t last.
The mysterious figure looked Kev up and down. “Never heard of you. You the guy in charge of Secondhome?”
“It is I, Kev’kurien, victor over your warriors at the battle of the riverbend temple and soon to be chiefta-”
The stranger reached into his long cloak and drew another hand-held firearm. It twirled in his fingers, perfectly balanced. With a shot from the hip, the stranger hit Kev directly in the right eye.
Acting chief Kev’kurien wobbled mid-sentence, then fell back onto a bonfire. His corpse began to burn, though by that point the Laval had opened fire on their diplomatic allies.
Curses towards the oathbreakers followed, declaring the perpetrators outlaws to be hunted by any and all clans forever more, though these promises were often cut short by a volley of fire, or by skirmishers wielding foreign machetes. The twins had already picked a smaller, swift-looking canoe out and were pushing it into deeper water.
Those at the parley who weren’t yet dead were not quite unarmed. They still had short knives under their bird-skins. It would be unwise for every major party on the southern shore to attend a meeting truly defenseless - it would incentivize less-honorable parties to flaunt the rules. But these knives were worthless against long guns fired from the far reeds.
“Go!” Maat said.
Others of all clans tried to flee but caught shots in the back and shoulders, dying where they fell.
A total of eight paddle ships – four on each delta branch – were moving in at full speed to cut off their escape.
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