Jens had always been amazed at how tiring it could be to ride as he made his way back to the cook’s wagon from having delivered cloth sacks of lunch to the trail breaking scouts that ranged ahead of the caravan.

He had originally ridden from the front in South Eastern Hamuria, up to the Northern border, and thought that was taxing enough, but that he had gotten used to the seemingly endless riding. But now, riding back and forth all day, along the trails to deliver food and water to trail breakers and occasion messages from those trail breakers back to the caravan captain, Marla, had proven itself to be tedium incarnate.

Also, he thought the term “trail breaking” was a bit grandiose for what these riders were doing. Having traveled this trail North so many times, and back again, the caravan was essentially following a well trodden path. One of several well trodden, packed earth paths that were just a few well meaning surveyors shy of being labeled “roads.” More established than any game trails, certainly. It made Jens wonder why Kjolte didn’t pave any roads leading to the border with Hamuria.

But, after weeks of thought on the matter, Jens realized he wouldn’t want Hamuria having an easy time getting into and out of his lands, either. When it comes down to that, he thought, maybe Kjolte’s government may want to assemble some engineers to ruin these paths. Make them less able to handle any real traffic from Hamuria. Maybe even make the few river routes between the nations unnavigable from the Hamurian side with either locks, or underwater hull rakers.

He shook himself with the intent to dislodge the thoughts. It was a pleasant day on the trail for all his ill minded musings, and he thought he should enjoy his freedom.

Had there been more snow recently, the outriders and trail breakers would, indeed, be breaking this trail. But, as it was, there had only been several light dustings of snow, by Jens’ accounting of things, since the last caravan had passed this way. Possibly this caravan when it had come back South from Brikkahr. These trails were not hidden, and from what he could see, not blocked by tree falls, nor hillslides of any kind.

But, the caravan made progress, and so Jens came slightly closer every day to where he wanted to go. Also, he would have to admit, it wasn’t arduous in any real way.

Riding back and forth along the route all day was a calm, quiet life. He quite enjoyed it. Most of the time. Sometimes he would swear he could feel…something… watching him as he rode. Whatever it was, it had been watching him a span ago, but was gone now. A light touch that had visited him several times today, and tentatively a few limited touches in the past few days.

Jens had wanted to Delve to discover whatever it was, if it was anything other than “birds roosting in his tomb,” as Maestra Hradda used to say. But, he was reasonably sure this was more than just an errant chill up his spine.

It had become almost an itch at the back of his mind, the urge to drop into a meditative state and let his mind rove out amongst the forested mountains around him to see if he could find out what was getting his hackle up. But, if he did, that may give him away if they had the Talent and the training to catch him at it.

He was still too close, in his mind at least, to Hamuria and the Golden Tower, to risk being caught now.

His body swayed with the movement of the dappled red and black horse he rode. He called him “Bink.” The tack would clink every tenth step the stallion took, and so…”Bink.” It made him smile. When Obnoxious Jens had learned his horse was named Bink, he had tried to make fun of him at one of the social gatherings that happened around the evening fires. Jens had asked Obnoxious Jens why Bink was funny.

Obnoxious Jens had blustered, and made hand gestures, and loudly said “Because! No man rides a fine horse named Bink!” And he had made a few more hand gestures, some of which Jens recognised as meaning “effeminate” and “sexually wrongfooted.”

Jens calmly, and with a blank expression asked, “I don’t understand, would you please explain?”

Obnoxious Jens burst out laughing, and in an even louder voice exclaimed that only a fool needs to have such a funny thing explained.

Blank faced’ Jens repeated “Please explain.”

Several people at the fire started to look very uncomfortable.

Obnoxious Jens burst out with several expletives, and turned and walked back the wagon he had rented space to sleep in. As Jens turned back to the crowd at the fire, Marna amongst them, his deadpan expression split in a silent grin as he winked at those gathered. Marna brayed laughter, breaking the tension, and everyone around the fire joined in. Jens was happier at that moment than he had been in years.

>Bink< went the tack with a tiny, sharp musical note.

Whether it was a horse, or any other thing a man could ride, riding was tiring. And yet, had he walked the Lengths he had traveled today, he would have not only been more exhausted, he would not have been able to go nearly as far. And having some large critter do all the walking for him, saving him all that effort, was still …exhausting.

Jens let his mind wander as his horse picked its way along the trail.

Riding a lisk would be a much smoother ride than that of riding a horse, but the ride would take longer, as even at a full run, lisks could not rival a horse for speed. Vicious in a fight, though, like no other mount on Thach, so they were prized mounts by some soldiers.

However, Jens knew, riding a hrutur would be just as fast as being on horseback, but with much more bounce. He had heard the giant, ram-like animals had immense stamina, and could walk all day, or trot for most of a day, but sitting one was too jarring for just anyone to ride, and could injure riders who had not been trained to handle them correctly.

Hrutur would often be used in traces to pull wagons, but would have to be used exclusively singly or they needed to be trained as a team almost from birth, otherwise they would fight one another too often. He had read accounts in the library of the Golden Tower of hrutur pulling wagons, and charging at other hrutur pulled wagons. It was apparently a territorial concern for the billies, and a hierarchy concern for the nannies.

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Supposedly the hruturi ate more than an equal sized horse, making them more expensive to keep; though some people he knew suggested they could be shorn like their smaller cousins, and that particular wool would make fabric that was stronger and warmer than any other known to exist. He had seen some of the tunics the Gobhanni of the Western Kingdoms wore, and while it was not as finely spun and was of a much coarser weave, he knew it was strong enough to stop slashes from lighter blades.

The afternoon sun played across his face, dancing through the needles of the tree branches overhead as Jens rode slowly along the path. The swaying motion of his horse was almost enough to make him drowse in his saddle. He wouldn’t let himself doze off as it was, but the cool weather, mixed with the flickering of sun and shade across his cheeks all conspired against Jens today. He yawned expansively, his jaw making a loud CRACK as he did.

He had one last wrapped packet of bread, meat and cheese to deliver, along with a skin of warm water he kept between his innermost shirt and the skin of his belly. It kept him warm, as his body temperature had kept it warm.

He could just see the form of Little Broc on his shaggy old, hammer-nosed horse as it came around the bend in the trail. Dressed in a riot of colors, Little Broc was an average sized man, only called “Little Broc” because his older brother, “Big Broc” was a walking leather clad hillside of a man by comparison. Today, while Big Broc drove a wagon for an elderly trader and her equally elderly husband, Little Broc was riding from the farthest trail breakers ahead of the caravan, back to Marna at the caravan’s middle, and then back again, relaying all of the information that may have been needed throughout the day.

It looked tedious to Jens, but then so did delivering lunches, and starting cookfires before the sun was up, and then again, just as the sun set every day. This was his life for these last two months. They would be at Brikkahr in another ten days, and then he would need to find another caravan headed up to the Northern coast. Simple.

THere was a snapping hiss in the air, it set his teeth clattering uncontrollably as his jaw spasmed with the effort of Jens trying to wrest back his control. And with that, there it was again. That presence. That watching, skulking, hiding mind. It was following him. He didn’t quite know if it followed him, or the caravan, but this felt personally directed at Jens, and he didn’t like it.

He decided then that he would Delve, but only once the presence had left him. If he could catch it as it fled, it might not feel him as he searched for it through the air and shadows of the mountains.

He would have to time this well.

He would have to be very precise.

Passing Little Broc, he nodded, and Little Broc nodded in reply. “Anything?” He asked.

“Nothing so far. Anhour says there may be trees down a mile or so north from here, but that is around where we will be making camp tonight, so it doesn’t worry me too much.” Broc’s face cracked in mirth as he said, “Lots of wood for a cookfire, if so, yeah?”

“HA! Yeah.” Jens said as he passed. “I’ll see you in a while as I make my circuit back. We can plan to cook an entire bear. I’ve heard the rumblings of a grumpy bear following us. Maybe Marla would like a new coat?”

The man practically howled with laughter at that. As he rode away, he could still hear Broc chortling and giggling to himself.

The caravan had begun to refer to Obnoxious Jens as “that Bear” behind his back a few weeks past, when he had gotten drunk one night and started to argue with a horse. He thought the horse was laughing at him as he had wandered into the treeline to pee. Turning back, he saw the horse peeing where it stood, and …at that point who knows what he was thinking? A very one sided argument ensued, and from all accounts, Obnoxious Jens lost.

Marla had to break them up. “You are the bear trying to sell apples to the horse! Go to bed, bear! SHOO! Off with you!”

There were, apparently, several children's tales amongst the Gorma about a silly bear, and his misadventures in the forest, and all of the mischief his ignorance caused.

Jens had vowed to himself to read them as soon as he found a book about them, possibly in Brikkahr.

Once Little Broc was safely around the turn in the trail, Jens steadied himself, and checked his saddle and reins.

He spent a few moments making his body take up the tasks of remembering how it moved as he rode, and how he could keep Bink moving along the trail without requiring his attention. It would be more than embarrassing to fall off Bink, it could be dangerous. Almost equally, he didn’t want Bink to stop, nor to wander off the trail and into the forest. He caught the rhythm of movement he needed.

After a steadying breath, he forced his breathing to slow, and let his mind shift its attention inward, finding his Center, then jumped outward in an ecstatic rush.

He sent his thoughts sailing through the aether on the trail of the feeling he had when he was certain he was being observed.

His awareness looped and spun through the trees, catching a hint of the mind that had been following him. Jens’ awareness began moving faster, and faster through the forest in a straight line. If he didn’t miss his guess, his Delving mind would be crossing the trail behind him where Little Broc now rode back to the wagons.

Faster than he anticipated, Jens was back at the caravan.

This was unexpected.

The fifth wagon.

It was a kaleidoscope of colors and triangular patterns almost too bright for him to look directly at, it was so brilliantly colored. Jens didn’t remember this wagon being quite so bright as that. But, here he was.

There was the bright, white, shining form of an elderly woman, brighter even than the wagon itself, sitting curled up on the footboard of the wagon, holding the reins that led from her left hand to the two brown and gray mules pulling the wagon.

As he neared her, she turned to look at him, her eyes piercing him in their intensity. He felt he could no longer move, and a mild panic set in as the tiny old woman made of light watched him.

The wrinkles around her face shifted, and she smiled at him. With a gesture of her right hand, his mind was pulled through the air towards her.

When he was right beside her, she let out a sigh, and said, “Calm down, Little Bird. You are not for my stewpot today. I just wanted to see how many times I could spy on you before you noticed. It only took you a month!”

She smiled, and the smile changed the light coming from her from a cold white to the warm yellow of a candle flame, though it never lessened in intensity.

“Now,” she said, “Get back to work for now. Marla will be angry if you fall off of that pretty horse and hurt yourself. Come see me tonight after you have done your chores for Marla and the cooks. Bring me a plate of the stew they make. And a large mug of beer. Then we will talk about your lessons.”

With that, she made another gesture, like the motion one might make to flick a fly from her sleeve, and Jens found himself through with great force back into his own head hard enough to almost tear him out of Bink’s saddle.

Jens gasped at the pain, and the sudden and unexpected nature of what had just happened to him. He hadn’t known one could be manhandled in a Delve.

He had never heard of such a thing.

“Hrrrm…” he mumbled to himself. “This is… uhm… hrrrm…”