I'm taking a palette-cleansing break from The Shipwrecks of Time and have recently been in communications over a possible collaboration. More on the latter if and when.
The Journeyman: In the Stone House
by Michael F. Flynn
“The trail is the thing, not the end of the trail.”
--- Louis L’Amour
--- Louis L’Amour
The great escarpment edged World along its northern marge, from the Hill Country in the far west to the eastern verge of the shortgrass prairie, where a spur thrust abruptly south toward the steaming marshlands, pinching World into a narrow waist through which all men must pass should they travel east or west. It was no great surprise to Teodorq sunna Nagarajan the Ironhand, who was cunning in all matters relating to stalking and ambush, to find the neck between cliff and swamp stoppered by a stronghold. But never had he seen a fastness so large and built entirely of great stone blocks. It nestled securely against the cliff and was warded on its other three sides by thick walls of dressed stone. Atop these walls men in iron kept watch on east and west and – of greater immediate concern to Teodorq and his companion – south. But being wise in the ways of camouflage, Nagarajan’s son remained hidden from their gaze in a grove of trees a gallop south of the cliffs while he considered ways in which that happy state could be continued and his eastward journey resumed.
Round about the stronghold huddled scores of lesser houses, cattle and sheep pens, yapping dogs, curling smoke from under which issued irregular clangs. Smells of dung and compost floated with the burnt tang of the smoke. People milled with apparent purposefulness. From beyond the settlement, where a waterfall plummeted from the very lip of the plateau, a steady drumbeat thumped, as if a frost giant strode the earth while drawing neither closer nor farther.
Earlier that morning several wagons bearing men with farming implements had ridden west under a mounted escort. A practiced eye – and Teodorq possessed two such – estimated upwards of four hundred habitants in the settlement. It was the largest village he had ever seen.
Even though most of the villagers were not warriors – their farmers needed guards against the shortgrassmen! – Teodorq doubted he could take them all, especially those wearing iron shirts and carrying long iron swords. Not even with Sammi o’ th’ Eagles to help.
“Hey,” he whispered to his companion, “you hillmen build stone houses, dontcha?”
Sammi shrugged without moving. “Not so big.” The hillmen were anciently enemies of Teodorq’s people, but the two young men were alike strangers in a strange land and had perforce become allies.
“Least now we know why the shortgrassers call ’em the ironmen. Must get hot in them outfits come summer.”
“Maybe they star-folk, like Jamly tell us find?” suggested Sammi. “Big magic, pile stones so high.”
Teodorq studied on that some. Farther west, where the shortgrass prairie gave way to the Great Grass he had once called home, he and Sammi had come upon an ancient wreck, a “shuttle” that had tumbled down from the sky in the long ago. Jamly, a drawing that somehow moved and spoke and who had been custodian of the shuttle, had sent them forth to find the settlements of Iabran and Varucciyamen, so that the starmen might come and salvage what remained.
For Teodorq, seeking out the star-folk had a better ring than running from the Serpentines who pursued him. His sentence had been unjust, the tribal elders had been coerced, but the Serps wanted the head that was their due and Teodorq, disinclined to part with that member, had struck for the east. The litter of dead Serps in his wake could only stiffen the resolve of the remainder of that clan.
“Don’t think so,” Teodorq finally decided. “That shuttle was made of pottery – whatcha call it, esramig? – not stone. And when Jamly killed them Serps, she used a buzzing fast stonethrower, which I don’t see they got over there. Hey, hillman, how do you build a stone house.”
Sammi glanced at him. “With stones? Just guessing.”
“No, I mean how do you put them together?”
A shrug. “Lay one row on top another row. Sometimes, special paste used between stones, hold ‘em together.”
“Yah. So that’s how they built yonder stronghold – only they forgot to stop adding rows. So, no magic. At least not shuttle-magic.”
Sammi grunted. “Jamly Ghost say much kenning lost since big-fight-in-sky. Stupid plainsmen forget most; hillmen not so much. Maybe ironmen forget less.” He pursed his lips. “We stay in trees, iron hats no see us. I say, creep past stone house, then ride like hell.”
The woods they lurked within contained more trees than Teodorq had ever imagined grew on World. But he did not suppose that the men in the iron hats were stupid, and he expected the trees would soon give way to cleared ground. What man would build a stronghold to guard the pass and then allow trees to screen the passers-by?
“I dunno, hillman,” said Teodorq, pointing toward the distant wall. “Them sidemen up there, we know why they’re watching the west. Shortgrassmen don’t like they come down off’n the cliffs and taken their prairie. But they’re studying on the east kinda keen, too. And before we ‘ride like hell’ into it, I wanna know what they’re so keen on spotting.”
Sammi looked at him. “Sometimes, for plainsman, you not so stupid.”
“Beside,” Teodorq said, “I wouldn’t mind getting me one of them swords.”
“Sammi take back what he say. How you plan get one?”
“First… We need to find a way into that village.”
Behind them they heard a click. Teodorq looked at Sammi. “That can’t be good.”
©2013 Michael F. Flynn