The Orinsbrook river ran sluggishly through the Plains, fed by many smaller tributaries until it became the large, thirty-foot wide flow that it was here. I chose a site where the water rilled over smoothed and rounded rocks, with the occasional boulder standing proud of the current. There was a rise of land on both sides; a testament to the fact that the Orinsbrook would occasionally become an even larger surge, when the rains fed the Plains.
But for now, the river was calm, and as the sun was high, I knew that the fish would be sleepy in the reedy hollows.
“They won’t be large, not at this time of the year,” grumbled Elid, one of the Daza men at my side. He was an older man who had that harrowed, sunken-eyed look of all of the Daza slaves, forced to work in the darks of Inyene’s mines. But he still wore a few of the traditional braids that some of the other Plains tribes wore. One for every important moment, victory, or to remember a loved one, which over time turned into matted and solid knots of hair. Elid wore several, still affixed with chestnut-wooden beads.
“But there will be many,” I pointed out, as I inspected where the riverbank was crowned with grasses and reeds, and the shallows filled with river stones. A perfect nursery for young fish.
“Hm,” Elid grunted his agreement, and wasted no time in threading the small steel hooks we’d been given by Homsgud onto the twine as we trudged down the packed-earth slope which was presumably a passing place for antelope or bison.
“What I would give for a net,” the older man grumbled, as his wrinkled and scarred hands worked expertly to tie the hook, and then loop the rope, tied at several places with simple release-knots. The idea was to throw a length of the fishing line, and when it was caught, release the knots to ‘give the fish their head’ as they struggled, and when they tired themselves out, to pull them in. If you didn’t work with the fish in that way, then it was highly likely that your twine would break in the struggle, or the fish would escape, still with your precious hook lodged in its mouth!
Despite the paucity of our tools, it was a pleasure to see a Daza skill so expertly used, and, as I looked around me at the other Daza doing the same and teaching the two western Middle Kingdomer slaves how to do it, I felt a great sense of peace.
This was what it was supposed to be like, out here, I thought. Before I caught sight of the guards who had come with us, not deigning to come down to the riverbank and actually do some fishing for their supper—but sitting down on the rise above and watching us work.
Ugh. But it could have been worse, I suppose.
Around me, the twelve or so Daza (and Three Kingdomers) fanned out along the riverbank to step softly into the shallows—the Three Kingdomers exclaiming at the cold, Elid urging them to quiet. Fishing was gentle work, as we always said; long hours of gentle work that ended with sudden periods of intense activity—and death, I mused to myself. There was so much of the Daza way of life that was like that—life and death, quiet and sudden action, forming an eternal dance between them.
“Fish?” I heard Ymmen’s interest in my mind. It seemed to be the favorite meal of the dragon.
“All dragons like fish,” he revealed, which was something I hadn’t realized.
How’s Abioye doing? I asked, and Ymmen’s enthusiasm turned to a mental snort of fire.
“That abomination barely flies!” Ymmen growled. “Second time it’s landed.”
Landed? I thought with a shiver of apprehension. Around me, Elid and the other Daza were throwing their lines out across the water with a flick of their wrists, to pull them back towards them with a fast, skipping motion. The incongruity of standing here fishing, while also talking to a dragon struck me. If Abioye has landed—does that mean he’s gone after the raiders? I asked.
“No. The creature has no life of its own…” Ymmen said with some small degree of pleasure, before suddenly the feeling of the dragon in my mind changed. The merry warmth of sparks before the sudden flaming rush of alarm.
“Poison Berry is attacked!” Ymmen said, and I could feel through our bond how he suddenly leapt through the air.
“What? Who is it?” I said, forgetting the fishing line in my hand as my fellow Daza around me looked around in alarm.
Ymmen didn’t speak, but I saw the picture in his mind of a pack—quite a large pack—of Plains Hyenas, brindle-furred and banded, loping through the lands towards him. There had to be at least twenty or more of the savage creatures—which was large for a group.
And dangerous. Hyenas were worse than lions or wolves or even stormbears. They were clever and vicious, and would harry and attack in pairs, using complicated tactics to isolate and weaken their prey.
They were fearless, as well—I had known singular hyenas to lope straight into the center of the village on the hunt for some unguarded hut or easy kill.
Ymmen! Whatever else was contained in that thought—emotions I could hardly even attempt to sort out when I thought about Abioye — I didn’t have to say.
“I am going.” The dragon assured me, and my mind filled with the feeling of his strong wings.
“Narissea?” It was Elid, calling over to me softly, a look of worry on his face. It was clear that he could see that I was upset. But how could I explain that one part of my mind was caught up in a distant fight, many leagues to the north of us?
“I, uh…” I shrugged, just as something splashed at my feet. Had I unwittingly caught a fish in my unthinking alarm? I looked down, just as there was another splash on the other side of me—and then a gargled shout as Elid stumbled and fell into the water.
What? I looked up at the same time as I heard the sudden thunder of hooves from the opposite bank, as a horde of mounted warriors charged down the facing rise, straight towards us—
It wasn’t just Abioye who was attacked.
Chapter 6
Familiar Enemies
It was the same Raiders from last night; I knew it. I could see their studded-leather cuirasses and face masks as they urged their steeds into a charge. They had come back. They had followed us, just as I had thought they would.
They wanted the other half of the map, I knew.
“Elid!” I shouted as I dropped the fishing line and splashed towards him.
“Gphbh! I’m alright—just…” he spluttered as he struggled to push himself up from the riverbed. He hadn’t been shot, it appeared. Or he had—but not by a crossbow bolt. A short line of rope, attached to two heavy iron bearings, had wrapped itself around his calf.
What? I had a chance to think, just before the first of the raiders launched from his steed and slammed into me.
“Ach!” I hit the water and the solid rocks underneath with a splash, and already the man’s vise-like grip crushed my wrists.
I took a breath, ducked myself backwards into the water at the same time as I kicked upward. Straight between the fork of the man’s legs. I didn’t hear his shout through the splashing, turbulent water—but I saw the look of astonishment on his face as he crumpled into the water, and I pushed myself back to my feet.