by C. L. Roman
“Volot told us of your misfortune. I assure you we are not such as those you have encountered,” Shahara said.
Fomor bowed slightly, “I have no doubt of your kindness lady, but who can tell what destiny may come from a chance encounter? Still, you say my brother has explained our situation?” Fomor arched one dark brow in question and Volot flushed red, abruptly discovering an intense fascination with the toe of his boot.
“Of course. He didn’t go into great detail, just how you were seeking a new trade route for your village and were waylaid by bandits. Do not be troubled, perhaps we may be of help to you,” Danae answered. A puzzled frown marked her smooth forehead as she sensed the tension between the three visitors.
“My worries are my own,” Fomor snapped, then, seeing the hurt in her eyes, he continued more gently. “We earn our own way. Our home is not many days travel from here. We must be on our way as soon as possible.”
“But our father would never forgive us if we did not bring you to him,” Shahara rushed in. “He will want to hear your news even if you have nothing to trade.”
“And we cannot have you continue your journey without such small help as we can provide,” Danae continued. “The Lord requires it of us.”
Fomor looked into her eyes and knew himself defeated. How can I refuse without raising suspicions, and with it talk, that would bring even more unwelcome attention? Perhaps, if we do not linger, the damage might be contained. The captain nodded and agreed to accompany the women back to their village. Glancing sideways at Volot he frowned.
“Unfortunately, Volot has duties which compel him to remain in camp. Gant, Jotun,” he called out and the two walked out of the trees into the encampment, showing no surprise when they saw the women. “Sena, you will wait here for Phaella. Volot, you will see to the gathering of supplies for the remainder of our journey.”
Volot grimaced good-naturedly. “As you wish Captain.” He shook his head almost imperceptibly as Shahara would have protested, and turned to his tasks.
“Lead on, ladies. The father of such loveliness will be well worth meeting.”
Danae smiled and turned toward her village. Shahara brought up the rear with many backward glances. Fomor noticed her preoccupation and sighed. This could be a problem.
Chapter Five
The man who greeted them in the small village was nearly as tall as Jotun. He stood in the center of a circle of long houses, muscular arms crossed, black brows lowered, considering the approaching group with – what? Suspicion? Worry? Certainly not welcome.
Yet a moment later he strode towards Fomor with every appearance of eagerness, arms outstretched, smiling, “Welcome! Welcome! You have traveled far, yes? Please, make yourselves at home. I am Nephel and this is my village. Come, come, tell me what brings you here.”
Fomor considered his reply carefully. Travelers on foot always raised suspicions, but it went against the grain to lie. “We are peaceful travelers, seeking to make our way back to our own village. Sadly, violence has robbed us of all we own and so we seek a way home.” True enough as far as it went. All would be well, so long as Nephel made the usual assumptions.
“Bah!” The big man spat on the ground in disgust. “Bandits increase in this country like locusts. It is a disgrace!” He eyed the three for a moment, as if deciding whether they posed a threat, or an opportunity, then smiled again. “You will allow me the blessing of helping a traveler on his way, yes? And in return perhaps you bring me news of the wider world.” Nephel did not wait for a reply but turned and began speaking with a small, blond child who stared at the three giant strangers in awe. Finally, he grasped her arm and shook her gently so that she turned her gaze to him, blushing. Nephel brushed his fingers along her cheek.
“Ziva, go and tell your mothers we have guests. There will be—” He turned back to Fomor and grimaced apologetically. “Forgive me. We meet so few strangers here I have forgotten my manners. This is my daughter, Ziva and you have already met Shahara and Danae, also my daughters.” He waited.
Fomor bowed. “I am Fomor, ca—” he caught himself, “leader of a small group of merchants.” Fomor nearly choked on the lie, but managed to finish the sentence. “These are Jotun and Gant. There are seven of us in all.”
“Seven? Such a small number for a caravan.” Nephel’s eyebrows lifted but Fomor merely nodded. “Well then, a man of few words. But perhaps we can coax a story or two out of you over dinner this evening.”
“Perhaps,” Fomor agreed.
“In the meantime, Danae, go back to their encampment and invite the rest of Fomor’s people to dinner.”
Shahara darted forward, “I’ll go Father!”
Before anyone could stop her she was running back up the path to the oasis. Danae stared after her sister a moment, then back at Nephel.
He only shook his head and continued, “I’m sure, after such a long journey—” he paused again, brow lifted in inquiry, but Fomor remained silent and after a moment the man continued. “After such a journey, they will all be glad of an opportunity to refresh themselves, not to mention a good meal.”
Fomor could see no way of declining without offending his host, something he found himself strangely reluctant to do. Instead he nodded and allowed himself to be led away towards the bath house. Jotun and Gant grinned as they brought up the rear. Fomor found it hard to restrain a smile himself as he reflected that a bath would be welcome after six months of constant travel. Considering the size of many of the members of Nephel’s family, the unit would blend in easily. They wouldn’t stay long, of course, and they would limit contact with the humans by remaining in their own encampment, but a few days rest would not come amiss. Truly, what harm could there be in a bath and a decent meal or two?
The next few hours allayed Fomor’s concerns almost completely. Size didn’t mark the angels as different here since all but a few of the family members were a match for Jotun, or at least Sena.
That explains Nephel’s lack of surprise when he saw us. He probably thinks we’re distantly related somehow. Fomor hid a snort of laughter in his wine cup. If he only knew how wrong that idea must be, I doubt he would be so cordial.
Fomor, Jotun and Gant had been invited into the headman’s home after cleansing themselves in the bath house. The four of them now reclined on soft rugs around a glowing brazier. Nephel’s wife, Naomi, had brought in oat cakes heaped with goat cheese, a plate of fresh figs and a skin of new wine, which the men were enjoying. She now knelt to her husband’s right, just slightly behind him, yet she did not seem subservient in any way. It was more as if her position allowed her to see the entire room, anticipate the needs of her guests all the while observing the totality of what went on. Occasionally during the meal, Fomor had seen Nephel caress her hand or arm with absent minded affection.
“So,” the headman’s voice broke into Fomor’s musings, “Danae tells me you were searching out new trade routes for your village?”
Fomor nodded cautiously. That this had been Volot’s lie, not his, was cold comfort.
Nephel popped a slice of fig into his mouth and rinsed his fingers in the bowl of water provided for that purpose before he washed the fruit down with a swallow of wine. “What do your people make? Perhaps this meeting may prove mutually beneficial.”
The captain silently cursed Volot. Falsehoods made his gut burn and curled his tongue, but he could see no other option. He cast about for an answer that was plausible, and not a complete lie. An image of his morning’s activities popped into his mind and he gave a nearly audible sigh of relief. “We are miners. Mostly alabaster, but occasionally we have come across decorative stones such as amethyst and emerald that seem to be popular, especially among the women.”
Glancing at his silent wife, Nephel grinned. “Ah, it is so. The ladies of my own family are fond of jewels, though I think sometimes that Naomi prefers a well woven basket.” His wife smiled and blushed. Nephel turned back to his guests and explained, “My wife is the most talented person
I know. She can create almost anything, given the right materials. Several years ago a caravan passed near our village with all manner of goods to trade. I thought she might enjoy some of the jewelry they had, but no, she chose several bundles of reeds, in the strangest colors you’ve ever seen.
“Everyone laughed behind their hands, but,” he held up a victorious finger, “my Naomi knew her business. The baskets she made from those reeds were the perfect combination of utility and beauty. Naturally, they sold for a tidy profit. Now people come from as far away as the Euphrates just for her baskets.” He popped another fig slice into his mouth and rinsed his fingers again before picking up an oatcake. “So,” the big man slid a sly glance to Fomor, “perhaps we could become trading partners, yes?”
Fomor returned a tight smile, but offered no comment and Nephel changed the topic.
“In your travels you must have seen many things, yes? Tell us of your adventures, if you will.”
The captain relaxed for the first time since entering the house. Here, at least, he could be honest, even if he must leave out a few details. He hoped the news he brought might be useful to his host.
“We have traveled a great distance from our home and it seems to me that the world grows stranger with each new moon. In many villages the priests grow violent and bloodthirsty. New gods spring up from the dust, and they are not merciful.”
He recounted the story of Jared, without mentioning the intervening years or Adahna’s attempt to save the child’s life, saying merely that they had been unable to effect a rescue. He did not have to feign grief over the boy’s loss, or outrage over the subsequent escape of the priest. Other tales followed, of bloody altars and families broken by murder or infidelity, as the food disappeared and afternoon surrendered to evening.
“It is as if,” Nephel said finally, “all the world is peopled by sheep and wolves.”
Fomor could only agree.
The following morning dawned bright and clear. Fomor awoke and reluctantly faced the fact that he could only delay the inevitable for so long. Well, it could wait until after breakfast at any rate. A noise and the feeling of movement nearby brought him to his feet with a warning shout. Instantly his team was up, swords drawn, battle ready, looking for an enemy.
Danae blinked at them from the fire where she had been stirring something in a pot. “Is this how you greet breakfast every morning?” she inquired mildly.
Gant, drawn by his captain’s shout, shot into camp, sword raised. He took in the scene and lowered his sword, sheathing it as he trotted to a stop a few feet from the group at the fire. At Fomor’s questioning glance he shrugged, grinning sheepishly, “She offered to make breakfast. I saw no harm, but I guess I should have warned you first.”
Fomor raised one eyebrow and shook his head. “You think so?”
Gant had the grace to look embarrassed, and was happy enough to return to his watch when Fomor waved him off.
The captain turned to the woman, “Well, it seems that we have given you poor repayment for such generosity. We are honored by your kindness.”
She smiled slowly as the others wandered off, muttering about fetching water or firewood.
“You have no tents? No packs? How have you managed to live during your travels without even the means to cook a meal?”
“We escaped with very little after the – Our needs are simple and, since we will be moving on today, we saw no need to set up shelters.”
“After what? It must have been very terrible to have driven you off with so little to sustain you.” Her gaze traveled over the strength of his arms, the breadth of his chest.
“The forces against us were formidable.”
“So, you were attacked by bandits, as Volot said? Your warriors look capable enough; it must have been a very large group, yes?”
Fomor’s mouth tightened for a moment, then he grinned, “Is it the custom of your people to harass a guest with questions the moment he wakes up? Besides, I think the oatcakes are burning.”
With red cheeks and a frustrated exclamation, Danae turned to the fire, rescuing the flat breakfast cakes just in time. “There is fruit in that basket and water in the jugs over there.”
Fomor didn’t move but watched her intently for several minutes. Her movements, even when distressed, were graceful and fluid. Her hair rippled over her shoulders to her waist. He wondered idly what it would feel like between his fingers.
“If you are finished staring,” green eyes flashed up at him, a dimple appearing in her cheek as she smiled, “breakfast is ready.”
It was his turn to flush. He took the cakes from her and sat down to eat. “Delicious,” he said, watching her as she fried a new batch on a wide, flat stone set into the flames. She did not look up at him but he saw the dimple appear in her cheek again.
Soon they were rejoined at the fire by the rest of the unit. Only Adahna remained standing casually at the edge of the small clearing to eat her breakfast. The sound of running feet along the path from the village brought the group to their feet again, but they relaxed quickly as Shahara burst into the clearing.
She stopped in confusion a few yards from the fire. “Oh, I – there you are Danae! Mother wondered where you had gone.”
Danae smiled softly, “She should remember she sent me with breakfast for our guests. She would have sent you too, but you could not be found.”
Shahara frowned in irritation, then smoothly replaced it with a teasing smile, “Hmm, I thought for certain I heard you volunteer. With our entire family to cook for I doubt Mother had the time to think of such generosity herself.”
“Our mother is always sweet and generous – is her name not Naomi?” Danae’s voice was neutral but her eyes sparkled with mirth and her dimple peeked in and out of view. She pretended to think for a moment, “Is it possible that you were so deep among the blankets that no one could find you, and you could not hear us calling for the sleep plugging your ears?”
Fomor watched the interchange with fascination.
Shahara stamped her foot, her face darkening with temper.
Volot sprang to his feet, “Beautiful Shahara, you promised to show me the waterfall in the eastern pool. I have finished breaking my fast, perhaps we could go now. Fomor, Shahara tells me there are fig trees there and I thought they would make a welcome addition to our provisions if any are ripe.”
Fomor nodded his consent and Shahara’s irritation melted into smiles before his next words erased her pleasure. “It is well to gather what we can as soon as possible. We must resume our journey in a day or two.”
Volot did not comment on the extension of their stay, instead leading Shahara from the clearing in silence.
“Why must you leave so soon? I suppose your family will be worried for your safety? Your wife perhaps?” Danae’s voice was soft with regret.
“We have no families,” Gant laughed, “the seven of us is all—”
Fomor stopped him with a furious look and the black haired giant suffered an unexpected coughing fit.
“No families? Then why be in such a hurry? Surely if there is nothing to tie you to your old home, you may take your time in returning?” Danae smiled.
“We have reason enough. And it would not be right to impose on your father’s hospitality when we cannot repay him. Besides, our business takes us back to…” For the life of him, Fomor could think of no way to end the sentence that would end her questions. He glared at the others and they suddenly recalled numerous duties that required their immediate attention.
Adahna, still standing at the edge of the clearing, melted into the vegetation and out of sight before spreading her wings and rising into the treetops to resume her watch.
Danae watched the interchange and, for once, asked no questions. “Perhaps, Fomor,” she folded her hands in front of her waist and trained her gaze on the empty pot now sitting beside the fire, “you wouldn’t mind helping me carry these things back to the village?”
“Of course,” he said, plucking u
p the pot and the nearly empty fruit basket. She left the water jar, still half full, where it sat and he was too busy watching her lead the way along the path to notice.
The following afternoon, Jotun, Gant and Phaella were practicing sword drills in a clearing some distance from the encampment. Sena was taking a breather on a nearby boulder, watching Gant and Phaella spar, while Jotun shouted equal parts encouragement and criticism at the sweating pair.
“Lift your guard Gant! You’d have been skewered three times by now if it were me on the other end of Phaella’s sword.”
“It’s not,” Gant said, breathing only a little harder than normal, “as if she’s actually going to do me any damage.”
“Ha!” Phaella brought her sword around his guard, carving a neat slice out of his tunic, “If I wanted to do you damage, I would.”
Gant grinned at her, “Exactly.” His foot flashed out and caught the back of her knee. Unbalanced, she collapsed onto her behind with considerable force.
“Unfair,” she cried, springing to her feet and rubbing her posterior.
Jotun suppressed a grin. “Phaella, fair or not, he’s right. I’ve told you before, you’re leaving yourself open on the back swing.”
Sena heard a slight noise in the brush behind her and hid a grin of her own. “You can come out, you know. We don’t bite.”
Silence followed by a whispered but fierce exchange was the only reply for several minutes. Sena waited. Finally, two young humans stepped out of the bushes, hands clasped in solidarity.
The pair were of an age, the boy about eleven and the girl maybe a year younger. In all else they were opposites. Where the girl was green eyed, the boy looked at the world out of inky pools surrounded by a thick fringe of black lash. The girl’s skin was pale as a new moon and smooth as sun washed sand, the boy swarthy and ruddy cheeked with the requisite legion of minor cuts and bruises that bespoke rough, adventurous play. Long curls of white gold fell past the girl’s shoulders to her waist, caught up in a length of ribbon to keep it out of her eyes, while the boy’s hair was cut short, a tightly curled mass of ebony. The girl followed, the boy led and it was he who spoke.