“Listen to me,” called Daga. “We need good riders to go out to the farms in each direction and do what is necessary.” The farmers looked at each other. It was now very late. Indeed well into the night and past the middle portions when it was considered that the spirits roamed abroad. Only the youngest babies slept yet.
Daga pondered the situation. The farmers murmured in the background. He came to his conclusions.
“Rest now in your wagons or those of your friends. You are welcome to share the inn if you need shelter for the young ones and your good lady wives. The night has been long, and we leave at first light to do what we must do. Animals that cannot be brought back to the village must be freed to roam so that they may fend for themselves as best they can. Crops not gathered in yet must be left, or burnt. Possessions must be left, except perhaps for family treasures such as those that can be carried by men on horses. Who ever goes out must be out and back within the day, and back well before the next sunset. No one must travel alone, and there will be parties of six to go to each quadrant where the farms lay. Go now to rest.”
Heads nodded in agreement. The practicalities of the situation drew the women into action. They called to children still at play to attend. Soon the crowd was dispersed as people found their resting places and children were quickly settled. Daga stood alone on the steps of the inn, gazing out into the star filled night. It was early morning and nothing stirred that he could see. The warriors of both the Asha Altan, and those of the Mare Altan had dispersed, apart from those assigned guard duty, and Daga didn't expect to be able to see those. They would not be seen unless they wanted to be. They would guard the village this night with their lives if need be.
Daga turned and went indoors. He went through to the meeting room, and there was the polished red wood box still on the table. A little dusty but unharmed. Daga lifted the box and made his way upstairs to his private rooms.
The lamps were lit in the bed room and Jolin his wife sat on the edge of the bed.
“Well Daga.” She paused. “Let us see what it is that began tonight’s events.” She lifted her chin to indicate the dark red lacquered wood chest.
Daga placed it on a foot stool and lifted the lid. He drew aside the pale blue silk covering and already the shimmer of the yellow dress cast a glow out of the box. He drew the dress up to arms length and Jolin could not stifle a sigh. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. The lamp light in the room paled in its brilliance. There was a gasp and a strangled cry from the door way. Daga whipped his head around, his wife already on her feet. It was only their oldest daughter. No danger after all. Daga grunted at his unease.
His daughter stood in the door in her night shift, her hand over her mouth and eyes as big as saucers. Her gaze was riveted on the dress still held up by her father. So bright. Not even the yellow daisies of the plain were this bright. She could hardly focus her eyes on the dress as it shimmered and shone with a life of its own. Truly this silk as the Trader had called it was a magical material. Daga’s oldest daughter, Desare, was almost a young woman. Daga could not see it of course, but her mother could. Desare took a step into the room.
“Mother, what is this fabulous dress? Where did it come from?” She tore her eyes away from the dress to look at her mother.
“My daughter,” she replied. “The dress is to be yours on your wedding day, when that day arrives.” Jolin looked her daughter up and down and silently hoped that it would not be too soon. She loved her daughter dearly and would miss her about the house, but she knew in her heart that like all children her daughter must grow and eventually make a life for herself. She sighed with resignation. “The dress comes from far away Hua Guo. It seems the price was higher than anyone expected, but it will be yours on your day.”
Desare ran to her mother and threw her arms around her, tears streaming down her cheeks. She had dreamed of her marriage day since a little girl. A fine handsome young man dressed in fine cloths. Herself in yellow, the colour of the daisies. She never dreamed that it might actually come true. She knew of course that her future husband would be a local boy, and his best clothes would be his cleanest work clothes. But it didn't stop her dreaming, and here they were at least half true. Her wedding, when ever that day arrived would be remembered in the village forever.
Jolin pattered her daughters hair and wiped her tear stained cheeks.
By now Daga had returned the dress to its box and sealed it shut again.
“To bed daughter,” he grumbled. “There are still the new day’s tasks to be done and I fear the new day will soon be upon us.”
The girl left the room, a dreamy look now in her eyes. The lamps were extinguished and Daga rested his weary bones on the bed. It was too late to change, he would be up and about in only a very short while. Just a few minutes rest was all he needed. He shut his eyes. He had seen the Trader into his wagon from his window, and all seemed well with the world. He would just rest for a moment. This was a dream surely. No, he was still awake. Wasn't he? But he was in the middle of a herd of horses, stamping and snorting as they circled around him. He didn't think they looked very friendly and they were certainly getting closer with those flashing hooves. He saw that they had riders low in their saddles. How had he not seen them earlier? He was still puzzling this out when he felt one lean over and tug at his coat. Then another tug. They were trying to drag him into the wall of moving horses. This was not very friendly at all. He tried to avoid them, but each time he seemed to get a little closer to the horses now a thundering wall all around him. Suddenly he felt a solid bump. He was falling. He could see the razor sharp hooves coming over him. Suddenly the pain caused him to let out a wild yell and he tried to push himself to his feet. He looked around in a daze. Daylight streamed through the windows. He could hear horses below the window and the voices of riders. He shook his head and put his hand to his nose which he realized was aching. It came away bloody. He realized with some chagrin that that he had fallen off the bed in a dream.
He rinsed his face in the basin of cold water that his wife had left for him and cleared off the blood. He rushed down the stairs as fast as his bulk would allow. There were mounted men in the yard. They must be ready to check the outlaying farms. They watched Daga as he came out of the inn. Much good natured banter greeted him. No one had had much sleep though, and even now people were still yawning and stretching by campfires on the village square and the common.
“Eight good riders – no more.” Called Daga, silencing the talk.
“Two by the North Road, two by the South, two each over the river by the ruins and two west toward the great road. Do not go beyond the last farm and return immediately. If you see any sign of anyone – anyone hear! Then turn and ride as your life depends on it. It surely will. You will not see the Mare Altan, nor the Asha Altan. Anyone else will not be your friend. Go now and return before dark. We will not be able to ride out after you.”
Even as he finished speaking, eight riders had sorted themselves out and were off out of the village by various directions at full gallop. They had a lot of ground to cover, and must be back by nightfall.
The riders had only been gone a short time into the early dawn when a watcher called down from the rooftop of the inn.
"Smoke away to the west. Three columns. Looks like Coolavare’s farm.”
Then began a movement, then a rush to the edge of the village for a clearer view.
"Smoke columns west by south.” Came a second call.
Everyone knew that the riders could not possibly have reached those farms yet. There was no stopping them now. They were far out on the plain and riding hard. Surely they must have seen the smoke themselves. They would swing wide to avoid confrontation if they could. It had to be Tharsians. No one wanted to guess what it meant. Perhaps the upheavals of yesterday had also shaken the Tharsians. There were warriors out on the plain, and even as the village watched, a large group of Mare Altan could be seen loping away from the village in double file and dis
appearing into the ground as they found one of the many small depressions in the plain and used it for cover. The smoke from the fires could now be seen on a fairly wide front, and could only be burning crops. Perhaps even houses. Men and women stood watching in grim silence. It was a hard land at the best of times.
Work on the village fortifications had stopped as people watched the smoke. The rising sun turned dark orange as the smoke hung in the still air.
The Trader Annan Hamar came and stood beside Daga. He spoke in a low voice, “I think we should continue fortifications Daga. Those smoke columns look like Tharsian cooking fires to me. Some anyway. Too small to be farm buildings and they are not Altan signal fires.”
Daga did not like what he was hearing, but of course the Trader was right, and with the entire population of the district now within the village area preparations must be taken.
“You are right Annan.” Said Daga, clapping the big man on the shoulder. “We must prepare for the worst. The Dark Lord is on the move. The final battle comes and we have no idea when it will be upon us.”
The stockades were built right around the village with the only access by gates on the main road into the village. The foundations for the stockade walls had been long in place of course. Xugui had not always been so peaceful a place, and the older men knew exactly how to throw up the stout log walls with minimum delay. Everyone was hard at work, men women and children alike. Fletchers were gathered by the huge barn and along with the older boys were producing arrows from stored willow cuttings. Every weapon of every kind that could be located was being brought to the barn and collected into a great armoury. Some men had even located old armour that had been long discarded or put to other uses, leftovers for the old wars that had finally cleared the Tharsians back to their forest redoubt. Women banded together and made bandages and other items that may have been necessary if battle indeed arrived on their doorsteps. Food was assessed and locations noted. Many people of course had dried meat, stored grains and live chickens for both meat and eggs. The men might do the fighting, but they would need feeding to keep up their strength and the women took the task willingly. They were husbands, sons and brothers and friends after all.
The children sensed the urgency and ran errands with a willingness that surprised many an adult.
There was not a warrior from the Mare or Asha Altan to be seen. They would not wait in the village for an enemy to appear on their door step. Most were by now far out on the plain, circling out to stop any intruding raiding parties well before they even saw the village. They would be on foot. They were skilled riders but preferred to run into battle on their own feet. Horses gave away their position too easily, and the warriors were masters at blending into the landscape. Their clothes were the colours of the vegetation of the plain, and their sun darkened skins the colour of the earth. You could be standing right in the middle of a full band of warriors and not know it until too late.
The Tharsians were without fear, but even they knew that if they met a band of warriors from the plains they would have to fight for their lives without mercy. Raiding parties from other lands simply tried to avoid them.
The Trader had strapped on his swords. A huge broadsword on his hip with its tip almost trailing in the dust. A long thin sword with a slight curve to the blade was strapped to his back, its hilt showing above his right shoulder. The Trader was skilled with both. They had kept him alive on many an occasion. The emblem of the crane standing on one foot that was engraved on the scabbards and blade of both told all that Annan Hamar was a blade master of the old school. Using the long sword at his waist with its blade as wide as a man’s hand he could hew his way through an enemy shield wall – and often had. A line of men with shields locked together and spears held in front was a formidable sight, and even hardened warriors would think twice about attacking such a party. In battle and defence both, Annan had faced such odds and simply attacked head on, roaring with rage and battle madness, his long hair streaming with sweat and the metal of his armoured coat clanking as he rushed at the locked shields, the men forming the walls as often as not broke and ran at such a sight. Those who stood and tried to parry with their spears were brushed aside or cut down.
Daga himself had seen such men in battle long ago, and eyed the Trader with some admiration. In close fighting the long curved sword on his back was used, and its razor sharp blade would have a man’s head off and leave him still standing, or spill his entrails over the ground as he died screaming in pain and terror. Only the very foolish attacked a Trader, especially one like Annan Hamar.
The village boys, and not a few of the men as well looked at the Trader in awe. With such a man to lead them, and their own warriors taking the battle to the coming raiders out on the plain they would surely be victorious.
By the end of the day the fortifications of the village were in place. The trees and bushes had been cleared in a wide circle around the whole village, and the barricades were complete. Just outside the barricades were row upon row of logs with one end buried into the ground. The logs were buried at an angle that allowed their sharpened ends to point outward, at just about chest height. So close together that all but the children had to turn sideways to get past them. There was hardly a tree left standing in the immediate area. Just inside the stockade a trench had been dug. Some two paces wide and a man's height deep, it would be difficult to jump and impossible to get out of if fallen into. Sharpened spikes were planted solidly into its floor like a small forest. At regular intervals along its edge were placed casks of oil. These would be poured into the trench and fired should the stockade and the barricades be breached.
Small boys ran back and forth filling hide canisters with arrows from the fletchers working by the barn. Every man in the district owned a bow and could use it. In hard times it was often all that kept his family fed as he ranged far out on the plains and into the small forests hunting for game.
No one had any illusions about the Tharsians though. They had been raiding across the Star Field Plain for as long as anyone could remember and many a hunter had cause to value his skill with the bow. Those cursed monsters were the spawn of the Dark Lord, showing up it was said at the end of the last age of darkness in an attempt by the Dark Lord to avoid capture and imprisonment. It had not helped him. He was held fast in Sara Sara. The Tharsians were beaten back from the plains after many years and were now invincible in their Great Forest retreat. They were implacable fighters on the open plain. If they came to the village in numbers it may take more than the current fortifications to stop them.
By now every roof top had a collection of older children, boys and girls alike. The girls had tied their skirts up with belts and scarfs or twine and scrambled to the roof tops along with the boys. More than one of the older boys almost lost his balance as some of the girls their own age clambered up to sit beside them, white ankles and even knees flashing in the afternoon sun. Their attention was soon returned to the distant smoke smudges though. It was nearing time for the riders who had left in the early morning to be returning. There was only about another hours sunshine left before full dark. Out on these plains the twilight was short. From sunset to full darkness was only around half an hour.
Everyone was thankful that the farmers had all come into the relative safety of the village, but a lot were shedding quiet tears at the loss of farms and possessions. The storm was gathering and the people of the village and the farmers of the plain could now only wait for the battle they were sure was coming. The rumblings that had upset the district could only have come from Sara Sara and the prison of the Dark Lord as he struggled for freedom. He had no doubt ordered his nightmare forces to gather and would soon know that the Seal of the Creator had been found, if he didn't know already. Then he would send his forces full against the tiny village where it was being held. The people of the village hoped silently that the Wind Reader and her small party could retrieve the Key that would again lock the prison wheel of the Dark Lord and hold him fast in Sa
ra Sara.
The sun was going down on the second day. It stood on the horizon , a fiery ball that seemed reluctant to part with the day. The jagged peaks of the distant Dragon Spine mountains seemed to be drawn up into the glowing red ball as if it would suck the very land up into its molten depths. The black smudge across its face was as everyone knew, from the distant peak of Sara Sara.
A watch was set at regular intervals around the village perimeter, and the children called down from the roof. The wives and mothers of the outriders, as yet unreturned, sat in a small silent group on the steps of the inn. Annan Hamar paced around the common. Restless and unsure of what would happen next, and worried that those men had not yet returned. The last of the light turned a sickly orange as the smoke from the distant fires filtered it across the landscape. The village held its breath and waited. Torch light flicked along the barricades as men made last minute inspections of the work before dousing the burning brands. Men facing battle in the darkness need eyes accustomed to the darkness.
Annan peered into the gloom, searching for signs of movement out on the plain. There was no moon as yet, only star light and although there was little in the way of cover out there, there was enough shadow to hide marauding bands.
There was sudden shouting from the building on the very eastern edge of the village. A hissing trail of sparks arched up into the night sky, exploding into a brilliant white ball that began to drift slowly down to earth. It drifted out over the plain on the steady breeze that swept the region every evening.
Annan jumped to the ground and sped to the barricades. Lit up and exposed on the plain were hundreds of the monstrous Tharsians running straight at the village defences. Who had sent up the firework? Annan didn't have time to find out now. He thought he was the only one who knew of such things. The men along the inner ramparts let loose a withering hail of arrows at the horde. Most of the front rank fell and those that didn't ran straight onto the spikes of the outer barricade. Their screams of pain and rage curdled the blood of the villagers. Their fellows showed callous disregard for their fallen comrades. Even amid the rain of arrows, spears and even stones the living picked up the dead and wounded and pitched them onto the spikes. Still they came, running out of the night. Annan could see that it would not be long before the dead formed a bridge over which the others would be able to run. They could not be allowed to confront the villagers directly. Where were the warriors of the Asha and Mare Altan? They must be engaged out on the plain or they would have been here to help. Annan ran from point to point, his sword dripping blood and slime as he hacked into attacker after attacker who made it across the outer barricade. Still they came. He had not seen so many in one place in all his life. He began to fear that their position would be overrun. He called over a village youth who acted as messenger.
The Dragons of Sara Sara Page 11