“I’ll come back, Mama. It will just be a matter of time.”
She reached in and hugged her mother tight.
Her father had woken by this time, so she leaned in and kissed his hairy cheek.
“You can take care of yourself. I know you can.” His gruff voice cracked, and she appreciated the small show of emotion from him. It must be hard. She knew her father loved her, and while her mother was allowed to cry her tears, men simply weren’t allowed to show emotion in their society.
“I will. I’m tough, Pops. You know that.”
“’Course I do. We’ll see you when you return, okay?”
She nodded, tears of her own threatening, and a painful lump constricting her throat. Dela didn’t want to lose it, knowing it would only make things harder. She remembered their goodbyes to Ridley the morning he’d left, how, even though they knew it was possible he might not return, they hadn’t really believed he wouldn’t. They’d even joked and jested with each other, telling him not to go getting himself eaten by any monsters. Ridley had been excited about going, and though there was an undercurrent of worry, they’d been proud of him, too. He was a man, taking on the world. He’d taken off the ring he always wore—the one with the shiny black stone with a thread of red running through it—and pressed it into her palm. “Take care of this for me, Sis,” he said. “I want it back when I return.” She’d kissed him and promised she would. But when only a small part of the convoy returned, their lives had been thrown into the black hole of knowing he was gone and he wasn’t ever coming back.
This was different now. There was the very real possibility of the same thing happening again, and she didn’t know how her parents would be able to cope if they were left completely alone. What was the point in continuing if you lost both of your children? The world would be empty and meaningless. At least in death, there was the possibility they would be together again, assuming Ridley didn’t do something that condemned his soul to the underworld before he died.
Unable to speak, knowing that doing so would reduce her to tears, she secured the pack containing her few possession on her shoulder and turned to leave what had been her home for the past twenty years. Feeling her parents’ eyes on her, she glanced over her shoulder, and then lifted her hand in a wave. Her lower lip trembled as her mother clutched her father and sobbed on his shoulder. She wanted to tell Johanna it would be all right, promise her that she’d return, but they all knew it was a promise she might not be able to keep.
As her footsteps took her through the narrow streets where she’d grown up, putting space between her and the house, a part of Dela’s soul grew lighter. She wasn’t happy to leave her parents— far from it—but she felt the responsibility of being the remaining child like a backpack weighing her down.
From the homes she passed, people peeped out.
They called out to her, “Good luck.”
“May the Gods bless your journey.”
“Winds speed to you!”
She wasn’t someone who’d ever liked attention before, but their well-wishes made her stand taller, her shoulders back. The children whispered behind their hands, their eyes widening with awe.
Dela hadn’t asked for this—none of the Chosen had—but she still felt special in that moment.
She stepped into the open area of the city square and glanced up at the castle towering over them. How were King and Queen Crowmere feeling that morning? Did they give any thought to the twenty souls being forced beyond the city walls? Or were they still sleeping peacefully, not a single troubled thought in their heads to wake them?
Across the other side of the square, Dela spotted Layla. She was talking to the man who’d been in Ridley’s year at school. She recognized a couple of other people, too. An older man in his fifties with a good beard of silver and solid shoulders, who she believed was called Norton, and a couple of men around the ages of thirty years, too. She was relieved to see that she and Layla appeared to be the youngest of those Chosen this half-year. It was difficult for everyone involved when someone who had only recently passed their sixteenth year was Chosen. Though legally they were adults, it was hard for people not to still view them as a child, especially for the family involved. To be called up during The Choosing on the very first time you were eligible to enter was very unlucky indeed.
Layla spotted her and ran over. The two women clutched each other tightly, knowing exactly how the other one was feeling without having to say a word. They had each other, and that was something, at least.
“The carts are already outside the city walls,” Layla said. “We’ll be heading out shortly.”
Dela surveyed the small crowd. “Is this everyone?”
She was asking more than she was saying—had anyone absconded? But Layla nodded. “Yes, I think so.”
“Good.”
The last thing she needed her parents to have to see was one of their own decapitated in the square because they’d tried to get out of their duties.
A couple of the men, including the older one, strolled over.
“Dela Stonebridge,” he said, putting his hand out to her. “You think you’re ready for this?”
She shook the offered hand, making sure her grip was as firm as his. “As ready as anyone else here,” she said. Because she was young and female didn’t automatically make her weak or incapable. “It’s Borton, isn’t it?” she asked, deliberately getting his name wrong.
He dropped her hand and cleared his throat. “Norton. Wayneguard Norton.”
She exchanged a secret smile with Layla “Ah, yes, of course. My apologies.”
“Hey, Dela,” the younger man who’d known Ridley said. His name was Brer Stidrisk, if she remembered correctly. “How are you feeling about all of this? It can’t be easy, what with Ridley …”
He trailed off, apparently unsure what to say.
“No, it isn’t, Brer, but we’ll get through it. Thank you.”
He ducked his head, the moment of compassion apparently making him uncomfortable.
Philput Glod, the head of the City Guard appeared on the same platform he’d made the announcements from the previous day.
“Welcome, everyone!” he called across the small crowd. “You have the honor this half-year to meet the other races—the Norcs, Moerians, and Elvish—for the Passover. We are not expecting you to come across any trouble, but, to be prepared, if you do not have a weapon of your own, please help yourself to something you will be able to manage.” He gestured to a small pile of swords and knives off to one side.
Subconsciously, Dela’s hand went to the hilt of her dagger. It may not be large, but she knew how to handle it, and she hoped that would be enough to defend herself and others if need be.
“Food and water has been provided for the first few days,” he continued. “After that time, you will be expected to find water sources along the way, and you may wish to hunt to provide yourselves with fresh meat or fish.”
“You ever hunted anything?” Layla asked Dela out of the side of her mouth, keeping her voice down.
“Only mice when they come into the house,” she replied with a smirk.
Glod’s raised voice drowned them out. “You will be provided with bedding rolls, and canvas to sleep beneath, and you will be responsible for their safe return. Is that understood?”
“He’s more worried about the bedding rolls’ safe return than ours,” Dela murmured to her friend, and Layla covered a snort of laughter with her hand.
“Finally,” he called out, “we wish that the grace of the Gods be with you.”
That signaled the end of his speech, and everyone got moving, gathering what they needed to take with them. Dela was happy with her dagger, but Layla approached the pile of weapons with caution. She wasn’t used to being armed, and Dela could tell by the twisting of her lips that her friend didn’t know where to start.
Layla reached down for a sword, but Dela’s hand on her arm stopped her.
“Go for something smaller
,” she suggested. “The sword will be too heavy for you to wield, and it will weigh you down during the walk.”
Layla gave her friend a grateful smile, and selected a dagger similar in size to Dela’s instead. It wasn’t made from the same steel as Dela’s dagger, so was still heavier, but the weapon was better suited to Layla’s hand.
Dela hoped neither of them would need to use the weapons.
Glod led the way, guiding them from the city square, through the roads of Anthoinia. A few people stood on the sides of the streets, clapping and patting their backs as they passed by, as though they were knights off to war.
The motley crew of the Chosen shuffled their way forward, navigating the lanes toward where the Great Gates barred the city from the lands outside. Through the gates waited a convoy of carts containing the hundreds of sacks of grains which they’d be exchanging with the other races in return for minerals.
Dela’s stomach began to churn. This was it.
Before them all, the Great Gates creaked open.
Chapter 4
Orergon
His twin black braids flew out behind him as his horse’s hooves thundered across the ground. They were late, the sun having risen two hours earlier, and he knew he wouldn’t hear the last of it from that oaf of a creature, Warsgra.
The mountain peaks of the Great Dividing Range towered over them. At his side, two of his fellow Moerians rode. Unlike the Norcs, who needed to travel with huge bison pulling even bigger carts of coal, the mineral they traded with the humans only took up the space in the leather pouches on the horses’ backs.
Despite the body heat he’d generated from the hours of riding, Orergon could already feel the difference in temperature here compared to his own homeland. Though the Southern Pass would be clear, the tops of the mountains were tipped with snow and ice.
The changing of the seasons happened twice each year—winter giving way to summer, and summer giving way to winter. Only then were the weather conditions suitable for traveling through the mountains. It was deemed too dangerous to try to get through the Southern Pass at any other times of the year, and the Northern Pass through the Great Dividing Range was deemed dangerous at all times of year.
As the pounding beat of their horses’ hooves brought them ever closer, Orergon was able to make out the thin lines of smoke rising into the air from where the Norcs lived. Soon their stone homes would come into view. Why any creature would choose to live in the shadow of these mountains was beyond Orergon’s comprehension. Yes, farther north had its dangers and challenges, but at least it wasn’t covered in snow and ice for months of the year. Not only that, everyone knew the mountains held dangers of their own. If the mountain Gods looked down on them, they could wipe out entire populations with a single curse.
Even the air here was different, making it harder for him to catch in his lungs. This wasn’t his first time to this region, and he doubted it would be his last, but he was already looking forward to getting this over with. If it wasn’t for his tribe’s need for grain, which grew less and less with each passing summer on the plains, he wouldn’t be here at all. But what were a few worthless pieces of metal in return for feeding the women and children of his tribe? If the humans thought it was worth their while, then he could afford to take a few weeks out of his life to keep the peace between each of their kinds.
“Orergon!” One of his riders pulled their steed to flank his. “Over there.”
His rider lifted his hand to point south, and Orergon followed his line of sight. A small group of figures moved in the distance, and in the bright morning sunlight he caught glimpses of silver white hair. The Elvish.
“At least we’re not the only ones to be late,” he said, sitting higher on his horse’s back. Unlike how humans rode, Orergon didn’t use a saddle. He didn’t understand how anyone would want to use one. There was no better way to get a feel for a horse and improve balance than riding how nature had intended. He and all his people had been riding this way for as long as he could remember, and he thought it bizarre and laughable that a human would want to put a big lump of leather on top of what was a perfectly comfortable horse back.
Like them, the Elvish only needed to bring a small company with them. They didn’t ride horses, but instead rode the backs of large, majestic deer. The leader of their group sat higher on a regal stag. Orergon loved his horses, and had no wish to trade, but he had to admit that they made a sight with their massive antlers. The Elvish were smaller in stature than the Moerians, so though the deer backs weren’t as broad as the Moerian’s horses, they were easily strong enough to ride. The Elvish home of Inverlands gave way to more snow and ice, with rocky ridges and crags, and perhaps the deer’s more delicate footing was better suited to that environment.
Orergon counted their number. It looked as though their leader had brought four of his kind with him, twice as many as he’d brought, but far less than the humans. Each half-year, it surprised him how many of their own kind the humans sent on this journey, partly to exchange what to him appeared to be worthless metal. It wasn’t as though the Moerians didn’t wear decoration, but they took feathers from the hawk to give their feet flight, and hide from the buffalo to protect their skin from the sun. He couldn’t see what good the small pieces of metal would do them. The kinds of people the humans sent over baffled him as well. When the Moerians had to take on long journeys, they sent their strongest men and women, but the humans sent a strange combination of men and women, old and young. He knew from ancient tales that the humans had fighting men called knights, and yet they didn’t send their knights on these exchanges. Instead, they sent numerous of their weakest kind, and each exchange Orergon watched their weakest fall to exhaustion and hunger. Not that it made any difference to him. He’d work to protect the lives of his own kind. The others could do whatever they liked.
The small band of Elvish had diverted course slightly and were now heading in their direction. Orergon guessed they had decided they’d be better to approach the Norcs together. The head of the clan, Warsgra, could be a violent, oafish creature, and was sure to be in a bad mood due to their unintentional tardiness. Perhaps, like the humans, the leader of the Elvish had decided there was safety in numbers. Not that Orergon was afraid.
The two groups grew closer until they were near enough to greet one another.
The leader of the Elvish was tall for his kind, but still not as tall as Orergon, though neither was anywhere near Warsgra’s towering six feet eight frame. He wore his white blond hair to his shoulders, the strands appearing as light and delicate as spider’s webs. Through the strands peeped the pointed tips of his ears. His eyes were a light blue, appearing almost silvery when the sunlight caught them. He wore a kind of armory fashioned out of a metal that looked as lightweight at his hair.
The leader of the Elvish pulled his stag to a halt, and then, light-footed, jumped to the ground.
Orergon also dismounted, and he lifted his hand, exposing his palm, as a sign of greeting. “Prince Vehel Dawngleam. Good to finally make your acquaintance. Your brothers have always spoken highly of you.”
Vehel ducked his head. “I’m honored to meet you, too, Orergon. I, too, have heard much about you. I thought we’d be better approaching the Norcs as a united front. Warsgra’s reputation precedes him.”
Orergon laughed. “Yes, he’s not the most lighthearted of men.”
The Elvish prince shrugged. “Though his own kind appear to think highly of him.”
“They’re all frightened he’ll use that damned axe of his on their necks, that’s why.” He remembered the two men flanking him. They’d not dismounted from their horses, and Orergon knew it was because they were protecting his back. They had no reason to believe the Elvish would want to cause them any harm, but it was their role to protect their leader, no matter the circumstances.
“These are my tribesmen, Aswor,” he nodded to the man on his left, “and Kolti.”
Both men were similar to him in appearance.
They had his deep skin tone, dark eyes, and black hair. Their hair wasn’t as long as Orergon’s, however. As leader of their tribe, he was the only one allowed to wear his hair past his shoulders. Should he ever lose his position of power, his hair would be hacked off at his nape to show everyone that he was no longer their leader.
Vehel nodded in his direction, and then introduced his own men. “And these are my brethren—Ehlark, Folwin, Athtar, and Ivran.”
Each of the men also appeared similar in appearance to the leader of the Elvish, but, like his own men, none of them had dismounted.
If his knowledge of Elvish history was correct, Vehel was the youngest of three brothers, and was the son of the Elvish king and queen of their region. No one other than the Elvish recognized them as royalty, but he was royal among his people. That made Vehel an important person, though Orergon detected something in the other Elvish men’s eyes. What was that? Boredom? As though they couldn’t quite be bothered to be here. It seemed strange to him. Vehel was an important man, and yet something about the ones he traveled with made him think otherwise.
“Shall we proceed?” he said.
Vehel ducked his head. “Very well.”
Orergon remounted his horse—a chestnut stallion called Corazon—and pulled Corazon around to face the mountains and the home of the Norcs ahead.
Chapter 5
Vehel
As far as the other races went, Vehel could just about stomach the Moerians. The Norcs, however, were a different matter.
As they approached their home of the Southern Trough, Vehel tried not to show his dismay at the way the Norcs lived. This was their main place of residence, but he would be excused from thinking it was a camp that had been erected during a long journey. Any kind of luxury—other than women, meat, and wine—was considered a weakness for the Norcs. The Moerians lived basically, too, but they didn’t display the uncouthness of the Norcs.
Through A Dragon's Eyes_A Reverse Harem Fantasy Page 3