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Sing for me, Muse, the song of Iara,
Of her trials at the hands of mortals and gods,
Before the rise of the endai.
In the darkness before dawn, near the border
of the Artemaean tokiate, a band of riders
waits, hidden beneath a layer of heavy fog.
There is little sound or movement from the group,
save for the occasional pawing and sniffing of the
kinbeasts, as they await a signal from their leader.
He studies the good fortune
that awaits them at the roots
of the Artemaean forest…
…a herd of grazing vinasi, tended
by four herdsmen on kinbeasts.
Four ranchers to guard
their entire herd?
I thought the Artemaeans
worshipped the god of wisdom.
He smirks and mounts his kinbeast.
The Morora smiles on us.
We will feast tonight!
He turns his mount and
races toward the herd.
A dull roar grows from the fog below…
The vinasi begin to panic.
Khasht.
Hearing the curse, the herdsmen
heel their kinbeasts to divert
the vinasi into the forest.
The riders soon reach the forest's
edge and chase the herd
into the darkness...
...but they draw rein when the path
leads them to a wall of roots
too tangled to admit kinbeasts.
With a measure of irritation,
the leader dismounts.
He ducks through the tangle of roots
and emerges into a broad clearing
with the other riders close behind...
...but is stopped by a voice from
the other side of the clearing.
You've been raiding our lands for years,
burning farms, stealing herds,
killing our people.
We're tired of it.
So here' your chance: leave, never come back,
and you'll get to see another sunrise.
The raiders chuckle.
You think you can fight fifty
Draejik warriors, farmboy?
Draejik thieves.
The raiders look for the
speaker, but see no one.
The herdsman catches the stone
and turns to consider the group.
He counts them, noting their stances, their unhoned
weapons, the weak points in their armor….
Yep.
He lays back onto the root as before,
and continues tossing the stone.
The leader gestures sharply.
Two archers nock and draw,
aiming for the herdsman.
Archers!
The herdsman twists off the root just
in time, dodging the first arrow…
…and catching the second.
In the same movement, he launches
the stone before dropping into the mist.
The stone hits one archer between
the eyes, knocking him out.
Furious, the leader gestures
three swordsmen into the mist.
The other archer nocks again, draws,
and searches angrily for a target.
Mah'rakt archers.
A thrown knife suddenly appears
in the remaining archer's neck.
The raiders look around uneasily
for the knife thrower, but see no one.
Show yourselves.
You can't hope to fight us all!
An unarmed woman in rough
clothing drops to the ground
from the roots above.
The leader gives her a quizzical look.
Behind him, another herdsman steps out
from behind a curtain of moss, looking
no more dangerous than the woman.
The leader smirks and
eases his grip on his sword.
He looks back toward the fog and sees
the first herdsman walking toward them.
Behind the man lay the three
swordsmen, all dead.
In the herdsman's hands
are the twin blades
of a q'kesh.
The leader pales.
Na'katar.
They're na'katar!
The group stumbles backward, trying
to get away from the na'katar.
They turn to go to their mounts…
…but find the fourth herdsman
blocking their path.
The Morora is with us!
Stand and fight!
Think of the rewards
for killing a na'katar!
Footsteps quicken behind him,
and he snaps back to look—
—as the na'katar whirls
to attack, yelling a kiai.
