The Thorian Sagas. 1. The Trader.

A different trader came to Fenn, later that following day.

He had a young Thorian with him to fight off the Frexes, and to protect the tributes perched high on the load in the front wagon.

This trader was a Yunk. Gareth was his name, as he told them when challenged at the gate before they opened it and let him in, but they already knew about him. They’d even sensed him leaving Golden.

There was nothing special about Gareth as there had been about Stoker, and as there was about the Thorian that came with him.

This one; Peter, seemed deceptively little more than a youth; unlike any of their own males. He was already assured, well beyond his years, and he was the one who was trusted to escort the tributes; guarding them with his own life. That, made him an alpha Thorian. These tributes, all of them pale skinned and blond haired, did not show the usual uncertainties of other tributes over the previous months, all of whom revealed their innermost fears about what faced them.

But not these.

They seemed assured, contented, quiet. They had been shaped by what had happened to them earlier and did not seem to be at all shaken up by seeing so many Frexes trying to get to them, and with them witnessing the carnage that followed, setting their hearts beating fast, but in an exhilarating way.

They had seen much worse than this, and they knew that they were being well protected by this one man. If they'd had weapons and had known how to use them, they would have helped.

Monique and her warriors took Stoker’s parting words to heart and searched the carts as the young Thorian stood to one side and watched. He was amused by their thoroughness.

As they did that, he looked around for himself, seeing hints of weapons that no woman should ever be allowed to possess—not even a warrior woman—hanging under various curtains and tapestries on the walls around the room, out of sight, but seen, once those coverings had been blown by the wind until the gates were closed again.

They did not trust him or Gareth; either of them, at first, and they looked as though they knew how to use those weapons they already carried. Stoker had told him some of it, and what to expect.

They had learned well. Stoker would be pleased.

They did what was expected of them, but they could see that these two had Stoker’s horses and carts filled with goods, so there was nothing too unexpected or out of place.

“Where is Stoker?”

They would ask, of course.

Peter explained just enough.

“He turned thirty. He may no longer come. I will be taking his place for the tributes each month, but Gareth, here, will be your trader.”

She accepted that. Stoker had hinted as much.

Monique was their only welcoming committee, even though they’d brought the tributes. Peter had been told to expect to meet the difficult Councillor Bradshaw, but she had not come to escort the tributes away as she always had before.

They were usually whisked away immediately, to be prepared for what awaited them in the wastelands. They would be kept segregated from all others until morning, when they would be sent out from another location somewhere along the city wall. Monique would have to look after them until Bradshaw showed up to take them from her.

Monique had questions to ask and things to learn, having sensed a massive change just in the last day. There had been mind-gripping violence that she and her fellow warriors had felt, even from as far away as Saltash, halting them in their tracks no matter what they had been doing.

None of it had been very clear. Just extremely violent.

She needed to ask about that, and about Stoker, and why there were none of the darker-skinned tributes from Dorian, as they’d expected. She would have liked to have spoken with them. It was something she had never been able to do before, but she could talk to these others.

This man, Peter, looked a lot like Stoker had looked; sharp eyes that missed nothing, smiling, helpful, putting them at their ease within minutes by his relaxed manner, but still asking permission before he picked up his weapons again to clean the blood off them, once the women were satisfied with everything about these two strangers.

He would not leave his charges to shower the Frex blood off himself and his clothes until he knew the tributes were safe and had been accepted from his care.

Monique could see that these tributes were different. They were not afraid, but were confident, laughing softly, excited even… talking together. All seven of them, with their characteristic pale skin and blond hair, were from the two cities of Weldon and Sinden. There were no tributes from Dorian as there should have been!

Peter sensed their burning questions and waited, as he helped unload the carts.

This young man had a coat made of a bear’s hide, and a necklace of bear’s claws, proclaiming that he had killed his bear; at least one. His shield which rode in the cart with him, before he hid it beneath the seat, proclaimed that he was, like Stoker, an Alpha Thorian, so he had also killed a Rogue. He was only the second Thorian to ever enter their city that they knew about, and both of them had been Alpha Thorians, though it had taken many months to learn that about Stoker.

Bradshaw should not see that about this man. She was already difficult enough, but as he was the Thorian accompanying the tributes, she would have to accept his armed presence, while not liking it.

There were fifteen Frexes piled in the back of the second cart.

The Thorian had killed them as Gareth had protected the tributes from any that made it past him and got over the side of the cart. None, had.

The tributes were assisted by the youth. He lifted each one down, careful not to transfer blood from his clothing to them, as Gareth stood back, knowing better than to offer to help.

Monique led them across to the fire and saw them comfortably settled, and with something to drink and to eat after that long journey from Golden.

Without Bradshaw or anyone else from council, these tributes would need to be fed and accommodated here and allowed to rest. The council knew they were here, so it would not be long before someone came for them.

Others prepared enough of the meat and vegetables for all of them, just in case.

Monique had been told to expect nine tributes. She would need to let someone know of this.

She watched as Peter dragged the Frex carcasses out of the rear wagon and lined them up along the wall for others to deal with.

Gareth, lifted the heavier sides of meat out of the first wagon, just as Stoker had done.

“We were told there would be nine tributes.”

Peter paused.

“That was what we expected too, but only one was sent from Dorian, and that one, remained in Saltash, to look after Stoker.”

She tried to hold more of her questions back until the work was finished but needed to know. This had never happened before.

“Why did she remain? That is not usual. A tribute does not have that choice.”

And what did he mean… ‘to look after Stoker’?

“You are correct. A tribute doesn’t normally have that choice, but this one earned it. Stoker requested she be freed, and so she was. She then requested to remain with Stoker. That, was also granted.”

Monique did not understand, so he had to explain further before she asked.

“She was no longer a tribute after she killed that bear and saved Stoker’s life.”

Nothing like this had ever happened before.

A mere tribute had killed a bear and saved a Thorian’s life? But they had seen some of that happening.

Monique felt envious of that tribute; beating them to such a prize. They had slowly been working to that end for themselves.

Their evenings outside of the city had started with trepidation, never sure what would be coming at them. After the fourth night and learning that they were up to taking on anything that the wastelands could throw at them, they were ready for anything, perhaps even for a bear to come lumbering out of that darkness at them. They dreamed of it. And then a tribute had beaten them to it!

They had all sensed something like that, and had been forced to wait until now, to find out about it properly. They were envious, but they were also proud. One of their own, from a sister city, had killed a bear! A first!

Peter should not tell them the rest of it, that these tributes were now also, ‘Thorians’. He might not be believed, and these women might not be welcome.

Gareth, then spoke.

“Stoker was lucky to survive, from what I heard in Golden. There was talk of a Rogue bear heading down to Saltash! I heard of it after I left. There was a rumor of two of them, but that could not be right.”

Peter put his hand on Gareth’s arm to warn him not to say too much.

“There were two bears. You heard correctly. Two Rogues. I saw them; helped skin them both and recovered their claws. Some meat from them both is in the second wagon where I transferred it when we caught up with the wagons in Golden.”

The smell of that meat always drew the Frexes in.

“You said, she killed a bear, this tribute?”

“She, and Stoker.”

“And she was one of the tributes from Dorian?”

He corrected her. “She was the only tribute from Dorian.”

And she had been alone with Stoker for two full days, and nights, before they picked up the other tributes!

No. She had been alone with him for much longer than that, each night.

She glimpsed that fleeting thought in Peter’s mind.

“I will answer all of your questions after we’ve unloaded these carts and eaten, and before we leave.”

They had to be satisfied with that.

They would not be able to leave Fenn until Peter had turned over the tributes to someone in authority, so he might be stuck here for the night.

After he and Gareth had washed the blood off themselves and dressed again, Peter came over to her.

“Stoker knew he could not come this way again, so he sent this over, for me to give to Warrior MacBeath. You.”

It was the claw necklace that Stoker had worn.

She took it from him, handling it with reverence. Hers, at last! She placed her own with its ten claws to one side, as she replaced it with this other that she had tried so hard to win from Stoker so many times, and almost had, more than once.

As the necklace settled around her neck, she was startled by the sudden doorway that opened into this youth’s mind.

He was letting her in! He was even smiling at her, knowing what she was seeing, as nearly all of her questions were answered in a flood of responses.

The necklace had given her some greater gift that went with it.

She saw everything that Peter had seen and knew, about that previous day, and so did those around her, including the tributes.

The youth was like a bright light in their midst, letting them all see what he knew of that battle, though they already knew most of it.

Monique saw a vision. She saw Stoker lying on the floor, and a tribute bathing him… Erianne. The name popped into her head. The look in Stoker's eyes as he looked up at her, said it all.

Then she saw the dead bears, the gore, the weapons scattered around the floor, sensed the battle waging back and forth as man and bear fought for an advantage. Then it was over.

There was one bear lying sprawled on the floor with an axe buried in its brain, and that other bear that had taken them all by surprise, pinned onto the wall with a strange looking spear.

Erianne had done that by herself.

Other Thorians came into that building after following those bears to intercept them but arriving too late. Peter had been one of them.

No wonder these women had been changed by that experience. It would change any woman to see that… selfless act … that necessary violence, and all of these tributes had helped achieve that victory, so their reward was that they were now… Thorians?

Not, tributes, but, Thorians, yet they were going to behave like tributes and go out into the wasteland in the morning.

Why? They had no need to do that now.

She saw the reason for that, too, as Peter let her see more.

The tributes were to do, as all tributes had done before them. They were to become the wives and mothers of Thorians!

To avoid war between the cities and these men, these gentle women had elected to remain tributes, and to go out into the wasteland, knowing what awaited them; not hardship, or danger, but a future that they would never have had in any of their cities.

Why would they NOT choose to go out, with that future waiting for them?

Bradshaw must never learn that these were not the usual tributes, wherever she was! She would be livid enough to learn that Fenn now had to come up with two more tributes, rather than just the one they’d expected to provide. She did not need to learn that they had welcomed more Thorians into their gates, even if they were all women and had just been given that title, in thanks for what they had done.

Monique would find out more, later.

They would eat, and then, if no one came for them, Monique would need to take on responsibility for them. She could, now. She felt like a Thorian herself with this necklace that Stoker had given her. Perhaps she too, was now an honorary Thorian, so could take on this task.

They would all sleep in front of this fire as Stoker had done, wrapped in Bear hides. She and her fellow warriors were capable of taking on any danger. Stoker had done that for them, and so much more.

Peter and Gareth had not planned on staying.

As soon as they had eaten, and Peter had been satisfied with the transfer, he saw the wagons loaded with items of trade from the city. He and Gareth then turned around to return to Golden before it got too dark to set out. The horses were rested, and the Frexes would not bother them now.

After they’d left, Monique knew what she must do. She should go and see what was keeping, Bradshaw. The chief councillor had never before, missed meeting the tributes like this. Something was wrong.

Monique set out toward the center of the city and was admitted to the secondary council chambers to meet with Bradshaw. There must have been something truly urgent to have kept her away from meeting them.

Bradshaw was not available, so her deputy, Simpson, met with Monique.

“My, what a wild one you are.” She looked her up and down. “Short hair, blood on your tunic, and those… those things around your neck. There is something very different about you. You are lucky that councillor Bradshaw is not here to see you like this. She would fly off the handle.”

Councillor Simpson had waited impatiently for someone to approach the council chambers to tell her of the tributes.

“Are the tributes alright? You are looking after them, I hope? I daren’t take them off your hands. Bradshaw was very strict about that, and forbade any of us from approaching them, so we won’t. ‘Following orders’, we will tell her, if she asks.”

Monique nodded. “They are being well looked after.” She looked around the large chamber.

“Where is councillor Bradshaw? I was hoping to meet with her.”

“You might well ask. No one knows for sure. She is rumored to be in a retreat by the shore, and is not to be disturbed”—she looked around to make sure no one could overhear her—“family troubles. Major rift. Dreadful uproar! It began yesterday. There was a falling out between sisters, but that family always was…”

’dysfunctional.′

She held back from what she really wanted to say. It could come back to bite her, and Monique didn’t need to hear about that, but Monique saw that thought in her mind, along with others.

“So why are you here? It cannot be just to tell me that the tributes have arrived.”

“No. It isn’t. I came to let you know that we are two tributes short. We need to add two more to our own single tribute, and only the council can remedy that.”

That was a surprise for Simpson to hear. Of all the times.... She blanched and stammered.

“N…no. Not that too? How? That should not have happened, but what the other cities do is out of our control. How did it happen?”

Monique told her some of it.

“Dorian was meant to send two tributes, so the trader said, but they sent only one, and that one they did send, did not get here. Something happened to her at one of the stops.”

Monique could not go into any details how she knew what she knew, or there would be even more questions she should not answer.

“That’s never happened before. Oh, dear.” Councillor Simpson puzzled over it.

“Finding one extra tribute, is not too hard. There is always one extra, identified, just in case, but a second will be a problem. However, there are ways….”

She would think about it.

Bradshaw had told them that she was not to be disturbed for at least two days.

“Thank you. Leave it with me, warrior MacBeath. Leave it with me. Make sure the tributes you have, are ready to go out tomorrow morning, and I’ll get our tribute and two others, down to you just as soon as I can. Ten tributes, must go out, one way or another tomorrow, or we will be in violation of the treaty, and that must not happen.”

Chief Councillor Bradshaw would be in an even worse mood after that. She would throw things!

She looked at the closed door where Monique had just left and smiled.

Dared she? Why not? Who was there to stop her or to go against her?

Bradshaw would be in a hell of a mood when she learned that one of her own relatives had been selected… correction … had volunteered, to become a tribute. Even if she hadn’t volunteered. It would be too late to change anything by the time she found out.

All the council had to do, was to quietly dig out that particular ‘volunteer’ without too much fuss and see that she left with the others in the morning, or not long after.

She’d better get started on the paperwork. Time was running out.

Payback, was a bitch. And this could be payback time for all of the not-so-subtle iniquities that Bradshaw had put upon all of her fellow councillors over the years. It would be a council decision, so no one individual would stand out for Bradshaw to chop at.