The Thorian Sagas. 1. The Trader.

Stoker would bed down by the fire tonight with his dog, once his various transactions had concluded, and his wagons had been loaded, once more, with the goods that he had come for. After that, he would have to wait upon the weather.

The Council could say nothing of him staying with them this time, or any time. He was their only contact with the outside world, and they could not afford to see that contact lost. Besides, what the council did not know about, it could not object to.

Stoker was not a true man in the sense of that word, ‘man’, and was thus not a danger to them or to their vow of chastity, which was a requirement of them being warriors. That vow would be in place for a few more years; until they got to thirty years of age, then, they would have to choose some other course in life.

It had been an easy vow for them to make, knowing what the males inside their city were like.

Their own men were weak, and unexciting; low on the social scale. They had difficulty breeding with any woman, and even that, required a good deal of coaxing and delicate maneuverings to avoid frightening them off altogether. However, they did manage to do something right; their offspring were mostly female. There was a ratio of about ten female babies, for each male baby that was born, and that was a good thing; females were much more useful.

They never used that appellation, ‘man’, for their own males, especially not once they had seen Yunks... or Stoker... or had heard of Thorians.

Stoker was stuck with them for as long as he was here, but he did not seem to mind having the company only of women.

He could not tell them that they were far more pleasing to look at than men of his own kind, or that they were gentler and smelled better in an interesting kind of way… a way that caused involuntary changes in his body. Nor could he admit to them that their conversation was more intriguing, and about things he never normally heard being discussed.

They were more interesting to him in every way that they should not be, suggesting that other changes were approaching for him, and earlier than they should have been, but there was nothing he could do about that. It was just as well that this would be his last year, trading with them.

The way they looked at him in turn, caused him to sense that he was also interesting to them, and in a way that would be dangerous for them all, if anything went wrong.

If they were to break their vows…? Then, everything he’d worked for, for the last few years, getting into their trust and becoming familiar with them in every way; getting into their minds, would have been wasted

It must not be allowed to go wrong.

He would have to be careful, but he would still sleep well tonight; in front of a fire, and under a roof; without concern of being attacked while he slept.

He slept lightly anyway.

He and Monique sat together that evening after the other warriors had retired, though not going far from the fire themselves, and still able to hear what they talked about.

And to watch him.

He was easy to watch.

Monique picked up that earlier conversation that still resonated with her.

“You said that the coat is made from the hide of a Mountain Bear? The necklace too? And that the bear was killed by a … Thorian?”

She dared use that word herself, now that he had used it.

She was insatiably curious. They all were, though they tried not to show it.

He knew where this would lead as soon as he’d seen that look in her eyes when she’d first laid eyes on his coat and that necklace as he’d climbed down from his cart.

So did the dog.

It had taken a little longer than Stoker had expected.

She wanted that coat, and the necklace.

He smiled, seeing how intent she was upon that string of large, amber-colored, polished claws, shining in the firelight, now that she could more clearly see them outside of his tunic.

It was a tunic he had traded with them for, some weeks earlier, and that had been re-formed especially for him as they’d taken his measurements and made the changes to fit him.

He asked a simple question to get the ball rolling.

“What will you trade for this coat?”

That was all she needed to hear. She’d got the process started and would not easily stop now until she possessed that coat.

He’d read her mind from her body language, her silence, and the way she constantly looked at it and reached out to touch it.

Monique did not hesitate. She leapt to her feet, bringing things over to him from where her personal belongings were, at the side of the room in a large box.

She observed his expression each time she brought something else to add to the small pile, waiting for a look of satisfaction, which came only after she’d added four tokens, and then a spare one of her shaped wooden breastplates and back-guard to the pile, along with several of her finely woven tunics.

The breastplate was shaped for her alone, made of the strongest wood that broke some of their axes to get it…quebracho… and took hours to shape properly to exactly accommodate her breasts without chafing them.

Each token was good for a small barrel of wine from her family’s vineyard, which lay down by the shore of the inland sea, and was within the limits of their city.

He looked at the small pile of goods, stopping her from adding anything more, and then slowly passed two of the tokens back to her with a sigh, closing her hand around them.

He would not cheat her. She was paying an appropriate price.

That was another thing they knew about him. He traded fairly.

He passed her the coat, feeling the excitement of success as she hugged it to her face, snuggling into it.

She could make a smaller coat for herself out of this one, as well as a cover for her bed.

They were both satisfied with the trade. He had another bearskin coat under the seat of his cart which he could wear on his return to Saltash. With no meat in his carts, he would not be attacked so often on the return trip.

Two barrels of wine; that wooden armor made for a woman—more decorative than useful—and several tunics in exchange for his coat, had been a good deal. He had other coats just like it, and other claw necklaces too. He had many of them, but he had also paid a high price to get each of them.

“I have not seen one of these before, or one of those animals that it came from; a Mountain Bear.”

Its fur was warm where she now sat upon it, pushing her hands into the deep fur, liking the sensual feeling that crept over her. She would sleep, wrapped in that hide tonight, and each night after this.

It was a beginning, and the first time anything so personal had been negotiated between them like this.

He also promised to bring other coats each time he came; if they could meet his price.

They would meet his price. He would ensure they could.

That, was the art of being a trader, and what trading entailed; knowing what they could afford, and adjusting his price accordingly, to make sure that all parties were satisfied, and always left the table with something that they valued a little more highly than what they had given up.

He told her more about one of those bears.

“You should hope you never see one alive. They do not ever give up their hides easily, but fight to the death to keep them.”

There were barely glimpsed smiles, and the flutter of soft laughter from the dim reaches around the fire at the way he’d stated that.

That particular negotiation always resulted in death for one, and sometimes for both contestants.

The laughter startled his dog for a moment. The dog was not used to laughter, and got closer to Stoker. Life among Thorians was always a serious business, and laughter was a distraction.

Stoker did not believe he had said anything funny, so the laughter bemused him, as it did his dog, but they did not see what he saw, of the high price paid for each of those hides.

“There is a skeleton of one in the council chamber, and a stuffed one in Councillor Bradshaw’s quarters. I brought them, one of the times I came through when I had only a light load.”

Bradshaw had met his high price. Not arguing about it. She’d needed reminding that a Thorian warrior had killed those bears, and they reminded her of that, every day she saw them. That conscious thought kept her more careful of what she did.

Monique had not known that about the skeleton, or of the stuffed bear. She was rarely in council chambers, and only ever saw Bradshaw when the chief councillor gave one of her boring speeches or had something to complain about.

She would need to go and see them.

Stoker cradled his cup and sipped of the wine she’d given him to properly conclude that trade.

It was a good wine. One of the best he’d tasted, and it was another reason he never left Fenn without being fully loaded.

She could not let it rest with just the coat.

He’d known she wouldn’t. He’d counted on it, but what he started tonight, might not end well for any of them, even if it was a year away.

The necklace he was wearing had also captured her interest and was eating at her. He’d seen that interest even as he’d let her glimpse it on his neck as he’d arrived and had opened his coat, apparently without thinking about it.

These Fennians missed nothing.

He’d counted on that.

There was much more to his visit this time than he could explain to her. The storm outside, and the short hours of daylight at this time of year, also played into his plans. He could find some excuse to delay his departure until at least the next day. He could find some harness to repair, a loose rim to see to, or a horseshoe that needed to be re-set. They had a ‘Smithy’ that saw little use. It was time he made use of it and taught them a few things, but it had taken him almost three years to get to this point with them.

She kept the subject alive, searching for another opening.

“Have you seen one… alive? A Mountain Bear?”

He hesitated before he answered.

“Yes. Several.”

He must have been up into the mountains.

His entire audience... resting... but not sleeping, was now quiet, knowing where this would go next, waiting to see what Monique could get him to tell them. They had never had such an open conversation with this, or any other trader before, but the wine and the howling weather outside had brought them all closer together near the fire.

“Was that how you got those scars?” She pointed to his legs and arms, exposed now in the fire’s glow.

He shook his head as he swept his hands down his legs, feeling some of those scars. There were too many to remember when he’d got them.

“No. The scars on my legs are from other animals.”

The dog came over to him and leaned against his legs.

She caught the careful nuance of what he was saying… ‘the scars on my legs’.

What about the other scars? Those on his body?

She would not dare to ask. Yet.

“Is it allowed... for you to tell us of that?”

He found their sudden curiosity interesting, but he’d counted on it; invited it even.

“I can tell you of these scars.”

He could open up a little more.

“The only things I am forbidden to speak about are Thorians… at least, not in any detail… nor am I permitted to say anything about the other cities of women.” That was not entirely true, but he still needed to be careful what he told them.

Did he know something of the other cities? How could that be, if he traded solely with Fenn, and lived in Saltash? Though he also rubbed shoulders with Thorians. They, would have told him.

“I… and those like me, are not just, ‘traders’, which we do for two or three days each week. We are also farmers, cultivators; as well as having other skills.”

He didn’t go into those. That would invite even more questions.

“We are often called upon to defend our fields from the large animals that come out of the inland sea; those that come up the river, and others that follow the river down out of the Mountains, through Saltash.”

No one had ever spoken to them of those things before, but they had a crude map of the layout of where they lived, and its position relative to the other three cities around the sea.

They knew about the inland sea, of course, as it lapped their own lands and watered them. They had learned much more from Stoker on each of his visits as he’d let slip bits and pieces that they would not otherwise know.

Monique knew that Saltash, his home, was the second waystation between their city of Fenn, and next city of Silden.

Brough, was the third waystation, but she had not known that Thorians also frequented Saltash until he’d hinted at it.

So, he personally knew, Thorians?

She could scarce believe it, but she knew one thing about Stoker, in all of his dealings with them; he did not lie or try to mislead them. They also knew that if they showed him some hospitality; more than they were supposed to show, that he could be encouraged to tell them things, when the wine got to his tongue.

If they asked a direct question, he would answer it, directly… if he could.

This was not the first time that the name, ‘Thorian’, had entered their conversation that evening... though before that... never.

“The animals from the mountains and the forested lands beyond the wasteland, are mostly wild pigs, in small herds, and those animals that hunt them, drive them down from the mountains in difficult times, and follow them.

“They would destroy all of our labor, so we defend our crops by hunting them when they break our fences and invade our fields. I brought several of their carcasses in that shipment of meat.”

She knew about them.

“They have sharp tusks, and we hunt them mostly at night.

“They are vicious animals that move fast, and have tusks that can open a man up, from leg to chin (he indicated, with a motion of his hand) if he falls, but they are easily killed by those who know what they are doing.”

As he obviously must do.

She was determined to keep this conversation going, and she did not want to hear about hunting, or of pigs.

“You say that you have seen… Thorians?” She dared to ask, now that he had said that name without any obvious consequences.

He nodded. He even laughed at her difficulty using that name.

“Many times.”

One could have heard a spider, spinning its web.

Monique felt breathless.

“Can you tell me anything about them without breaking any law?” She fidgeted, knowing she was treading on dangerous ground.

She was still of an age where she could be chosen as a tribute in punishment, and she could be sent out of the city if she overstepped certain boundaries.

He would surely refuse to say anything about them, and she might get into trouble for asking.

However, she pushed on.

“Are they much bigger than you? Are they fierce?”

She waited to see what he would say. If he would say anything.

They waited, breathlessly, edging closer to the fire, sitting around it.

He wouldn’t report them. He was also breaking their laws by staying here with them as he was, and even trading personally with them like this.

There was other accommodation for those who needed to stay longer than usual, or he could sleep in a hammock in the same space as his horses as he had done once or twice, but the few times he’d stayed overnight because of the weather; the cold, he generally slept by their fire.

So many rules had been broken.

No one would ever know that, but them.

If he, Stoker, was only a ‘half man…?’ What must a Thorian male that could kill a mountain bear, be like, though she had seen illustrations of mountain bears in the books they all had access to, and those pictures gave no sense of size. They must be massive animals to produce a hide as big as this one.

She felt a certain reverence, at being allowed to possess it, and to sit upon it after a man had almost… may have… lost his life to get it.

He did not falter but told them what he dared.

“We... they, the Thorians, are not that much different from me. I am often assumed to be one, even though I am a trader!”

They were startled to hear that. But that had been only the latest of many such surprises for them that evening.

This was all news to her, and to them all.

She was not sure what a Thorian man looked like, having been isolated all of her life in the city, seeing only her own deficient men, and Yunks, until this ‘trader’ had appeared. And now he just told them that he was close enough to what a Thorian looked like?

They’d assumed he was a Yunk. Maybe he wasn’t. They began to look at him again with fresh interest, and to notice much more about him. What if... no, it could not be possible. Could it? They felt a momentary concern, though it soon passed.

He must be related in some way to Thorians, to look like one of them, but they would never dare ask that question.

He did not seem to want to say anything more than that, so Monique changed the direction again to what he might be encouraged to speak about.

“Tell me, please, about one of them killing a bear, and taking its claws. How is that done? It must be very dangerous.”

She could even see him, this man, doing that in her mind, with that axe, or that heavy sword of his, then that thought cleared again. It had been, for a moment, as though she had actually been there, and this man; Stoker, had been the one wielding that axe.

She began to feel alarmed at the picture painted in her brain, but that fear soon subsided as the picture cleared.

They learned later, that they had all seen that self-same image in their minds, but did not understand how that had been possible.

Had he ever killed a bear? It seemed like it. She had seen that thought. But that could not be. Yunks never encountered bears, and only Thorians were allowed to kill bears. She remembered that from something she had read.

But maybe he was not a Yunk! He looked very little like any of the Yunks she had ever seen. Though she had seen only one!

He sighed.

“I could tell you, but it is getting late.

“Another time, perhaps.”

She persisted gently, encouraging.

“It is not so late. Let me refill that cup.”

She was not prepared to let this conversation fade, and if it took more wine to persuade him…?

He had enjoyed their food and wine, and he was also warm.

They knew how to feed a man, and he welcomed the break from the violence and hardship outside of the city with such interesting company. It was not so late.

He could talk a little longer.

She refilled his cup.

It was doubtful he would be able to go anywhere tomorrow with the weather even worsening.

She persisted nicely, so he reluctantly gave in to her insistence.

He had brought this upon himself by letting her see that necklace, and to possess that coat, and had done so deliberately, so he should not mind. Besides, the wine was good.

This was going exactly as he’d intended.

The dog had tried to warn him, but Stoker seemed to know where this was going, and what he was doing. He was also curious to see how she would move this to where she wanted it to be. How people behaved and what motivated them were always interesting to him.