The Thorian Sagas. 1. The Trader.

Stoker walked slowly up into the city of Dorian from the dock as his ship returned to sea just as quickly as it had arrived, barely kissing the dock before it was gone again.

Some of the crew were standing by the ropes, dockside, to turn it loose and to get underway again as they reset their sails in preparation, even as Stoker stepped ashore.

They had been there no more than twenty seconds.

The crew knew that a storm was brewing, and they needed to be on the open water for that, where they could ride it out. The sky that morning had told its own tale. There were still red fingers of high cloud giving way to heavier clouds moving from the east and south.

The Dorians had looked for him coming, either by road, or by sea, watching for that first sign of him, when his dust trail could be seen, or when a sail had been seen in the distance, and bearing directly for them.

The one ship they saw each week, trading fish with them, had already left the day before, so they knew who this had to be.

Stoker put his dog down after carrying it off the ship with his belongings, and let it regain its land legs, glad to be off that leaky bucket, as the ship departed once more.

The captain knew enough not to be caught on a lee shore.

That voyage, even as relatively calm as it had been, had shaken his dog up. It did not like water.

Stoker watched the ship departing under modest sail, heading for the nearest sheltered port on one of the central islands as he re-shouldered his bulky pack and slung another, tightly tied bundle over his shoulder.

There was only one member of the council to greet him at the dock to utter the usual, empty words of welcome that he knew she did not feel. She was to be his escort through the city to the main gate and to make sure he did not deviate from his course. He knew why.

Stoker nodded his head in response, saying nothing, as his dog wandered freely, where he could not go.

They did not know his dog.

She let him know that only one tribute awaited him on this occasion, rather than the two he’d expected.

There were often such small aggravations like that; one of the few ways they had of fighting back. It didn’t matter. Juggling the numbers, however they did it, changed nothing

The other cities would make up the numbers this time, and if they didn’t, then Fenn would have to provide another tribute out of their thirty for the year, to make up for the shortfall. Ten tributes… no less than ten… had to go out from Fenn each month.

He always knew what would greet him; frightened young women who would never know what lay ahead of them, and he could not tell them anything about that, while they were in their own city.

However, he could tell them enough, once they’d left this place, to reassure them that they were not about to meet an early and violent end, as all of the tributes seemed to fear at first.

Two of them could comfort each other. One, wouldn’t find comfort in any of it.

Even before he met her, he felt sorry for her. It angered him that they would treat any young woman this way at such a difficult time.

The tributes were usually resigned to their fate by the time he arrived to pick them up. Each of them knew that the safety and future of their city and of the family they left behind, depended upon her, and of them fulfilling the requirements of that treaty, so they were ready to accept whatever happened to them. Even death.

He would meet her properly when she was turned over to him.

She, whoever she was, would see this massive, terrifying apparition with his scarred helmet, fully armed, and looking as though he was ready to take on the entire city if he had to.

And likely, succeeding.

His escort walked to his left side, and a little way behind him in deference. She knew enough not to interfere with his sword arm.

Wearing his trappings from the ship was the easiest way for Stoker to carry them. It also gave him an immense psychological advantage, as he knew and intended. Most of those in the city scurried out of his way. He knew that their women warriors were not far away, watching him, while ignoring his dog.

He would change his appearance again, once they’d set out from the city. He could dispense with most of his weapons, his leather guards, and his body protection once they were out of sight of the Dorians.

They had a light carriage and good horses ready for them, already waiting even then; they were being led out of their gates. This was the only time any of these women dared to leave their city… when he was here… helping him. They knew he would not be here long.

He would inspect the carriage and horses later, just before he set out, but he could see that it was the carriage that they usually provided him with. They could cover the ground fast in that, provided the road did not become waterlogged, as it seemed likely to do when the heavens opened.

The carriage could be covered with a light canopy to keep the worst of the weather out, but it would be a cold and uncomfortable ride without the sun, and he would be exposed.

He tossed his pack and the other bundle into the carriage, as well as suggesting that they put up the canopy while he concluded his business in the city.

As an afterthought, he threw his helmet in with the rest of his things. He didn’t need it here.

His close-cropped hair and piercing eyes, with those scars on his head, were more intimidating even than his battered helmet. He was in no danger here, or even outside of their city.

They felt his contempt for them.

All he carried with him from that boat, were his weapons and those things he’d left in the carriage. They had to let him into their city exactly as he chose to be, coming off that ship, knowing enough not to challenge his right to do so, and to invite trouble. He was there for the tributes.

The moment he entered their city, he began to take on responsibility for them… for her, that 'one', on this occasion.

Another bundle had preceded him as it did each month; other clothing, for if the weather did not co-operate. That had also been in that carriage, ready for him. No one had dared tamper with it. He knew his own knots and how tight he had made them.

He never remained more than ten minutes in Dorian; just long enough to, grab a bite to eat (also part of the formal process; a peace offering and a surrender to his authority. He’d already had breakfast on the ship), meet the tributes, sign for them; at which point he took on total responsibility for their safety, and to escort them out of the city to the carriage, and leave.

The tributes always sat quietly on that journey, and sometimes tried to sleep, despite the pace he coaxed from the horses, knowing how far he still had to go.

There was a change of horses at every waystation.

The young women usually became relaxed enough after a few hours of being jounced around, to observe the countryside flashing by them, and changing as they approached the next waystation.

He usually broke their journey at each stop for something to eat and drink before going on, but it took at least a full day, sometimes even two, between each of the cities, so he needed to stop for them to eat and to rest. He never left them alone. Others changed the horses or waited, until he told them when they would be leaving.

Sometimes, they were delayed enough that they needed to sleep in one or other of those waystations or even in the next city, though he tried not to do that.

The tributes were entrusted to his care alone, and he took that trust, seriously.

The cities were always well prepared for this time, and knew within an hour or two, when he would arrive, having seen his sails far out to sea.

As he expected, the lone tribute was waiting for him, just inside the city, having been warned of his coming.

She had a light bundle of personal things that she would need over the few days of their journey.

He felt sorry for her, being alone like an abandoned waif; terrified, wondering what awaited her now.

He met with the Dorian council, who had responsibility for passing her over to him. As he did that, he sensed the young woman watching him, looking him over; knowing from her tense body language what she was thinking. She was trying to slow her heart down and to control her fear.

He would be the first Thorian she had ever seen.

She would never have seen a man like him before, and she would be terrified of what awaited her. He felt sorry for her, but he would say nothing to those sending her out with him. He itched to reach out and take the older council woman by the throat and crush the life out of her for sending this young woman out, and alone.

The tributes from each city, were usually nervous, and needed each other. They had all been told the same old tales and pack of lies, of what their fate was to be.

If only they really knew!

He looked the document over; glanced at the young woman… Erianne, was her name—an interesting name—signed for her, and then turned to leave.

He picked up the basket of food and drink provided for her and looked at her… holding his hand out for her to take. This was the first time he had ever needed to do so. They usually held onto each other in fear, and followed him, but not this time.

She did not shrink from him but stood proudly. She had been told what was expected of her. Her small hand, small, but very warm, was lost in his. He handled it as carefully as he would have tended to a new-born, baby bird.

Stoker turned for a moment, paused, glared directly at the older woman, causing her heart to fall to the bottom of her stomach. She had never seen such animosity in any glance like that before; or felt it.

It was as though he had burrowed inside her head and taken charge of her mind. She felt his sword-point, figuratively pricking at her throat, even though he was fifty feet away from her. She could hear his unspoken words in her tortured mind.

’There shall be never any less than two tributes leave this City each month. Remember. Never less than two.’

Her legs would no longer hold her. She sank to the ground in a faint; her nose, bleeding. Everyone saw what had happened. Few understood it. His message had been received and understood. It was something she would never forget for as long as she lived.

He turned away and continued with his charge to the carriage, careful that his heavy sword did not bump against her.

He felt her pull at his hand, to slow him, but without pulling her hand from his, which she could easily have done.

“Please, would you wait for a moment?”

He paused in mid-stride, wondering at her difficulty.

“May I…?”

She was asking his permission, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes, and then across to the city gate they were just leaving, seeing someone over there she knew.

He turned again, seeing an older woman; older, but still young, crying, just inside the gate, separate from the others, and reaching out to her.

Her mother or an older sister.

He nodded. “Yes. You may.” He spoke gently and with consideration.

He felt her hand leave his, but she had waited for that permission.

Stoker watched his charge run over to that older woman and throw herself into her arms.

He did not need to rush away at this very moment.

This was not what they expected of him. They thought he would have continued to drag her to his carriage like any heartless conqueror, and leave without a second’s hesitation; without a moment’s thought.

He considered for only a moment, placed those other things he carried into the carriage, lifted his dog up too, and then delved into his pocket, taking out one of the two items he had in there before walking over to the older woman. He stood by, patiently, as the two of them; mother and daughter, bade their tearful farewells to each other.

When Erianne stepped away, their finger ends still touching, Stoker held out his hand to her mother, saying nothing that anyone else could hear, and with his back to all others. He leaned in and spoke to her as he looked into her eyes, smiling, where he had not smiled before at those councillors, or at anyone.

“Ma’am. She will be safe with me from this moment forward. I promise you that. Do not worry for her.”

He pressed an item into her hand as both of his hands closed over hers.

“Keep this close to you at all times. Wear it. Tell no one.”

Erianne reached out and was the one who took his hand this time. She was the one to lead him across to the carriage, where he lifted her up into it with him looking back fleetingly at the older woman once more, and with a far different look in his eyes.

She’d reminded him of his own mother from what he’d seen in her mind in that one, brief moment of contact between them. But she had also seen into his mind too. He had allowed her that one vision of who and what he was.

She would rest better after that.