Misflitch: Tales of Balia

By Jill Penrod

For generations two peoples have fought over the mountains of Thanador.  The native Tarra'ans hate the recent arrivals, the Contolte, and eventually that hatred turns to war.  Yaotl and Jensen, though, are a Tarra'an and a Contolte who live as brothers.  Yearning to stay together , they find no safe place where both can be welcomed.

Frorn across the great water, Nadia is a missioner from the clinic who is able to walk outside the battle. When her path crosses that of the two men, and one of them is injured, they decide to escape down the burning, warring mountain together.  She leads them to a Tarra'an village that claims to love TrueGod and promises to protect both the men, but some hatred takes time to fade, and before long staying in  the village is almost as dangerous to the trio as  setting off alone.

But they also find allies and friends, even a little forbidden romance, and when the evil  of the war threatens to destroy the whole mountain, love and friendship may be the only things to save any of  them, Tarra'an and Contolte alike.

Visit new lands in this installment of the Tales of Balia, the Christian historical fantasy/romance series that takes readers across lush landscapes and into rich cultures as the deity TrueGod seeks lost and broken people, healing hearts and lives while he calls them home.  Readable in any order, grab a Balia book and enter a new world today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jill Penrod
• Release date: Dec 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502248770

Jill Penrod

Jill Penrod wrote her first novel in high school. It was a space opera (she watched Star Wars A LOT), and it was not great literature. But she persevered, graduating college with top honors in writing. Since then, she’s published more than thirty novels. She writes in several  genres including Christian teen romance, sweet romance, Christian fantasy stories, and non-fiction. None of them are space operas. Jill lives in Kentucky with her husband and youngest son. She has three adult children out there doing adult things like work and marriage. When she isn’t writing, she gardens and spoils her long-haired Chihuahua Sparrow, along with a few other cats and dogs. Recently she fulfilled her dream of moving to the country, although it has yet to be seen if this city mouse can become a country mouse or not.  

Book preview

Chapter One

WINTERS IN THE MOUNTAINS of Thanador are ushered in by storms. For weeks life in the mountain villages becomes a matter of survival and nothing else as we try to keep our homes from blowing down and our animals from drowning. It has been this way for my whole life, and it will continue this way as long as Balia exists. Although nobody looks forward to fall, everyone feels greatly victorious when it’s over, and when winter comes, gentle in comparison, everyone fills with joy and exuberance about life.

My thirtieth winter was different. Everyone remembers that year, when we wondered if TrueGod meant to destroy us. And strangely enough, it had nothing to do with the weather, which was unusually calm. No, the rest of life was a storm, and while most remember it with a shudder, I remember it almost fondly. At the time I didn’t see, of course, but it was the most important fall of my life. Instead of being the year TrueGod tried to destroy me, it was the year I realized just how far TrueGod would go to heal and woo me. I was going nowhere before that fall, and since then, I’ve known my place and purpose without fail.

Like most events of the sort, it started out calmly enough, never giving me a hint of where it would take me. It began like every fall, with me on a horse, riding through the mountain pastures with a cat.

Charolet, I called, and the large tabby meowed and stopped, looking back at me impatiently. For two days he’d ridden angrily on the back of my horse, sulking at being forced to travel, and now that I was slowing down, both of us off the horse so I could examine the fields, he wanted to run ahead. I straightened my skirts and laughed as he ignored me. Charolet, come back here.

I didn’t really worry, for he always returned. For five years he’d been my companion on my autumn journeys, and although he hated the horse, he seemed to enjoy the freedom here. Or perhaps mountain mice were tastier than their lowland cousins.

Turning, I looked at the trail before me, keeping track of anything different this year from last. Last spring had been especially mild, so I found most paths still passable. Since I’d only had to carve away a single tree so far to clear the western sheep path, I was ahead of schedule. I didn’t hurry, in no rush to finish.

Although I’d lived in the convent for my entire adult life, I had never quite learned the skill of living with people. Some felt I was too sensitive, and others claimed I was too hard. Regardless, I wasn’t comfortable in the groups, but I loved the mountains and the sheep. Long ago I’d volunteered for this job of scouting the highland pastures before the autumn storms, and I’d done it ever since. Where most dreaded the stormy season, I loved it, for I could be outside tending the animals with no reason to feel guilty for spending so much time alone.

I sighed as we entered the first pasture, Haven’s Field, for this was my favorite of the mountain grazing lands. Here the small herd of Thanador sheep would winter, and I hoped I was chosen for that job. The pasture was narrow, with tall auburn cliffs flanking three sides. Bright red and green vines climbed the walls, almost hiding the low, deep overhang to the north that would shelter the sheep during the worst of the weather. Enclosed as it was, the winter winds were minimal here, and I loved to watch the cliff hawks that nested on the walls and soared over the fields during the short winter days.

I walked along the wall, looking up and around for dangers. The stony cliffs seemed secure, and no new exits had been formed by rain or ice. Charolet dashed past me to the overhang, perhaps remembering wintering here last year, and I ducked in behind him. Most of this area had a high enough ceiling for me to stand, and I walked to the back. Because it wasn’t an enclosed cave, it was fairly light, and here in the back it stayed warmer than the outside winter air. Right now it was barely autumn, so the back of the cavern felt chilly, but during the coldest days, this would feel like a haven of warm air.

Assessing pastures and caverns no longer took all of my concentration, and my mind wandered as I worked. I returned to my earlier thoughts, glad this season was here again. I didn’t like that about me, my preference for isolation over people. I lived in a convent, where our mission was to bring TrueGod to the villagers in Thanador, and yet I’d never been filled with enough compassion for them. People upset me and hurt my feelings. I couldn’t overlook the harsh words or disapproving scowls of others, and it seemed sometimes that nothing I did elicited anything but disapproval. When I was below, I worked at being invisible, hoping to avoid conflict. Up here, though, I could have any opinion I wanted. I could be passionate or joyful or weep with abandon, and only Charolet and the sheep knew it. I was naked here before TrueGod, and these few weeks would refresh my soul before I had to return to my work below.

We’d left a sack of grain at the back of the overhang last spring, and Charolet spent a long time chasing mice from around it while I wandered back outside. The next pasture was a good way to the west, farther around the mountain but no higher. Known as Patter’s Field, it was the largest of the highland wintering lands. Martal would bring his oxen to the field, for of all the beasts, those seemed the least hardy in the autumn winds. Often the days of rain left them sick, but up here where it was drier and colder, the giant animals thrived, and Patter’s had both the mountainside to slow the winds and the size needed for the large herd.

Come, Charolet, I said, and I took Antona’s reins and walked the final few yards around the pasture. The cat didn’t come, and I smiled, knowing I would have to carry him out. He wasn’t happy to be lifted away from the bag filled with mice, but I plunked him onto the back of the horse and mounted behind him. Silently we rode through the narrow passes into the forest and then toward the next field.

The sky had been darkening behind me, and when we got to Patter’s Field, the hail began. Charolet pushed closer to me, and I sped the horse to this field’s shelter, another stone overhang. As the field was bigger, so was its shelter area, and the horse easily fit and began to wander, eyeing the hail with distrust. I sighed in frustration and watched it fall, hoping it wouldn’t last long.

The hail was loud, and the ice balls grew from the size of acorns to nearly the size of Charolet’s head. I’d never seen hail of such size, and apparently neither had my animal companions, for they pushed close to me until the horse almost knocked me down. I walked to the back of the overhang, as far as I could get before it was too low for the horse, and I rubbed her flank and spoke calming words, hoping this wouldn’t last long.

It’s okay, Antona, I said, stroking her soft hide. In her fear she pressed against me, and I stumbled and held her neck. Only when I spoke into her ear did she calm, trembling as the ice outside hit the ground in a deafening clatter.

Fortunately it stopped quickly, and as the sound died away, the animals calmed. I walked to the overhang’s edge, surprised at the depth of the ice, and I wondered how long we had stood here. Many people had told me I had no internal reckoning of time, and I believed it, for the ice nearly reached my knees, so it must have fallen longer than I thought. I walked back to the animals and sat down, thinking we’d be here for some time. I didn’t want to brush out a path through the hailstones, and I also didn’t want Antona walking on them, so we would wait.

The horse calmed with the end of the storm, and Charolet found another bit of mouse-infested grain, so they were both satisfied. I pulled a dried travel cake from the saddlebag and sat near the cave entrance, watching the sky and the land. Gray clouds blew quickly to the east, and I wondered if we would have trouble getting to the next field, which was where I’d spent my winter three years ago. It was my least favorite of the fall fields, called Ashter’s Doom. Although it had breathtaking mountain views, it was a hard place to watch animals, for there were many cliffs over which they could fall. We added lengths of low stone walls every year, but still the animals needed constant watching, for they had great skills for finding open areas.

Although it was early autumn and still quite warm, it appeared the hail would take hours to melt, so I finished my snack and began to kick a path through the ice, leading Antona. Charolet walked a few steps into the ice and then meowed for help. For once he seemed content to sit upon the horse, watching in concern as I led them through the wide pasture to the Doom.

We entered a forest at the pasture’s edge, the trees sporting green and yellow leaves with a few bright red torren trees brightly hovering above the rest. Here the hail thinned, and we walked up to the higher lands, where it hadn’t fallen at all. When we entered the Doom, it was late, the sky dimming, and I rode Antona to the shelter and took off the saddlebag containing my cookpot and dried meat.

This was the only field without a natural overhang, so only the highland sheep could winter here. Several pens surrounded a small wooden building, and I put the horse in one pen and then walked to the fire pit outside the little house. Tonight Charolet and I would sleep indoors, possibly for the last time this season.

While I waited for the fire to burn down, I wandered across the pasture to inspect the wall, the sun setting behind the distant peaks. Thanador was a huge mountain chain, and from here I could see six distinct peaks as well as many smaller ridges and hills between them. The sun behind framed them in oranges and yellows and deep purples, the huge green moon catching this light from near the horizon while the red sister moon sat well overhead. I looked at it and sighed. I wished I could capture the skies with paint like my friend Angelina, but I had no talents of that sort, so I just looked and hoped to remember every perfect sunset, every sunrise and river and stone. Nothing moved my spirit like the world TrueGod had made, and as it grew darker and the sky filled with stars, I sighed, completely content.

I would look carefully in the morning when the sky was light again, but a quick scan said the stone wall at the cliffsides was intact, and I had to grin at the new section. Someone had been busy here last winter, for the wall was half again the height it had been during my last scouting. Herding here would be much easier than when I’d watched three winters ago, and although I still didn’t want this job, I had to admit it wouldn’t be so bad if I got it.

I picked herbs on my walk back to the fire and even found a few ripe synco roots to add to my meal. I cooked the dried meats and roots into a thick stew, and when my belly was full and warm, I climbed under my blankets on a little cot in the house. The room held four cots with little space for anything else, although a few tools had been stored in one corner over the summer. Charolet walked around the tiny room three times, meowed once, and then lay down at my feet, apparently pleased with our accommodations. He purred until he slept soundly, and I thanked TrueGod for our day and the season and slept soundly as well.

THE NEXT DAY FOUND US AT THE WALL AGAIN, and I was surprised as I looked across the landscape, for two small villages lay on the river that flowed far below. I didn’t remember either of them, but many tiny structures and a few square fields assured me people were now below. I saw no new roads, and I wondered if they were Contolte or Tarra’an. Although I couldn’t tell distance from so far, I thought the villages were distant from one another, with an outcrop of stone between them, so they could also be one of each. But, since both had been built so quickly with such straight fields, I suspected they were Contolte. I knew many tiny Tarra’an villages weren’t far, back in the forests where I couldn’t see them, and I assumed they weren’t at all happy to have the Contolte move so close to their river. Smoke came from both villages, so I knew they were in use, not just temporary summer holdings for livestock.

I didn’t pay much attention to the tensions between the peoples in the area, especially now that I was here in the mountains. The Contolte had come five generations ago, and they’d antagonized the native Tarra’ans from the beginning. But the Tarra’ans hadn’t been innocent, either, attacking Contolte and burning fields and causing trouble of their own, when the original Contolte settlers had done them no harm. As our convent aided both peoples, I managed to remain neutral and didn’t give much thought to any of them. I cared for them as individual people, but I had little knowledge of their cultures as a whole and purposely kept my knowledge of the politics limited.

We didn’t stay in the Doom for long, moving back toward Patter’s Field and then into Fletcher’s Pass. This was a long, slender field of rich grasses. I’d stayed here three different autumns with the horses, and it was a good job. The long pass gave the animals a place to run, and they loved to chase one another up and back, their manes sailing behind them while they snorted their pleasure at the race. During the rest of the year the animals worked hard for us, hauling people and cargo, but for the weeks of the storms they never wore bit and bridle. They raced and whinnied and enjoyed life in a way I could only envy. TrueGod had given them a love of life that often made me cry when I was in this field with them, to the point where I begged not to have the job. Grante didn’t understand why I wanted to be so far from something that brought me such joy to see, and I’d struggled to explain it. But, since I’d asked not to come here, he’d complied, and I spent most of my winters in Haven’s Field and the Acropola.

Charolet didn’t seem to like Fletcher’s, and he remained on Antona’s back with me. I didn’t spend much time here, as it was easy to view and inspect in one pass. It had a man-made shelter along one edge, heavy wooden pens with roofs as well as a small sleeping building, using the natural overhang for one side, and I checked these, pleased to find all as it should be. I didn’t let Charolet down, so he meowed angrily the entire time I looked over structures, likely expecting to find more grain and mice, but I didn’t want to waste time chasing him, because I planned to get to Acropola long before lunch.

Acropola was a large field at the far end of Fletcher’s Pass, and it had amazing views of the deep valley below. From here I could see two Tarra’an villages halfway down the mountainside as well as a Contolte estate in the distance, although the sheer cliffs made it almost impossible to reach either one without returning to the far side of the mountain and winding down the dirt paths. Because of this, we never made contact with either of these settlements. We treated people from many villages on the other sides of the mountain, but these two remained a mystery. Sometimes I watched the villages and wondered what happened within them, imagining entire populations of people and their dramas to pass the time.

Just at the edge of the pass, nearly to the Acropola, I was startled to find a small tent. I stopped Antona and slid off her back, wondering who might be up here on the mountain. Glancing around, I realized the tent was alone, although I couldn’t see far into the Acropola from here. Perhaps more tents were in the large pasture. There was little to hunt up here, but possibly a small village had come to farm since last winter.

I wasn’t sure what to do next. I was here to explore and prepare the way for our livestock, so I knew I had to investigate this tent. But never had my explorations included dealing with strangers, and my chest tightened at the idea.

Okay, TrueGod, I whispered. Make this go well, as I would hate to faint from fear before I get to the tent door.

Charolet meowed at me, for in my fear I’d been squeezing him. I put him down, and he shook and looked at me in irritation, licking the fur across his back to straighten it. I took a deep breath and walked to the tent, quietly calling for an audience with any inside.

Almost immediately the flap slipped aside, and a man peered at me, his hand against his forehead to cut the glare. I took a step back, for his tunic was covered in blood, and he sighed in relief and shook his head.

You’re not Tarra’an, he said. For a moment I didn’t know how to respond, because he was Tarra’an, although he spoke with the most perfect Contolte accent I’d ever heard. I’m not sure what you are, so that must mean you’re a medic from the mountain?

I am, I said. Well, I live with them. I’m not much of a medic myself. I mostly help with the animals and the kitchen.

He sighed and leaned back on his heels, glancing into the darkness of his tent. I need a medic.

You’re injured? I asked. I had so many questions on my tongue I didn’t know where to begin, so I tried to focus on the most immediate needs. Illness and injury made some sort of sense to me, more than a strange Tarra’an in a lone tent on my mountain.

No. My friend was injured, and I didn’t know where to go. I can’t, I don’t... I have no way to help him. He helps me, but I can’t help him out there now, not being who I am.

This made little sense to me, but I knew the man was upset and needed my help. I dropped to my knees and peeked into the tent, and the man moved back so I could see. I expected another Tarra’an, of course, but the man who lay on a thin blanket on the floor of the tent wasn’t Tarra’an at all. No, for some inexplicable reason, this Tarra’an man was trying to heal a Contolte.

What? the man asked, his voice edging toward anger. You don’t like Contolte? I heard the medics on the mountains helped both peoples.

We do, I said quickly. We treat anyone. It doesn’t matter if he’s Contolte or not.

The man nodded and gestured toward the unconscious man in the tent. There was a battle. I don’t know if it reached your side of the mountain or not, but it... I... the man shrugged and took another breath. They want the Contolte dead. They wanted him dead, especially. I spend my time with the animals, too, and I don’t know how to heal him.

I put my hand on the dark man’s shoulder, and he inhaled deeply, shaking his head.

Can you tell me of his injuries? I asked.

Knife, two wounds. One high on his leg, almost his hip, and one low on his belly. They bleed. I can’t make them stop, not completely.

And when was he wounded?

The man closed his eyes, and I wondered if he had any sense of time right now at all. He might not have injuries, but whatever he’d endured had clearly hurt him. Ah, yesterday. Yesterday early? No, two days ago. I know to give him broth, and I had dried meat with me. Water and broth. I tie the wounds and let them bleed so he won’t lose the leg, but if his loses his life, who cares about the leg?

I nodded. Sounds like you’ve done the right things. Do you have horses?

Yes.

Let me look at the wounds; I’ve tended wounds of the sort. And then we can go down the mountain to the mission and get him help.

But the battle, the man said. It’s everywhere. There won’t be anything left.

There are no battles on our side of the mountain, I said firmly, although of course I had no idea if this was true.

The man secured the flap open so I could better see, and I crawled closer. I thought the injured man wasn’t conscious, but I was wrong. He gazed at me with tired, reddened eyes, and I smiled, hoping to calm him.

I’m Nadia, I said, moving the blanket aside so I could look at his injuries. Can you tell me your name?

He shook his head and cleared his throat. Jensen.

I’m going to look at your wounds, Jensen. I’ll try not to hurt you.

He nodded, gripping the blanket in anticipation of pain. I pulled aside the dressing from the stomach wound, and gently I touched the skin around it to determine swelling. This wound no longer bled, but it swelled and felt warm to the touch, and I wasn’t comfortable with that. Moving him would cause him great pain.

Once I covered that wound, I moved to his hip. He wore no clothing beneath the blanket, but I kept him covered and pulled off the dressing as gingerly as possible. This one was deeper, the edges dull and torn, and it seeped, but nothing like I’d expected. Both wounds could use stitches, which was something I could do. I didn’t like it, but I did it, especially when Tarra’ans came to us filled with wounds from their many territorial squabbles.

It’s not as bad as I feared, Jensen, I said, smiling at him. I have the supplies to stitch the wounds, and I will do that. Is that acceptable?

Yes, he said. He lifted his head and looked out the door flap. Yaotl?

I’m here, his friend said from outside somewhere. In a moment his dark head poked through the door. What do you need?

Jensen shook his head, lying flat again. I don’t know. I, ah, maybe I...don’t know.

Yaotl smiled. You don’t need to know anything right now, Jensen. You just rest. We will care for you, yes?

Okay, Jensen said, closing his eyes. The men, Yaotl. The estate. Who will care for them? I need to return.

Yaotl squeezed his eyes closed and ran his hand over them. Ah, there’s time for that later, my friend. You need to recover, and now we have help. Don’t think of anything beyond that.

I backed out of the tent and sat at the entrancet, looking at Yaotl. His speech was perfect, as though he’d spoken Contolte his entire life. His hair was dark, as was his coloring, but his face was different, his cheeks wider than most Tarra’an, likely from a more distant tribe. I wondered if distant Contolte and Tarra’an normally became friends, for it certainly never happened nearby.

You can help him? Yaotl asked.

I will stitch the wounds. We need him out here where it’s light. I think he can’t move yet, for the stomach wound swells, and the pain will grow if he rides down the mountain.

Yaotl winced. You said you couldn’t care for him here.

Cleaning and stitching wounds may help us get down the hill. I’ve seen worse wounds in Tarra’an territory battles.

Yaotl nodded, but his face had gone still and dark at the mention of Tarra’ans. I can move him so he’s in the light.

I nodded, thinking somehow I’d offended him, but I had no idea what I’d done. I decided to ignore my thoughts on this and focus on his friend. Right now that was more important than figuring out anything about this strange Tarra’an man.

Yaotl moved Jensen to a blanket in the sun, and I stitched the wounds and filled them with powder to slow infection. Although I didn’t want to tell Yaotl this, the stomach wound concerned me, red and swollen, the skin warmer than it should be. But there was nothing else I could do here, and I knew we would never get him down the mountain on his horse in his current condition, so I simply stitched and kept my silence.

When I finished, Jensen was sweating with pain and fear, and I covered him with both the men’s blankets as well as my own. Yaotl had made a fire, and I sat before it and took a few deep breaths, tired from the intricate work of the day. The Tarra’an sat at his friend’s side, where they spoke in quiet tones, and then he came to sit at my side at the fire.

Well? Yaotl asked quietly.

I don’t know, I said with a shrug. The wound to the stomach bothers me. I fear infection. But I don’t know how to take him down the mountain without opening the wounds farther. I don’t know if he could even keep his seat in such pain. How did you get here?

Yaotl wrung his hands a moment, gazing into the fire. I thought he might not answer, but he took a deep breath and spoke. I was afraid. The estate was burning, and men were dead all around us. They wanted Jensen dead, too. We never come up the mountain. We have everything we need in the valley, so there are few paths, but the deer and goats leave narrow paths, and I followed them, no idea where we might end up but assuming nobody would follow since nobody in the valley bothers with the mountain. I put him on the horse and ignored everything you just mentioned—I knew he was hurting, and he struggled to stay upright, and I probably made things worse for him, but I just... He sighed. I was so afraid for us. Both of us. He fought for them, loved them, and some of them, just a few, turned on him. How could they ever...?

He stopped speaking and leaned forward, his forehead in his hands. I wanted to ask him to explain, but I wasn’t sure it was my place. I had no idea how to behave with these men. In a moment he turned to me, and in another moment he smiled.

You’re remarkably quiet for a woman. Do we frighten you?

I smiled, not expecting this statement. Not exactly. You notice I’m here with a horse and a cat. I’ve never quite perfected the skill of being with people.

Yaotl chuckled. Same with me. Partially because I had no choice, but mostly because I prefer it, I’ve spent most of my life in outer fields with animals. Alpacas and curly goats, mostly.

So your estate sold fiber, I said.

Among other things. In truth, breeding animals for their hair was my idea, and Jensen just agreed because he was my friend. He said I made more money on the venture than he expected, but it still wasn’t much.

Is he the estate lord? I asked, thinking I’d never seen an estate lord so young. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought both men were about my age, and most estate lords were old enough to have graying hair.

His father turned it over to him two years ago, Yaotl said, and I heard pride in his voice. Jensen is a good leader. His men... Well, I guess that isn’t entirely true. I thought his men loved him, both the Contolte and the Tarra’an. He didn’t keep slaves, Nadia. Never. He paid his workers, and Contolte and Tarra’an made the same wages. But when the world started to burn, some of his Tarra’an employees turned out to be the savages Contolte expect. They joined right in without a thought and tried to kill the best manor lord in the west.

Yaotl closed his mouth, and I got the feeling he felt he’d said too much. Without a sound he stood and put another log on the fire, and then he walked to the horses tethered at the edge of the pasture and began to work with them. I turned my attention back to Jensen, who moaned, possibly in a nightmare. I put my hand on his forehead, glad to feel him cooling, and then I rested my fingers on his arm, wishing I could do something for his pain. I’d hurt him greatly while stitching, but he’d held still, only hissing through