Legend of the Storm Hawks (Rootstock Saga Book 1)

By L.H. Leonard

Someday soon, your world will end. Ending is not as final as it sounds. Our world has ended before. When it does, be patient. Those of your time will linger and watch new cycles unfold. Some will walk this spinning blue rock again. A few will shape its destiny.

Feel good fantasy for grownups. McCaffrey's mind-magic meets Martin's scheming and intrigue. Less grimdark. More magical realism. Even elves and dragons can evolve from the tropes. Nenes and kazera are more like us than not in this prelude to the Rootstock Saga, a sweeping tale of evolution and survival that asks, "What could you become, if becoming what you feared most were the only way to survive?"

A master player convinces the pawn the move is its own. Nigel has been at the game longer than most, but lately the pawns keep turning into rogue knights. It’s damned inconvenient of them, considering the world is about to end again.

The Watchers will soon declare this cycle over, as they have so many cycles before, shrugging off yet another rise and fall of humankind, and giving the dragons another turn at dominion.

Brynmohr is King of the Firstborn, and Twelvestones is the last bastion of a once-mighty nene dynasty. As the first people to walk the earth, the Firstborn consider it their birthright to rule over mankind. Half-breeds between their kinds are always sterile, but the daughters born of Brynmohr’s irrational affection for a woman are defying the Patterns.

Sethlyan and Isobel are unaware they’re expendable pawns in an increasingly complex game. Seth is the second son of the Second of Aleron. He’s tired of hearing rumors he and his friends are the prophesied Storm Hawks, destined to free Rhynn from centuries of oppression. He knows better. So does the Other, the voice only he can hear.

Isobel survived the Beast of Monaughty. Her father is dead, but his brutality haunts her. When her brother, the Rhi’Iverach, forges an alliance with the Hawks of Aleron, Isobel finds herself promised to a stranger named Sethlyan.

Her trust is hard to earn. His is hard to give.

A deadly attack leaves them with a telepathic bond neither wants, and awakens mindgifts they struggle to accept. When rebellion brings Nigel and his charges to the precipice of war, they must choose between hiding their secrets or wielding their mindgifts, fighting their oppressors or sacrificing freedom for peace.

Legend of the Storm Hawks is the introduction to the Rootstock Saga. The complete series of four novels will be released by July 2020. Set on a future Earth, our own history echoes from the shadows. In a tale of evolution and survival, adversity awakens magic. Science meets fantasy in the awakening of psychic and psionic abilities. Not a light read, it's serious fantasy for serious fantasy fans. Rich world-building. Memorable and relatable characters, none entirely good or evil. Complex relationship dynamics between friends, families, and lovers. Mature themes of bigotry, abuse, theocracy, gender roles, climate change, and temptations of power and privilege. Intricately interwoven plots converge in a long, rewarding end game.

"Epic fantasy with stunning world-building, dramatic characterization, a suspenseful and surprising plot, and a strong thread of fantastical elements.” (Readers’ Favorite)

“A sweeping epic... satisfyingly well-detailed... realistic, involving, and thoroughly riveting.” (D.Donovan, Midwest Book Review)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Each Voice Publishing
• Release date: Jan 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9780989210546

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Foreword

Gentle Reader,

Someday soon, your world will end.

Ending is not as final as it sounds. Our world has ended before. At least this time, the end will be a quick one.

When it comes, be patient. Those of your time will linger and watch new cycles unfold. Some will walk this spinning blue rock again. A few will shape its destiny.

Rootstock Saga chronicles the events that will forge us, and we join the tale in the year 4399, Wodari Calendar, Earth Cycle Five.

This is your story.

Regards,

Nigel

Map of Innis

Chapter 1

Fehan

~

Nigel Willoughby

Eyton’s Fork, Aleron

Tremoon, 4399

Nigel narrowed his eyes to a thin slit. As an old drunk slouched in a chair, he drew as little notice as the broom propped in the corner. He leaned back his head, and the wall pushed his tweed cap down his brow.

Bounty hunters crowded around a table near the fireplace, rough men as hard as flint but not as sharp. Wedged between them, the spindly youth with a hefty price on his head sullenly poked at a bowl of stew.

Nigel scanned the tavern again and sent a glance up the stairs. The patterns wouldn’t so much as quiver if he got up and walked out, but he owed a debt to a good man. A dead man. Paying that debt could wait until the bountymen had downed a few more mugs.

As he settled back to bide his time, the tavern door sprang open. Crisp winter sunlight sliced through the tavern’s smoky haze. A distraction came striding in, carrying the brash and breezy sound of young men not yet blunted by life. Three young bucks scraped back empty chairs at Nigel’s table, paying the old drunk no heed.

Rhynn nobles, Nigel gauged from their tall boots and weaponry. Hawks of Aleron, declared the breclans beneath cloaks they shed in the tavern’s warmth. Nigel noted the clan sigils in passing interest. Callan, Gruder, and Buchanan. The last to sit was the first to speak.

A round, Livvy, the young Callan called out, his smile fading with a glance the bountymen’s way. It’s Fehan, all right.

The tavern and the village surrounding it were little more than a traveler’s stop on Falkender Road, but the land beneath it belonged to the Callans, and that put it under their protection.

Fehan Elliott has a bounty on his head? That can’t be right, said the dark-haired Gruder.

What’s Fee gotten himself into now? said the Buchanan, of average size for a plow horse, but conspicuously large for a man. He shouldered between his companions with the apologetic restraint of one accustomed to fitting his bulk into an undersized world and wishing it wouldn’t cower like that.

He must be in a right bad mess to get a waiver from your father, said the Gruder.

It was an understandable assumption, but no lord in Aleron had waived jurisdiction in the matter. Few could even be aware of the travesty yet.

Da didn’t give any waivers. He wouldn’t, said the Callan. He had a robustness that stopped short of brawn and a boyish face. Only the eyes merited a second glance. Pale grey and watchful, the eyes belonged on someone older and wiser.

Too many of them to be here justly, he said. This has to be a nab and run.

When the proprietor sidled up with their cups, the Callan drew her closer and nuzzled her ear.

A friend of ours is here, Livvy, he whispered. We don’t like the company he’s keeping.

Can’t say as I blame ye. Livvy sent a furtive glance across the room.

Have a lad ready our horses. One of theirs, too.

Watch yerself, Lord Seth. They’re a rough lot. Livvy wagged her finger. Don’t go bustin’ up the place, ye hear?

How quaint. Hapless Fehan had rescuers in abundance this day.

Nigel had to admit, Aleron bred them bold. Each of them had probably fisted a wooden sword on the day he was weaned. Even so, they were no match for hardened bountymen. Their eagerness to die could prove a useful diversion.

What do you think? asked the Gruder. Pin the card?

Lord Seth shook his head. Mug shot.

Oh, I like that one, said the big Buchanan. Quick for his size, he bolted to his feet, toppling his chair to the floor. He towered over the Gruder with a scowl that could make a gwynwulf tuck tail and run.

Those are fighting words, Aengus. You got me riled now.

I meant naught by it, Gaven. You’re as good a shot as any. Black eyes flashed with mischief. Any but my sister.

Nigel cracked one eye wider, intrigued as their names stirred a recollection. Fehan’s unremarkable eyes had gone as round as saucers behind the oversized spectacles perched on his narrow nose, making him look like an underfed owl. The bountymen shouted for more ale at the prospect of an entertaining brawl.

Gaven lunged, and Aengus dodged. Seth got to his feet with unhurried purpose.

No busting up Livvy’s place, boys, he said. A wager instead.

Wager, Aengus wheezed in Gaven’s chokehold. Seth says a wager.

Gaven grunted and let go. Aengus tumbled to the floor.

All right, then. Aengus dusted himself off and poked Gaven in the chest. I wager I can set an apple on your shoulder and core it at ten paces. Without knocking it off.

Gaven swatted him away. I wager I can set a full mug atop your head, nick the handle clean off, and not spill a drop.

The winner takes what coin you have on you. Seth sealed the preposterous wagers. He held out his hand. A waggle of fingers called in the ante. Clinking coins had bountymen setting down their mugs.

Under the table, Nigel’s fingers curled around his crossbow. He could take Fehan now and clear the debt his conscience wanted paid, but the encounter was becoming mildly interesting.

Aengus backed against a whitewashed plank wall. Gaven balanced the mug atop his raven-black hair, turned the handle out to the side, stepped back, and adjusted it again.

Flinch, and you’ll get doused.

Aim well, or I’ll get dead.

Aengus swallowed. Gaven steadied a silver pistol, and every eye in the tavern riveted on the spectacle. Sweat glistened on Gaven’s brow as he drew back the hammer.

Click.

Aengus dropped like a rock and caught the mug midair. He flung ale in the nearest bountyman’s face, and his backswing shattered the mug against another’s head. Gaven’s aim shifted, and his shot caught a man between the eyes. The luckless brute swayed, and his face met his plate with a splat.

Seth and Aengus rushed the table to the metallic song of swords unsheathing. Two more bountymen died in gurgled surprise. Anyone who claims death is ugly has yet to appreciate the beauty in a skilled swordsman’s dance.

Fehan was on the floor, scurrying away on his hands and knees. A chair splintered over Gaven’s back. Crimson streaked Seth’s sleeve. The ale-drenched bountyman leveled a musket at Aengus’ back.

Nigel’s crossbow twanged and the bountyman died.

Seth whipped around, and Nigel acknowledged him with a brisk nod as he loaded another bolt.

The last bountyman standing proved the smartest of the lot. He made a dash for the door. Gaven’s beefy arm caught and tossed him against the wall, and the man’s head painted a scarlet trail down the planks.

Being the smartest of bountymen is little to brag about.

More boots pounded the stairs, summoned from the rooms upstairs by the ruckus.

Sweet Mother of Aurel, Aengus muttered. There are more of them.

Of course, there are more of them. It was a big bounty. The Alerons hadn’t anticipated anyone choosing the carnal pleasures upstairs ahead of the tavern’s fine cuisine.

Your horses, m’lords! A lad threw open the tavern door, cheeks ruddy and breath misting in the cold that blew in with him.

Run, Fee, Seth shouted. Get out of here.

Nigel braced for the brutes distressed at seeing their bounty slipping away. He shouted the Alerons on, firing bolt after bolt to cover their escape, and backing out the door as they ran for the horses.

Seth hauled Fehan up behind him. When he jerked his head at the fourth horse, Nigel didn’t hesitate. Dodging an ax aimed at his head, he loosed one last bolt. As it found its mark in a hairy neck, Nigel vaulted to the saddle.

#  #  #

They rode hard, cloaks pulled tight against the biting wind, until night curled a blanket of darkness around them. With a sharp whistle, Seth Callan cut off the path and disappeared into a rocky cliffside. Nigel cut his reins sharply and followed. They filed into a cavern so narrow and obscured no one could find it unless he already knew it was there.

The cavern widened, and the Alerons’ boots hit the ground in tandem, crunching on a thin layer of ice and snow.

What did you do, Fee? said Aengus.

Wasn’t me, Fehan said, shivering. A Surdisi lady showed up asking for the Pelican’s shelter. Da had to help her.

"What? He took in a Surdisi lady?" said Gaven.

I take it that didn’t go well. Seth’s mouth thinned.

Her husband’s a mean old bastard. Sent his men after her. They tracked her to us. Stormed the inn at midnight. Fehan’s voice cracked. They…they killed Da.

I’m sorry, Fee, Aengus said quietly. We didn’t know.

Your father was a good man, said Seth. Someone will answer for this.

Lord Edmund Southall will answer to me. Nigel approached them.

Should I know you? Seth’s appraisal swept him, tweed cap to worn-out boots.

The Pelican had many friends, said Nigel. And many owe him debts of gratitude.

You fought well back there, for an old man.

A soldier remembers when he must. It was explanation enough. The Pelican never turned away anyone in need of shelter, and Lady Patrice was running from an exceptionally cruel and vindictive man.

Killing Da wasn’t enough for Southall. Fehan cupped his hands and blew through his thin gloves. He bought up the inn’s debt, too. There’s no way I can pay it off.

That was the bounty? said Seth. They were hauling you off to debtor’s prison?

We thought you might have… Gaven lifted a thick shoulder.

Done something stupid? said Fehan.

Well, there is a bit of a precedent, said Aengus.

This one’s not your doing, Fee, said Seth. Get back on the horse.

On his word, the others made ready to leave.

Lord Edmund is a man of considerable means and scant mercy, said Nigel, even as he wondered why he bothered. He will pursue Fehan to the farthest corners of Innis. I have the means to make certain he does not find him.

Seth set his boot in the stirrup, making no reply.

If Southall finds Fehan, he will not simply kill him, said Nigel. He will lock him in his dungeon and take great pleasure in the pain he delivers.

Seth gathered his reins and looked down at Nigel. It was the eyes again, old eyes set in a young man’s face. A thread in the patterns glowed brighter.

We take care of our own.

Chapter 2

The Rhi’Iverach

~

Calum Iverach

Monaughty, Iverach

Forsmoon, 4399

Silver spurs glinted in dawn’s early light. Black boots swayed in a brisk sea breeze.

The almighty Dowan Iverach dangled from a noose, his fists clenched even in death. His lifeless eyes stared down at those who dared survive him—recriminating, judging, and demanding vengeance.

Calum shifted in his saddle and shook away the image as he passed beneath the gnarled branch of the justice tree. For centuries, Iverach chiefs had been meting out punishment from the limbs of the massive sycamore stretching over the coastal trade road where it met the well-fortified approach to Castle Monaughty. On the craggy cliffs below, gulls screamed at the tireless waves crashing beneath the castle.

In their screams, Calum could still hear his mother’s cries.

Seven years back, on a crisp spring morning, Lady Jenna gave birth to a third daughter. Lord Dowan flew into a rage, locking his wife in a tower and threatening to beat her until she confessed. For days, Calum choked on his fear and loathing, and his younger sisters clung to him in hushed terror. When he finally worked up the courage to confront their father, he took the brunt of Dowan’s wrath. He woke battered and broken, and his mother and the baby were gone.

This morning, Calum’s uncle watched him with a frown of protective concern, one Holden had worn often since returning to Monaughty. After Dowan’s death, Holden had quietly but firmly squelched the scandalous rumors, buried family secrets, and helped a frightened boy learn to lead one of the most powerful clans in Innis.

Checking for cracks in my sanity, Uncle?

Your sanity’s intact. It’s your resolve that’s wobbly.

I’m going to meet them, aren’t I?

Begrudgingly, said Holden.

You ask me to trust them to strangers. We exchanged letters. Words mean little.

Calum spurred his horse and rode up the column making its way towards Iversport.

Give them a chance, Holden called after him.

Calum reined in alongside the captain of Monaughty’s guard. Captain Lyn was a chiseled block, from his shoulders to his jaw, even his haircut. Lyn never bothered with needless talk. On the day Calum found his father hanged, Lyn cut Dowan down from the tree, addressed Calum as Rhi, and went about his duties.

Pastor Ben asked that I stop on our way through town. Have a lad ride ahead to tell him when we pass the gate, said Calum.

Aye, Your Grace.

Calum’s spirited steed snorted impatience at the slower pace. The captain cut a sideward glance at the horse he’d trained himself, and the animal settled to a traveling trot.

Have you ever been to Aleron, Captain?

A few times, said Lyn. Mountains are steep. Winters are hard. Aleron’s a demanding land that breeds strength.

My sisters are accustomed to comfort.

Are they now? Seems to me they’re strong enough. Lyn left the rest unsaid. They survived the Beast of Monaughty. There’s more to Aleron, though. Green valleys. Clear streams. The finest trout you’ll ever eat. If I didn’t have seawater in my veins, I might’ve stayed.

Even Lyn was trying to sway him toward the alliance. Calum doubled back to rejoin his uncle. As he drew near, Daor Ranald’s commentary rose above the rush of wind and sea.

—planted by the folk who shone before men. They ruled the earth long before we gathered around fires and learned to speak.

Calum groaned. The pained expression on Holden’s face said Daor Ranald was torturing him with yet another philosophical treatise.

A people are born. They learn. They rise. They leave something of themselves behind.

Ranald’s musings were prompted by passing the Sailor’s Wives. The weathered stones, as tall and wide as Calum, stood in a circle on a grassy hillock between the trade road and the sea. Standing stones were common in Innis, especially in the North.

I doubt the Church agrees with your account of our beginnings, said Holden.

Likely not. Doesn’t make me wrong.

If ever a man was too clever for his own good, it was the learned Daor Ranald. A middle-aged scholar with silver-rimmed spectacles and a curly brown mop of hair that refused any efforts at taming, he was always moving, talking, or reading. Often all at once.

Ranald had read every page of every book in Innis, or so it often seemed. His keen intellect led him to some rather unorthodox theories at times, some heretical enough to bar him from prominent university appointments. Their loss was Monaughty’s gain. Ranald was the finest tutor and most competent advisor retained by any noble household in Innis.

Of course, that meant tolerating a few eccentricities. The occasional workshop mishap. The collection of fungi growing in the solarium. To say naught of the lizards.

Up ahead, Iversport’s black iron gates swung open. As a child, Calum had loved the sights and sounds of the busy port. Silver and sapphires from Iverach mines left on merchant ships sailing south to Jorendon, across the straits to Bresca, and farther south to Larad and Wodi. Others sailed around the northern tip of Innis and east to the Ten Kingdoms of Erusa. A few even sailed west across the Atlassia, to colonial trade towns in Tallu. From such far-flung destinations, the Iverach fleet brought back wonders and delicacies beyond a young boy’s imagination.

Over the centuries, Clan Iverach had built its fortune as both legitimate merchants and opportunistic smugglers. Generations of savvy traders had brought considerable wealth and prosperity to the province bearing the Iverach name. Today, more than a million folk, common and noble, and every shade in between looked to the Lord of Monaughty, Chief of Clan Iverach, and esteemed Rhi’Iverach for military, economic, and political protection within the kingdom of Innis.

Yet, they’re stuck with me. Calum straightened as he rode through the gates.

After his father died, Calum stepped into a role that far exceeded his readiness. Placing the responsibility on someone so young solely because of who sired him seemed a dubious approach to choosing a leader. But after years of mentoring by Holden and Ranald, Calum took solace in having muddled through without foundering the mighty ship Iverach on the rocks.

Inside the gates, the trade road widened into Iversport’s main thoroughfare. The obligatory taverns, brothels, and cheap inns huddled between the road and the wharves, catering to the vices of sailors from around the known world. Pricier inns and shops of artisans, smiths, and other guilders lined the thoroughfare’s opposite side. Along the side streets leading inland, the size and respectability of the establishments increased in proportion to their distance from the bustling harbor.

The road is holding up well, Calum said to no one in particular.

Yes, Your Grace, Holden said with a wry smile. You were right. I was wrong.

I do enjoy the sound of that.

Paving the road was a sound investment and popular with the townsfolk.

It was more than that. It was Calum’s first decision that ran contrary to his uncle’s advice. He’d doubted himself when construction disrupted trade and took longer than estimated. Now the clap of hooves on stone sounded like music. The Iversport road was tangible affirmation he might be more capable than he often felt.

The cathedral’s spires reached skyward, and Pastor Ben waved from the foot of its white marble steps. Farther up the steps, men dressed in the southern Innish style stood watching their approach.

Unexpected visitors, said Holden.

Chapter 3

The Delegate

~

Calum Iverach

Iversport, Iverach

What’s Taw doing here? Calum frowned. Did you summon him?

Hell, no. He’s the last person I want involved in this venture.

Calum assessed the game board. Stay mounted, and he kept the advantage of rank. The move his uncle would advise, no doubt, but it smacked of disrespect for Ben. Taw may have set the pieces in play, but Calum saw more moves than one.

He dismounted. Behind him, the squeak of leather and thump of boots affirmed thirty-and-three men followed his unspoken command.

Your Grace, thank you for coming.

Pastor Ben Bonner was a balding man with a face lined by laughter and pain, and eyes that always held more hope than despair. Barely as tall as Calum’s chest but stout as an oak, he clasped Calum’s forearm and pulled him into a fatherly embrace.

You asked, said Calum. That was enough.

He who has ears… Ben traced the blessing on Calum’s forehead.

Let him hear, he recited the dutiful response.

Calum stepped around Ben and took four marble steps in two long strides. He stopped before the second most powerful man in Iverach. Calum looked down and acknowledged the elegantly dressed politician for the first time.

Delegate Taw.

Delegate Stromond Taw served by appointment of the Rhi’Iverach. Tasked with representing Iverach interests in the People’s House in Jorendon, Taw’s long tenure wielded substantial influence in both the House and the royal court, but decades in Jorendon had leeched most of the Rhynn from the man. Calum sometimes wondered whether Taw’s true allegiance belonged to Iverach, Innis, or himself.

Taw tilted back his head to look Calum in the eyes. Amusement twitched on his lips before he bowed.

At your service, Your Grace, now as always.

I am here to see the pastor, said Calum. If you and your companion care to wait…

Calum motioned for them to descend the cathedral steps. Given little choice, Taw and a broad-shouldered man Calum figured for a personal guard joined the crowd gathering in the street. As he left the steps after them, the guard drew his attention.

Nene, but not quite. More bulk. Hair’s light enough, but wears it tied back. Not trying to hide the stripes on his neck.

Odd for a man of Taw’s sensibilities to hire a mixed breed.

Pastor Ben, you asked me here for a reason, said Calum.

Oh, yes. Yes, of course. Ben beckoned his wife from the crowd.

A plump woman who’d likely been pretty in her youth, Molly Bonner’s thick braid always seemed to be reaching around her shoulder, either to get in her way or to lend an extra hand. She fussed over Calum and his sisters the same as any in her husband’s flock. Today, Mother Molly was balancing a leather satchel on her outstretched hands. She presented it to her husband and stepped back, beaming and bouncing on her heels.

Calum caught her contagious smile and bent to kiss her cheek.

Mother Molly, what has you dancing in the street?

I promised Ben I’d let him show you. But he’d best hurry.

Patience is a virtue, my dear. Ben winked and pulled a thin book from the satchel. Students in Mother’s care made these for the young lords in Aleron.

Ben turned the leather-bound volume around for Calum to see. Elegant lettering on its cover read, The Treasures of Iverach. Beneath the title, in a well-crafted rendering of Iverach heraldry, a golden stallion reared rampant above three silver waves cresting on a field of sapphire blue.

The students put great effort into the detail. Ben turned the pages. Here’s a sketch of Castle Monaughty. A map with Iverach ships and the routes they sail. A roster of all Clan Iverach’s septs. Even the Bonners.

"Especially the Bonners," said Mother Molly.

Calum touched his finger to a page. The calligraphy and painstakingly wrought borders were exquisite. Orphans made this, children no older than he’d been on the day he went searching for his mother and found his dead father instead.

Why such effort? Respect for a rhi they’d never met? Respect is earned. Fear is quicker. Fear was the legacy Dowan left him. The mantle didn’t quite fit, but it did keep a comfortable distance between Calum and those who insisted on looking for more in him.

Handsome work. When I find men worthy of my sisters, I will gift them these books with pride.

Calum passed the books to Daor Ranald’s eager hands and returned to his unexpected visitor.

Delegate Taw, your business here?

News of your potential alliance with Aleron reached Jorendon, said Taw. Though I received no letter regarding the matter.

A personal matter, said Calum. I’m traveling to meet men who may or may not be suitable. I do not require assistance in gauging someone’s character.

Begging your indulgence, Your Grace, but the matter has drawn King Walter’s notice. An alliance between Iverach and Aleron could have considerable political implications. When I heard, I came straight away to offer my assistance. I understand Delegate Gruder is amongst those awaiting you at Dundarien.

King Walter taking an interest didn’t surprise him. The confederacy known as Clan Aleron was as unique as it was influential. Centuries ago, after Joren’s Surdisi rebels conquered Rhynn and renamed it Innis, the clans in the mountainous northeast recognized that by banding together, they created a whole stronger than its parts. Extending their loyalty beyond their blood kin brought considerably more power and security than going it alone.

They adopted the Aleron name from the ancient Aurel god of wind and storm, and chose the hawk for their banners. Aleron surnames of Tavish, Callan, Buchanan, Gruder, Gregor, and Shaw commanded respect throughout Innis. The confederacy of Hawks numbered over a hundred thousand families, all sworn to their chosen Chief of Chiefs, Adan Tavish, the Rhi’Aleron. Even betrothals to second sons of Aleron chieftains could bring subtle shifts in allegiances as far away as Jorendon.

Calum clenched his teeth. This venture was gaining a momentum of its own, one that would be hard to stop without giving public insult to the Hawks. If these Alerons were not the men of character Holden believed them to be, Calum would have to move carefully or risk making enemies instead of allies.

But Isobel and Rosalee were more than pawns on the game board.

Come then, he told Taw. If you remember how to follow.

Chapter 4

Aleron’s Sons

~

Sethlyan Callan

Camran Borderlands, Aleron

The chalyn is waiting for me in the garden, shaded beneath a rose trellis. They’ve been after me for years to recount what I recall of our beginnings.

I refused them until now. The memories were too raw and too easily bled anew.

But time is a healer, and remembering is the reason we gather. If remembering helps keep us watchful, I will tell it as best I can.

The day I met Calum seems a fair place to start. It was the first of many times the tale might have ended poorly.

Because he might have disliked you? she asks.

Because I nearly killed him before he got the chance to make up his mind.

It’ll never catch on. Aengus mimicked a Surdisi accent. I say, good fellow. Stand still there while I take a shot at you. If I miss, you shall have a turn.

Not like that, said Gaven. A pistol duel would happen fast. Faster than swords. It would be about who shoots fastest and straightest.

Seth yawned. Two days without sleep was making them both stupid.

That’s not a duel, Aengus scoffed. Might as well have an archery contest. At least an arrow flies true. Ten paces out with a pistol, and you’re as likely to hit a man’s horse as him.

That’s it. Gaven latched onto the notion. Say you start back-to-back, walk out ten paces, turn, and fire. Now that would be a contest.

Aengus laughed so hard he swayed in his saddle. Seth rolled his eyes at the notion of such polite rules being agreed upon by men disgruntled enough to be dueling one another to begin with. Gaven wasn’t the quickest pup in the litter.

What if you both miss? said Aengus. Do you take a knee to reload and go again? Or toss the pistol and draw your sword as you should’ve from the start?

We’ll see who’s laughing in a few years, said Gaven. Pistols keep getting better. I’m telling you, it’ll make a better duel than louts flailing about with sharpened steel.

Seth gave two short whistles. A collie responded, doubling back to collect a shaggy steer straggling behind the herd.

Flailing? Is that what you call it? Aengus was the master of indignation. A swordsman’s skill is mere flailing because you think he should be holding a pretty little pistol instead? Seth, are you awake, man? Tell him he’s an idiot.

Seth stretched until he got a satisfying pop between his shoulders. He was tired. His horse was tired. The dogs were tired. He grunted irritation at being dragged into their inane debate.

Agree with me, and I won’t have to prove you wrong, said Gaven.

Agree with you, and we’ll both be wrong, said Aengus.

You two couldn’t agree to your own names. Seth rode to tighten the herd’s loose left flank. A collie bounded ahead, following his intent. Pick up the pace, he called. We’ve been gone longer than we should’ve.

A hundred or so long-coated mountain cows ambled in the general direction of Dundarien, covering the rugged grazing land north of Gaven’s home at an unhurried pace. A few black coats dotted the otherwise red herd. Ear nicks identified most as Buchanan cattle, repatriated from Clan Camran in the dark of night, though a few Camran brands were scattered in here and there. Not surprising, given the rather fluid definition of cattle ownership along clan borders.

Riders, Gaven shouted.

Seth checked over his shoulder. Gaven gestured toward the rocky foothills they’d left behind. Seth couldn’t make out so much as a speck. Maybe dust rising in the distance? But Gaven’s eyesight was sharper than anyone’s, so he clicked Gambit around.

Camran colors. Gaven shaded his eyes. Seven riding hard. Gaining ground quick.

Evens the odds, said Aengus. You take one out with your pistol. Seth and I will dispatch the other six with our swords.

Seth scanned the hills. Losing cows he’d given up sleep and comfort to retrieve was an annoying prospect.

Let’s get the herd to the valley, he said. They’ll give up the chase once Dundarien’s towers have us in sight.

They’ll be on us before we make it that far. Gaven squinted.

So we move faster. Aengus drew a flintlock and pointed it skyward. There’s something this overpriced noisemaker is good for.

Give the cows a good run. There’s an idea worth your breath, said Seth.

Stampede! Gaven whooped.

They spread out behind the meandering herd and whistled the collies into place. Seth took off at a canter around the left flank as Aengus veered off to the right. Gaven waved the signal. The thunderclap of three silver pistols echoed over the shaggy heads.

A few startled beasts broke into a trot. Gaven reloaded and fired again. Seth and Aengus cracked whips along the edge of the herd. More cows broke into a run. Collies barked and nipped the legs of the complacent. Instinct spread like sparks over kindling, and in under a minute, a wave of cattle was rolling up the hill.

Sons of Aleron, they’d grown up tending herds. Riding, roping, and working collies came naturally. That usually meant long, dusty hours of monotony. Once in a great while, though, thrill sprang from tedium. Running a herd could get any Hawk’s pulse racing.

The cows tore up the ground between the first hill and the next, higher ridge. Gambit swerved when a wild-eyed steer bolted from the flank. Seth debated sending the collies after the straggler. No, he’d let the Camrans have one for their trouble.

Heeeough, now. Heough. Seth shouted above the din.

He rode into a cloud of dust and wiped grit from his eyes. The Camrans had probably reached the first hill by now, but the herd was already rumbling up the ridge. Across the sea of shaggy heads and horns, Aengus whooped and pumped his fist in the air.

Their stampede crested the ridge like thundering surf, and the first cows sank from sight. The herd would keep running until the River Alsa corralled it in the valley below. Dundarien’s walls guarded the River Alsa’s far banks, so the castle was in no danger from a hundred cows on the run. Half the herd had disappeared over the ridge by the time Seth crested the top.

Well, damn.

Their stampede was bearing down on a column of travelers on the narrow road below. The river’s safety was too far away.

Your blunder to fix, boy.

Seth tensed and willed his horse to dredge up what speed he had left. Gambit surged ahead. Seth raced headlong for the front of the herd, trusting Aengus and Gaven to cut around the flanks behind him.

The travelers caught on to the danger and set their horses galloping. Sentries in the guard tower started the drawbridge lowering.

Seth’s whistles shrilled above the rumble of hooves. His quickest dog sprinted ahead, and the others followed. The tenacious collies worked to his commands, darting between flying hooves, and biting at legs and shanks. Seth gained ground on the big bull leading the herd.

Turn, bull. Turn!

A lone rider broke away from the travelers and charged toward the stampede. Seth got the distance he needed ahead of the bull and reined in hard. The rider rode up beside him, shouldered a musket, and fired towards the herd. Seth reared Gambit and cracked his whip. They steadied their horses in the stampede’s path.

Turn, you stubborn beast! Damn you, turn!

The big bull veered sharply. The herd veered after him like a school of fish. One by one, panicked cows slowed to a trot, dispersing across the expanse of grazing land, docile and harmless once again.

Seth wiped sweat and faced the man who’d stood his ground beside him. The rider’s pale hair hung in a braid down his back, exposing the cat-like stripes on his neck. It’s a rare day when a nene charging at you with musket turns out well.

That was a bit too close, wasn’t it? Seth offered his hand. Sethlyan Callan. Thanks for your help.

Amusement crinkled the nene’s yellow-green eyes. Wordlessly, he shook Seth’s hand. Then he turned back for the drawbridge where the last travelers were making their way across.

Aengus and Gaven came riding up. Rusty trotted over with his tongue lolling out and flopped down across Seth’s boots.

Good boy. He scratched the collie’s head. You did well.

What a ride! Aengus thumped him on the back. "That was some fine herding,