Skydiver: Warhound Series, #3

By Catrina Prager

"Life does not move you forward to move you back."
- Traveler Proverb

Life, however, offers no guarantees of moving you whichever way you may want it to. As the end of the Amagiraean conflict draws near, and hinging on its heels - possibly - the collapse of the known world, our characters struggle to hold true north against the treacherous tide. Amagiraea crowns a new king, yet even as the festivities are in full swing, a challenger sails from across the water. Flanked by an old royal vulture on either side.

 

Across the world, an old man wanders alone, through pitch-dark caves, crying out for sleeping gods. Woe upon the First World, should they deign to answer him.

Skydiver, the third and final offering in the Warhound Series, is a book of grief, but also of new beginnings. As the survivors of the last book gather round the dregs of their dying fire, a crackle and a lick o' flame announces his coming. The ender of worlds, once nestled in a sweet realm of cosmic possibility, draws near.

His bow raised, he ushers in the final reckoning of the First World, and draws the line between what may be, and what must.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Catrina Prager
• Release date: Mar 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223236252

Catrina Prager

Catrina Prager is a 25-year-old fantasy author, freelance journalist, and avid traveler. Her short stories have been published in journals and magazines, including Bridge: The Bluffton University Literary Journal, The Rush Magazine, Montana Mouthful, Coffin Bell Journal, and others. Hearthender is her first novel.

Book preview

Places Worth Knowing

The Untamed Lands

Thus christened for the abundance of greenery, the Untamed Lands serve as the home of several woodland tribes. While most of the villages retain autonomy, they have, in time, worked out an intricate system of connections and loyalties.

Dun

BACK WHEN AMAGIRAEA was still known as the Protectorate, and governed by Mongolath law, it was Dun, not Longshore, which served as the official capital. Due to its long-standing history, Dun continues to be one of the main trading ports, surpassing even Longshore by a small margin.

Thanks to its similarities in size and maritime opening, the Amagiraean capital was moved to Longshore following the Lily Rebellion, as a way of shifting the country from underneath old thumbs.

Now, Dun sits astride one of the most peaceable counties of the whole realm, though that peace was (once) hard-earned. As a young monarch, King Helling spent a great deal of time in Dun, and else, negotiating and overseeing the aftereffects of this transfer of power. Anticipating local unease, Helling made it his mission to turn Dun from a former capital into a stronghold of Amagiraean unity and peace.

Traveler’s Guide

SUNNER’S CREST – The lowest point of the Seadweller lands;

Miller Pass – Deadly pass. Only the third isle continues to be inhabited by a single-minded group of outcasts. Despite their relative isolation and unfortunate position, the villagers frequently trade with nearby ports. The other isles inside the Pass are, evidently, deserted. It’s said those who died trapped inside the Pass could be heard screaming long after their boats had capsized. Nearby inhabitants, it’s believed, were driven mad by the noise.

Lymco En – Pirate stronghold due to its size, headlands and heavy traffic;

RedLock’s Cave – Bearing the standard Woee the lost who wander here, RedLock’s Save falls outside of the Pirate Isles, per se, though it is inhabited. By what and for what ungodly reason, few know, and none tell.

Hell’s Port – Second only to Lymco En, Hell’s Port is a renowned gambling and whoring den;

Stenter Cairn – Despite the foreboding name, Stenter Cairn is one of the more peaceable and most thriving pirate communities among the isles;

Waddling ‘Aven – Serves as a primary base to Marlais the Red, notorious captain with a helter-skelter approach to maritime life. Docking here is open only to allies and amenable traders, and even to them, not always;

Collesdor – The home of Collesian rum (would had it remained there).

Preludes | The Second World

Solerin

Her mother had warned Solerin not to run far, but such warnings always mean little when you’re Solerin’s age. She’d been playing by the creek behind their house, when a paperfly had buzzed, content and wistful, past her left ear. Startling Solerin only for a moment, before she recognized the challenge in the paperfly’s paper wings.

Follow me. And Solerin did, because at once, with no rational explanation, she’d felt a surge of emotion welling under her ribcage. Elation, as if this were the first time she saw a fly with quite those hues, or of quite such speed. Solerin gave chase, elation giving way to sudden panic that she might just miss it. Let the fly drift away forever out of her existence, robbing her of color.

And in her desire to fly, Solerin never realized when she’d strayed so far from her paper home. She just knew, at one point, when her eyes had momentarily slipped off the fly, that she turned around, searching for it on the horizon, and no longer recognized any of the faces or names around herself.

It’s only children whose mind allows them to skip so quickly from one matter to another, and almost at once, it was as if the paperfly had never existed. Solerin spun on her heels, bare in the damp grass, and turned, but to no avail, for her house was nowhere to be found. Her mother, whom she yet had need of, lost to her forever.

From above, the paperfly watched the child’s eyes fill with tears that would eventually fall, feeding the soil. It knew, in the vague awareness in which it forever existed, that this was not the first child, and sensed, also, that it would not be the last. For the paperfly had many tasks to still fulfill before its flight was over. Another moment, it looked on, then slowly began to bat away. Unbeknownst to the fly, for it was a fact of magnitude it would never comprehend, it was no mere coincidence that all these children that followed her inevitably and irretrievably got lost. Nothing is accidental in the universe, and even the fate of something small and insignificant like a paperfly in a small, paper-world, carries unknown weight.

Meanwhile, Solerin had begun making her way back, trying to steady her belief, as she went, that logically, she ought to be able to get home if she ran back whence she’d come. So for a while, Solerin ran, and it wasn’t until her throat was dry with all the dust, considerable, that can amass on a piece of paper, that her little legs stopped. The girl scowled, then retched. Something tasted wrong, even the dust, in this part of the unknown world, tasted different, more bitter, than the one back home. How could that be? All the few places she’d been so far in this life, they’d all felt the same, looked the same, smelled more or less the same. Solerin never would’ve guessed one could distinguish between places by the taste of the dust, by the unpleasant stinging reminiscent of the brew her mother drank in the morning, before anyone else woke.

It was a brew made of half-life leaves, and chalk root, and it was only for adults, her mother had instructed Solerin. Though truth be told, she’d been drinking it since she was a small child herself. It was only during the drought, in her twentieth year of life, when there had been no half-life leaves, and not enough chalk root, that Solerin’s mother had caught pregnant. And much as she loved Solerin, it was an experience she hoped never to go through again. The one watching knew all this, just like he knew the girl-child was wandering farther and farther from her home with each step. Not that it mattered, in the end, for already she’d come too far to ever be able to return to her former life. And with that knowledge held carefully to his breast, the watcher stepped out from his vantage point, allowed the grass to ripple under his soles, alert the girl to his presence. Solerin jumped, though less than a grown-up would’ve, for children have in-built in them an apprehension of the unexpected.

You’re strayed awfully far, little girl-child, the watcher murmured, crouching down beside Solerin. To an external viewer, as you might be, it might’ve looked fatherly, though the gesture was only devised to prevent the child from running.

Solerin examined him, his face, eyes as black as the clouds before a thunderstorm, in contrast with his red, almost sickly cheeks. He was not a handsome man, nor particularly a friendly man, yet he looked at her with a sincerity that Solerin had never known in her young life. Most grown-ups in her paper-world were not in the habit of being honest or genuine with children. They saw little need, so all the looks young Solerin got were expressions of kindness, affection, cheer, friendliness. They never really looked at her.

Can you take me to momma? Solerin asked, her voice crinkly with not speaking. Solerin had been a mute child until this moment, but caught in the stranger’s intoxicating gaze, the girl hardly noticed the first words to come out of her mouth. The watcher, however, did. Smiled at them with his lips, but not his eyes, as he gently shook his head.

I’m afraid that’s impossible.

The girl-child frowned in confusion. There it was, the bud of fear just beginning to blossom in the little girl’s expression. She wasn’t used to it yet, wasn’t afeared quite yet, for Solerin had mostly been an obedient child, and hadn’t strayed from her mother’s word until now. She didn’t know strangers were not always to be trusted, that there could be danger, reason for fear, in the larger world. Point of fact, she hadn’t, until this man had stepped out of the inter-world pocket that provided his habitat, known any strangers at all.

Your mother is dead, the watcher told the girl, his voice bearing no trace of emotion whatsoever. Somebody came along to your paper-town while you were away, and lit a match against the parish church. There were no survivors, except for you. Isn’t that lucky? Weren’t you so tremendously fortunate to get distracted by that beautiful little fly?

Solerin’s eyes had gone wide, the terror that was imminent finally sinking into her tender, child flesh. No, she shook her head, no, but it seemed to make no difference for the watcher. Like him, the little girl had traversed into a place where she could only spectate, where all the shaking of her head would never again make an impact in her old paper-world.

Why did she do that? Solerin asked, holding on desperately to each syllable, reeling it in, to keep herself from crying.

Because I asked her to.

It had been one of several somebodies, for there would be several little fires up and down the paper-country before the day was out. And everyone would be too busy trying to salvage their own meager, meaningless possessions to come up with a way to put the fires out. Experts always tell you to run out of burning buildings, leave everything behind, except that’s not how humans work. So they grab onto whatever’s nearest, carrying as much as they can, before they dash out. But if the entire world outside is burning also, where do you run to, with your armload of meaningless things?

This is not where you’re supposed to be, the ender of worlds told the girl-child. You have strayed too far from your world, Solerin. Too far for them to ever take you back.

No.

A sob, at once heartfelt and heartbreaking.

Yes.

And she would tell him no, and he would say yes a few more times, for it is in children’s way to interpret a yes like that as a challenge, something to be wrestled against, and overcome. Unfortunately, for all the worlds the ender had visited, all his yeses had been final, and insurmountable.

Why?

Finally, the wall of no’s had broken through, and the little girl, who was already, before his eyes, changing, growing into something wiser and sadder, peeked out.

Because I asked the fly to bring you here, so that you might come with me.

Come where? Solerin switched back effortlessly into the voice of a stubborn child, one that her mother and aunts had made safe for her to inhabit, until now, but one that would soon need to be discarded, if she was to survive in this new world.

Somewhere that’s not burning. Somewhere where you’ll be safe, so you can grow.

But I don’t wanna grow, Solerin shook her head. She’d meant to say ‘go’. Angry at him, at the world that didn’t stop to care that she was only five summers along, that there were all these games, and riddles, and bedtime stories yet to be uncovered, that wouldn’t exist where she was going now.

No, the ender shook his head, mirroring her, but letting his emotions show genuine. Nobody does. Nobody wants to leave their mother, or their houses, or their pets behind. Yet they all do, because they must. Because there is something special in you, Solerin. In all of you, something that is not for this burning world.

He reached out his hands, knowing the girl would run, because he’d lived it before, with many other children, and he’d seen even this moment in his mind’s eye several times. Before he’d even decided to set fire to the small paper kingdom. The girl would run, and he would catch her. He wouldn’t run. It wasn’t in his story to run, so instead, he walked slow, like a hunter not wanting to scare off prey, and waited patiently for the boulder to catch and twist Solerin’s right ankle.

Three seconds flew past, one chained to the other, then came the thump, and the surprised cry of the foiled child.

I’m sorry, the ender of worlds whispered, crouching beside the fallen girl once more, and this time picking her up with no effort. She was weightless in his arms. All the children of this world were.

But I don’t wanna go, Solerin cried again, burrowed into his chest, but already, the defiance in her voice was faltering. She made no real effort to kick off his grip and free herself.

Nobody does, the ender again told her. But one day, you will. One day soon, I will take you to the world that was truly destined for you. Where your knowledge and skill will be appreciated, and flourish; where you will find the oneness that, in this existence, would have eluded you. And you will find insects with wings the colors of starlight, and taste riches, and sing songs of such joy as you can not yet imagine. So while you’re not happy now, I can promise you will be, and that the people of that world will look on you as someone infinitely precious, for to them, you will be.

He’d guessed in Solerin, as he had all the children yet saved from this burning world, a strength and capacity for knowledge that far outweighed the possibilities of this wilting world. She would cure illness that would otherwise ravage the new world, a world that needed to survive. He’d seen in her future that Solerin was an essential component of the universe. That only by some accident, she had been placed on the wrong earth, one slated to perish.

So even though it didn’t technically fall under his duty or his right to walk the First World, salvaging lost children, the ender of worlds couldn’t help himself seeing it as such. If he was the one to destroy, he would also have  to be the one to salvage.

When? the girl-child whispered, her voice as low as not to be heard by mortal men.

Already, she was becoming of the Fourth World, the only space that could allow him to carry out such journey. Whose existence had allowed him, and through him, the cosmos, to finally dream in color.

Now?

The ender shook his head, as the space pocket opened to receive them. Not now. You still have a little growing to do, you are yet young, and you will need to be a little stronger, and a little older to thrive in this beautiful new world. But soon.

Verena

Verena never thought the sight of an empty house would frighten her. Giving birth to her in the final year of the rishka plagues, her mother had died swift, and long before young Verena had any shot at a memory. Her father might’ve been a good man, if life hadn’t got in the way, but as it was, the men who locked him up in the town gaol had little sympathy for his dead wife, and general circumstances. So from around the age of eight to fifteen, Verena had been mostly on her own. Alone, she could do, for it was the only thing known to her as a girl-child.

Then, when she was fifteen summers old, she’d met Karas, and he’d taught her how to not be alone anymore. The bastard. Suited him fine, now he was dead, but what was Verena meant to do with this houseful of empty rooms and sorrow?

In the long summer after his death, she’d been out and about, spending most of her days in the bakery, working herself to the bone. But it was winter now, and the biting cold refused to let her out of the house. She’d been forced to leave the tasks to the younger girls, whose joints didn’t wheedle and crack at the drop of temperature.

Just as her mind had formulated the word crack, one came from across the room. When Karas was living, they never used to lock their door, for all the neighbourhood knew and respected him. But ever since she was alone, Verena had taken to pulling the bolt down tight, unsure her dead husband’s ghost lingered as heavily for others as it did in her own mind.

Rat-a-tat. There, the knock came again, a polite, if insistent way of announcing itself. It had a certain cadence to it, a subtle way of letting her know it would keep coming, irrespective of Verena’s flinching. So really, there could be no alternative other than opening the door.

She moved to stand, except her leg had fallen asleep, and her knee required resuscitation. Her back closed forward, and she tried to straighten herself out against more than four score years of hunching. It wouldn’t work. After she’d turned fifty, it never did no more.

The man behind the door was tall. Not quite like her Karas had been, but then, no one ever would be. He did remind her of him, though – almost painfully young. Couldn’t have seen more than twenty seven harvests in his life, not that he worked much in the fields, judging by his straight, strong back, and clean, tidy clothing. His eyes, though, his eyes stared out at her, two infinitely ancient stones that had been stuck into a beautiful, young face.

Yes? Verena asked, disconcerted. Can I help you?

Even though suddenly, she had the least interest in helping this young man, striking as he may have been. Rather, she felt a sudden powerful urge to slam the door. The young man smiled compassionately.

Not in the general understanding of the word, no.

Despite the words, the young man kept his voice soft and keen, as if making an effort not to offend.

But I am not here for your help today. I have aid a-plenty, as much as I have need of it.

Verena frowned. Then would you mind telling me what you are here for, before all the warmth goes out?

Not that there had been much to spare, to begin with. Their house had seemed like a palace to Verena, who’d grown up in one measly bedroom above a brothel, when they’d first moved here. But now, it was just too big and impossible to warm.

I promised I’d be here, and I stick to my promises.

When it suited him, but the stranger saw no need to add that last bit.

Promised who? Verena asked, suspicious. Narrowing her eyes, because making her face all scrunched up and unpleasant was the closest she could come to protecting herself in case this young man turned out to be violent, or unpredictable.

Not dropping his smile, the man shook his head lightly, to indicate secrecy. Would you mind if I came in?

Very much, yes.

"Look, the thing is, I’m going to be here awhile, and as you pointed out yourself, the cold is creeping in."

I’d really rather you left.

But when she spoke, it was as if all the fight had suddenly gone out of her, and all she had left to hinge on was a general kindliness toward old women, which, when one came to be old and wizened,  one saw wasn’t too abundant to begin with.

I know, the stranger agreed, after a moment. But I’m not going to, and I would rather not sit outside the door. I will if I must, though.

Why? Bafflement was beginning to break through her voice.

Because I promised.

Who?

Your husband.

And there was no reason to believe him, not given that she’d never before in her life seen this man. Never heard tell of him, not in the last few years of Karas’s life, nor had she met him at any of the get-togethers Karas liked to organize, even towards that bitter end where pain ransacked his body mercilessly. Despite that all, Verena not only found herself believing him, but with shuffling step, moving aside for him to come through the door.

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS call you, then?

I don’t have any friends.

You must have at least one.

Why?

Truth be told, she didn’t know. It was just something normal people said. It was perhaps folly on Verena’s part that in the decades between meeting Karas and now, she’d come to thinking of herself as normal, also. How wrong that word seemed now, how ill at ease in her large, cold house.

I never concerned myself with making them. he told her, seeming to take no offense at her curiosity. I never sought people out, nor tried to get them to stop when they were passing me by. And so, they passed me by.

What do you call yourself, then?

Nothing. We don’t talk.

Fine, Verena acquiesced, or at least pretended to. Then how did you know my husband? You have to answer me at least one, or I will ask you to go stand in the cold, as you refuse to leave me be.

The man smiled, tracing her words in his mind. The shape of them, the taste of them in his mouth. He’d held this little old woman buried in himself for decades.

You’re exactly as I’d thought you’d be, you know. I don’t think about you too often, but every once a decade or so, you’d cross my thoughts, and I’d get all sorts of ideas about how you are, how you speak and hold yourself.

Verena frowned, clutching her hands in one another, in an attempt to warm herself. Or force them steady, again.

Please don’t scream, the stranger said, just then, his voice the very antithesis of a scream. It would bring about your neighbor, the plump, blonde one, and she will come and check, but I will have done nothing to deter or restrain you. So you’ll be confused, and you will open the door, feeling somewhat embarrassed, not quite knowing what to say. You’ll make up some excuse, introduce me, perhaps, as an acquaintance of your husband, and she’ll go away thinking poor woman, gone to slip in her late age.

Are you making that up?

The stranger remained serene. You can scream, and check.

Verena took a good, long look at him, then let out a scream like she hadn’t in fifty years.

She would’ve recognized Aliope’s knock anywhere. Her short, knobby fingers rapping against the swollen wood. The wait, the intake of breath audible even through the door, then,

Verena, are you quite alright?

Verena turned towards the stranger again, but for the first time, he’d taken his gaze off her, and was staring into the dwindling fire.

With great difficulty, her hips now protesting more than ever, Verena made her way out of the chair. She couldn’t move without something hurting. Almost couldn’t take a breath without triggering a cavalcade of subtle aches and minute suffering. It had a way of adding up.

I’m just fine, Aliope, she was saying, even as she opened the door.

I thought I heard you scream just now.

I-I did. I was just telling my guest a story, and I guess I got carried away.

The lie came effortlessly, almost furiously, as if to hide the mounting embarrassment. Doubtful, Aliope peered through the slither in the doorway, at where the young man was sat.

This is an old friend of my Karas. He’s been abroad, and he’s just come to pay respects.

Aliope nodded, her gaze growing from alarmed to pitiful, then ebbing vaguely into lust when she looked within at the handsome young stranger.

Well, holler if you need anything, ye?

Verena nodded, her cheeks turning an unflattering red. She knew without looking, because everything looked unflattering on her, even where she’d been quite fetching once.

That was the fastest I ever came up with a lie, ever, she confided, having shut the door.

Ever. She’d always been good at thinking on her feet. She’d had to, but this was another level. The stranger nodded, acceptingly.

How did you do that? she asked, when she’d settled herself back down in her seat.

The young man shrugged. I’ve seen it.

Where?

In the Second World, a world beyond this one, of things that may yet be possible. You see, I could hope, but I couldn’t very well guess how today would turn out before it actually becomes today.

He may have been mad, but Verena was coming to enjoy his company. He put her at ease in a way most people failed to. Many of them, she’d only known through her husband, and now, with Karas no longer here, being around them was too painful. The rest, like Aliope, were well-meaning, but meaningless. Their company inspired nothing in her. Verena wasn’t quite sure yet what the young man inspired in her, but she no longer wished to throw him out immediately.

How did you know my husband? she asked, pretending to take what he’d just said in stride. You are, after all, so young.

I am young, yet ageless. I am known to all, yet, as you so keenly worked out, a stranger to everybody. So much that I even lack a true name. And I knew your husband, as I say, a long time ago. He was on a posting out in the untamed lands. I only met him briefly, but he was helpful in a way few people have known to be.

Verena said nothing, trying and failing to stifle a frown. Karas had worked an entire summer in the wasteland, but that had been years ago, both of them shy of thirty-three summers at the time. There was no way this youth could know that.

I promised him a boon for helping me, which is why I’m here today.

What did you promise him, then?

When the youth smiled, there was great, genuine kindness in his expression. He looked at the old, infinitely wizened woman with the clear impression of loving her, and having loved her for decades. He looked, impossible as it was, with the same gaze Karas always used to regard her with.

That if he went before you, I’d come keep you company.

He spoke the words as matter-of-fact as describing a trip to the fish market.

Why today?

The stranger shrugged, careless, confident. Figured I could start sometime.

Verena didn’t know what to say. She’d never been one for playing along nicely if she wasn’t feeling it. Oh, there had been a day when she would’ve marshalled her way through any life, madman or not. When she would’ve demanded truth, or asserted her will, in a way that only those who’ve pulled themselves up out of the mud several times over, can have. But this time, just this once, she couldn’t be arsed to do it. She looked at the stranger with quiet, amiable silence, and for a moment, allowed him to sit in her front room in return for neither information, nor entertainment. For the first time, in her whole life over, as the stranger well knew, allowed herself to just be.

He had that gift about him, of putting people at ease. All his kind did. There was something comforting about the subtle way death and life came together inside him.

Verena didn’t notice when she first started getting sleepy. But then again, she so rarely did, of late. She could be chatting with someone over tea, just like she was now, even though she’d never thought to offer him a pot, and her eyes would plop shut, in a too-long-silence. It was embarrassing, really, except no. Now, she simply noticed it, buried within a body, a little waking voice shouting inside a cave that refused to let her out.

As a child, she’d wandered into a cave near the water near her house. Turned a corner, lost her way. Grew frightened by the shadows on the wall, in the dark, though those too had a way of passing, the deeper she got into the cave.

No, wait. That wasn’t her story. There were no caves near where Verena grew up, no caves in Longshore whatsoever, but that didn’t matter much now. For the cave was warm, in spite of the growing dark, and so Verena would walk a little while longer before waking up, to apologize to this stranger. Just a little while.

He’d been watching the fire a while, but that had died out now, as he’d known it would, so now, the man turned his attention once more to the old woman, crinkled in her stiff-back chair. Cold, beyond cold, her fingers swollen with the perversity of old age had started to turn blue.

Taking her hand into his own, the ender of worlds leaned forward. You’re very lucky, you know. You’re getting out just before it begins.

Karas

Twelve years after the war, the Regency decided to impose guards along the Veshini border with the untamed lands. No one was surprised. Even the Travelers understood that, though their raids had been small and relatively bloodless compared to what had followed, Veshna had to pay for them. It did so because it could afford to. In the span of three short harvests, Amagiraea had amassed an army that would’ve put the one it previously lost to shame.

It wasn’t presented as revenge, of course. It was merely a matter of defending our brothers from the untamed lands against encroaching tyranny. What right had the Veshini to cross into the untamed lands at will? Travelers refused to recognize borders, or constitutions, claiming they were of one mother, one earth, and should behave as such. The people of the forest saw it quite different, so Amagiraea had generously offered its own soldiers to help guard against Traveler incursions.

To be on one of the official guard postings remained, even now, after seventeen years since the original call, a great privilege. Now that he was finally here, Karas sometimes struggled to remember why he’d thought that.

Before coming here, they’d been told by those returning from posting it was easy pickings, but then that was only natural. Young boys always had a way of exaggerating their accomplishments. To an extent, it might’ve even be true when the protective order was first established. Yet in the ensuing seven years, the Travelers had shed all notion of peace. They’d been forced to, mostly be Amagiraean sentries turned aggressive.

Now, each new dawn was heralded by the sound of steel against steel, of cries and moans, shouts and mourning. They’d entered a vicious cycle, with Amagiraean guards lashing out against whatever Traveling tribes dared too close, and the tribes left with no choice but to take up blade.

There were, on occasion, interludes of peace. Days of standing in the forest, watching the border, and trying to keep a distance from the locals. In theory, these savages were supposed to be their brothers. Except they hid themselves in their barbaric huts, and held to customs that would’ve made no sense to the civilized world.

HE’D BEEN COMING BACK from a patrol when he spotted the stranger. Sure, most of the faces he passed in this gods-forsaken place belonged to strangers and would remain such, but there was something unusual about this one. Almost as if something in his features was calling out to be recognized, invited, acknowledged.

Who goes there? Karas called out, feeling a little dumb.

The man coming up the ravine was broad-shouldered and muscular in a way Karas could never hope to be. He had about him the look of the born warrior, and carried himself with as much certainty. Nodded his head in salute, but kept his mouth shut until he’d successfully climbed full out.

How did you get down there? Karas asked, peering dubiously over the side of the steep ravine.

At roughly ten summers older than Karas, the stranger had that rare gift of wearing the mellowness of middle age with a grace that made him almost handsome.

A misstep, and then I slipped down.

You’re from back home? Karas inquired, eyebrows shooting up in surprise at hearing his own native dialect.

The stranger shook his head. Not for a long time. My wife’s a Traveler. I’ve been here longer than I ever was back home.

"What’s your business in this