OoOoO

After having existed solely in fireside tales and legends for nearly the past thousand years, one would think that the title of 'Chieftain of the Mountainfolk of The Teeth' would confer some degree of respect, if not awe...or at least dignity. Even if he were not chieftain, at two-and-twenty years old, with his father long since gone to the stars, Tarun considered himself well past the point of reproach as anything other than a grown man. Bearing that in mind, the very last thing Tarun expected upon returning to the mountainfolk's rooms within The Weeping Keep was a thorough dressing-down. And yet, here he stood, being scolded within an inch of his life by the most fearsome father figure in all of Trosk; Borse Bjarnison.

"-literally seem to think you can get away with murder! In Derbesh no less, surrounded by twitchy clansfolk all penned in together with an axe to grind! Now is the time to be laying low, and you go and knife an eimir! An eimir!! With Clan G'Hesh less than thirty paces away in the hall! And then you go dragging that dolt of a lowlander into the muck along with you!"

"Kirban G'Hesh was about to try and frame us for the poison in the princess's food," protested Tarun. "And Derrian did a fine job of jumping feet-first into the whole mess on his own!"

"Oh, bullspit! You hauled him out of the feasting hall by the ear, and you know it. Ever since we left Trosk, Thrymmson, you've been courting disaster every time you turn around. First, the fight with those weasels at the barracks in Geristan, and then the whole stunt with Hengar as we passed Trosk-"

"Hey, I let Hengar go home! I thought you were all fired up and eager to have men of Trosk returning to their families?"

"Not at the expense of you getting your back flayed open! Do you have any idea how hard it was for the rest of us to watch that little display? And then, you went and did it again with the Hilmarhlǫkk!"

Tarun's hand instinctually twitched upward toward the scar where his left ear once sat. He tried and failed to hide the gesture from Borse, which spurred on a fresh tirade about how reckless and dangerous calling a Hilmarhlǫkk had been in the first place.

"At least I won, and saved Tryll's life while I was at it!" Tarun tried to interrupt. "If I'd given in-"

Borse would not be so easily parried. "It should never had gone so far in the first place! You still owe a life to the laws of the Hilmarhlǫkk! What if Isbjorn hadn't been so clever with your fourth price? What if he'd asked for someone already born, like Garrit? Or Lhara, for Anders' sake!?"

Despite himself, Tarun shot a wide-eyed glance at Trosk's former wainwright where he sat on the floor nearby, trying and failing in his efforts not to be drawn into Borse's growing tirade. Isbjorn admitted defeat with a grimace, setting down the boot he had been mending.

"Garrit did cross my mind... Really though, we're all just lucky that another idea came to me in the end."

"I'll say!" piped up Garrit from across the room. Tarun caught his cousin's eye, and saw in Garrit's face the lingering echo of fear. Could he have actually paid such a price for the mantle of chieftain, if it had come to that? Tarun didn't know, nor did he want to know.

Even the embarrassment of being shouted down by Borse in front of Isbjorn, Joar, and Garrit suddenly paled as the weight of what had nearly happened really settled in. Everything seemed like it had been happening so fast since they arrived in Derbesh...since they left Geristan, actually. The Hilmarhlǫkk, the wedding feast, the Court of the Seven Clans, it all felt surreal - more like a long and fitful dream - than events which had actually happened.

Borse shoved a hand through his wiry black hair, radiating frustrated exhaustion. "What is it going to take, Tarun, for you to realize that you aren't some lonely mountain cat, prowling around with no one to answer to but yourself? You have a responsibility to the people around you, and not just because you're a chieftain now! The things you do and say matter, damn it! They matter, because they affect everyone you care about, and who care about you."

Before Tarun could come back with any sort of serviceable retort, Borse delivered a final and utterly devastating hammer-stroke.

"I swore an oath to your mother, on the day that she died. I swore that I'd protect her children for her. When you called the Hilmarhlǫkk, you broke my vow to Mira all over again, nevermind if Isbjorn had been less creative and named Lhara as your fourth price."

"I...I wouldn't have-"

"You wouldn't have what? Wouldn't have made us enforce the terms of the Hilmarhlǫkk? Oh but you forget, Chieftain, we swore on our mountain blood. We were honour-bound, and still are." Joar's words, though not spoken unkindly, left no room for excuse. When he held up his hand, the cut where the cobbler had made his oath stood out, starkly half-healed.

Garrit turned a searching gaze on Tarun. "You risked everything to become chieftain, Tarun. I was almost wondering if Thyge wasn't right to name you 'The Heartless'. Then you went and risked everything again, this time for the sake of one lowlander whom you've known less than a month." It wasn't often that Garrit frowned; he looked older, more like his father Torl, Mira's brother. "I guess I just want to know why. We've stood by you, coz... Do you stand by us? Are we as important to you as all these strangers you've surrounded yourself with since we left home?"

'No' said the part of Tarun that had packed his bag and prepared to slip away to join the Factionists at Trosk without a word, the part which still pined after fame and Princess Ellorae and a Medal of Mastery from The Academy at Amenthere.

'Yes' said another voice inside Tarun, a voice which had all but fallen silent in the years since his mother and father's deaths. This voice belonged to someone who felt safe and at home amongst the mountainfolk, someone who had not yet discovered that sorrow and grief could be outrun by dreaming of a new life, exciting and dangerous and filled with mythical figures like chieftains and princesses. If the stories in his father's books had been exciting enough to fill the void left by loved ones who could never return, then surely a storybook life would do the job even better?

Wouldn't it?

Standing there, in unfamiliar rooms inside a foreign palace, surrounded by people who had known him his entire life, but now questioned the ties which bound them, Tarun felt tired and uncertain and terrifyingly lonely. His missing ear hurt. His scabby, scourged back hurt. His tired, desert-dried eyes hurt, burning with a sudden fierce and unfamiliar wetness. Worst of all, his throat hurt, stubbornly determined to close up despite several fierce attempts at swallowing.

"I don't..." Tarun was horrified to hear how choked his voice sounded, and tried again. "I'm trying to do right by you all, don't you see that? It's just that...I don't..." He blinked angrily, grinding the heel of his palm into one eye.

"You don't...what?" asked Borse, still gruff but suddenly hushed.

Tarun exploded, all at once and as uncontrollable as an avalanche. "I don't know what to do, that's what! I've got Princess Ellorae whispering promises in my ear one minute, laying traps the next! There's Jerriod, who I don't even know where I stand with anymore these days, telling me straight out that the mountainfolk won't make it home it we try to leave Derbesh. Vashoul N'Shar spends half the wedding hunting me like a hound on a scent, and it turns out he's the least of my problems when it comes to scheming clansfolk. Every time I turn around, it feels like there's a scorpion under my foot! So you tell me what I was supposed to do with any of this!?"

"Tarun, we don't belong mixed up in all this. If Marden were here-" said Garrit. He stood and made as if to approach Tarun, but Isbjorn caught his wrist. Rightly so; Tarun was bristling like a rabid jackal, pacing furiously back and forth in front of the windows and their side-to-side curtain of thundering waterfalls.

Unfortunately, Garrit's choice of words had the opposite of their intended effect. "You're right, Garrit. If Marden were here, he'd have all the answers and know exactly what to do, like he always did! There wouldn't have even been a Hilmarhlǫkk if Marden were here; everyone would have followed him without so much as a second thought. But you know what!? Marden didn't always make the right choices! He chose to run into The Giant's Shoe before it came down, and it killed him! So maybe Marden would have tried to lead you all home to Trosk, when the chance came. And maybe he would have been wrong there too! Maybe Jerriod wasn't just making empty threats, and Clan A'Khet would have killed us before we got past the city's edge. Or Clan R'Tor, lying in wait like a pride of angry lions in the desert just beyond. I don't know! I DON'T KNOW!"

Chest heaving, tears of frustrated rage burning down his cheeks, Tarun stood trembling in every limb. 'Some chieftain', he thought miserably. Half the mountainfolk next door had probably heard his shouting, nevermind the four men currently staring at him. The worst part of it all was that - and Tarun had only just realized this - he really had no idea what he wanted anymore. The Academy? Princess Ellorae? To go home? It was all just a mess; a tangled web that only grew more dense and ensnaring with each passing day.

Isbjorn was the first to break the false peace. "Was it really the clans whom Jerriod told you would stop us from leaving Derbesh, Tarun? Or was it Princess Ellorae?"

Tarun's silence spoke volumes.

"Did she order Jerriod to stop us?"

"No. At least, I don't think so. I think Jerriod warned me because he wanted us alive to stay and fight..." Tarun scrubbed his stubbly cheeks dry. "...for whatever that's worth."

"So, The Bear does still think for himself," muttered Joar.

Tarun couldn't bring himself to look Borse at directly. The older man remaining standing with his arms crossed, dark eyes boring through Tarun with all the intensity of midwinter stars. Of all the men of Trosk, it was Borse's judgement that somehow would have the power to make Tarun feel like the biggest failure.

"Tell me this, Tarun Thrymmson, and tell me truely; did you call the Hilmarhlǫkk - putting everything you hold dear at risk - to protect the mountainfolk from the princess's threat, or to further your own ambitions?"

As badly as Tarun wanted to lie, he felt so scoured bare by his own traitorous emotions that he knew Borse would see right through him. Hoping that what he was about to say was actually the truth, Tarun forced himself to meet Borse's eye.

"Both."

Joar's harsh snort echoed off the curved sandstone ceilings. Garrit however looked unsurprised, as did Isbjorn. Everyone waited on Borse's reaction.

'He's the one who ought to be chieftain,' Tarun realized. The mantle of chieftain was a prize worn for a lifetime though. Only Tarun's death could permit another Hilmarhlǫkk to be called. For better - or most likely, for worse - he was the leader of the mountainfolk, and they would all have to live with the consequences of that.

When Borse reached out, Tarun's first thought was that the tanner was going to strike him. To his surprise, large, work-worn fingers cupped the side of Tarun's face, ever-so-lightly grazing the spot where his ear had been. The touch was both tender, and forceful enough to ensure that Tarun could look nowhere else but directly at Borse.

"So long as ambition always walks hand-in-hand with your duty to your kin, strákurinn mínn, then you may yet live up to the honour of a Chieftain of the Mountainfolk. Remember that...especially when Princess Ellorae is whispering her promises in your ear." Perhaps to emphasize the point, perhaps to remind him of the exact wording of the Hilmarhlǫkk's third term, Borse patted Tarun's wounded ear, just hard enough to draw a wince before removing his hand.

"-the better to mind only the counsel of those who stand at your right hand-"

It was a sobering reminder, one which transformed the oaths he had taken into a stark reality. Tarun found himself abruptly exhausted. Letting out a long, drawn-out sigh, he folded onto the nearest available chair.

"Tarun?"

"Mm?" Tarun squinted across the room at Garrit, mid-massage of his aching forehead.

"There's just one more thing that I have to know...something important..."

Bracing for more questions about the fourth term of the Hilmarhlǫkk, and whether he would or would not have actually killed his own cousin, Tarun gave a resigned nod.

"Who is it that you're actually trying to pursue, eh? Princess Ellorae, or Derrian Bel? Because I thought I knew, until this business with Kirban G'Hesh's murder, and now I've given up trying to guess."

Tarun couldn't tell if he'd inhaled his own tongue down into his lungs, or an entire mouthful of spit. Borse had to thump him hard several times on the back before he had any confidence that he wasn't actively suffocating to death. By the time he finally had enough breath to speak, Tarun was redder in the face than a brick wall.

The other men were no help whatsoever. Joar just shrugged. "It's a fair question, especially since the answer affects the likelihood of your outstanding debt to the Hilmarhlǫkk ever being paid."

"Did it escape your notice that Princess Ellorae is now married to Rhadu A'Khet!?"

"It did not," replied Garrit, looking smug. "And neither apparently did it escape yours. I'll consider that my answer, then. Shame. I could have done a fine job of negotiating your marriage dower for you, especially against a lowlander."

Tarun now had the answer to one question at least. "You wanted to know if I would have killed you for the fourth term, Garrit? Brutally, and without hesitation."

By the time Garrit quit laughing, Tarun was finally feeling halfway like himself again. Unfortunately, despite the searingly honest conversation they had just had, Borse still did not look entirely appeased. Neither, for that matter, did Joar or Isbjorn. Isbjorn raised his narrow eyebrows.

"Well then, Chieftain, what comes next for our people? You wanted us to stay here in Derbesh, and here we are."

Tarun chewed the inside of his cheek. This matter was one he had already been giving some thought to.

"If we're going to hold our own amongst the clansfolk, with any hope of making it through a civil war in one piece, the mountainfolk are going to have to be able to fight. Otherwise, we're no better off than a flock of sheep amongst wolves. We got a start at the barracks in Geristan, but not near enough to actually do our ancestors justice in battle. You know what that means...right?"

"Don't say it," pleaded Garrit, as Joar groaned and held his head in his hands.

"Stars preserve us" Borse muttered.

Nobody had any clear alternatives to offer though. With no better options, this left an inevitable and very unpleasant task before Tarun.

He needed to talk to Captain Jerriod.

OoOoO

Jerriod, it turned out was a relatively easy man to find. The entire Fourth Company - or rather, the newly minted Queen's First Company - was hard at work in an open yard along the cliffside edge of The Weeping Keep. It was a beautiful day, with the endlessly clear dome of the sky drenching the flagstones in sunlight. To both the north and the south of the city, steeply inclined cliffs, criss-crossed with footpaths only a goat would risk, cradled the deep blue waters of the Beson Inlet below.

This was the first time Tarun had been able to properly take in The Boundless Sea in its entirety. Standing there atop the upper ramparts of The Weeping Keep, with nothing but waves before him as far as the eye could see, it really did feel like Derbesh sat on the edge of the world. Another time, Tarun might almost have liked to sit and contemplate the vastness of that far blue horizon. The shouting of Officer Pedrum and the ring of blades made it all but impossible to forget his present errand though.

"Surely we could find someone else?" asked Andris for the second time in the last hour.

Garrit was there to back Tarun up. "There's no one we know well enough amongst the clansfolk to be able to trust."

"And we trust The Bear??"

"I know he's given us plenty of reasons to dislike him," said Tarun "but like him or hate him, Jerriod is a man of honour. There's no one else who we can reasonably ask."

"Better the beast you know," quoted Berin bluntly.

Even with three familiar faces in tow, it was no mean feat to step out onto that yard and walk right up to where Jerriod stood, supervising the afternoon's drills. Even without the cloak and armour and wary scowl, the captain was an intimidating man. He barely acknowledged Tarun's approach, beyond a curt nod. So, he was still angry about the whole incident involving Clan G'Hesh and The Court. Understandable, but also problematic.

"Captain Jerriod." 

"Chieftain."

Best to just come out with it. "I need to ask you for something. I need the men of Trosk to continue on where you left off with their arms training." 

Jerriod's expression said it all. Rolling his eyes to peer sideways at Tarun, the captain half-snorted, half-huffed. It was quite possibly the most unprofessional reaction Tarun had ever seen from the man. 

"I don't know whether to find your sheer audacity impressive...or obnoxious, Tarun Thrymmson. What in the name of Amenthis makes you think I would donate my time and attention to you, or that of my officers, for that matter? When last I looked, the mountainfolk had made it very clear that they wanted nothing further to do with the Queen's First." 

"We still don't," muttered Andris, before Garrit dug a stealthy elbow into his ribs.

"When - not if - the war reaches us, you'll want trained warriors fighting alongside you and your soldiers. Any military man would, really. Without further work, the men of Trosk will be as much a liability to you on the battlefield as to themselves. Besides, you and I have both sworn oaths to Princess Ellorae, oaths which forbid us from letting an obvious weakness in her defenses go untended. Over two hundred untrained peasants in the princess's vanguard presents something of a gap, wouldn't you say?"

Jerriod audibly ground his teeth, still refusing to turn and give Tarun his full focus. A shout from Officer Pedrum momentarily demanded Jerriod's attention, giving Tarun a chance to glance out over the Queen's First. The heat of the eastern sun made helmets impractical for a drill session; all the better to see the wary looks many of the soldiers were shooting in Tarun and the others' direction. There was one exception, however. Tarun had precisely three seconds' warning before the wide smile he had spotted in the crowd was up close and personal. Derrian Bel broke away from formation, sheathing his blunted practice sword and beaming from ear to ear. 

"Tarun! Are you coming to rejoin us then? You and all the rest of the mountainfolk?" To Tarun's abject mortification, Derrian threw both arms wide and wrapped him up in a full-body hug. He even hooked his chin over Tarun's shoulder, heedless of the furious wheeze coming from the stiffened body in his grasp. "I never got a chance to properly thank you for saving my life, by the way!" 

Tarun could feel Garrit's silent laughter, all but radiating off of his cousin like a physical force. Ripples of amusement rolled through the First Company too; some even fell off form with the drills to chuckle behind their hands. The lowlanders' amusement only intensified when Tarun tried (and failed) to shove Derrian away.

"For Anders' sake, Bel, you're making a scene! All I did was tell the truth. You had no business mixed up in that whole affair in the first place, so get off!"

Derrian halfway complied; he released the hug, but left an arm slung across Tarun's hunched shoulders as he spun them both around to face Jerriod.

"Captain! With the return of the mountainfolk, our company will be back to its full strength again!"

"We're not asking to rejoin the army!" Tarun sputtered, shrugging off Derrian's arm.

"I've agreed to nothing yet," protested Jerriod. "Get back in formation, Bel!"

Even Derrian knew better than to linger when Jerriod's stare was that forceful. Snapping to attention with a final grin at Tarun, he hefted his practice sword and returned to his place amidst the Queen's First.

Jerriod pinched the bridge of his nose, suggesting an oncoming headache that had nothing to do with the desert sun.

"Assuming that I decide to allow this, Thrymmsom-"

"Chieftain," Berin corrected Jerriod dispassionately.

Jerriod inhaled, long and slow. "Assuming that I allow this, Chieftain, there will be conditions...conditions which you and your folk will abide by without question or complaint at all times. Am I clear?"

"And the conditions are?" Tarun tried not to let his relief show too clearly. If Jerriod had refused, he had no idea how the mountainfolk would have continued their military training.

"Firstly, when you're in my training yard, I am the beginning, middle, and end of all authority. I don't care how separate your folk want to hold themselves from the main when it comes to politics. In here, you're not in charge; I am."

"Fine. Is that all?"

"Not quite. I also want you to swear, here and now, that you will never again pull one of my men into your affairs with the clansfolk. Because if you do, Tarun the Heartless..." Jerriod leaned in ominously close. "...I will throw you over the walls of The Weeping Keep and into the sea myself. Clear?"

Tarun was getting immensely tired of people crowding his personal space today. Swimming was not a skill known to the mountainfolk though, neither was it one he had any interest in learning on short notice. 

"Clear. I take no responsibility for what your soldiers-" Tarun threw a pointed look at Derrian amidst the group. "-decide to get into of their own free will though. Is that fair enough for you?"

"I suppose it'll have to be. Alright then, I'll allow your folk to learn and train alongside the First Company. We meet again at sunup for spear drills. Any man who arrives late can turn around and go straight back to his bedroll."

Tarun nodded. "We'll be here. Erm...thank you, Captain." 

"Make me regret it for even an instant, Chieftain, and this whole arrangement is over," retorted Jerriod. "You had better all remember the four guard positions. We've long since moved on from-"

It was just then that a young boy wearing the insignia of Clan A'Khet came jogging across the courtyard from The Weeping Keep. The page bowed briefly before Tarun and Jerriod before pointing in the direction of the palace.

"Chieftain Tarun the Heartless...Captain Jerriod...your presence is requested on the main stair of The Weeping Keep. The citizens of Derbesh are being gathered in the plaza for a special announcement, to be made by Lord Rhadu and Princess Ellorae within the hour." 

Such a summons could hardly be refused, even if they had been of a mind to do so. While Jerriod was dismissing the First Company, Tarun turned to Garrit, Andris, and Berin. 

"Go downstairs and find everyone you can, tell them to come up to the plaza. Whatever announcement is about to be made, the mountainfolk should probably be there to hear it too." 

Andris and Berin nodded, but Garrit did not join them when they left.

"You can boss everyone else about as you like, coz, but we're family, so I'm going with you. Besides, the last time you were left on your own around the eimirs, things got a little too exciting for comfort," he said by way of explanation, throwing in a teasing elbow for good measure. 

There wasn't much Tarun could say to that. He figured that Garrit had earned a little leeway after the Hilmarhlǫkk anyways. 

"Fine, but follow my lead in public at least." 

"As you command, O fierce and mighty chieftain." 

OoOoO

Sure enough, The Weeping Keep's main plaza was filling minute by minute with a crowd of curiously buzzing clansfolk when Tarun and Garrit arrived. It was a very different experience to be standing on the landing atop the stairs, looking down over everyone, as opposed to standing below looking up. The other eimirs and their attendants were already there - Tarun was silently thankful that Garrit had insisted on coming - as well as Clan A'Khet's most prominent figures. Vashoul N'Shar acknowledged Tarun's arrival with a curt nod, while Kusma D'Van went a step further and smiled briefly at him. All of the other eimirs seemed tense, stone-faced and silent as they awaited the current Lord and Lady of The Weeping Keep. A patchwork of fast-moving clouds had gathered overhead, casting the city in and out of the light as they passed.

The sun was behind a cloud when the ringing of an enormous gong heralded the arrival of Lord Rhadu and Princess Ellorae. The only other time Tarun had ever seen the pair so magnificently arrayed was at their own wedding feast. Gold embellishments covered both of their clothing, and the hems of both Rhadu's long coat and Ellorae's gown trailed on the ground behind them. Ellorae wore a diadem of filigree chains woven into her russet curls, and upon Rhadu's breast he bore an enormous medallion. Tarun almost thought he recognized the insignia embossed upon the disk, but it was so highly polished that its gleam was nearly enough to blind even without the sunlight.

As Rhadu and Ellorae passed, approaching the edge of the landing to stand overlooking the crowd, there was a definite and visible curdling of the air surrounding the other six eimirs. Hadasna S'Dir was staring at Rhadu's back with such venom, it was enough to make even Tarun shiver. Dark whispering broke out amongst the representatives of the other clans. The citizens below, however, waited in a loaded silence. 

"People of Derbesh," Rhadu spoke out in a loud, booming voice that easily filled the space. "Representatives of the Seven Clans, friends, visitors, and allies. You all are aware of the nature of our times. You are aware of the growing threat of war, spreading from the west and the capital in Amenthere. Many of you were here, listening just as you are now, when Princess Ellorae announced her intention to challenge her brother, Mahir, for the throne of Goran. In doing so, she has vowed to grant the people of the Seven Clans the right to self-governance. No more shall we be ruled by a distant, foreign throne. Instead, we shall rule ourselves, answerable only to the bonds of friendship...and now marriage, between The Weeping Keep and Castle Armathain." 

Turning to Ellorae, Rhadu ceded the moment to his newlywed wife. Looking every inch a High Queen, Ellorae addressed the crowd with utter surety. 

"I swore to you that the east would be self-governed, and to that oath I hold. If the Seven Clans are to stand against my brother though, they must stand together. The old ways must be restored, long-vacant mantles of honour and authority taken up once more. We have already seen as much, with the naming of Tarun the Heartless as the first Chieftain of the Mountainfolk since the days of Amenthis." 

Tarun had not been expecting to be singled out in such a way before the whole of Derbesh. He wore only the simple, spare clothing that the tailors of Clan A'Khet had been able to fashion for him. He looked nothing like a proper chieftain, especially amidst the finery of the eimirs. Still, there was nothing else for Tarun to do except take a short step forward behind Ellorae and Rhadu and allow his presence to be noted. 

"Thus, as I promised, there shall once again be a Wal in The Weeping Keep," announced Ellorae. "As High Queen, I hereby endorse Rhadu A'Khet's claim to the title of Wal, and grant him authority over all lands east of The Teeth." 

The last part of Ellorae's statement was almost entirely drowned out by the clamour rising from all sides. The citizens of Clan A'Khet were cheering their approval in the plaza below, but they were just about the only ones. Only the swift intervention of The Guardians prevented Kazimir G'Hesh from lunging at Rhadu and Ellorae. Hadasna S'Dir and Enyat R'Tor were screaming in fury, their faces scarlet. Yeffa U'Krell, Vashoul N'Shar, and Kusma D'Van were all shouting too, trying to make their objections heard even as the surrounding din grew more and more heated.

"But what does it mean?" asked Garrit, having to shout to be heard. "Why are they all so angry?" 

"A Wal isn't like an eimir, Garrit. They're the closest thing that the Seven Clans ever had to a king or a queen. When Anders himself was Wal, all the eimirs of the other clans had to answer to his will. That, and a Wal rules only from the seat of power in Derbesh...The Weeping Keep. They do not surrender the city to any other clans." 

So...if Rhadu is Wal, then Clan A'Khet will hold The Weeping Keep forever? No more changing hands after every seven years?" 

"Yes, more or less. Not until Rhadu's death, and a new Wal is chosen." 

One look at the other six eimirs told Tarun everything he needed to know about how well that idea was going over. Even dainty, pretty little Kusma looked angry enough to come to blows. The Guardians and the personal bodyguards of Clan A'Khet were doing a fair job of keeping the enraged eimirs and their entourages away from Rhadu and Ellorae, but Tarun could only imagine what kind of outrage there would be once the rest of their clansfolk heard the announcement.

"Princess, what are you doing?" Tarun murmured under his breath. Ellorae was still beside Rhadu though, gazing outward over the yelling and waving clansfolk of Clan A'Khet filling the plaza. The two of them stood unperturbed, as if they were the eye of calm in the center of a raging storm.

"Hullo...what's that?" 

Unsure what Garrit meant, Tarun frowned at his cousin in confusion. Garrit wasn't looking at Rhadu and Ellorae though. In fact, he wasn't even looking at anything within the plaza. Eyes narrowed, shading his face from a temporary return of the sun, Garrit pointed out to sea. 

"There, do you see them?" 

It took a moment, but then Tarun did indeed see what it was that had stolen Garrit's attention in the midst of so much chaos. The longer he looked, the more the realization of what he was seeing sunk in. Without even pausing to consider the implications of doing so, Tarun leapt forward and seized Princess Ellorae by the wrist.  

"Look! Look to the sea!"  

The Guardians were already swooping in, ready to accost anyone who would lay a hand on the Lord and Lady of The Weeping Keep. Ellorae's hand shot up, stopping their advance. Her leonine eyes went to the water of the Beson Inlet...and widened in such surprise as Tarun had never before seen escape the ever-ready princess. Even Rhadu's incredulous expression turned to disbelief when he followed Tarun's and Garrit's frantic pointing. 

One by one, everyone on the stairs of The Weeping Keep stopped shouting and turned to see what the others were staring at. One by one, they all fell silent, mouths open, utterly shocked by the sight before them. 

"Sands of time..." Rhadu whispered.

Trickling around the grouping of islands around the southern edge of the Beson Inlet, limping slowly along like a pod of wounded whales, there came hundreds upon thousands of ships. Small fishing boats, large dhows with angular sails, even a three-masted caravel; they all drifted into the bay in a vast carpet of dark shapes upon blue waves. They were unmistakably southern in make; despite having never seen such vessels in person before, Tarun recognized them from his father's books. What they were doing here though, so far from home and in such enormous numbers, he could only begin to guess. None of the possible reasons which came to mind were good.

Ready or not, it seemed that the war had finally found its way to Derbesh.

OoOoO