The Travelers (working title)

The Travelers

Sword beat against shield and the ring of steel on steel echoed through the valley. The knights of King Merron pushed against the Fre'Ment hordes. The bestial creatures of the evil Terrack Go'Shar in mismatched armor swung their axes and clubs, pikes and jagged edged swords that were wrought in the fires of the Forbidden Land. The sun glinted off the armor of valiant knights as screams and inhuman howling rent the air. Cries of the dying added to the din of war as carrion eaters circled over head; they would feast tonight.

King Merron himself was leading his soldiers onward through the horde, pushing back wave after wave of the ugly faces of death. The charge of horror had started at sunrise with the blast of black horns, laced with the tendrils of dark magic. The rush crashed against the line of human warriors, which held throughout the day. Shields that were once clean and smooth, were now spattered with blood and dented. Weapons that were once sharp and straight lay in lifeless hands, bent and chipped. Behind the lines, back in the caves behind the soldiers, huddled the last remnant of humanity. If that line broke, if the Horde crashed through, all hope would be lost.



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Sean Lockhart blinked and looked up from his book, his eyes focusing on the form of his blond, petite mother standing in the doorway to the kitchen looking across the bare, packed dirt. For a brief moment she looked like Princess Sahra from his books, as the warm breeze stirred her hair and lifted it back behind her. Squinting into the harsh sunlight, she waved her arm, signaling the brothers that dinner was almost ready. He closed the wooden cover of his book and levered himself out of the haystack next to the barn, blinking as his head broke out of the shade and into the bright light.

Glancing out towards the field, he could see his older brother, Samuel of 20 turns, was still swinging the sickle through the hay grass. Luc, the oldest at 22 turns, would be out of sight around the corner of the wooden hay barn, guiding the massive, furry Horned Sulligets that performed all the heavy duties of the farm. The beasts of burden were pulling the overfilled hay cart in front of his father and a few of the other farmers of the Vale.

Da and the others were forking the fallen hay into the cart, and then bringing the load into the barn where Sean would load it into the lofts for the winter time. They would be coming in within the next few minutes, if the creak of the wooden axle was any indication of the weight in the cart.

He hated the Harvest. For the past three weeks, and for another four yet, he would be helping the farmers of the Vale, swinging sickles, hauling hay, forking it into the barns and inhaling as much chafe to choke a Sulliget. The farms all up and down the Vale worked together to get the harvest in before.... He shuddered to think of what was to come.

The small, thin creatures that flew in droves would cover the land with their many eyes, buzzing wings and huge appetites. They flew everywhere, attacking anyone, eating everything. Flesh, food, clothing, they didn't care; it was all the same to them. Sean had seen what they did to a baby Sulliget, a couple turns back. There was nothing but bones, picked clean, white, shining. They stayed about a week, and they were called Criat Rea'arst, the Little Devils.

Muttering under his breath, he slipped the book beneath his long-since discarded shirt in the shade and grabbed the pitchfork, leaning against the wood slats. His mother had gone back into the house to finish dinner. His 16 turns sister would be in there also, setting the table and learning the ways of the kitchen. Jabbing the pitchfork into the hay pile, he imagined he was stabbing a Fre'Ment Minotaur, the fiercest warrior of the Horde.



"What am I going to do about that boy?" Dayella Lockhart sighed as she busied herself with the preparation of dinner. She looked down at her hands. Old; my hands are old. I don't want to be old. She leaned against the wood counter and sighed. Weariness threatened to weigh her down, and she let out a long low, sigh. Mentally shaking herself, she turned back to sifting the bean-like frielos to get the tiny pebbles out.

Setting a bowl next to the cutting board, Lizzy smiled, her narrow mouth set low in her pale features. Her freckles stood out of the paleness, little pinpoints of fire on a white canvas, matching the burnished bronze of her hair. Bright, shining green eyes showed the joy and passion that Lizzy always carried with her.

"What you've always done, Mother," She responded with a giggle, "Give him a stern talking to in front of Father and then ask him what he read after Father goes outside to Pipe. I wish Da wasn't so uptight about women not know what's written in Books." She set her hands down on the counter, and for a brief moment doubt and frustration replaced the joy that was carved into her very being. With a quick start, as though shaking cobwebs from her hair, the smile flew back in full force and she picked up the cutting board on her dance across the kitchen.

"I don't know how far he got, but I do hope that King Merron has beaten the Fre'Ment Hordes. I wish we were taught the art of Trent'Illak, so we wouldn't relay on Sean to tell us what's happening in Father's books." Pouted Lizzy as she laid out the wooden bowls, "At least he's a good story teller, though I think he embellishes too much." Her graceful movements flowed around the kitchen, clean hands collecting ingredients for the meal from the various handmade cupboards and shelves. Her feet marked a smooth, effortless dance across the wooden floor, worn from the many years of the Steps.

"Maybe if you asked Sean to teach you Trent'Illak, you could teach him the Steps?" Her face stayed neutral and emotionless. A shocked look came over Lizzy's face, her jaw almost coming unhinged in disbelief. A small wrinkle in the corner of Dayella's mouth started to betray the joke, but Lizzy hadn't caught it yet.

"Mother! You know it's forbidden for him to teach a woman Trent! Besides, Sean has not the grace nor the agility to Dance the Steps. Only women are allowed in the kitchen, or do anything in the home for that matter. He would probably break all the dishes while treading on the cats tail! I wouldn't want to eat anything he cooked either. Would you?

"Father and the Elders Circle teach him how to cook outdoor meals, like stew, rabbit and fish, but to have a boy in the kitchen? That's absurd, Mother."

The mask flickered, steadied and the collapsed all together as mother and daughter locked eyes and started to laugh. It echoed out of the kitchen as loud as the pots and pans banging together.



Two hours later, sweat rolling down his think, tanned arms, Sean heard Lizzy ringing the dinner bell from the back porch. Wiping his arm across his brow, he rammed the pitchfork into the dirt and scooped up his shirt and book.

He slipped around the side of the small house and clambered in through the window of his room. Throwing his armload on the single, low bed, he slipped in the the fresher for a quick wash. The warm water next to the wash basin felt good on his tired, aching muscles.

Pulling a clean white shirt over his head, he paused to scratch Torenn on his scaly neck, and heard the warm purr of content and he ran a calloused hand down the furry ridge on the Dimadol's back.

Entering the dinner room, the table had been set and all the members of the house were just arriving to sit at long wooden benches around the table. Steam rose from the clay mugs of hot cider. A glass pitcher cold well water sat in the center of the table, ornate in design in comparison to the simplicity of the wooden and clay crockware. It alone was the only finery on the solid oak table, a testimony in itself to how well off the Lockhart family was; glass was a rarity in this portion of the land.

Sean slid quietly on to his end of the bench next to his mother and didn't look up as he served himself up from a bowl of root and sclapat salad. His father, Tamoran Lockhart, sat at the head of the table, Phyl, a nearby farmer that had been invited to stay for dinner, sat in the honored Guest position on Father's right. Mother sat at the foot of the table in the third and final hand crafted, high-backed chair. The rest of the family, Luc, Sam and Lizzy, and the three hired help sat on the low benches along the sides of the table, one bench shorter than the other to accommodate the Guest's chair.

A quick peek at his mother surprised him as she gave him a quick wink, and after a swift glance at the position across the table, he saw Lizzy with a reassuring look letting him know his secret was safe with them. The sense of hunger that had been hidden by his fear erupted in his stomach and he served himself up with gusto. The table remained quiet as fork and spoon moved food with rapid efficiency, and only the hushed sound of Father and Phyl discussing business somberly at the head of the table marked any difference.

Most of the family finished at the same time, and Lizzy and Mother stood up and started to bustle around the table, moving empty plates and bowls into the kitchen. Sean handed his only sister his plate and leaned back, a small sigh of contentment escaping as he let his elbows rest on the table. Warmth from his full stomach spread up and down his body helping to ease the tension and strain of a hard day's work.

"Sean, do you have something you wish to tell Father?" The contented feeling vanished instantly and his mouth turned to dust. He straightened on the bench. His back went rigid. How could she do this? After all those reassuring looks? Looking at her in shock, it slowly started to turn to anger, but that feeling didn't last long as the deep, calm voice of his father asked,

"Is there something, Sean?" The calmness was a stark contrast to the hard, tanned face. Wrinkled from years under the harsh Goam'An sun, with peircing, dark blue eyes and a beardless face. Tamoran Lockhart was respected throughtout the Vale as a peaceful man, but the thick scar along the side of his face caused many to wonder about his time before he'd brought his young wife, heavy with their first born, into the small farming community. The scar ran vertical along the right side of his face, starting right under the hair line above his temple and traveling in a jagged, lightening pattern to the middle of his jaw line. It would have been a frightening mark if Trenton's face was not accompinied by the twinkling eyes that almost always sparkled with a youthful enthusiasm.

Right now those blue eyes seemed to bore right through Sean, piercing to his very core, as if to read the answer on the wall behind him. Sean looked straight back into those eyes, as he had more times than he could count. He knew wasn't upset, not yet at least. When he got really mad a vein would start visibly pulsing along his forehead like an earthen Kine wurm.

"I took a little longer break than I should have, Father. I was practicing my Trent'Illak, deciphering the teachings of the Ancients, as they have been passed down from generation to genera...." Father's hand waved off the rest of the response, the large, calloused hand coming to rest on the edge of the table. Phyl leaned back and slowly sipped from his mug, his eyes brows raising slowly over the edge as he observed the tense situation.

"I know what Trent is. Do nay think to lecture me the way the Elders would a Young One. Ye know where yer responsibilities lie, forking the cutting into the barn, not burying yer head in some tome of fancy and folly." Tamoran's think accent was even further proof that he was not a local. "If ye believe for one moment that I be letting ye get away with shirking yer duties, ye had be'er have another think comin'."

"You know I wish to become a Yo'a'thien, Father. I wish to become a Traveler! To see the World!" Sean was rushing the words out, horrified that he was speaking like this to his father, relieved to finally be getting the weight off his chest that had been burdening him for the better part of the year. His eyes widened as he finished. Snapping his mouth shut, he gripped the edge of the bench to keep his hands from shaking.

Tamoran interlaced his fingers in front him and slowly rested his elbows on the table. Placing his chin in the crook of his thumbs, he never once broke eye contact with his son. Samuel paused in the process of standing up and slowly lowered himself back onto the bench. Luc's eyes grew as wide as the dinner plate he had been in the midst of handing to Lizzy. The hired help, their meal completed, had already started to leave the dining room and now finished exiting with a little more haste. Phyl softly set his mug on the table and pulled out his pipe from his inside coat pocket. Thumbing it full of leaf, he lit it and continued his silently watch, knowing his place as a Guest. This was strictly family business; he could not intervene, even should he have wanted to.

"I will no have ye go runnin' off and joinin' that roving band of theives and swindlers. T'would bring shame on this home and I will no have it. I did no let you study with the Elders to get fool notions into yer head." The tone was getting harder, the accent stronger as he went on. "I know the other boys in that group were the one's spreadin' that garbage amongst ye, and if I had the names, hides would be tanned afore sundown. Ye be a smart lad, learning Trent when yer brothers couldn't. But that doesn't mean I would let ye go off on your own, much less with the likes of the Travelers!" He spit the name out like a curse.

Sean could feel the strong emotion rising through him like a bubble. Tears threatened to show in his eyes. He couldn't show his emotions, not to his father. He had to show him how important being a Traveler meant to him.

True, it was while in the tutelage of the Elders in his 10th through 12th turns that he had learned of the Yo'a'thien from the other boys. The Travelers, as they were known in Common, toured the world, moving from town to town, telling fantastic stories and tales of the Ancients. One of the boys said that as the stories unfolded, magical creatures would erupt from the fires to add visual displays to the spoken word. Some sang songs about those magical creatures, like one called a byrd that flew through the air without strings, or animals with a single horn in the center of their forehead. Other Travelers danced, some juggled balls that flashed colors in the firelight, and all with a laugh and a smile.

Always on the move, they traveled in large covered wagons, painted all the colors of the rainbow. They would always setup camp outside cities and towns, the sound of their laughter the first sign that they were here. Rumors abounded about the Travelers and their origins, about what they did when not performing, and how they created such magical visits. There were only two things for certain that people knew; the first being they could fix anything, from pots and pans to saddles and tack, and always with a whistle and a song. The second thing was that you always counted your fingers after you shook their hand. An air of mystery surrounded the multi-colored caravan, and more than once the Travelers had been run out a town for one issue or another. Whether or not the rumor was true had yet to be proven, but it followed them around wherever they went.