Ro and Nathan 1

The college cafeteria was nearly empty, only a few students still loitering over their meals to avoid the inevitable studying that marked the end of the school year. Many of them talked about the dreaded finals, but a few were already discussing their plans for the summer. Each group seemed lost in their own discussions, oblivious to the low level of noise created by the other conversations. This was particularly true for a duo of young men sitting across from each other at a small table. They were second years and almost brothers despite their vastly different appearances. The shorter of the two appeared to be of Pacific Islander descent with perpetually tan skin, dark hair, and dark, slanted eyes. The other, though, was pure Caucasian. His longer, dark blonde hair had the barest hint of a wave, and his eyes were a deep, luscious blue. Whereas his shorter companion stood a mere 5’3”, the blonde was an even six feet and built like a basketball player. The other, however, was in no way small. Had he been the height of his friend, he would have been called a bear of a man. As it was, he was often called ‘Gorilla’ due to his massively built shoulders, chest, arms and legs.  He could easily take down his taller, leaner friend, but it just wasn’t like him. His face was open and honest, a perpetual smile playing on his features. At the moment, though, worry for his friend was clear on his face.

“Just you and your uncle. On a small boat in the middle of the Pacific?” the young man complained to his friend.

“It’s only one summer,” the taller tried to reassure his friend, taking a sip of his drink and stretching his long legs.

“Only one summer, he says,” the other scoffed.

“All right, Steph, what’s this really about?” the taller sighed.

“One, you’ve never been a boat bigger than a canoe,” Steph answered, ticking off his points as his worry grew. “Two, you’ve never even seen any body of water larger than Pine Lake! And three, you are born-and-bred Midwestern farm-boy built for seas of corn, not oceans of water.”

“Oh, really?” the blonde laughed quietly, picking up on what the other was implying. “So, should I tell my uncle to expect the Indonesian Hulk instead, island boy?”

The joke, common enough from their childhood, brought Steph’s usual smile back to his face. The small town they grew up in was almost barren of any diversity, except during de-tasseling season. Steph had always stood out among his Caucasian classmates, despite his short stature. He had been adopted at age three by his taller friend’s neighbors. The two had become fast friends after that.

“No way!” Steph laughed back. “I’m as Midwest as they come and perfectly content with my feet on solid ground.”

The blonde chuckled, “Well, what else could someone with a name like Stephan Raja Reuter be?”

“Very funny, Nathaniel Mitchell Claassen,” Steph replied.

“Does that one professor still call you ‘Steven’?” Nathan asked with a grin.

“Nah, finally got him to call me Steph after two months,” the shorter answered.

“That’s good,” the taller replied.

“So, Mr. Claassen, you are avoiding the question,” Steph brought the conversation back to its original topic. “Are you seriously gonna go sailing with your uncle all summer?”

“Steph,” Nathan groaned, “If I don’t go this summer, I may never go. I want a little adventure before I settle down.”

“Then do it between junior and senior year! Not between sophomore and junior year, Nate!”

“I’ll be taking an internship next summer, Steph, and you should be too,” the taller sighed. “This is the last year I can do something like this.”

“Fine,” the shorter grudgingly agreed. “But if you can get wi-fi, you better the heck send me pics, man.”

“What, like selfies of me and the hot island chicks?” Nathan laughed, much to his friend’s delight. The blonde’s laugh was as exuberant as it was infectious. When their laughter finally died down, the two gathered up their bags and dishes before leaving the cafeteria and walking back to the house they shared with two other young men. The rent was split between the four of them, and the two sophomores had miraculously spent three semesters there due to one housemate’s power of persuasion. He had held interviews with half the male population of the freshman class before selecting the two of them. Somehow, they had fit his crazy criteria and got out of living in the dorms. They didn’t know how he finagled it and didn’t really care. The Brit tended to keep to himself anyway. The fourth had been harder to pin down. The spot had eventually been filled by a culinary student after the original three found out that their cooking rotation brought only microwave meals or something unrecognizably burnt. The Cajun they had found was a little outgoing and loud for the Brit, but his food more than made up for it.

“‘Bout time y’all came back,” a baritone with a Louisiana accent greeted them. The owner of the voice, a tall redheaded Cajun with mismatched eyes was lugging a suitcase out of the house.

“What’s up, Pierre?” Nathan asked, eyeing the suitcase.

“Goin’ ta see m’folks’n’em,” came the grunted answer. “Big reunion this summer an’ I wouldn’ miss all dat cookin’ if y’all payed me.”

“Bringing some Midwest back with you?” Nathan teased.

“Nah, brah,” the Cajun answered, smiling. “Da folks’n’em’d nevah fahgive me if I switched ta y’all’s bland food.”

The other two chuckled as Pierre finally faced them, his left eye a shining emerald and the right a lush chocolate brown. His usually mischievous face was split with a grin.

“Gators don’t exactly survive here,” Steph chuckled, remembering a few of their chef’s stronger complaints.

“I’m survived he’s survived them,” came a deep, male British voice. “After all, I doubt his bayous see much snow or ice.”

“Hey, Reggie,” Steph greeted.

“Nathaniel, Stephan,” the dark Brit replied. The two Midwesterners rolled their eyes. Nathan had already told Reggie of his summer plans, saying he could announce an open room a month after the start of the school year, sooner if he was declared missing, if necessary. Not that he thought it would be. After all, he wasn’t going to the Bermuda Triangle or anything.

“You sure you’ll be okay here on your own, Reggie?” Steph asked for the millionth time. He had been volunteering to spend the summer with the African-British man since Pierre wouldn’t be in the house that summer, as he had the year before.

“Yes, quite,” the taller man answered. “I may actually have some quiet again.”

Nathan chuckled and headed inside. He was going to leave the majority of his college belongings in the house over the summer, so he could avoid moving them right before and after a long trip. Reggie followed quietly behind, not wanting to listen or be drawn into Pierre and Steph’s banter. The man was practically a ninja or ghost for all his size and coloring. He was a good six inches taller than Nathan with broad shoulders and long, strong legs. His skin was so dark it was almost black, and his coarse, black hair curled tightly to his skull. Serious, dark brown eyes watched his housemate pack clothing into a small duffel before the smaller, lighter man decided it was time to study. Only then did the Brit walk to his own room and close the door. He truly hoped he wouldn’t have to replace the blonde Iowan. It would not only disrupt the status quo he was now used to, but would require another round of interviews, which were a hassle in and of themselves.

*              *              *

Golden eyes watched the coming and goings of creatures large and small in the dappled twilight of the Deepwood. Their owner was completely focused on the task at hand. A fine sweat glistened on the hunter’s tawny skin, turning the short mop of mahogany hair, tied back from their face by a band of dark leather, a darker ruddy brown. The form, mostly hidden by well-worn, loose fitting clothing, was not overtly male or female. The right forearm was covered in a tied sheep leather sleeve. More sheep leather formed a strange glove on the left. The glove had no place for the wearer’s thumb or pinky and only covered the middle to tip of the other three fingers. The middle and ring were encased in a single pouch, while the pointer had its own. A large strip of leather attached these to a bracelet tied with sturdy cords. A thinner strip was threaded through this and tied over a separate oval on the back of the hand. Three thin, but sturdy cords attached the finger casings to this las oval. The point of the entire apparatus was to protect the young hunter’s fingers from getting too injured by their bowstring. A strung bow was gripped in the other hand as the covered one reached for an arrow. The young hunter rose in their tree limb perch, raising the bow and nocking and drawing the arrow in a fluid, practiced motion, as a large stag wandered into range. Amber eyes took careful aim along the arrow’s shaft as minor adjustments were made. The hunter took a deep breath, sending a silent plea to the Kings that the arrow would fly true. The stag, while not the most desirable due to age, was better than returning empty-handed. Deep breath in, exhale slowly. The hunter’s right eye closed as they adjusted their aim. The buck seemed completely unaware that he was being targeted and settled in to eat. A slight rustling from the opposite edge of the clearing from the hunter caused the deer to freeze. For a moment, nothing seemed to move. The hunter released the bowstring, the arrow taking flight as quietly as death itself. The old buck bleated in pain as the arrow buried itself in the proud animal’s ribcage. Another arrow followed shortly after, ending the creature’s suffering. Only after the deer had stilled did the hunter lower their bow and relax a little. Already, their mind was on selling the antlers, hid, meat and other parts to the various tradesmen in the village not far from the Deepwood.

Lithe grace was put on display as the hunter climbed to the ground. No motion of the body betrayed gender. The hunter stopped at the base of the tree, removing their arm and finger guards, to uncover a small two-wheeled cart. Without another person’s help, this was the only way to get everything back to the village. There was a small struggle to get the cart out of the bushes, but the hunter soon had it resting near the old buck. With quick, efficient motions, the hunter reclaimed their arrows and slit the deer’s throat and belly to allow the blood to drain away and remove the unneeded entrails. Golden eyes quickly examined the buck, taking note of the hide condition, muscle tone, and antler size. Overall, it seemed to be a good catch. Once they were sure the blood was drained, the slim hunter pushed, pulled and heaved the large carcass into the cart. Then, after a steadying breath, the hunter started pushing the cart back toward the village.

The forest gradually lightened as the hunter pushed and pulled the cart over the uneven ground toward a well-worn path. Birdsong filled the air around her as the diurnal creatures of the forest rose to greet the sun. A smile changed the hunter’s face ever so slightly. With this small change, the face seemed to take on more feminine contours, especially if one noted the cause of the smile. The hunter had paused to catch her breath when two small, foxlike creatures romped onto the path in front of her. The kits growled and snarled playfully as the first one, then the other, practiced pouncing on the other. As though they sensed something watching them, the kits stopped playing and looked up at the young hunter. One of them yipped at her before both disappeared into the brush again. The hunter’s smile took on a slightly melancholy look as she remembered the first time she had seen of the foxlike creatures. Shaking her head, the young hunter resumed her march to the village.

 

By the time she reached the outskirts, most people already up and moving. The night-herders were already in bed and the morning herders were settled at their posts. The village survived mostly through agriculture and trade. Their herds of wooly mouflon-like animals produced some of the best meat, and their wool was of the finest quality. Weavers, spinners, and seamstresses couldn’t seem to get enough. Besides the herds, this particular village also boasted some of the best soil, resting as it did between the plains and the Deepwood. Mostly, they grew a form of wheat, but individuals could also be found tending vegetable gardens. Even young children were kept busy. There was always something to mind, feed, or collect. In fact, most villagers ventured into the Deepwood for one of only two reasons. The first, more mundane, was to collect various fruits and herbs from the forest flora that they either didn’t’ have time or didn’t have room to grow. This gathering could often be done close to the edge, and was, therefore, considered safe. The second reason was for the deep, lake-like hot spring buried deep within the forest proper. The path the young hunter used was the fastest and safest way to reach it.

Long ago, well before the eldest villager’s great-great-grandfather’s lifetime, a Sage, or holy man, had been lost in the Deepwood and very ill. He had managed to stumble across the lake, and fall in, by accident, but when he emerged, he felt immensely better, as though the water itself held healing powers. He was sure the lake was a gift from the Kings, and due to its size as well, named it the Kings’ Bath. The name, and reputation, had stuck, and pilgrims regularly came from near and far for a cleansing soak in the Kings’ Bath.

No one seemed to notice the hunter’s return to the village until a young woman around the same age appeared from one of the doors. Her eyes, a soft, golden light brown, were filled with worry as she rushed to help the successful hunter. Golden blonde, waist length hair was kept out of her face by a simple muted red triangle of woolen fabric. Whereas the hunter wore a sleeveless tunic and loose-fitting pants, the blonde wore a short sleeved, off-white shirt under a corset dyed the same color as the triangle of fabric on her head and a long, light brown skirt. Between the two of them, they got the cart to the butcher’s faster than usual. The young hunter took a steeling breath as she looked at the door. The butcher was a crass, opinionated man and had a reputation for making hunters’ and traders’ lives harder. The blonde was about to offer to help with negotiations when her mahogany-haired friend forced herself though the door, leaving the cart in the blonde’s care.

The butcher looked up from his work as the door opened, leaver still suspended for a cut. His flint-gray eyes narrowed at the hunter. For her to come into his shop seemingly empty-handed meant one of two things: she had been unsuccessful and now wanted to buy some meat, or her kill was larger than she could carry. The burly maned hoped for the latter. He set down the cleaver as the hunter approached his counter. Aside from poultry, most of the village’s mead was processed in his shop. Frankly, he could use the change of pace that a hunter’s catch would mean.

«Are you feeding or hungry?» the man growled.

«Feeding,» the hunter answered, voice affirming her femininity. “A stag, large and old, but not yet tough.”

«How big?»

The hunter held of her hand in an approximation of the buck’s withers. Admittedly, the butcher was somewhat impressed as the hand leveled just under the hunter’s chin. His thick eyebrows rose a fraction.

«It’s just outside in a cart if you don’t believe me,» the hunter said, noticing the slight change in the butcher’s demeanor.

With a slight nod, the man stepped around his counter. He was only a little taller than the hunter, but much broader. His walk was similar to a bulldog’s and his expression just as tough. He followed the lithe hunter out, noting the slit throat and long cut down the animal’s belly.

«Nothing’s missing,» the hunter assured him. «All the valuable pieces are still there.»

With that, the bartering began. The butcher wouldn’t be allowed any closer to the der until they settled on a price. The average cost for a sheep was three silver and 25 copper coins. That cost was usually split between the tanner, butcher and whoever else wanted part of the animal. Given its size, the buck was worth, at minimum, five silver coins. The state of its hide added another 10 copper at the hunter’s insistence. The antlers, while a decent size had little worth in the village, but, with the hooves and bones, could be turned into glue, which added another five coppers. While not exactly what she had been hoping for, the hunter accepted the final price of five silver and 15 copper coins. Now came deciding how the price would actually be paid. She could ask for part or all the hide, glue, or meat. The hunter knew she had no current need for leather, deerskin or glue, and she often ate with her blonde friend and one other. Mostly, she would be paid in coin, with some subtracted for meat.

«Three silver and a future claim,» the hunter decided after helping get the deer to the back of the butcher’s shop. He would call on the tanner and others to get the parts they needed for their trade, usually at a profit to himself.

«Three silver and a two-and-fifteen claim,» he grunted the affirmation. Once the deer was hung, the man lead the hunter back inside to pay her and mark down her claim. He turned his ledger to her, handing her the writing stylus. She scratched two runes, her name, next to her claim, solidifying it. Three silver coins were pushed to her after she returned the ledger. Without another word, she left the shop, idly playing with the coins in her left hand.

The blonde was still waiting as her friend emerged, watching some of the village children play. They both remembered a time when they too were that carefree. The hunter’s stomach, quiet up till now, chose that moment to complain that food had been withheld for too long. The young women shared a brief laugh at the hunter’s expense.

«Skip breakfast again, Ro?» The blonde asked, worry creeping onto her face once more.

The hunter sighed with a smile. «Sort of. I had some tea, but that was about it.»

«Well, then, Miss hunter,» the blonde replied with a stern look, “We will just have to get you brunch.”

«Shouldn’t you be more worried about someone else’s lunch?» Ro lightly teased as they walked back to the blonde’s parents’ house. As she was yet unmarried, she still lived there, and Ro was a common visitor. The mahogany-haired hunter, also unmarried and likely to stay that way, lived with her aunt, uncle and male cousin. Her parents had both died when she was young, leaving the grief-stricken young girl with no other family.

«I already know what I’m making him,» the blonde answered without missing a beat. «Besides, I can make enough for both of you and still have his wrapped up and ready in time.»

The hunter nodded, stretching a little as she readjusted her bow and quiver on her back.

*              *              *

Blue eyes were fixed out the window as an unfamiliar landscape swept past. A man just starting to go gray at the temples chuckled from the driver’s side. The older man could still remember his own wide-eyed wonder at seeing a different part of the country for the first time. His blue gray eyes flicked to the younger man, surprised the boy wasn’t taking pictures as they rode along.

“This is amazing!” the young man finally breathed, turning back to his elder with shining eyes.

“Never gets old,” the older chuckled. “Surprised you haven’t traveled more, Nate. You got the bug same as me.”

The younger ducked as the older reached over to ruffle his longer, dark blonde hair. Because the younger could only move so much, the older inevitably succeeded before returning his hand to the wheel.

“And just what bug is that, Uncle Hugh?” the blonde asked, trying to fix his hair.

“The travel bug, of course,” the older laughed, his paunch bouncing with the movement.

“Oh, you mean that thing you have that got Mom mad at you about 20 years ago?” Nathan jibed, drawing more laughter from his uncle.

“Blessing and a curse,” the older man finally calmed enough to answer. The younger chuckled, looking out the window in time to see them pull into the pier. He turning a questioning look at his uncle. So far as he knew, he still had a week’s worth of shore time before he got to find out if he had any sea legs at all.

“Sooner we get out there, the better,” Hugh said seriously. “I’d rather not be out there during typhoon season.”

Nathan nodded. It was similar to being careful about when to go camping back home. After all, camping during a tornado was never a fun time. He followed his uncle out of the car, grabbing his bag on the way, before a thought occurred to him. “Aunt May okay with us not stopping in first?”

“Well, that was the other reason I’d like to get out to sea quick,” Hugh replied, a smile lighting his face again. Nathan couldn’t help smiling back. He picked up his pace to catch up. Despite his portly looks, Hugh could move quite quickly when he wanted. The young Iowan laughed a little at the thought, following his uncle to his boat. The man had named her “Glory Days” as a tribute to his life before moving halfway across the country.

The young man paused as his feet left solid ground for the first time. His eyes darted to the surface below him as it gently rocked with the coastal waves, a fascinated smile gracing his face. This was bound to be the greatest adventure of his life.

 

Nathan leaned on the railing at the bow of Glory Days, taking a deep breath of the ocean air. He and his uncle had been island hopping for about a week now, exploring some of the Pacific islands near Hawaii. Now they were in “uncharted waters,” as his uncle put it. They had laughed about that the night before, knowing they were headed for a large stretch of open water. Slipping his cell from his shorts’ pocket, he snapped yet another empty ocean shot for Steph. He had absolutely no reception out here, but he could at least take pictures to show his friends and family when he got home. He turned, slipping his phone back in his pocket, to look at the cabin his uncle was steering from. The weather had been perfect so far, barely a cloud in the sky, but Nathan could tell Hugh was worried about something. With a small shrug, the twenty-year-old turned back to the open water. As he turned, something off the port (that’s left, right?) side caught his attention. It looked like fog or mist, but he wasn’t sure if that was possible, especially since the rest of the sky was clear. Brow furrowing, he walked to the cabin.

“Done with the sea air already?” Hugh teased as the young man.

“Huh? Uh, no,” came the stuttered reply as Nathan walked closer to the cabin’s window. “Just saw something strange.”

“A whale spout?”

“Mist,” the younger answered distractedly, staring at the patch of fog creeping ever closer.

“Mist?” Hugh asked, concern leaking into his voice. “I didn’t think we were getting close to that.”

“Close to what?” Nathan asked, looking at his uncle. A chill raced down his spine as he took in the worry on his uncle’s face. Something wasn’t right, but Hugh wasn’t talking. Suddenly, the boat lurched to the side, slamming Nathan into the wall of the cabin. Through the ringing in his ears, the twenty-year-old could just make out his uncle cursing to high heaven. Blinking blearily, the young man tried to stand as his uncle wrestled with the wheel.

“Get below!” Hugh bellowed, muscles straining against the forces of nature.

World still spinning, Nathan nodded, stumbling toward what he thought was the hatch to take him to the living quarters below. Instead, he was hit by gale force winds and driving rain. Wait, rain? Two seconds ago, it had been perfectly clear and now it was raining? He was used to stuff like that happening back in Iowa, but out in the middle of the ocean? Was that even possible? He shook off those thoughts as the boat bucked below him. The young man was slammed to the deck as the ocean toyed with the Glory Days. He scrambled to hold onto anything he could as he was tossed about the deck. In a single heart-stopping moment, Nathan felt himself thrown off the side of the deck before the ocean waves took him into their dark embrace. He fought back to the surface, coughing and gasping when he surfaced. Deep blue eyes darted around an equally dark blue landscape of rolling waves in hopes of seeing some sign of the Glory Days.

“Hugh!” he attempted to yell, only to be dragged under once more. The twenty-year-old once more fought his way to the surface. Again, he looked for any sign of another human, preferably his uncle, and found none. The ocean continued toying with the young man like a cat with an insect even as he fought to keep his head above the waves. Eventually, the forces of nature seemed to grow tired of their little toy as his struggles started waning. The twenty-year-old barely noticed, too focused on not drowning to be aware of much beyond his looming exhaustion. In what seemed like an act of compassion, the ocean waves washed the young man up on unknown shores. Nathan crawled across the fine sand as quickly as he was able before allowing himself to collapse on the beach.

*              *              *

Piercing, black eyes scanned the horizon over a hawk-like nose. Minister of National Affairs Altuón was not a man to be trifled with, especially considering his large, built physique. His size was emphasized by his dark coloration, pointed beard and preference for darkly-dyed clothing. He even had his ministerial robes re-dyed from their usual bright green to a darker green, commonly found only in the deepest regions of the Deepwoods. His attendant shuffled nervously, as the Minister surveyed the plains between the river and ocean. This was not the time for forays like this, with the threat of another war looming on the horizon, but the runner had been adamant that someone come.

«Şémig,» the minister called, voice reminiscent of a snake moving across the ground. «Bring me the runner.»

«Yes, Minister Altuón,» the attendant answered, quickly ducking away. He had seen the Minister fingering his sword. For the runner’s sake, he hoped the man was telling the truth.

The dark man stood alone on a hilltop, watching the grass wave in the wind. Behind his dark eyes, the scene changed to one of absolute carnage. He didn’t like war in the least, preferring keeping an amiable guard along the border. One he could have gotten if only that Kings’ Cursed runner hadn’t arrived speaking like a madman. If he was indeed mad, he would lose his head that very day, and Altuón would return to the Imperial City to aid in repairing what he was able. His thoughts were drawn back to the present as another presence joined him on the hill. Şémig must have stayed with the soldiers the runner had insisted on bringing.

«Tell me,» Altuón began, not even caring how the younger man would see him, «what do you suppose is adequate punishment for a liar who has disrupted, perhaps even destroyed, what little peace we have with Ʒéhal?»

«I am no liar,» the man claimed weakly.

«I suppose that means I am blind?» Altuón continued coldly, turning to face the runner. «Or is this ‘man-eater’ invisible?»

«Neither, milord,» the runner tried. «It is only a little farther. It was on the beach.»

«And do you not think that a ‘man-eater’ sent from the Kings themselves would not have progressed farther than the beach during the time you took to get to the Imperial City and return with not only myself, but a full platoon?»

The runner couldn’t answer as Altuón circled him. His eyes darted to the curved sword at the Minister’s hip, knowing full well that he was dead as soon as it was drawn. Sweat poured down his face as he tried to think of something to say that could stay Altuón’s blade.

«Sir!» a new voice called, just as Altuón stood behind the runner. The common man swallowed, praying for mercy as blade slid from sheath.

«Report,» Altuón called, ever so lightly pressing the tip of his blade to the runner’s back.

«Sir! Scouts have confirmed the sighting of a man-eater, sir!» the soldier replied, saluting. «We estimate its size to be roughly 15 times that of one of his Imperial Majesty’s citizens.»

With a sickening snick, Altuón returned his sword to its sheath. His eyes remained cold as he walked toward the soldier. «And what was this beast doing when it was seen?»

«It appears to be sleeping, sir,» the soldier answered, frozen in his salute. All the soldiers were very aware of Altuón’s mood and how easily that could translate to a flesh-wound. While normally a very even tempered man, threats of war and the Imperial Son’s refusal to cooperate in the name of peace was grating on him.

«Very well,» the Minister answered, to the relief of both men. «Round up some supplies and volunteers; then secure the beast.»

With that, Altuón left the soldier and runner on the hilltop. They had their orders, and he had other matters to attend to. Despite not being in the Imperial City, he was still required to complete most of his usual duties. Spotting his dark indigo tent, he stalked forward, ready for a break from life’s many inconveniences only to see a pile of parchments needing his attention. Of course, they had not been left unattended in his absence. Trusty Şémig was already going through them, sorting them for Altuón’s ease later.

«Is the traitor dead?» Şémig asked, skimming a supply request.

«There was no traitor,» Altuón answered, walking closer to the table where Şémig was sitting. Şémig looked up, trying to determine if Altuón was denying the runner’s existence or accepting the man’s wild claim. Finding no clue either way, he remained silent. If Altuón felt like sharing, he would listen. He had learned early in his career not to probe the Minister unless he wished to lose his life to the quiet man’s blade. The Minister remained silent as he glared at the piles of parchment. All court officials had to be able to read and write, but it was a task Altuón deplored.

«We need additional supplies,» the dark man finally grumbled to his attendant, «and at least one more platoon with archers.»

Şémig wordlessly shuffled through some of the unsorted parchments for a blank requisition request as Altuón sat down and buried his face in his hands. He massaged his temples as Şémig filled out the request, the scratching of the stylus proving relaxing for the ranked man. Finally removing his hands, he pulled out a map of Hitaka and its neighbors. Tracing the Great River with a finger, he murmured the names of the towns and villages he passed along the way.

«Vardéna,» he murmured, tapping the town on the map.

«A river town, sir,» Şémig supplied. «Very few fields of any worth, and little to no livestock. Known primarily for entertainment, shipping, fishing, and hunting the plains.»

«Really?» Altuón sighed, shoulders slumping.

«Mostly the first two,» the other, lighter man replied. «Néunis would be a good supplier, though.»

«Néunis,» the dark man repeated, scanning the map before finding the little village nestled between the plains and Deepwoods. He traced the natural border, searching for any similar town. There were none, the band of plains touching the woods so small that it could only support three villages of Néunis’ size at maximum. But why did the name sound so familiar. His finger tapped against the table. Had he already requisitioned supplies from there once? A scowl pulled at his pointed fingers as he delved into his memories.

«Highest volunteer rate and most lost, proportionally, of any town or village during the last conflict with Indrav,» Şémig supplied as if reading the Minister’s mind. «Also known for superior livestock and textile quality, and the Kings’ Bath.»

«Ah,» Altuón sighed, relieved to have at least one puzzle solved. «Send a runner requesting bowmen and a small herd.»

«If they refuse, sir?» Şémig hazarded to ask.

«Allow it,» Altuón answered, a rare display of sympathy while in uniform. «This is not a war, nor is there an Imperial order saying they must comply. Therefore, they are allowed to refuse.»

«Understood, sir,» the lighter responded with a smile, his chestnut eyes dancing. Without another word, he slid the pile of parchments needing Altuón’s immediate attention in front of the other man and left the tent. It was common knowledge that Altuón would return to the Imperial City as soon as he could, leaving Şémig in charge. The mousey-haired man could have been the Minister’s second if not for his birth status. He just happened to be lucky and gain the dark man’s favor early in his career. While he had no way to openly gain status, anyone who saw his interactions with the Minister or Imperial soldiers knew he wasn’t someone to be trifled with. He was attendant, confidante, and occasional counsel to the dark man, but more than that, he felt he owed the other for the life he had as opposed to the squalor of his youth. Because of this, he eagerly threw himself into whatever assignment Altuón gave him, even those were no direct order had been given. Such as overseeing the “capture” of the man-eater.

Finding a sturdy-looking youth with a good memory lurking near the fringes of the camp, Şémig relayed Altuón’s request for men and supplies form Néunis. The delighted boy almost took off running before clearly reciting the message. Once satisfied, the man watched the boy race across the plains with little more than a small haversack and water bag. Two other, younger, boys waited near the fringes, obviously hoping to help out as well. These two, Şémig sent ahead of a soldier to help round up volunteers to tie up and, hopefully, transport the man-eater. Next he found two sturdy soldiers to round up rope and other supplies that would be necessary for immediate capture and metal-workers to make the more permanent bindings.

Once all these players were in motion, the brown-haired man found the scout that had reported to Altuón on the hilltop and requested to see the man-eater himself. He was sure the old stories greatly exaggerated these creatures’ size, but wanted it confirmed with his own eyes. Despite not seeming overly anxious for another encounter with the sleeping beast, the scout did as requested, also informing Şémig of the progress already made in securing the beast with some pride.