The Thorian Sagas. 1. The Trader.
A change of routine.

Stoker wasted no time when he left Fenn for almost the last time that month; almost the last time ever, for him.

He had to get back to Saltash by the evening of the following day and embark on a ship heading out into the inland Sea.

He was already pushed for time and would have to risk the storms that might lose him another day.

He was used to the sea and its moods.

The questions would have been many, had he told them why he really came early at that time to their city, toward the end of the month, and why his next trading visit would be more than the usual week away, even as long as ten or eleven days. It was also becoming increasingly more difficult to keep them from getting into his thoughts, though they had not yet discovered just how much they had developed in that direction for themselves, other than coordinating with each other during training and when taking on that wild pig. It would take an even bigger stride when they went out into the wasteland at night, as they would.

In that interval of being away before his next trading run, Stoker would not have chance to get much rest, but would have travelled to the farthest reaches of the region; to the farthest city of Dorian, and to each of the other two cities of women.

The Fennians had not needed to know that either.

His dog joined him on the seat for that return journey.

The wheels they had both set in motion over the last year would have ramifications for generations to come... if it went as it should.

He rested his hand on the dog’s head as it leaned against him for his warmth and kept watch.

With almost empty, or lightly loaded carts, as now, he would be in Golden in six, rather than eight hours, then a quick nap before he took a different horse, on to Saltash.

His dog would ride in his backpack, still giving him warning of anything getting ready to attack them, but that was not likely between Golden and his own town.

His horses and cart would go on to Saltash with a different driver, to arrive the day following that, after he’d embarked, and was already well-out from port on his way to Dorian.

Stoker was a man of many skills. He was a diplomat, envoy, farmer, forester, miner, hunter, fisherman, blacksmith, armorer, soldier, sailor, and shipbuilder; each, as required through the seasons and as need, dictated.

He had done them all, even bringing logs down from the mountains, on the river, riding each of those rafts down those cascading, thundering rapids, delivering the gigantic logs to the inland sea and the sawmills and shipyards there, to be made up into sailing craft to traverse, and to fish on the inland sea.

Each of those skills had taken him across that region where no trader had ever been before, but Saltash was where he was most comfortable.

With his own kind.

The news had changed in each of his longish absences from home. And it was not good, so he had been obliged to change his habits, and become a trader to one of the cities. Fenn was the obvious trading point for him.

It was where his mother had been born. She had often told him of it, and she still had good memories of her childhood there. Her memories of it were now his.

If he travelled to Dorian in the usual way-- as the regular Traders did-- the round trip would take two to three weeks, and he had only just over one week to do it all.

By trading early with Fenn, he had bought himself an extra two days, and he could push back his next visit to Fenn, to later in that following week. The only constraint upon him, was to make sure the tributes reached Fenn by the time they were due to be sent out, on the first day of the next month.

Others would be outside of the city to meet them.

From Saltash he took a sailing ship straight across the inland sea. He could rest aboard ship, and could be in Dorian in two days, rather than try to do the same on fast horses, but not be able to rest.

He needed to arrive in Dorian with a clear head and a sharp mind.

He would return to Fenn in about six or seven days, more or less, with the tributes, and with his last articles of trade for them.

Another trader would trade with them after that. A true Yunk, this time.

Monique and her fellow warriors would not be pleased with that change, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had told them of that change.

Gareth was as capable and as fair a trader as Stoker had been, but Gareth was forbidden from engaging in any other way with them, and would not feel comfortable sitting with them of an evening, nor would he trade, personally with them, though he would be instructed to deliver the Bear meat they had become fond of, and looked forward to.

Stoker would turn thirty years old, on the day he delivered the tributes to Fenn this time, so it was cutting things close. At that time, his defenses would be down, and he would not be able to keep Monique and her troop out of his head as they grew ever stronger that way. He would not regain full control of his own thoughts for a week after that. He would have to be far away from them by that evening or he might scare them with the intensity of his emotions and thoughts, during that difficult time.

It was his task, at the end of every month—as it had been for the last few years—to pick up the tributes from each city; return with them to Saltash; and then pick up his usual trading routine as if nothing unusual had happened, other than bringing the tributes into Fenn.

That routine allowed him to gauge what was happening in each of those cities; to detect changes since his last visit… and he knew what to look for and how to read into the minds of those councillors who transferred the tributes to him for safe keeping on that journey.

They knew about him, and what they knew, they did not like. He was a Thorian! He was ready for trouble and was always fully armed. He was intimidating in every way: size, demeanor, looks. What more needed to be said?

It was the only time they had, by the law of that treaty, to allow a Thorian into their cities, even for a few minutes, and then, always cautiously. They watched him the entire time, this implacable, unsmiling, heavily-armed enemy, never trusting him, but they had to show some deference and hospitality. To do otherwise was to invite much more trouble than they wanted. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Though not for much longer, if their plans succeeded.

At least, they fed him well.

Their transparency; their ill-hidden concerns and even their fear that he would find out about their plotting, amused him.

As he’d sailed into their harbor, within the bounds of their city, he’d seen unmistakable signs of an activity he knew well, having been a shipbuilder himself. They were building a ship, maybe even two of them, (reports, said there were two) and they must have made progress in the year since they’d begun, but he saw no ships. They’d hidden them somewhere along the coast.

That, was how they planned on escaping their cities and making war on Fenn; by crossing the inland sea.

Foolhardy souls! If they knew what he knew of the sea and its unpredictable moods and the creatures that lived in there, as he did, they would never take that risk. Then they would face the wasteland after that!

It they managed to make it to Fenn, they could not know what they would be walking into, but by then, there would be yet another surprise waiting for them, and that particular surprise, could be set into motion in another week.

He had also laid the groundwork for that, by training Monique and her fellow guards as he had, before turning them loose to become familiar with the wasteland.

They would forgive him, in time.

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