The Thorian Sagas. 1. The Trader.
Change, was inevitable.

Yunks, were large and masculine in everything they did, but they were not ‘male’, in the usual way of males; not like the ‘males’ they were used to.

Yunks were usually taciturn, quiet, uncommunicative (so they’d heard and had seen for themselves), didn’t meet their eyes, and rarely said anything unless asked. They never stayed longer than they needed to; usually leaving the same day they came.

A Yunk was the first outsider they had ever seen come into their city, though it had been happening for many years, even from long before they had been born.

Apart from the obvious signs of combat, getting to their city as he’d travelled through the wasteland, Stoker was unlike that other Yunk. He was equally difficult to trust for the first hour or so as they watched him closely, and observed everything he did, as though expecting to see a resurgence of the violence that had just embraced him.

Stoker seemed to find their distrust, amusing, but he said nothing.

Anyone so heavily armed and so clearly used to fighting for his life, was someone to be regarded with caution, and must be respected at all times.

He was always heavily armed, and blood-spattered from recent combat. He laid his weapons aside—within easy reach, once the gates closed behind him— seeing the guards begin to relax when he did that.

He always had that small and agile dog with him whose eyes followed him everywhere, and watched them, the whole time too.

They might have been a team, the way they silently co-ordinated.

When he was to one side of his carts, the dog was at the other. If Stoker was at the front, the dog was at the back.

As they came through the gates, that dog stood on the back of one of the horses, running easily along their backs, and through both carts to the rear; their most vulnerable point, as the wagons had pulled through the gates.

The horses were used to the dog too.

Stoker was different from the only other Yunk they had seen. Different in every possible way, apart from his size.

He communicated easily, a little more, each time he came, speaking intelligently. He smiled and was helpful.

When his eyes met theirs, they saw that he had direct eyes that drilled into their own, and it was 'their' eyes that fell away first.

It was a discomforting feeling for them. That was not usual, but they had to get used to it. It was not going to change. They were warriors, superior to any male, and he, was a Yunk, supposedly of lower social standing than they were, though they came from two very different societies.

When he looked at them, through them, they did not feel in any way, superior.

It used to take them six hours to unload his carts, even with nearly all of the warriors helping.

With him helping, doing all of the heavy lifting, it took only two.

He could, single-handedly drag one of their smaller carts over to his, to load with the heaviest items taken from his own.

He was not shy in any way; showering to get the blood off himself to one side, in the darker reaches of their large enclosed area, so he was easy to get used to, and to trust, just as he trusted them, while he was at his most vulnerable. They had to trust him; he was their only link with the outside world.

Their eyes were constantly drawn to him with his back toward them; an indistinct presence. He was so different in every way, and in everything he did that they were helpless not to watch him.

His dog noticed that too.

After Stoker had showered and dressed again, he sat with them and ate with them of the meat he had brought with him each time, leaving them to prepare it as they knew how to do, better than anyone else.

It was stronger meat than they usually ate, but good; filling their bellies in a satisfying kind of way; relaxing them in other ways too. Though his presence alone did that, and they did not understand it.

He listened to what they had to say, with his dog close beside him. It never went far from him. He dropped choice morsels of food for it; stroking it; then saw his dog go into the farthest, dark reaches of the large guard room, and watch everything from there; his head between his paws.

At those times, his little dog stayed guard as though they didn’t exist, ignoring them most of the time now. They didn’t exist as any threat as far as the dog was concerned, considering what they had just come through.

They learned over time, that if Stoker did not turn around immediately and return to Golden and then go on to Saltash, his home, he stayed the night, sleeping in a hammock strung across a space by his horses. It happened rarely, in the weeks, months and then years that he came, but happened more often as the hours of darkness grew longer with the approach of their solar minimum. The longer hours of darkness meant that he could not safely come from Golden, and return in daylight on the same day.

As he’d showered on this occasion, the dried blood was brushed out of his heavy coat as they’d admired it. His leather leggings were washed by others, as they closely examined each piece in the firelight, as they always did when they had this opportunity, even trying it on against themselves as they marveled and giggled, or just thought about this strange individual who could kill so easily, and then smile at them or speak gently so soon after.

They were lost in the depths of his coat, and it was warm in the most satisfying and even sensual way. But they were not supposed to have those feelings for an outsider, and for a Yunk, at that.

They had a thousand questions to ask but would never dare ask them. Not yet.

Soon!

Stoker had observed the interest in his coat and knew that he would soon have them in the palm of his hands. He’d waited three years for this moment, knowing it was coming, but not sure exactly when.

Then, the Dorians had begun preparations for war.

Monique waited on him with food as usual, and saw he had something warm to drink. She sat with him by the fire as he ate, and warmed up, watching the sparks from the blazing wood, sucked up the central chimney by the wind outside.

They may need to clear away more of the brush from outside the gate in the morning, but most of it could be brought in. It had a high, natural-oil content and burned easily. Some of it had murderous thorns on it, and others, of the family Somnifera, had a sap that sent one to sleep too easily, so they needed to be careful.

Others were now looking after those tasks they could manage; getting his horses settled, as his wagons were progressively emptied, and then they would be cleaned out, scrubbed down, and loaded with trading goods from their own city, though there was no rush with that.

It had taken them a long time to get used to these horses and helping around them. The horses were as quiet, gentle, and well-mannered as Stoker was, and were easy to work around as they were fed and brushed down, but the docility of either man or horses could not be taken for granted. The evidence of what they were both capable of, was still being washed off the sides of the wagons and off the cobbles and their hooves, and those other bodies; the Frexes, were being removed to be cleaned and skinned, now that the trade items had been seen to.

The horses had been trained for combat, just as the man had, and were just as effective in killing Frexes.

Just as well; the wasteland was a dangerous place.

Both horses wore leather protection with added spikes, down their outer legs to guard against the sharp, dead vegetation that covered the wasteland between Golden, and the city, and to protect them from the Frexes, but they; man and horses, had many other, older scars too; especially the man, but his horses had not been touched this time.

He protected them.

They were his lifeline, as he was theirs. Horses... dog... Stoker, all seemed to share something in common, something that ran very deep.

He never spoke of what happened outside of the city, though they could see for themselves as the counts of fresh kills in the back of his wagons increased with each of his last few visits; all of them barely a few hours old; and Golden was more than eight hours away. The Frexes were closing in around the city as the time for tributes came around again.

They tried not to think of that, but their hearts went out to those poor women, as they silently cursed the Thorians.

The goods they would load—once his wagons had been emptied of what he had brought for them—would go back with Stoker, to be traded with other Yunks, or would be traded farther; to their neighbor cities, many days travel away.

Some of it would probably be traded with the Thorians, but they did not control that, and would not ask. Asking about Thorians, was dangerous.

Saltash, Stoker’s home, the middle waystation where the river came down out of the mountains, was as far as this trader was allowed to trade in that direction. After that, was Brough, the third waystation, and then the City of Sinden.

The cities were kept separate, deliberately, and were unable to communicate with each other; having hatched rebellious plots together in the past to overturn various treaties, and always to their great cost, yet they never seemed to learn. And it was starting again.

The Yunks provided what each city needed, and took away in exchange, that which each city produced that could be traded farther down the line.

Fenn produced finely-ground flour, free of grit; and cotton clothing that was valued across the entire domain for its fineness and texture. The Fennians were also noted for producing the finest wines in the region. They were well known for that. It commanded the highest value of all the goods that Stoker traded.

He knew they were not allowed to entertain ‘men’, in any way, but they also knew that a Yunk, was not a man. A Yunk was a half man, as all ‘traders’ were, though the warrior women were not sure what that meant, and Stoker did not fit what they knew of Yunks.

If this one was only a ‘half-man’, strong and intimidating as he was, and well-able to defend himself, then what must a Thorian; a full man, be like? They did not want to think about that.

As Stoker ate, Monique admired his heavy coat. It was the first time she, or any of them had seen the like of this particular coat before. She had caught glimpses of other things that interested her around his neck that she had not seen before, either. She had never seen anything like them, but she could make a shrewd guess what they were.

She asked Stoker’s permission as he ate and, given it, she reached out to touch his heavy coat made from some reddish animal hide, which she had not seen before, and then moved on to the other new item; the necklace he wore, wondering what it was like to touch him, as she had never dared do before, touching and inspecting that necklace, to learn about this new thing.

It was strange, made up of the claws of some large animal.

“I have not seen anything like these, before.”

That was his cue, as a trader.

He’d waited for this moment.

“The coat is made from the hide of a Mountain, Brown Bear, a terrible animal for anyone to encounter, and these”—he touched at his neck— “are the claws of that same bear.”

He added more, taking her by surprise. He had not said nearly as many words ever before in one stretch.

“A Thorian killed this bear, up in the mountains.”

That was the first time he had ever mentioned Thorians in all of the time he had been coming here, and it startled her.

No one ever spoke openly of Thorians.

She waited for the thunderclap that surely would follow his speaking that name.

It didn’t come.

She put aside her concerns and asked the obvious question now that he seemed ready to speak.

“Can they be traded? These items!”

She knew that anything could always be traded. For a price. That was what Stoker always told them.

He had seen that look in her eyes and smiled. He knew how she felt. She wanted them.

They were all of them attentive to anything he said. He began to draw them in, slowly. He had a voice they liked to listen to, getting closer to him, eager to hear what he had to say, now that he was talking.

“The coat can be traded; but not the claws. They can never be traded, other than by the Thorian who killed the bear. The law does not allow it.”

He’d mentioned that name again. Still, there was no retribution; no thunderclap.

He laid that coat along the stone slab for her to sit on if she chose.

She chose.

Never had she felt anything so warm or so thick.

She resisted asking him how he had obtained them if they could not be traded.

He sensed how her mind was working on what he’d said.

He was not allowed to leave the interval lands; no Yunk could, and those others… that he’d mentioned… (she would never dare speak aloud that name; ‘Thorians’)… never came across the wastelands except in times of war. How had he legally obtained them?

Her mind put the various pieces together.

Only Thorians killed bears, or dared to confront them.

He’d traded for them in Saltash.

A Thorian must have traded with him, and in Saltash, of all places.

It was unthinkable; but that could be the only explanation. She repeated it to convince herself of it. He must have traded with a Thorian for these things, and in Saltash. He’d said that only the Thorian who’d killed that bear could trade them, those claws.

There must be Thorians in Saltash!

That was the first she had ever heard of a Thorian being so close to them in the interval lands. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

He continued telling her what she most needed to hear, drawing her in, even deeper, now that he was speaking more than ever before.

It was going just as he intended. He was not being deliberately devious. She would get what she wanted, and so would he, and he would set their feet on a far different path than the one they were on.

“But there is a way to ‘win’ them.”

He had her total attention now.

He would not tell her that he could freely ‘give’ them, if it pleased him to do so, but that might reduce their value to them. Few things, ‘given’, were ever properly appreciated. They had to be earned, or properly valued in accordance with what was paid to possess them.

Men had come too close to dying, in order to win them. Some men; many men, had died in that endeavor over the years. Their memories, and what they had done, should never be held so cheap. The one who possessed them should understand the sacrifices that were made to get them, so would pay, accordingly, to own them.

If they’d seen that fight between a man and a bear, they would understand. Both Stoker and his dog had seen many such battles, but they did not know that.

He left what he'd said to work its way into her mind as she struggled to deal with it… analyze it… as others of her troop joined them around the fire.

At least that coat could be traded.

She would have to think about that, and other things he’d said.

He waited as he poked a stick into the fire, watching the sparks rise up into the air.

Not long now. Now that he had set this ball rolling, she would not be able to sleep until this was resolved to her satisfaction.

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