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| The Jalahai Saga |
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| By Christopher P Bartlett |
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| Flight from Darkness Prologue 3rd Greypeaks, 1429AF On board Tuvaika’s Pride, 30 miles off the Traimontese coast The sun sparkles on the calm waters of the Great Sea. Avraim loves this time, a few moments before the sun’s full brilliance spoils the dying breaths of night. They are a few, precious seconds which usually constitute the highlight of his otherwise routine workday. In a little while, the fishing boat’ s skipper, Captain Balail, will be barking orders, sending the crew of six on all manner of tasks. The nets will have to be hauled in, and a thorough scrubbing of the decks will ensue, to wash away the blood and detritus accumulated during their three day expedition on the high seas. Avraim rocks gently in his hammock. He tries to shut the forthcoming chores from his mind, and allows himself just a few more moments of peace. Just him, the glittering expanse of the Great Sea, and the slowly brightening sky above him. If there is an afterlife where he might see his dear, departed ancestors, Avraim feels it will be like this moment. The wind begins to pick up, stirring the calm boat. Avraim’s hammock begins to rock more firmly, but at first, he doesn’t mind. He feels the chill of a westerly breeze on the back of his neck. Not uncommon at this time of year, as summer winds itself down and the days grow shorter and colder. In Traimont it will soon be time for the harvest, a time of year that most people enjoy immensely. For fishermen like Avraim and his shipmates, Harvestmoon is a lean time. Who wants to eat fish with all that lovely fresh produce being brought into the market? Still, Avraim knows there will still be work, Traimont still needs the bounty of the Great Sea. The thought is pleasing to Avraim, and he smiles as he gazes skyward. A few clouds drift across his vision, bathed in the crisp reds and golds of the morning glow. A few more clouds, this time larger, moving with more purpose. Avraim notes that the wind is getting stronger. A storm? Not unheard of this far out, but not likely. Especially unlikely since the sky had been clear throughout the night and into the early morning hours. Avraim cocks his head onto his left shoulder, trying to see if more clouds are approaching. If it is a storm, he wants to wake the captain promptly. Balail is not a man to be informed late of such important information. Something is wrong, very wrong. Avraim is too shocked to speak. He loses his balance and clatters noisily from the hammock. The clear blue of the morning sky, the beautiful sunrise he had been enjoying, all gone. In its place, the western horizon is covered in a wall of dark clouds, as though night refuses to relinquish its hold on the sea. The clouds crackle with lightning. To Avraim’s horror, shapes begin to solidify in the clouds. First one, then two. A dozen, more and more. Out of the cloud comes a fleet of ships, graceful in profile but sinister in aspect. They are bearing straight down on Tuvaika’s Pride. There is nowhere for the fishing boat to go. “What’s all that racket?” asks a bleary-eyed Captain Balail. His vest still bears the stains of last night’s ale, from a drinking session not concluded until a couple of hours before daybreak. “Avraim, what are you gawking at?” Avraim can’t speak. All he can do is hold up a trembling hand towards the dark ships closing in on them. There are two ships, barely a hundred yards away, on a direct collision course with the small, helpless fishing vessel. Captain Balail’s mouth drops, and he reaches instinctively for a small blue medallion, engraved with a mountain and a river hanging around his neck by a golden chain. “Traimontai help us.” |
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