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Prelude

Thou shalt make no covenant with them, nor with their gods.

—Exodus 23:32

Shipyear 3809

The steelsmith's son moved carefully through the ancient trees, his rabbit bow at the ready. He was keyed up, focused, and, if he was honest with himself, afraid. The forelanders liked to fight from horseback and rarely came into the forest, but the treeline was getting close. But I won't show fear.

He glanced behind him to make sure his friends were still following. They were. It wasn't his first time raiding a forelander farm, but it was his first time leading a raid. He hadn't imagined how much a leader had to think about. There was a clearing ahead, and he skirted around it. The suntube dappled splashes of light through the canopy, and they danced as the leaves rustled in the breeze. The ground was soft beneath his leather shore-shoes, and it smelled rich and earthy. Every sense is heightened.

The treeline was ahead and the steelsmith's son dropped into a crouch as he led his small group nearer. Instinctively he reached for his quiver, drew an arrow and nocked it to the string. The steel arrowhead glinted, and he smiled. He'd forged the points himself, honed them razor-sharp. The blade at his belt was steel as well, a luxury only a smith's son could indulge in. His friends came mostly from fishing families and their blades were ironwood, good enough to gut trout but a poor match for inquisitor steel.

The trees grew smaller as the group approached the forest's edge. There was a small bush in the treeline, good cover, and the young man headed for it. It was large enough for his friends to get under as well, and they followed him under. Not a good thing. It would have been better for the other three to stay back, to give him cover, but it was too late now. They slid forward on their bellies to look out over the pastureland in front of them. Across the pasture he could see the fences of the farm he wanted to raid.

"Look," The youngest one pointed, and the young man turned to see. A patrol of six mounted inquisitors was coming along the treeline. They were armed with spears and blades, and their red cloaks fluttered in the breeze as they rode.

"Get down," the steelsmith's son said. "We'll let them pass."

The others did as he told them, but he himself kept watching. The enemy rode on without showing any sign they'd noticed his hiding place.

"Let's get them," said the raft-captain's son. He'd raised his head to watch as well.

"Get down," the steelsmith's son repeated, and gave his friend a look. Raiding the forelanders was almost expected behavior for the fisherfolk youth, and the bolder parties even took on the inquisitors, luring them into ambushes in the forest. He resisted the urge to let fly with his bow. That's not why we're here. They'd get themselves a couple of sheep and vanish back into the forest. He didn't need the bragging rights, no matter how much his friend wanted them.

The patrol turned foreward, but stopped a few hundred meters away. One of the inquisitors dismounted and set up some kind of instrument on a tripod. It had a long arm that could be rotated and elevated, and the man sighted along it, changed its position, and sighted again. The group moved a dozen meters and he repeated the process. What are they doing? Whatever it was, they weren't getting out of the way. The man with the tripod moved again, repeated his ritual, and then drove a stake into the ground. The entire group dismounted then, though they stayed alert.

The steelsmith's son bit his lip, considering his options. They could either wait to see if the patrol left, or move a couple of kilometers and try their luck somewhere else. Before he could decide, movement caught his eye. A convoy of four carts was jolting its way across the pasture. As he watched, one of the inquisitors waved, and the convoy headed for the small group. The carts drew up, and then, off the first one jumped a slave crew, roped together with neck ropes.

The drivers began yelling and the slaves started working on the pasture with shovels. Another group started unloading the bricks from the cart. The Prophetsy was building something. A new farm? They couldn't be so foolish; the pastureland beyond the forest was already full of empty farms, some of them burned in the war, some of them abandoned because they were too easily raided. What then?

It didn't matter, the inquisitors wouldn't be leaving any time soon, which meant they'd need to get their sheep somewhere else. He looked up the curve of the world to see where else they might try, and saw something he'd overlooked before. There was another group of carts a kilometer antispinward, surrounding a small brick structure half built. A watchtower! Further up still there was a third, and perhaps a fourth. The Prophetsy couldn't be hoping to put a ring of towers against the forest edge around the entire world. Could it? He looked higher, searching the patchwork fields up and around as the world arched over the suntube, and down the other side. There were towers under construction to spinward as well, also evenly spaced. They hadn't been there last time he'd gone on a farm raid. The inquisitors meant business. This is important.

"Let's go," he whispered, and began to back out of the bush.

"But what about—" the raft-captain's son began.

"Forget it." The steelsmith's son cut him off. "We aren't going."

The others followed him in silence, and he led the way back into the forest, heading for the ocean. Father needs to know this. Something had changed with the Prophetsy, and he sensed it wasn't for the better.

 

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Framed