Story: Pebbles of Glass (1275 BCE)

[Capsavian Hopewell]

“Curse the Land!”

Bey RodgTurnstone of the Wrought Beylik spat.  His was an aged frame, a man well beyond his prime but respected still for his acumen in civil governance.  During the Bey’s reign, he turned Fort Wrought into an economic epicenter to rival the crown city of Dernfeld.  Such a task, even the old man’s opponents could not help but grudgingly admire.

His subordinates winced when the Bey’s temper flared.  It was not something they saw often—rare did RodgTurnstone permit his emotions to rise above his steady will of logic.  It made his outburst all the more evident to the gathered council members. 

The curse hung in the air for a moment, as the Bey considered the reports laid out before him.  After the tribulations of a civil uprising barely quelled, and racial tensions seemingly set aside—for the present, at least, now a new threat emerged.

“Small wonder,” the Bey muttered as he regained his stoic composure, “Dernfeld is able to supercede our earning power.  They can feast on crab cakes and steak while we have to process legions of refugees, ethnic strife, and now this?”

RodgTurnstone passed his hand over the kiln-dried map laid out before him.  Etched neatly was the burgeoning city of Fort Wrought, nestled proudly in the knot of mountains at the river source of its own namesake.  A medley of colored stones were positioned amidst the hills, representing the base camps of the Umber Guard and various veteran regiments of the Second War of the Rohirrim.  The latter had just arrived recently, set to be reorganized into local defensive militia as offensive training was deemed no longer necessary.

All eyes around the table were focused on the obsidian stones, scattered amidst the western forests—the borders of the Midlands.  The darkened igneous rock represented the known location of a significant force of wildmen.  The hostile natives were reportedly armed with mean-looking broadswords, and left no illusion as to their intentions. Such little pebbles to represent so grave a threat.

The barbarians had gathered in the Midlands, right around the time when Theoden, King of Rohan, and Capsavian Hopewell, Vali of Aidern had officially signed the Dunharrow Treatise.  The tablets were barely in the kiln, when reports emerged from Campeche of a union of Midland tribes, gathering to stake a claim on their homelands.

Immediately, the war-weary forces of Aidern were sent westward, but care had to be taken lest the Rohirrim mistake these movements as aggression against them.  Likewise, it was not known WHERE exactly in the vast Midlands that such a force could be assembled.

So it was that Fort Wrought found itself lightly garrisoned and far less prepared than it might have been, when these obsidian rocks were placed upon the map. 

The local farmers were ordered to bring their stock into the city’s walls.  Their pitchforks were exchanged for spears, and any who could string a bow was given one.  The arid fields to the east of Fort Wrought were deemed safe--for now--and would sustain the cattle while their owners prepared to defend their wilderness homes.

Still, it would not be enough. 

“We might hold the city, with casualties,” one of the Bey’s advisers insisted, “but we will definitely lose our mines and farms, maybe even the new settlement downriver, if the wild Midlanders find it.”

Another at the table spoke up, “The reinforcements Vali Hopewell is sending….they won’t get here in time to save our farmlands.”

RodgTurnstone sighed and dropped down into his chair.  His boney frame sat upon the spartan seat while he transfixed his gaze upon those shiny rocks.  Within days, the force would strike, and the losses would be severe.  Even the largest military in the world--which the Vali insisted Aidern possessed--would not save Fort Wrought if it was stuck in the southern reaches of the country.

“There is….one option we have not yet entertained.”

The gathered advisers glanced nervously at one another.  They knew what their Bey would suggest.  They had all uneasily considered the same unsavory solution. 

“My lord.” It was the first time ChurmBlickwick spoke at the meeting.  His thin voice echoed the thoughts of his peers.  “Asking….THEM….for help.  Well, my lord, we might be better off trying to…negotiate…with these Midlanders.  They might prove tamer than what you are going to propose.”

Bey RodgTurnstone shifted his weight in the uncomfortable chair as he contemplated.  His eyes caught the reflection of the obsidian mass and his mind was made for him.  “We have no other options available.  Get me my scribe, and our fastest messenger.”

The air in the room suddenly seemed acrid.  Nobody said a word as they gathered up their tablets.  Yet before any had left, they were offered the Bey’s final, subtle advice.

“Gentlemen…my wife’s spirit is all that remains.  Were she still alive, I would not permit her to leave my home…if our saviors do answer our call for help.”