Stroan was equally disturbed, as it was well-known from their first meeting that he has no love of technological advances beyond the Ark 1 he sometimes carried, and there was also the worry he felt for his family and loved ones. From what he’d told them about the location of his homeland in his talks with them, if the Army of the Old made it to the Vein Valley, then his home had likely been lost.
The three eventually slept, there on the threshold of many dark roads to travel.
Sunrise brought out the best in people as the light caught the distant water and showered the group from the Inja in shimmering beauty. Few had ever seen an expanse of water so large, and those that had still enjoyed it immensely. Being in the valley for so long meant they hadn’t seen a proper sunrise not obscured by mountains or valley walls. By breakfast, a very welcome non-canned meal, the Riders assembled and prepared for the expected coming of the scout sent off the night before.
Fate had grown weary of the depression it had bestowed on this clan, and not a minute past the expected return time, the Rider Scout came into view at full gallop, both horse and rider looking well-fed and rested. Flanking behind him were two more Riders keeping pace, though who they were and why they were here was a mystery.
As they got closer, a general feeling of uneasiness washed through the group. The Rider and his companions were already back and talking with the man who, as of the unfortunate death of his superior officer the previous night, was thrust into the command of the ragged group.
One of them was another Inja Rider, a man likely the age of Chief Rider Wyndam at the time of his death, though this man had a long beard with little original color. The same steel eyes looked out of his haggard, sunken face, a seeming prerequisite for a Rider commanding officer. It was the other man that set the crowd on edge.
He was a Westlander, and a very large one. Having been the only one that had met him, Esgona put him a hair’s width taller than Nixon Ash. His horse was a head taller than that of the largest any had seen before, its black body covered in nothing but a modest saddle, unlike the Riders and the full armored regalia of their mounts. He was muscular and wore tan clothes that fit firmly to his broad chest. His skin was darker than the two from Tan Torna Qu-ay, who were already a deep shade. The whites of his eyes stood out like beacons from his face as he surveyed the group (who of course surveyed him right back, decorum be damned by this point in the journey), and soon he glanced down at the two in the back of the pack, his eyes remaining on them until the elder Rider had finished his discussion with those that were left of this brigade. After a brief stop at the pyre of Samson Wyndam to pay their respects, they approached the Turtle and the two with it.
Stroan rode with them, hanging back with a look of great sadness on his face, though the natural strength of the Rider and the journey he’d just undertaken to get this far betrayed any attempt they used to figure out what had him so down. Soon they sat in the presence of the four: the visitors, the newest commanding officer Rider Liffe, and Stroan to the rear.
Liffe greeted the two, dismounting and casting aside his helmet (they had known Liffe from the trip, but he was never anyone they had been close to). The senior Rider and the Westlander did the same.
“You are the two from Tan Torna Qu-ay?” the elder Rider asked, voice rough like sandpaper scraping together. They nodded. He took measure of each of them. “And who is the one named Johan?”
No time wasted, as it was clear that this conversation had purpose. There was still tremendous respect bred into Johan for the Inja Riders. “I am, sir. Johan Otan’co.”
The Rider stood before him, only slightly taller than Johan, but with a presence of someone much larger. His hand extended, less his pinky finger. Johan took it and shook heartily, no longer surprised by the strength and roughness of the action. These were both hard men. Each would have expected no less from the other.
“On behalf of the Riders of the Great Inja Army, I, Chief Rider Merrik Caspar, wish to thank you…” a look to Esgona, “each of you, in your part of the safe return of my Riders, and the people they were charged to protect, to this place. I know there were losses, but it likely would have been everyone if not for your quick thinking and help. For that I thank you both.” He released Johan’s hand and took Esgona’s, followed by stepping back to take them in. Johan surged with pride, and Esgona filled with disinterest muddled with shame. Authority did astonishing damage to his psyche.
The large man stepped forward, towering above each of them, great arm extended, massive hand devouring each it met in another round of congratulations (met by the two, it should be said, with a fair amount of distrust and skepticism). “I salute you each, and your party as a whole, for emerging from the Paieleh Valley. The dangers of this place are well-known far and wide, and the courage it took to get here is astonishing.” His voice was deep, but not so
