“There's a group heading somewhere in a hurry,” Johan noted, drawing Aryu out of his self-imposed mental stupor.
They watched the band approach and began to understand its size and speed. Traveling caravans in this area could easily grow to such sizes, but never went anywhere in a hurry. Sale and trade were their bread and butter, and no one would dare risk passing by a potential customer as they traveled the same roads.
Two men on horseback crested the ridge closest to the travelers. They weren't dressed as merchants, nor were their mounts of the questionable lineage and poor stock. They were clearly pure-bred horses: armored and imposing. Hybrids had long ago begun to dominate the stock lines as people, cut off from other societies, bred for their own needs. In this area, horse/camel crossbreeds called folmes were the preferred beast of burden. They were strong, fast, and exceedingly adept at the long, hot, dry trips the people of this land endured. They were at times ungainly and most certainly smelled terrible, but they always did the job.
These two wore the red suits and the dense plates of Inja Riders. Indeed, if this land had to be qualified with any kind of name, Inja was it. It was not a name generally accepted this far east of the borders. People this far away from everything but themselves often refused such qualifications. Names made countries, and countries made wars.
The head Rider could be seen pointing directly at the two as they stood aside. Riders were an important member of their respective brigades, and it was almost a given that they'd have room to pass, even here. The other nodded and began to slow. Soon, the lead rider was upon them, thundering past like lightning on land, his horse nothing more than a black and silver blur, its nostrils flaring madly.
The men were nearly dumbfounded at the sight, and more than a little curious as to why Riders were so far east and why they needed to speak to them.
As the first beast blazed past and was off again the way they had come, they turned to the second Rider now slowing to approach them. He waved with the standard military style, right arm snapped straight to his ear, elbow out and locked, then with a quick motion brought his arm around in a semi-circle, ending with his hand palm-up before them. “I listen, I offer” was its meaning.
The two men nodded back, tense at his arrival but knowing him as what he was: a friend to them and all of this land.
“Hello and good day!” he called down to them as he stopped some ten paces from the two bewildered faces. He was young, not much older than them. His light hair beneath his rounded helmet was cut very short, and his face was clean-shaven. Eyes bright and sunken, like those of a man with little recent sleep to his credit. The men nodded back, collectively mumbling back their responses.
The Rider apprised each of them and the pack they carried. “I'm assuming you are from this land, off on your blood-quests?” (An uncommon but still apt term.)
Johan stepped forward, nodding. “We are on our way home. Our year is over.”
The Rider noticeably firmed himself and nodded back in recognition. “My congratulations. It's difficult to separate the men from the boys on these roads close to so many homes.” They said nothing, simply looking at him as if expecting him to continue, each silently pleased at this new level of respect they seemed to command.
“I am Rider Stroan, cadet for the Inja Army and its people. I have been asked to inquire about your destination. Where are you from?”
“Tan Torna Qu-ay.” Johan wasted no time in his response. Such a direct question from any serving man of the army required no less. “Southeast of here, in the Valley of Smoke.” It was so named for the vast clouds of mist that once carried through it. Now, however, no mist would be found, its river little more than a stream and its lands hot and dry.
Stroan seemed to regress into himself, emerging with a curious expression. “You may be the most fortunate bunch I've met so far. I don't believe they've trekked that far east yet. Still, it's likely best not to waste time getting there. Who knows how far they've come since last I saw them.”
Confusion on each face, Johan was the first to put his thoughts together and ask the obvious.
“How did the Tiet Westlanders ever make it so deep into our territory?”
Aryu got the feeling the answer wasn't as easy and obvious as the question. His gut told him it wasn't anyone from Tiet before Stroan had spoken a word.
“Westlande…” he began, reading each of their faces, piecing together the puzzle he suddenly found himself in. “Of course, you've been in the deep mountains up until now, haven't you.” His face revealed nothing of what he was thinking. A man clearly locked into the task of giving nothing away.
“Let’s let the caravan pass. Its noise would likely only drown out what I'm saying. Then I can tell you what has happened.” With that, the road train crested the last ridge, still traveling at full tilt, and much larger than the two had originally assumed.
The first to pass them was a series of engine-powered wagons, each taxing their top speeds as they went, and the storage beds behind them full of what were clearly not merchant goods. Each one was full of people. Sitting, standing, even some barely clinging to the backs and sides; some with only a bag of personals, others with nothing at all. Following them were more engine-driven vehicles, mostly small farming tractors pulling
