Cultural and Geographical History of Poig

The island of Poig (pronounced like a cross between pig and doig {which is pronounced like a cross between duck and roig} [which is pronounced like a cross between rig and Poig]), glad we got that cleared up.

Poig is a volcanic island that has never been discovered by the rest of the world, the Americans are too busy munching hamburgers and the Chinese are too busy creating robots to explore a patch of the Atlantic Ocean called “The Yund”. Of course the world wouldn’t know that its called the Yund because they don’t even know it exists, so it would be silly, or to use a more la-di-dah synonym, and inane to expect them to know the name of an island completely off the archipelago.

Charles Darwin had an idea: Evolution. The people scoffed and mocked his musings so he went far and wide to discover proof that evolution isn’t just something he had thought off after swilling a couple flagons off “Olde Father Sprig”s Finest Blackberry Ale’ and doing the fandango with a lovely (or “porkable” as the youngsters say knower days) lady from luton (who wanted to buy a futon, she looked high and low, did the fandango, then went home to luton).

Evolution had happened on a wild scale on Poig, the volcanic soil and tropical storms had shaped the inhabitants into hardy creatures who were used to hurricanes and the like. Poig was divided into 4 areas or provinces or territories, depends on your sense of humour. The first area a traveler, even though their has never been one, would come to if coming in from the north would be Baja, a mountainous rocky place where everything is tinged with the colour white, the fish (any adventurers might want to stop and admire the raw beauty of the Giis Shark, though make sure you avoid the razor sharp teeth and gaping maw, or they might not) swim upstream from the sea and are faced with one choice swim or die. On a lighter note the area of Baja could be a great ski-ing destination, though the locals might think you were trying to sleep with their wives or steal their Hong Goats. Hong Goats are exclusive(and for a limited time only purchase a Hong Goat and get a XXXX absolutely free!) to Baja and wander the sloaps of the great mountain ranges that form an edge onto the sea. Baja is bitingly cold and can plummet down to 78^ (-2C) when someone has stopped pissing on the thermo-meter, BUGGER OFF. Few plants or trees grow, but Kiju Monkeys live there which has always been a bit of a mystery(some people with glasses and an absence of get-up-and-go have been pondering this for many days, you know strokey beard, twiddly thumbs , scratchy temple, that sort of thing) and they can only assume that the Kiju’s have evolved( Darwin take a team point) into cannibals.

The Easterly region of Poig is known as Hhhu, its climate is very non-committal, like that person in primary school who could never decide whether to play pogs or pokemon. Its name emphasizes the sort of “I dunno” feeling that surrounds Hhhu, the namer thought ” It will begin with H, then I will add another h because that is cool and groovy but I dunno about another h, maybe, I dunno, maybe, I dunno[ GET ON WITH IT!] okay don”t get your knickers in a twist h it is, I need a vowel but I dunno maybe another h would be hip, or a different consonant, maybe j [DON'T BE BLOODY STUPID] all right blinking hell, I’ll add a u, or maybe an I,I dunno an o would be good[IF YOU DON'T MAKE THE NAME IN 5 SECONDS IM GOING TO RIP YOUR VOICEBOX OUT OF YOUR MOUTH AND SELL IT TO A JIGGER] okay, Hhhu,but I dunno it sounds a bit Hhhuey to me’. The climate of Hhhu reflects this nature: it’s got trees, but not many, its got lakes, a respectable amount and its got hills, not too high not too low. It was always just roasty in Hhhu and it usually rained a bit. The animals of Hhhu refuse to make decisions: a Cyma Lion cant decide whether too eat the Foog Wildebeest now or take it back to the family, a Niff Crab is torn between crabbing around or going out in search for his crabby destiny, a Zaok Trout is in two minds whether too turn right up to the lake or keep going to the sea.

The Western province is called Deet and it is here where most of the farming and agriculture takes place. Deet is akin to a spiders web, every town is linked, this is because most of the volcanoes are in Deet and the people need to be able to get from Aaaa( where the volcano is erupting) to Bbbb (to where everyone is as snug as a bug in a rug). The Deetan climate is that off jagged peaks falling into vast dry plains, with very few rivers or lakes. When Deet is not being hit by volcanoes it is an extremely fertile place, the dry planes are teeming with plants and flowers and the creatures are pretty chuffed with it all really. So chuffed that they would rather not tell their mate over in Hhhu off the tropical paradise of Deet or the particularly smashing species of Swede that grows there.

The most Southerly territory is hailed as Krua, a land that continues to evolve. The Yano Dog has recently sprouted a fifth leg and the Hifa Cat is happy because this maims the Yano somewhat. Elsewhere the Fioq Koala has adapted to the fact that eucalyptus leaves have recently evolved to have legs and be able to run away from the Fioq, it has done this by shedding some of the pot-belly and doing some hours on the tread-mill, only joking they got faster. Krua is essentially a huge frying pan that got left on the heat after the “Master Evolver/ Cook”, who ever the fuck that was, had finished making the Baja puree, done the Hhhu cake and had just flambéed Deet. Kruans are a diverse people with many traditional (or to you and me down right weird) ceremonies. They hold ceremonies for anything. For example a Kruan woman once just dodged a ping of Pido Pigeon poo and the Kruanaens thought it only just that they should have a good piss-up (I hate to be poncy but this phrase strikes me as funny as in it says piss-’up’ but when most people get drunk they end up lying down in a crunchy bed of McCoy’s crisps, using a suspicious bundle as a pillow, muttering “givveuusanutherbeer” and re-enacting the recent amazing darts match when “Kooky Dave” hit bulls eye with his first dart and hit bulls bollocks with his next one.)

Krua is a very sociable place, A Noqq Chimp likes to pop around for a mango with his mates, a Sopz Adder goes round to his friends den with half a dozen shrews to ease the pain of his wife leaving “She was a slippery one, but she liked my cobra!”. Meanwhile a Gyyo Fox has a change of heart once he’d captured the rabbit and asked him how his day has been.

Kruan landscape is very extreme; there are gigantic lakes, flaming chasms and thriving jungles. It is in these biomes that the animals have evolved at a shocking rate, the Dopa Horse has grown to twice the size a normal horse and has developed sharp teeth and claws. In the lakes of Krua the Ivin salmon has changed its skin colour to blend in with the water, angered by this the Cuak Bear has developed a film over its eyes that allows it to see through the water and spot the Ivin salmon (we will keep you posted on this breaking news). In the rocky caves of Krua the Jorx Bat has shrunk its wings so that it can fit through the gaps in the grotto to get at the juicy fruits that grow on the other side (Kruan saying “The fruit is always juicier on the other side”). While in the lime jungles of Krua the Leen Panther has altered its bone structure to make it easier to climb the Togo tree and catch the Funt Squirrels that nest in its lofty branches. In turn the Funt have grown stronger leg muscles to enable them to jump from tree to tree and escape the Leen (well lets be honest the squirrels going to get eaten either way, let it has its fun first). On the hole it’s a pretty buzzing place.

Characters

Jock- a young Bajan boy who has joined up into the military of Baja, has a cat called Tazz and is not yet sure what a girl is.

Socu- High Boss of Krua, general nasty piece of work. Starts the civil war of Poig.

Mulr- Leader of Deet, has been hoodwinked into joining Socu, supplies the Kruan Army with weapons and helps Socu with tactics.

Yiio- Unwilling Master of the Hhhu isn’t too bothered about anything apart from a steaming bowl of tomato soup and a crusty roll. Surprisingly commands the greatest not really fussed force in Poig.

Areo- FUCKing stupid name but one of the greatest blade- wielders on Poig. He commands the small Bajan army and formed the “Baja Arrows” once an elite section of the army but knower days consists of Tedd the butcher( “no-one purloins my sirloins, finest steak but we don”t do cake’) and a man who most people presume is dead who smells of gone-off melon and has a head shaped like a squashed pomegranate.

Eila- Jock’s embarrassing mum. A small generous woman who has a fondness for hot beverages(she would walk 500 miles, and she would walk 500 hundred more just to be the mum who walked 1000 miles to pop the kettle on [make us a brew]).

Setting

The story is set in the city of Forgandillon in Baja.

The high council of Poig meets in the volcano city of Suvcaldrios in Deet.

The sub-story of Hugh of Hhhu starts in Depends Town in Hhhu.

The plotting tacticians of the Kruan Army meet in the mountain stronghold of Traajmeldon in Krua.

Notable Points in History

1500 BRC (before rhubarb crumble) Poig is made.

200 BRC People and animals evolve from mushrooms.

10 BRC The first bridge is made in Baja (three cheers for Hoca)

67 AA( after ale) The four territories are made

68 AA the four territories are given names(yes it took them a year but cut them some slack they are only 268 years old)

1991 AA Jock is born

1992 AA Jock gets clouted round the ear for badmouthing the Kruan dictatorship (it could have been a dictator-boat, but if you want to get picky you can piss off)

2000 AA In Hhhu the best pub in the land is demolished to make way for a Kruan garrison, the people off Hhhu are a little bit annoyed but would rather not make a fuss.

2003 AA In Deet the Kruan army takes over the Gate of Jujl for “tactical reasons”, the Deetan people get a mardy on but the Kruan Command distribute 20 pounds to every Deetan person. Deet succumbs.

2006 AA in Baja the Kruans attempt to take control of the water system, because Baja has an extremely good water system, but are beaten back by the Bajan forces.

2007 AA Our story starts.

The Story

Chapter 1. The Island Of Poig

The Streets of Forgandillon, the capital of Baja, were strewn with the litter of the island of Poig. The dusts of time had worn away at the curbs and cobbles creating one wide road ripping through the heart of the city. Jock was a 16 year old boy, or a 23 Kiob old boy if you are from Poig. He had grown up in the mountains of Baja and had seen a civil war between the proud people of Baja and the combined forces of arrogant Krua and the spineless toads of Deet. His homeland was under siege from the south and west and the Bajan army had to defend its borders fiercely. Jock was young but he was determined to fight and knew inside him was a warrior, he had seen it at school when Yave the school thug, apparently of Kruan blood, had mocked his mother. He had picked up his bow, attached a coconut to the arrow with the twine of the Kogo tree and endeavored to hit him on his nog, but these acts of defiance oft seem to backfire and the druid who had been teaching them the art of Jiggery Pockery got hit with the coconut which unfortunately for the druid, and incidentally for Jock had been squish and detonated on impact sending a pus like goo(that had a hint of peshwari) all over the cave. Jock got told off but he had noticed that inside him was the spirit of a warrior and to be honest he was pretty pleased with himself.

The state of Krua was a vast tremendous landscape that had extreme terrain; the forge of the elements had hammered the state into a land that is constantly evolving. The Faon chasm lay to the west, the fortress of Traajmeldon lied in the centre while the corsair port of Qorz raged in the south. Socu, the Kruan chief, looked out over his lands from his fortress window, a smug smirk plastered across his face. The Kruan forces had now marched into the eastern province of Hhhu meeting only not-really-bothered resistance from the Hhhuoni defence. This enabled Socu to send Commander Bahz in to Hhhu and march north, into the foothills and establish outposts on the borders of Baja. Socu was proud of his tactical awareness and was immensely pleased that the “Kruan Dragons” had snarled their way through the island of Poig until the only state not under his control was the mountain territory of Baja. Socu turned his gaze to his armour, for this was his pride, a suit of knife-green spikes that radiated a fierce serpentine glow. Socu had grown up in Traajmeldon, a place worthy of its monolith name, and therefore knew how life worked here. The council decided who was killed and then he went and killed them. It had always been so through the ages of Poig that Kruan Commander’s were the iron fist of the cunning slithering arm of the Kruan Elevated Council.

Socu reveled in the power he was granted and brought the hammer and sword down on the people of Hhhu with unmatched glee. The “Kruan Dragons” had ruptured through Hhhu like a tornado with Socu laughing maniacally in the background, as is the way with these modern-day commanders.

For all his smug thoughts Socu had not expected a fight with the people of Baja and many miles away as the Stiv crow flies there was something brewing that would disrupt the councils sly plans and change the history of Poig. Little did Socu know that his monster green-spiked fist of pain was about to be challenged to an arm wrestle by a brave crimson-swathed hand of freedom.

In Baja young Jock had been listening to the town crier, a man called Figa who was famous for his stomach akin to a pot belly Jolo pig and his fondness for fish only matched by the Sean Kestrels of the north. After Figa had finished telling of the impending doom in Hhhu he bellowed to his wife “Where is that roasted Yund mackerel I asked for?!”. His wife brought him a platter of roasted fish that made Jock salivate. While Figa munched on the mackerel Jock asked him where he could find someone to teach him how to be a warrior. “Mister Figa, I beg you, I want to do my bit, it is my destiny”. With that Figa erupted like a putrid bubble from the swamp-marshes of Deet “Destiny! How dare you talk of destiny! My son and his entire brigade were slaughtered in the Conflict of the Civn Cliffs by those Kruan retches, do you think it was his destiny to have his body chopped up and fed to the Dolb Horses, the leather of his boots used to patch up the Kruans armour and his poor head thrust onto a barb on the Civn Cliffs!” as he finished his sentence he gave a large drawn-out belch that rustled the canvas of the hut like a storm wind and woke small babies that were close to his porky circumference. Jock was taken aback by this outburst but even more taken aback by the smell of roasted fish combined with an eggy tang he had never sniffed before. “Well I”m very sorry Mister Figa, I didn’t realize….’ Jock was expecting another brash bellow but instead he got a polite apology. “Of course you didn”t realize you young rip, anyhow want was it you wanted of me?’ Jock told Figa of his desire to become one of the legendary “Baja Arrows” and to kill as many of the Kruan scum as possible. Figa looked surprised at the sheer brass and audacity of the boy and therefore told him want he wanted to hear. “Jolly marvelous! Take the northern road through the mountains; you must go to the docks on the coast to find a man called…” Figa’s head drooped as the prime taste of roasted fish took hold of his immense belly which was linked directly to his Vens pea-sized brain which was visualizing himself going on an adventure. “SIR! WAKE UP!” shouted Jock, annoyed that he had stopped right at the important bit, “What is the man at the docks name? And how shall I get there? And I have no sword, what if bandits attack?” Figa was raised from his jolly stupor and remembered what it was he was supposed to say “Find Mooj on a ship with red sails that is docked in the north, the word you need to remember is “arrow”. And with that Figa’s stomach gave one last wobble and he drifted of into a content slumber akin to the Lien Sloth of Deet, dreams of roasted fish and beautiful women filled his head as Jock swaggered away with a new purpose to his step. Now was his time to become the warrior his father had been, he would be known as Captain Jock of the Baja Arrows.

Jock walked out onto the path and broke into a run, not a run of fear or a run of lateness, no a run of destiny. Jock struck out into the sunset with the speed of a Buzf Cheetah and the hunger of a post-hibernated Woif Hedgehog. This was the life.

Leagues away in the province of Hhhu a tradesman called Hugh was having a laid-back haggle with one of his fellow merchants. ” I dunno mate its seems a bit risky” said the other man. “Oh come on! Make a decision you toss!” barked Hugh at the non-committal fellow. “I”m offering this Chev Cow for 5 pounds and ill even throw in a couple of Clun Chickens for no further quibble me ole gaffer!, so do we have a deal?’ said Hugh.

‘ Ummm…..maybe…..it seems a bit on the expensive side for one old cow I mean five pounds could get me a weeks worth of grub for the family so I don’t know’ replied the merchant in earnest. Hugh’s fuming face started to resemble a teapot that has been “wanged” on the heat with no notion to the fact that the teapot would sooner or later explode.

‘YOU DON’T KNOW! This here cow….’ he pointed to a seemingly placid cow that was merrily nibbling away at a sign that read ”Thankyou for not letting your cows munch the sig…”.

‘This here cow could feed your family for years, what you have to do is dry out the hoofs, braze the bollocks and stew the ears and you have got yourself a ration-pack on legs in ole Doty.’

The merchant looked skeptically at the now-satisfied beast and his usual expressionless façade was expressionless as usual. “I dunno, ill think about it” he said before he walked away at a not-too-rapid not-too-sluggish gait.

Hugh chuckled wryly to himself for want of anything else to do. He was doomed to be among these non-committal lade-back swine’s all his life. What Hugh really wanted was to escape, to get out, venture out into the blue, to realize himself as a brave adventurer come wily tradesman. But Hhhuans had always felt content with their lot and were not prone to rash decisions, or even decisions in general. The people of Hhhu were like a different race to Hugh, all they wanted were to play Boxx* or to watch the Pepe Seagull build a nest. Hugh was a tradesman in the Nahh tradestown in central Hhhu, the epicentre of haggling on Poig, ironically not much trading was actually done by the Hhhuans, most of the bartering was done by the merchants from the provinces of Krua , Deet and Baja. Hugh was not exactly experiencing a boom in business and no matter how many times he bellowed “BOOM SHAKA LAKA!” his fellow Hhhuan merchants did not catch on to his ” Ill give you two spoonfuls of reso if you give me fifteen flagons of kilo and six dashes of poen,hows your father, you”ve got yourself a deal bru’ work ethic. Hugh knew he was born for greater things but he couldn’t see what the fig it was.

Qorz, a brigand port that welcomed the corsairs from the squalls of the sea, appeared to be aflame in the darkness. There were blazing patches that could be seen dotted across the bay like firefly in midsummer. The lights and sparks of the many pubs of Qorz were the eyes of hyenas. The taverns housed and watered, or rather aled, the corsairs and brigands of the ships that rested madly in the bay like sleeping bears who longed for the slippery flesh of fish and the jolly tearing of sinew from bone.

In the Anzr Arms the crew of the corsair ship Qorzon, the first ever vessel to sail the waters around the island of Poig, were enjoying the fruits of their labour, or more accurately the fruits of the labour of their victims, and having a brash sing-song.

O, We are the Brigands,

O, We are the Brigands,

We’ve come to shag your wives,

We’ve come to cause you strives.

O, We are the Brigands,

O, We are the Brigands,

We attack like lions on the hunt,

We attack like a roaring brunt.

O, We are the Brigands,

O, We are the Brigands,

We likes loads of ale,

You can’t catch our trail.

We will give your wife,

A porkin,

A raggin,

A bonkin,

A thrustin,

Beeeeeeeeeee-caauuusee

O, We are the Brigands.

The visible captain of the corsairs quenched the raucous with the hoist of a single fist. The crew looked at him expectantly.

‘The song holds true. We are the brigands. I’m Captain Anzr and my crew would fight a Giis Shark for me, they would sail into a hurricane at my bidding, they would slit their own throats if I felt the command was wise. Likewise I would challenge the Pazn Falcon of the Civn Cliffs to a duel if it would save my crew. You fly under the colours of Anzr! Let no man here take these words in vain. WE ARE CORSAIRS! AND WE ARE SEA-BEARS!’

The corsairs hit the roof with these last words. Swords were drawn and brawls broke out between those of Anzr’s crew and the brigands of a rival crew, the Voujinians. Their captain Vouj took out a coin and began nonchalantly flipping it, seemingly without a care in the world.

‘Kops or Rups, old friend’ uttered Vouj as he flipped the coin, like he was testing the water, a brassy twinkle in his eye.

‘Kops’ said Anzr, rising from his brazen throne and skipping through the barrels, that served as seats, and drunks he caught the coin milliseconds before it hit the ale-soaked, cider-aged, grog-painted deck of the pub.

Vouj had not been expecting this agility from his enemy and was shocked that he had caught the coin in time, believing only he had the alacrity to accomplish such a deed.

‘Kops it is Vouj you old wavescoper, I think your rabble aren’t a match for my Corsairs, you see how can seadogs fight seabears? I have seen better fighting skills on a line-caught trout with its head bashed in. hahahahahah!’ And with that Anzr swaggered away in the manner of a cocky Niok Baboon who has evaded a particularly crafty panther.

Jock could see the sea, a cerulean sunbeam-speckled canvas that stretched as far as the eye could see and a lot further than the arm could throw. Baja Port sat by the curb of the sand, a few ships bobbed smugly and a couple of seagulls cackled high-up near the sun. This was where Jock would find his destiny.

As he jogged excitedly down the slope that led towards the dock he imagined taking on an entire Kruan regiment by his self and earning the title of…

‘Oi! You! Where’s are your identification shortschnacks?’ shouted an irate looking guard, Jock guessed the guard had heard the unwelcome squelch of canine waste on his leather boot. Jock stopped guessing and realized he had failed at sneaking into the port undetected so he reasoned he might as well make a run for it.

The guard, realizing he had squandered his chance of a quick capture, drew his sword and blundered after the hare-like form with a decidedly livid smirk on his face.

As Jock legged it he recited a poem he knew from childhood.

Lands End

At the Edge of the World,

Time is no sprinter,

The air, the wind, the Sea,

Meld together merrily,

And you look on,

Into the sun, in humble awe.

Quite ironic really, he thought. No time for chuckles. Run.

Southeast from there the Kruan Army was taking over the border settlements of Hhhu one by one. The main force had crossed the Sipe Stream early that morning and were sweeping up into the foothills of Hhhu. The spined boot of Krua was crushing Hhhu like a grape in a vice, the blood-juice of the Hhhuan people was being spilled onto the Kruan-trodden stone.

In one such settlement, a fort made of logs from the Forest of Mayb, a Kruan Draganion (battalion) was fighting and pillaging there way through the settlement. In the courtyard a cohort of Hhhuan footmen were jostling with the leader of the Draganion and his guard.

The Sergeant in charge of the defence of Hhhu was called Duno and he was non-committal by name and non-committal by nature.

A Kruan sword lopped one of his men’s arms about five foot from where he stood and the Sergeants reaction was of mild discontent. All around him the tempest of Krua was ripping through his charge like an electric hurricane and all he could muster from the “angry” part of his brain was “Dang”.

‘Sir we have far superior numbers but we aren’t attacking back, we should send in the first wave and drive these scum from our lands!’ said a soldier, obviously more decision-making savvy than his sergeant.

‘Errrm…Lets not be too rash here corporal. I remember back in The Battle Of Botus Fleming we rushed in like bonce-less Nukk ostriches and many of us got arrows in the….Errrm so I don’t know’ said the Sergeant Duno.

‘I think the time is nigh for rash decisions sir, I’ll lead the first wave. Lets destroy these so-called dragons. Forward!’ he shouted as the Hhhu wave axed there way through the un-expecting Kruans.

The day waxed on and the lateness of the Hhhuan charge had cost them dearly. The Draganion of Krua had been halved in number but the defenders of Hhhu had been annihilated. Victory went to Krua and the settlement, that had previously been called Reavikkan, was re-named Kruvikken and the people of the Hhhu that lived there were made to work for Krua and do the bidding of the lords of Traajmeldon. The takeover had begun.

Many miles to the west in a tall building in Suvcaldrios, a conference was in session. The masters of Deet gathered. Each face around the dark oak table had a luster of malevolence. A map of Poig was pinioned to the corners of the table and on it were coloured blocks of some unknown ore that when nudged made a sharp scraping sound akin to the cry of an Uuns albatross that has returned to its nest to find its eggs vanquished and tattered.

The blocks indicated the many players and pieces that the masters thought had a part to play in the war to come. They took one of the blocks from the Hhhuan border and replaced it with a lime green block with the letter “K” scorched onto it. The masters had used only a small block to represent the Baja Arrows, emblazoned with a “B” because they did not see them as much of a threat believing that once they had brought down Hhhu, Baja would tremble and prepare for obliteration. They reckoned without a small nugget encrusted with a “J”. The masters laughed and cackled to some shared joke. Pretty soon their puppets would destroy Hhhu and Baja and then they would control the island, solo.

The island of Poig was surrounded by a water-wall that was about a mile from the shoreline. The fortification had been built centuries before anyone’s memory could deem. The walls were thick and constructed from some boulders of an ancient dusty dim mineral that had that look of “We shall not, we shall not be moved”.

Therefore the people of all the provinces had never ventured into the unchartered oceans beyond the rock bastion. It was this fact that Hugh of Hhhu was unhappy about. You see Hugh longed for adventure while at the same time maintaining a reputation for supplying authentically sparkly things to non-committal merchants for frankly loon prices. Hugh believed that his natural wiliness would combine with his not so natural wildness so that he could become the rover of the seas, the haggler of the briny, the international tradesman of whatever lay beyond the wall.

With this in mind Hugh packed up his ” Definitely Real In No Way Fake Silk From The Woods of Vuyd” through his Rasa Donkey a few nuggets of food and loaded the giant sack of dried Ceec Figs onto the increasingly lairy-looking ox that was glaring menacingly at the wall. The effects were packed and Hughs mind was set. Savvy was the emotion he was aiming for as his cart chugged away from the Nahh Tradestown and onto the southern road. Hhhu had never had an inhabitant that was willing to make decision and Hugh had just made one. This was a turning point for the Hhhuan people. Hugh started day-dreaming of his future travels across the sea and potential wrangling to come. Unfortunately further down the road the Eastern Draganion of Krua was marshalling for a complete takeover of Nahh while the unconcerned blacksmiths of formerly-Reavikkan quietly and politely sharpened their swords and polished their shields for them. If Hugh was looking for an adventure then he was on the curb of one, literally.

A ditty was composed that night, before the takeover of Nahh, a song of that brought chortles to the mouths of the Kruans and shrugs to the shoulders of the Hhhuans.

The Night of Victory/ Defeat

The fires are blazing (for us),

The fires are frosting (for them),

The dogs are hunger for flesh (for us),

The dogs are scratching (for them),

The swords are sharpened (for us),

The swords are blunted (for them),

The bellies are bursting (for us),

The bellies are rumbling (for them),

The women are feisty (for us),

The women are forgiving (for them),

Victory is nigh (for us),

Defeat is inevitable (for them).

And now we drink!

And so the military of Krua slurped and crooned that silent darkness into a blackened ruckus. While 7 miles away the natives of Nahh tradestown were oblivious to the trouble that tomorrow would bring.

In the north Jock knew nothing of the plans of the masters of Deet or the ideas of Hugh of Hhhu or the danger that the people of Nahh were on the cusp off. Right now Jock was feasting on toasted duck, courtesy of Mummy July.

Mummy July was a kindly old lady who ran a hovel in Baja Port that took in the miscreants and pranksters of the street and gave them something warm to munch on: usually toasted duck, firstly because there was a flux of ducks quacking about the streets, secondly because Mummy Julys cookery utensils consisted of a novel toasting device and a pair of rusty tongs and thirdly because the deviser of the menu had got an E+ in creativity at school and considered bread and butter beyond its names of humble tucker but into the realms of “new-wave breakthrough culinary stuff”.

All the same Mummy July’s hovel was a sanctuary and also a base for the infants of the avenues and for that reason was a just fortification. It turned out that Jock was no sprinter; in fact years of slumber and slob had awarded Jock with the litheness and endurance of a raisin, no sultana. Thus Jock had tottered to halt in alongside a sign that read “Idru Street” in a tanned scrawl that companied with the grime and slime of “Idru Street” life made the name of the lane nigh-on impossible to read. Jock then looked at the sign and gazed down the street, there were screams, chortles and an unidentifiable yelp emanating from the houses, if you could call these ruins houses, and alleyways, which meandered and wriggled and were an obstruction to the already torpid flow of the street.

‘ Well’ Jock thought, ” I need to get to the docks and my hyper-senses” Jock laughed aloud at this off-the-scale thought ” Tell me that the docks are that-a-way” he pointed to the obvious swell and bob of the Poigan Sea as the modest mounds of navy-white tumbled and hurtled their way into the harbour wall.

‘Iam clever’ said Jock allowed.

‘Oh yeah’ said a voice from the belly of the boulevard.

‘Yeah’ retorted Jock, simply.

‘Oh’ replied the voice, chastised.

‘Iam going to be a captain in the Baja Army, Arrows Division’ he said, trying to be bold but appearing as a mockery of someone who is bold.

“Whatever excel, you hungry?” questioned the voice

‘Starved as Marv’ chirruped Jock, though it wasn’t supposed to be a chirrup, more a comical testimonial; either way Jock was suitably chuffed with the wittiness of his chirruped remark.

And so it was that Jock found himself on a chair, or at least a cha, digesting a stone-toasted duck that four hours had probably been picking through Mummy’s rubbish looking for detritus to gobble and or patriotically quocking the duck seasonal anthem, entitled “God Save Our Gracious Mummy”, and thinking about how long he should leave it before he scarpered and left Mummy to her toasted duck and witless pranks.

God save Our Gracious Mummy

God save Our Gracious Mummy,

God save our poo-provider,

God save our poo,

Don’t send us to the toasing slab,

Please don’t give us a jab,

God savvvvvvve our poo,

God save our poo.

God save our Gracious Mummy,

…….

Jock picked up his sack, slipped a few extra toasted titbits into his pocket, kicked a particularly pesky pigeon that was attempting to pinch his shoe from his foot and readied to exeunt the cozy hovel.

‘Fly off you little git!’ hollered Jock, the shout akin to the bellow of a Dnad Walrus as a stunted pup attempts to make off with his freshly caught shrimp.

Jock quietly tiptoed to the door hoping to escape and make his way to the docks without being caught by the guards.

Unfortunately, as is the Law of Sod, the miffed guards that Jock had previously dodged were trundling down the scratched and worn cobbles that made up the curiously smelling terra firma of Idru Street that very minute. They had been chinning about the latest attempt to scale the Wall of Doon,: the gargantuan partition, that was like a line of mardy yet elephants preventing the islanders from achieving travel or trade, which divided the island of Poig and the Atlantic Ocean. Meanwhile Jock endeavored to creep along the sides of the splintered ruins that were blanketed in a layer of gloom that had a solid texture; you could feel the dark in the shades of Idru Street.

Not surprisingly then Jock was eager to dart away to the sea as quick as he could. Though the toasted duck he had banqueted on, the hospitality he had received and the pong he had acquired were all welcome and served as a cause for a smirk; Jock now thought he had seen a glint in the dark, thought he head a mummer that was monstrous, thought he smelt a stink that was uncontrollable and sinister. Then Jock realized it was the guards and that one of them was wearing a bracelet, the other was mumbling like a fool and they both smelt of “Huckel Joobys Swig-It Or Rig-It Buy One Get Fifty Free Ale” a mischievous and canny ale that: cast the swigger into the slosh abyss in an average of 10 seconds, made the drinker believe that they were some form of cheese and thirdly shrouded them in a casing of pong and putridity, that could be aligned with the armpit burps of Figa the town crier of Forgandillon, which ensured that they would never imbibe this particular bonus brew ever again.

So once again Jock ran. The aquatic painting stretching out before him as he sprinted closer to his destiny.

Over in Hhhu Hugh was wistfully chugging his cart, donkey and pots of spices, herbs and things that will bang if you know how, down the road that led down into the grasslands of Northern Krua.

Hugh fancied some bartering down in Voov City.

‘Now I know what you’re thinking’ supposed Hugh to his donkey, in a manner that told us a lot about Hugh mental state.

The donkey grunted a meek and tired grunt that told us that the donkey often has these “little chats” with his master.

‘I thought so. You’re thinking that Iam psychologically unsound to trade in such a place as Voov. But I will have you know that in any city, town, forest or mountain range my haggling skills can combine with my unbelievable knack for business so that I can sell a Jamm Sheep for 100 pounds!’

The donkey appeared to titter in a “it can”t be done sort of way’.

Hugh brought the cart over a jade hillock and looked out over the seemingly fertile and humble landscape, a grimace with a hint of mad cheer on his face.

‘Ha! You can laugh all you like but I know that Iam the best merchant in all of Hhhu. Did you know that I once got a wily old Deetan tradesman down from 30 pounds and an old stone to 1 pound and a piece of grit through nothing but supreme quibbling and a lass called Mias.’

The natter and grunting could be heard as the eccentric trader and his apparently affable donkey trailed of into the shingle sheaves of green and the clumps of soil that marked the border of the vast state of Krua and the entrance into the bandit’s hideout, the lions den and the belly of the beast. But this was Hugh of Hhhu, if he could do anything to stop the takeover of his province then he would give his sombrero a quick fling in some fried onions add a pinch of turmeric and a few rashers of bacon from the Oima Pig and proceed to eat his own hat.

‘It’s my life’ he thought.

Soph, daughter of one of the masters of Deet and an exemplary student of the Bilingual College of Suvcaldrios was unhappy.

She had leant much of the grammar and structure of the Kruan Tongue, a language that mingled short coarse verbs with rasping adjectives and was like the bumpy croak of the Krod Toad, but could not yet clutch the complex and illustrious verbs of the Bajan language. She had never been to Baja but she heard it was sparsely populated. Her father said that the Baja were nomads and fools who had separated themselves from the rest of the island thinking that their so-called communities of roving people was an interesting way to live.

‘How can we love a people who live up in the mountains, forsaking our religions, stealing from our hydro-freights and who openly seek to break through the Wall of Doon?’ her father had said, in a pompous tone that did not mask his contempt for the Bajan people.

‘They need to be wiped out’ he had finished.

Soph was not as willing to condemn the people of Baja and as she pressed back her silky auburn locks from her beautiful face she wondered if they had a chance of winning the war that headed their way from two sides.

‘Oh well’ she said as she gracefully hopped of the tummy she had been bouncing on for the last 4 hours.

‘Are you done marm?’ said Bill the Belly, rubbing his abdomen with a cheery smile.

With that Soph’s remarkably hot, curvy and down-right luscious body glided out of the room and into a second allotted room; this one for nose poking, which her father had provided, along with other halls of jester, to keep his daughter occupied while he connived and mused with the rest of the masters of Deet; who were all shifty gits who would do anything for a segment of power and a free cut of pork every second Thursday.

‘Are you ready marm? Warbled the accent of Nobb the Nose.

Jock had reached the docks. Being only just less plump and well-fed than the guards(thanks to Mummy July) he had managed to once again dodge the tirades, jibes and insults that were thrust at him as he dipped and melded his way through to the harbour of Baja port, the extreme north of any port on the islands archipelago.

The port itself was protected from the hydro-thumps of the sea by a small battered wall, which had had chunks carved out of it like a sculpture, which ringed around the dock. It was a wriggling horse shoe that stood between the swells of the Poigan Sea and the dawdling town which lay in the nook of Mount Barm.

Jock did not stop to peruse this frankly astounding landscape but rather hastened to jump aboard the nearest skiff, regardless of ownership.

He was looking forward to shouting at the top of his voice as he darted away into the sunset:

‘OWNED!’

And as he ran he remembered the key point to why he was here, joining the Baja Arrows and fulfilling his destiny.

‘I Must Fulfill My Destiny’ he said in a charade of a booming dramatic voice. That was a tad of an assumption. Jocks elfin and generous mother, Eila, had said to him on her cough-bed*.

‘Pop the kettle on m’boy’. Jock chuckled at his lovely and kind mum who had a five minute desire for the tang of an herbal infused beverage of the piping hot variety.

‘Go forth, my son, the Bajans are on the brink and I reckon you are supposed to fight. I would give you your father’s sword but Iam pretty sure he sold it and brought a bundle of that “Woll”s Oh-So Wicked Weed Wedge’ and dropped off the edge of the Wall of Doon’ Eila had said in a spiritual tone that hinted to Jock that not only was his Mum a sage, his dad was a weed-bag and it really would be wise to listen to his Mum’s words and flee from the furrowed farm town of Forgandillon and venture into the distance.

Suddenly, Jocks mind was hindered in its thought by a fuming voice.

‘IT’S THE RUNNER!’ bellowed one of the guards, who had spotted Jock from the sloping street that funneled the sailors into the port, and who didn’t look to happy.

‘GET HIM!’ screeched the other, thoughts off victory entering his head,

before he triumphantly vaulted off the rock he was standing on ,slipped on a puddle of Buku Cat urine and slowly bumped and hobbled his was down the near-vertical street, moaning as he went.

Jock snapped out of his reminiscing mood, wiped a single tear for his mum from his eye, and with a start bounded off down the jetty.

He stopped by a boat with red sails and was just about to say the word “arrows” when a knife flew past his head and buried itself in the cabin door.

Jock took a second to mull over the truth: that someone had just tried to fasten a dagger in his noggin and turn his brain into a glorified Lang Prawn skewer. Then he abandoned etiquette and leapt over the railing.

The guards jogged towards the boat knowing that the sneaky dodger was trapped like lobster in a pot.

‘We’ve got you now sunshine’ said one of the guards.

The other guard tittered and said “We are good” in a way that should have been boastfully merry remark but came out as an amalgam of a depressing grumble and a dignified yelp because of an untimely vocal quaver in the guards tummy caused by the probably not kosher bean stew he had just eaten.

Anyway, back to the story.

Just as Jock reeled out the main sail on the apparently deserted sea craft the guards sidled up. One looking pleased with himself, the other rubbing his stomach. Both wielded spears. Both looked as though they were not about to fall for the tried and tested prank of “look behind you there”s a flying fox’.

Nevertheless Jock was not known for being canny; he had once exchanged his Thermatics manuscript for a slab of cake that had come from the moon, and therefore reasoned it was worth a try.

Out of the blue two red arrows zipped through the air and imbedded themselves in the heads of the guards; they fell like two portions of melted cheese off a table, their bonces now a similar shape, texture and whiff of the above melted cheese.

The sky went dark; the elements ceased their roar, the gust tempered.

‘What the frig!’ cried Jock

‘Silence you wee vagabond’ said a roguish yet kindly female voice.

‘The captain is working’ she said to a Jock who’s expression was crafted for the very word “bamboozled”; in fact Jock was so bamboozled that he fell off the amidships of the boat without so much as a by your leave but definitely a by your splash.

It just happened that at that exact point of time the waters of Baja Port was engulfed with the fins of Buta Tuna, a delicious aquamarine species that was known for its serrated teeth and peculiar liking for shoes, which was bad for Jock.

‘ Silly wee lad, watch out for their gnashers!’ hailed the women who had spoken to Jock previously as the rest of the red tunics unfurled the sails and provisioned the boat, not taking any notice of the swirling cacophony that was Jock trying to swim, for what looked like a long journey.

‘Someone get the stupid idiot out’ said one of the tunics (this one a deeper shade of red), swishing his crimson attire as he turned away to pull up the anchor nonchalantly.

And thus was Jock was eventually hauled out and given a bun to munch on.

A man strode up.

He was quite tall and stout and had an air about him that said “I have won more fights than you have hot dinners, that”s because I ate your hot dinner before the fight’. This man looked like he knew how to kill, how to slice someone’s throat, how to break someone’s neck, and a number of other dealings besides.

This is how Jock wanted to be. He himself wasn’t tall yet; more like a comfortable evasion height. He couldn’t really call himself stout without excavating into the sandy pits in search of pies of the porky variety. He did have something about him. But the percentage of that that was oxygen was so low that you couldn’t call in an “air”. One thing he did have was a word.

‘Arrows’ he said, once again confusing the taint his tone put on his speech, this time he had managed to exchange what should have been a confident statement into a feeble croak.

‘What?’ demanded the Captain.

Jock repeated his line, this time avoiding making himself appear like a Yoly Shrew trying to be witty when being pursued by the decade-honed talons of an Eagle of the Raldabasts.

‘Ah. I see. You were sent by Figa. You wish to join the Arrows. You wish to serve your country. You wish to defend your people. You wish to save your people from their end? Good on you lad. The Kruans must be stopped from taking the island. We must fight. Once again I say. You wish to save your people from their end?’

Unfortunately Jock had been concentrating on an interesting knot that he was attempting to unravel and had therefore not heard the captains apocalyptic fire-in-the-belly honker of a speech.

‘Yes’ said Jock because he had learned from the age of twenty Poigan years that if someone important said something of importance that was important as a matter of importance, you basically agreed.

The captain assumed that Jock had understood what he said and wandered to one of the ballistae that was mounted to the port of the ship, a thrower of missiles that was supplied with twenty or so bolts or as the Bajans called them “Arrn”., an unreasonable smile on his face.

‘Iam the Captain of this ship. You will call me Areo. Captain for that matter. In Hhhu they call me Nerf the Quick, for obvious reasons…’

These reasons didn’t seem too obvious to Jock but he reasoned that he should pipe down.

‘…..In the poison state of Deet they call me Unun. While on the hazardous plains of Krua Iam hailed as The Sails of Land.’ Proclaimed Areo with a tone that mingled too much with the pompous strain of pride and, with a nod to an arrogance that had been grafted over years of political wars, border skirmishes and tidal waves, he drew his bow.

What followed was a tiresome speech of gamble and victory, of risk and reward, of skirmish and plot, of righteousness and cheese.

Jock’s mind slipped, suspiciously easily, into its zonked-out state and lay there gently on the simmer while Areo painted a canvas of a bygone battle and fired one of his legendary arrows into the, now green-glum, depths of the Poigan Sea; Areo continued in his dramatic monologue with ease.

Jock wondered whether he was ever going to escape from this conversation.

The reason he had come was to become a Baja Arrow not to be playing “Smuggly Winks” with some old git who was: so poncy that he had given himself his own synonyms, carried a faint whiff of pig poo and who was trapped in the past like a beaver in a time warp.

The day grew late. Jocks temper switched to aggravate. The Captain expressed hate.

Still the wait….

END OF CHAPTER 1

Chapter 2 To Haggle is to Live

The fixer-town of Voov did a triceps stretch in Hugh of Hhhu’s mind. Many people think it was called the fixer-town because this was where you came if you needed tools for a job that needed doing. They were wrong. This was the venue. The hub. The core. If you wanted someone or something done then Voov was your kind of town. If you wanted someone killed then Voov was the town where you would find the armament, pinpoint the time and perform the deed. If you wanted a rival company or freight completely sabotaged then Voov was where you would achieve the best conniving results.

The town itself worked nothing like any other town or city or hamlet or pile of poo on the island of Poig.

It was liquid.

Voov was built on hundreds of inter-twining streams that rippled and jammed their way through the river-like streets like cracks in a vintage pavement. The people that dwelt in Voov had long ago lost their morality and citizenship and had fully transformed into a band of people who lived for the “swizz”. The people who lived there had no homes to go back to after a long day at the office. Probably because they didn’t have offices and they didn’t have homes. The only buildings in Voov were the ones deemed suitable for the types of jobs that needed doing. For example an old building, that used to be the local Poigan Poultry House, was used in a job where a Kruan noble wanted to “swizz” one of his colleagues in the hierarchy by using the Stoo flower to send him to sleep before hypnotizing him into thinking he was a Wern Chicken. The unfortunate noble believed he was a chicken so much that he attempted to woo a particularly fine specimen called “Petunia”. The other diplomats, scoff, had arrived to find the noble performing a sexual act with this chicken and clucking wildly like it was feeding time. It was an excellent belly-up.

Hugh knew of this place. The town where people were humiliated for fun. He had never been the recipient of a “swizz”, nor had he ever put someone else in that position but he had once known a merchant that had brought 200 litres worth of apparently down-the-line “Scratch me laddo and call me Charlie” finest dropellberry wine only to discover that he had actually forked out his life-savings for a mouldy bunch of grapes and a half-eaten onion bagel.

‘Some bargain’ muttered Hugh.

As Hugh’s cart trundled into the town Hugh noticed the clouds grow darker from a buoyant indigo to an unwelcoming navy. There were no guards standing at the edge of town only a sign that read “Welcome to Voov”. Underneath the sign was an obelisk of limestone that had carved on it a limerick.

From wide and far they come,

To organize their business,

Death, Eavesdropping, Fake rum,

These tales are our swizz-ness.

Which way to turn you ask,

To the civilized city,

Sabotage: happy task,

Constant ambiguity.

Whatever you do seek,

No deed is to immoral,

Stab, Snooping, False meek,

We swizz then place a laurel.

HEY!

The people of Voov

Hugh felt that he should be laughing but found his belly was not being tickled. This was weird, he thought. The entire town devotes themselves to other people’s desires and grudges. They have become “swizzlers” and left their previous lives in the dust.

‘Well as much as I don’t like it….Hugh began to his donkey.

‘This is the only place on the island where I might find the means to get over that blasted wall. What do you think?’

Unsurprisingly the donkey looked non-committal about the whole thing and moved his haunches a bit to allow for a honker of a fart to emit from his rump. Hugh was too busy convincing himself he had done the right thing in going “on tour” to notice the tooting noise that wafted on the air wind from the donkeys obvious direction, and therefore took the movement as a shrug.

‘Honestly! All I asked for was an opinion but you have to go and be like all those other gits back in Nahh. Always shrugging, conforming and basically being melancholy. Well Iam sorry if I’m trying to whittle out a real life for us on the log of life and trying to become an adventuring haggler but sometimes I wish I had brought the other donkey!’

‘……..’ said the donkey a sodden look building on its usual downtrodden expression.

What followed was possibly the sourest silence ever experienced on any island, on any planet, in any star system. The silence had the zing of an only just ripe lemon and embarrassed all who existed in its presence, even the spices.

As Hugh rode the cart into an inlet by the side of the road he said, with a sorry humbled and somewhat tender way:

‘I didn’t mean it’.

What followed..

Not far away in Qorz the fight between the two crews had finished. The Voujinians were either dead or wishing they were dead. The crews of the Qorzon were only just more numerous than their opposite brigands. The wooden floor of the pub, which used to be a russet brown, was now scarlet-swirled and could have been deemed an operating theatre at a suspicious hospital.

Anzr, the apparent winner of the clash, took his hat of his brow and inspected the stitching.

‘ It’s no good. I’ll have to get a new one.’ He said to nobody in particular; mainly because there wasn’t anybody who could talk back in particular. There was five members of Anzr’s crew still alive, four of them looked injured and boar sullen expressions. The fifth bruised face however looked positive and upbeat about the whole affair.

‘Rightyo. Who have we got “ere?” queried Anzr with a boom.

” Depr” muttered the brigand who had a sword slash across his chest that would have made your mother dash off searching for a blanket.

Anzr moved on. He found it hard to identify who was moving using their cranium and who was moving because that savvy old chestnut rigor mortis had kicked in.

Another plagiarizing pirate stepped forward, his arm a splash of blood, his hand missing.

‘Bioi’ he said as he looked at the captain with a venom that detected a touch of resentment about the decision the captain had made to “stay-on”.

‘Bten’ said a third buccaneer with a grimace on his face that worked in tandem with his missing legs.

‘Names Roav’ said a figure that Anzr identified as a relatively new member of the crew. A plucky, bordering on arrogant young brigand that had a tainted sense of humour and an evil streak to his sword fighting; in other words he never granted mercy to the innocent and always thought of a sly joke about there predicament. Even now, through the scars and scratches Roav had a tinge about him that said “All the foes I came up against will not rise again, and more importantly I found it funny”.

Anzr saw, to his annoyance, that apart from a few minor wounds Roav was as healthy as a plump newborn Xiil Rabbit. This boy would prove to be a tricky one.

The fifth and final man of the sea( but mainly pub) hopped out of the confines of the shadows of the Anzr Arms. This was the one that Anzr had noticed was rather merry about the whole experience.

‘ Srus’ said the corsair in a slippery voice that implied either he had managed to dig out some ale from the bar or he was some sort of cross-breed adder-human.

It turned out he was neither. That was his actual voice. Somehow he combined these icy words with an ebullient tone. Who was this, thought Anzr.

He asked the question he thought in his head.

‘Iam Srus. I’m the sixth mate on the Qorzon.’

‘ I don’t blooming well recognize you’ enquired Anzr, his hand creeping towards the hilt of his rapier.

‘I have served on the Qorzon for twenty years. I was there when we decimated the entire fleet of Hhhuan freight ships going up to Baja. I was there when we jousted with the Maadin along the straights of Nion. And I was fighting like a hurricane today for my crew and captain. Iam a sea-bear’ explained Srus.

‘Okay I remember you now’ said Anzr, his rapier slid back into its sheath and his shoulders relaxed as the tension of the situation drifted away. Anzr still noticed a hint of unfamiliarity when he looked at Srus. Oh well, he thought. There was plenty of grog, ale and women to be had this morn.

They had won!

Vouj had lost!

Let’s get drunk, he reasoned with a smile.

The next day the crew of the Qorz trudged back to the ship with contented faces. The galley was provisioned, the sails patched and the leaks plugged. The crew prepared the ship for departure. The way I said “departure” implies they were departing on a humble vacation. Perhaps a more accurate way of saying the same thing would be “the brigands sharpened their swords and hatchets for heart-rupture”. But we don’t want to be picky.

The brigands assembled in a ragtag bunch on the main deck. Anzr, who had acquired a new coat, wandered out from his cabin.

‘Right. All you here ready to kill?’

‘AYE!’ bellowed the crew, though not all.

‘That’s what’s I like to here. A bit of mutiny in the morn!’

The man called Srus blended in with the other corsairs while Anzr barged his way through the crowd.

‘Out with it’ he said, with a hint of diplomacy but with a shovel full of threat.

A brigand stepped, more of a hobble, forward.

‘Cap’n Me “n” the lads have been on the ponder….’

There was a snigger amongst the brigands: brigands never pondered.

Anzr didn’t laugh but responded how nobody expected. He drew his rapier and cleaved the corsairs arm in a trice.

‘ ME BLOODY ARM!’ cried the corsair as the others snorted.

‘What did I tell you Motl? If you want to think you ask me’ sneered Anzr amid the chorus.

As he cried Motl attempted to explain his point but was drowned out by the chortles that seemed to be going on for an un-naturally long time.

Srus assumed that Anzr’s jokes were always funny.

‘… We were thinking. Me and Huso and Drid, that maybe we could stop all this raping and pillaging..’ spluttered Motl

There was a general mutter of “other arm” among the brigands.

‘..Only for a while. We wondered if, maybe, we could try our hands as merchants. Y’know a bit of good honest trading after all this killing’ Motl continued.

‘Good honest trading’ Anzr repeated in an impersonation of Motl’s whine.

Once again the corsairs erupted at this moderately funny jibe.

‘You don’t have to do this Cap’n’ muttered Motl like it was his last breath.

It turned out it was.

Motl, Huso and Drid had their throat’s cut and were thrown into the sea.

As the bodies sunk slowly into the cerulean pits an Oumo Seal ploughed its way through the increasingly red swell to the bubbling sound of the corsairs guffaws.

Two weeks had past since Jock had left his hometown of Forgandillon. Thinking about it made Jock feel strange. Fifteen nights ago he had been sleeping on the brown carpet of his room thinking about girls: one particular girl in fact. Now he was sleeping on the deck of a red-sailed ship. He didn’t know the name of the ship but had seen two-rusted letters painted of the starboard side.

Things had changed.

He wondered what she was doing.

Maybe she was thinking about him.

‘ DON’T BE SO STUPID!’ came a bellow from the cabin.

‘What?!’ Jock awoke with a start. Had someone read his thoughts.

Luus opened the cabin door and stepped out into the dark, illuminated only by the light of the moon. Luus was Jock’s only friend aboard the boat. Considering there was about 10 Baja Arrows aboard this showed Jock’s poor communication skills and near non-existent charm. I say near non-existent because Luus obviously saw something in Jock that charmed her and Jock was rather happy about that.

‘ Oh it’s you’ said Jock in a casual way that, rather pointlessly, suggested that he had better people to talk to.

‘Tis bon to see you to, vagabond’.

‘Now listen here Luus Iam not a vagabond anymore. Now Iam a Baja Arrow.’

Luus walked across the deck towards the inlet where Jock lay.

‘Not yet vagabond. You’ve still got to train in Fawerdon before you earn your Arrows.’

‘Yeah I know. How far is it to this Fawerdon?’

Luus bent down and trailed her hand through the water as it went by. She looked up at the moon and sniffed the air looking thoughtful.

‘Well vagabond we are following the coast parallel to the Snea Road. You can tell we are in line because you can just make out the lamps that lie at mile intervals along the road. Over there see.’ She said.

Jock looked out into the dark and could see only more dark. It became clear to him that a) years at sea had sharpened Luus’s sight and b) that years in Forgandillon had worsened his.

Luus noticed Jocks squinting and smiled.

‘It doesn’t matter. Anyway Fawerdon lies on the border between Baja and Hhhu and is where our encampment is. That is where you get your arrows. Once you have trained we will march straight into Hhhu and you will show us what you are made of vagabond’

‘Why are we going to Hhhu? The war is against the Kruans. If we march into Depends Town all the Hhhuans will do is mumble and stand back. The Hhhuans are good for farming. Nothing else.’

‘We are going to Hhhu because, I’m afraid, the Kruans have taken over. We must aid our allies in their plight. Plus the Hhhuans make a belter kidney broth that I have tried since I was their with my husband Lopp.’

‘All right all right Luus. Didn’t need the life story’ said Jock.

The night swallowed the laughs of friendship as the red-sailed boat headed south-east to Fawerdon.

‘Can’t be done I’m afraid. Now if you don’t mind sir we are rather busy’ said the smarmy red headed fixer that stood opposite Hugh.

‘How do you know It can’t be done if know-one: no Kruan, Bajan, Deetan or ha-ha-Hhhuan.has ever tried to get over the wall?’

The fixer looked around him. The house, or more accurately hovel, they were in was filled with people that had much easier “jobs” that needed doing. Jobs that did not involve dodging the ever-vigilant Kruan sentries that were constantly circumnavigatring the swish of water that lay between the Island and the Wall.

His eyes peered over one of his fellow immoral fixers negotiating another swizz as he thought of the sheer height of the wall.

This fool; some raggedy merchant hoped to climb over a fifty overhang, after somehow not getting caught by the sentries, and then somehow manage to survive the hurricanes and hazards that lay beyond with, what looked like, nothing more than a few pots of spices and a disgruntled donkey.

‘No. It definitely cannot be done. And why is the letter “H” written on all your pots in that mindless scratch? Sir? Said the fixer, just managing to squeeze a tidbit of etiquette; this blatant insanity would not cause him to abandon his savvy way of thinking, eagerness to make some money or general customer service. Beside he was supposed to be immoral, he thought

Hugh had been through enough of this with the donkey. The trundle through town had taken a good two hours because of the numerous swizz’s that were being sculpted all over the place.

If this had been a good day at the market Hugh might have said:-

‘It symbolizes the Way of the Haggler. You see when I was a babe I thought nothing of life. I was, like my bro’s and sis’s kind of non-committal about life. I drifted through life asking few questions and getting even fewer answers, getting hit the face with a cantaloupe and being neither upset nor angry. But then one stormy night…’ at this point the donkey would have looked disapproving…’ all right it was a mildly temperate day. I met an old man. He told me of an ancient (but metaphorical) road called the Way of the Haggler. He told stories of riches and antiquities and of a life of decision and destiny. I knew then that it was me Hugh of Hhhu who would take up the old man’s mantel and become a Haggler: true to his word yet false to his word but always ready to barter even in the most dangerous( sometimes unnecessary ) places of Poig. The letters are a display of allegiance to my trade. My loyalty to my province and my general luck that my name starts with the same letter. To live is to haggle my friend.’

It had been a bad day at the market.

‘It means HIT! YOU SCAG!’Shouted Hugh of Hhhu the Haggler.

The fight that the crowd had been waiting for broke out as Hugh attempted to punch the fixer right on the noggin.

The fixer responded with a oily comment: “You are such a fool. You are no tradesman. You are an oaf not fit to own a donkey.”

Half of the crowd laughed.

‘At least I know my place you smarmy little windbag!’ retorted Hugh.

The Other half laughed.

Buoyed up by his fickle followers Hugh charged at the fixer hoping that his superior weight would break his opponent like a twig. Unfortunately the fixer dodged and tripped Hugh up. Hugh hit the floor and slid headfirst along the ground before hitting the main fixer’s desk.

The fixer turned to his half of the crowd and began to gloat to them in his snide tone.

Hugh got up. His pride as a Haggler was on the line. The Wall would still be there in the morning. He had decided that the fixer would not.

Hugh charged one last time.

‘HOW “BOUT FIVE PIGS FOR TWO SHEETS? ME OLE BUCKOOOOOO!” he bellowed as he cannoned into the fixer sending him through the wall and by the sounds of it through the next one.

The crowd crowded ( ronseal!) around the pots, the donkey and the merchant.

‘Now that is trade’ said Hugh

About 100 miles to the northeast of Voov the scarlet sails of the Bajan yachts wafted into Hhhu port; the secret HQ of the Baja Arrows.

Upon the cliffs a figure studied the five-strong convoy with precision.

‘About forty or so fighters’ thought the Face.

‘Most of them archers. Few trained in the art…’ he said allowed to himself on the last word jumping diagonally onto a rock and then altering his momentum to intercept a passing pigeons (as it turns out) terminal velocity and rendering its flight plans and also any future flights plans obsolete. The bird fell as majestically as it could. Its fellow pigeons scattered to the four winds, leaderless.

‘I have wasted enough time. These mice will not expect the eagles strike.’ Said the Face as he vanished into the ever darkening night. The scarlet of the sails grew more difficult to see.

Aboard the foremost yacht, the Kiunaj, the crew huddled in a circle knowing the easterly wind would take them to the beach hands free.

Areo stood in the centre of the circle prepared for a righteous speech.

The red robes of the crew shuffled in a shiver as the night drew in. Jokes that had started in the light lost their humour in the dark as Areo cleared his throat.

‘Right lads and ladies we approach good “ole Hhhu Port. But before you break out the beer remember that we haven”t had any tidings of Hhhu since two nights back. We don’t know who’s side their on. Ours or the Kruans.’

‘ What word from the Deetans Captain Areo? Do they help the Kruans freely?’ said an evidently frightened voice from somewhere around the circle.

‘Ahh. The Deetans. Those scums have indeed joined the Kruans publicly. No longer do they just advise, fund and congratulate the Kruans. No. Our western scouts have reported that our “good friends” have made themselves an army. One thousand turquoise robed soldiers were spotted marching north towards our western mountains.’

The Baja Arrows bellowed with anger at these words. Not a century ago the Bajans and Deetans had been allies. Now they had joined the Kruan monsters.

Out of the darkness came another question.

‘Captain Areo isn’t it true that Lunf and his men stand watch over the mountains above Gojo?’

There were murmurings of agreement from the rest of the circle. The Deetans couldn’t get through the mountains alive while the second unit of Arrows darted through crevasses and blocked off the paths through the snow. If blizzards didn’t get them then our arrows would, the Bajans thought.

‘True my friend true. But with the Kruans systematically taking over Hhhu to the east and the Deetans challenging us from the west our forces our stretched. Plus there is nothing to stop the Kruans sending another army to try and break the dam down by Folt.’

The people of the circle seemed uneasy and it didn’t help that they couldn’t see the speaker through the night light.

‘But no worries my Arrows. For I have a plan. We will career up and down the coast. Destroying the Kruans where we can. Disrupting them when we can’t. Our arrows will stop them in their tracks. We have the brass to save our people. Now we must show it. Right..’ suddenly the boat hit the sand. The Bajans, now ready to do some damage leapt from the boat. Areo didn’t have time to finish his sentence. The Face saw had seen his chance. Ice-cold hand over mouth. Poisoned dagger under throat. Swipe. The Bajan blood that had seconds ago been inspiring its troops splashed across the abandoned deck. The Face repeated what he had whispered into the Captain’s ear. “The final face you behold is mine”.

The Face vaulted from the yacht leaving the carcass to rot. He sprinted through the darkness. He passed an exited Bajan. He put on a Bajan accent and said. “I wonder what”s taking the Captain so long?’

‘Yeah’ came the reply.

It was not heard.

The Face was off.

His deed was done.

The Face skimmed the cliff tops of the Hhhuan coast like a kestrel, barely touching the earth. There were distant cries from the cove. The Face knew those cries. His feline ears had grown accustomed to those sounds. The Bajans would falter without their chief and would swiftly be conquered just like their Hhhuan neighbours. But enough of this politics, thought The Face, it is time to get back to base.

Luus was kneeling beside the body of Areo crying silently. Jock saw his friend from the sand below the Kinnaj. The tears that dappled her face filled Jock with remorse. Luus was older than him but she was still relatively young for an Arrow. She was Areo’s wife and had been with him for years and years of scenarios and battles. Whoever had done this would pay.

It was no accident. Areo’s throat was a mess. He had been murdered and there was no trace, less than no trace, of a murderer. Not that anyone was looking. The Arrows were too sitting around feeling sorry for themselves.

Jock was pondering who could have done this while Luus organized the lost Bajans and reported to them what had happened and what needed to be done.

‘Captain Areo is dead’ she said in a tone that was matter of fact but with an unmistakable dollop of sadness.

‘He has been murdered!’ she cried in realization of what this meant to her and to the war effort.

The Bajans, usually rowdy, just sat there silent. Exploits forgotten. Humour abandoned. Hope whisking away.

Luus however had hope. “Now listen you lot” Luus said.

‘The Captain’s off on his last sail. But we can’t stumble now. The island’s future rests on our shoulders.’ She explained.

The people who were standing around the deck started to properly hear what Luus was saying.

‘Remember who you are lads and lasses and vagabonds’ she said with a wink to Jock.

‘We are the Baja Arrows. Areo was a great archer. That’s true enough. But we have still got 25 of the best arrow-fliers this side of Doon. Our arrows can catch anyone. Our arrows can turn the very air crimson. Our ancestors changed history countless times with these arrows. We can win my chums. All we gotta do is start believing it.’ Luus finished her speechand took one last look at her husband. Time was ever-changing, she thought. Things happened and it was all about how you react. She would take the fight to the Kruans.

‘There is one flaw in your plan Luus’ muttered Yaje, an archer who liked to think he was right.

‘What is that Yaje?’ questioned Luus.

‘We number twenty five Luus. Twenty six if that idiot can fire an arrow half-straight. The Kruans have hundreds.’ He said.

Jock realized the insult was aimed at him but did not let it trouble him. He was thinking.

‘Look on the Brightside Yaje. At least if we fail, which we won’t, you will go on your last sail after taking a lot of them with you.’ Replied Luus.

This raised a laugh amongst the increasingly more positive Bajan crew.

‘Right. Are you all with me?’ said Luus.

‘BY SEA AND SAND, EARTH AND FIRE, WE ARE!’ chorused the crew.

That night the boats were hauled into a vast cave that lay further inland. The crew slept soundly. Jock had come to a decision.

The morning came all of a sudden.

The Bajans spent the morning gathering provisions and readying weapons. Luus aimed to leave at noon. A brisk wind had risen of the Eastern Straits of the Poigan Sea and granted the morning a freshness that was akin to a cider apple.

Perfect weather for traveling across land, thought Luus.

Once everything was packed and ready the twenty five fighters and fifteen cooks marshaled on the beach. Luus marched up carrying a sack. She also bore a bow and arrows of intricate and time-honored design that also had the looked like it had ended many lives. Additionally, as had all the Arrows, she bore a short sword around her slim waist.

Jock had not been granted a bow as yet but had acquired a short sword and had also acquired what he thought was a good idea.

‘Luus I have got an idea’ said Jock, a little two quietly.

‘We travel south. To our allies!’ roared Luus, her chest heaving at the unexpected force she had used.

‘Luus…’ said Jock again to the back of Luus.

She turned.

‘Yes vagabond?’

‘Whoever murdered the captain is out there. I know you lot think I’m a waste of time but I’m pretty sure that I’m not.

‘The Captain’s dead and none of you archers are trackers. Iam not a tracker but I have been dodging and weaving all my life and I have beenknown to escape from loads of inescapable locations. I can smell a wiff of fried goods from twenty leagues away and I can run like a…’

‘Pig’ someone suggested.

‘Yeah I can run like the Pig. No! I can run as fast as a…’

‘Dead frog’ another whimsical person suggested.

And so this went on for awhile with Jock’s imagination working on overtime to try and craft the body it ruled into that of a wild tracker cheetah with an acute sense of smell and an uncanny skill with a bow.

Everyone new that most of this wasn’t true but all the same the boy had showed promise at the on-deck archery competitions and games of “Guess That Pong”.

‘Well’ said Luus in a reasonable tone.

‘You are definitely keen to prove yourself. You show the brass of a true Arrow vagabond. Find Areo’s killer and take their carcass to Depends City. It’s not far from here. North about 50 miles and then inland through a range of low hills. We have allies and agents up there that have not yet surrendered to the fist of Krua. Rimo,’ Luus pointed too a heavily laden man who carried an assortment of spare weaponry.

‘Give Jock a bow. He is going to need it. Your training is suspended vagabond. Go now and prove yourself.’ Said Luus finally.

The Bajan’s marched from the beach heading down the coast to lands of strife. Luus turned and walked back to Jock. She spoke to him as his friend not his commander now. The spark of the jokes and moments they had shared was lit in both their eyes for a fraction of a second.

‘Don’t go getting yourself killed now vagabond.’

‘No chance. Now you can tard* off.’

Jock watched as the crimson tunics off his countrymen and women sped off over the hills like one hasty animal.

‘Time to run once again’ Jock thought.

‘At least this time I’m doing the chasing.’

He looked down at the pure golden shingle beneath his sandaled feet.

A drop of blood. And another. The moisture had sunk into the sand but the unmistakable scarlet stain of blood was still visible. It turned out the murderer hadn’t wiped their blade. More drops of blood. And a smell of seaweed. Jock noticed extremely faint footprints, barely even indentations, at odd points in the sand as if the murderer had only needed to use the ground every now and again. Jock had the scent. There was an odd path that wriggled its way up from the beach and over one of the hills that enveloped the bay.

The murderer was going west.

A smell of fire.

‘Destiny lies but a stones throw away’ thought Jock in a way that he thought was remarkably poncy.

West it is.

END OF CHAPTER 2

Chapter 3 A Race, a Ridge and a Road.

Suvcaldrios was Soph’s home. She had resided in the western settlement of Deet for twenty Poigan years and she had never been allowed to venture further than the borders.

She had heard rumours.

Rumours that the alliance between the proud Deetans and their barbaric cousins over in the land of Krua was all but spent.

Other tales peppered across the tongues of the people of Deet. Tales that didn’t bear fruit, literally. According to Xaxn the Boul, a raggedy traveler whom was mostly heard and rarely seen, the southern farms of Deet had dried up and soon the Deetan way of life would flounder and die, according to Xaxn.

Soph had heard this from her friend Nasa. Nasa was the type of girl that found things out that weren’t supposed to be known. She gathered information and sold it to the highest bidder. True, Soph thought, Nasa can be a bit shifty and unwilling to talk (possibly for fear of having her nugget of gold stolen) but she also had a marvelous sense of humour and a certain verve that Soph could not describe but all the same she liked.

Nasa had actually told Soph two versions of the political goings on. She decided to cast her mind back to the latter.

‘Oi. Soph.’ Nasa had said whilst they had been walking across the city together. She had beckoned Soph over to her; motioned the other girl to stay silent as if what she was about to reveal would change the world.

I don’t want to be a clever bastard but sometimes the storyteller gets it right.

‘Right Soph…’she had said in barely a whisper.

‘You are allowed to talk a bit louder Nasa. I don’t think that dog is going to purloin your information.’ Soph had said with a giggle.

‘Silence is what’s needed here Soph. Here it is. Word on the street is that a few groups have formed underneath the army…’

‘No way! You mean like a rebellion?! Why? I thought the Deetan people were contented’ interrupted Soph.

Soph remembered Nasa looking mildly edgy at her comments. She could tell that Nasa wasn’t used to being asked to go on a lunch break in the middle of her museum expedition on the early Poigan uses of the elements Droj and Veaz. Interrupting Nasa in mid-flow was like disrupting a kid from opening its presents on its day of birth. Unwise some would say. Those some would be parents.

Anyway Nasa continued with her narrative in an electrifying and moving way while maintaining a look in her eyes that could have caused a young cheese to run back to its cow as fast as its mozzarella-legs could carry it.

‘There are 7 of these groups on our island and rumour has it that they are mostly affiliated with Krua. And guess what. Rumour has proved to be true as a gull’s wing. Take a look at this Soph.’

Nasa had handed Soph a rolled piece of scroll. On it in black ink was the title “Discoveries”. The scroll itself was covered in drawings, sketches and various inks, letters and languages.

Soph understood most of the slang and dialects that had been used but still some of the findings proved to be un-decipherable.

‘Whose ” Discoveries” are these Nasa? It’s so dirty and starched. Where did you get this?’ she had said.

‘Enough of the questions Soph have a read of that bit. Rebellious enough for you?’ had come the reply. Nasa had smiled and pointed to a column. Seven numbers. Seven lines.

That was when Soph had truly started getting interested in what Nasa had found. She read.

‘1. A faction of thieves called The Frights. Possibly based around Waub in far western Krua. Loyal to the House of Socu. Expert thieves and spies.

‘2. A faction of killers that operate under the name of Raad. Raad are easily-traceable but numerous with killers in most major towns of Hhhu. No loyalties.

‘3. A faction of peace-keepers who operate underneath all the political boundaries that exist. They are financed in their just cause by high members of the Deetan and Hhhuan governments. They are called The Protectors of Life. They are based around Depends City and seem to be allied with the Bajan democracy.

‘4. A faction of killers that are in direct opposition with Raad. They to are loyal to the Kruan majesty and oppose the Bajans fiercely. They are swifter and more conniving than the Raad and have a fitting name. Slanid. The Slanid base is in Traajmeldon in Krua.

‘5. A faction of drifters called the Coi Rinders. Politically their views waver and their allegiances are not known. They fight with bows and are based in the town of Gojo in south western Baja.

‘6. A faction of bandits. They call themselves The Desert Tigers because that is where they do there rounds. Few in number but organized and used to the barren landscape of southern Krua. They are known to venture north and have been seen near the Krua/Baja border. Evil bastards. Loosely loyal to Krua.

‘7. A faction of traders that roam and travel across the island trading as they go. They are loyal only to Nahh Tradetown and keep a presence their at all times to keep the quibbling-hub safe from invaders. They rarely fight but have been known to drop any bartering to defend their home-province of Hhhu as they alone are loyal to their province.’

‘Wow!’ said Soph

There is a rebellion, she thought. This is going to change the island.

‘Let’s go’ she said to Nasa.

The two girls scampered off back to the palace.

Travelling west inland from Hhhu Port Jock had found himself lost. The trail was parched. The ground had turned from grassy-easy-to-run earth to an expanse of flat russet ground. The high fields of grass made it impossible to make out any footprints and it became apparent to Jock that the assassin was no rooky at being followed. There were no notched trees, no dropped items, and no handy scrolls detailing the assassin’s destination.

After the initial chase Jock was left facing a province of Poig that was known for being mischievous and, sometimes, dangerous.

But Jock didn’t know that.

For Jock this was about proving himself to his people. He was absolutely focused on the task set. Find and kill the killer.

Jock had never killed before. He had barely punched before. But for years the tide of Krua had been increasingly more hostile to Baja and through this the Bajan’s had needed their fighters even more. Now the Arrows were vital. If the Arrows fell then Baja would be at the mercy of Krua.

The only thing stopping the Kruans was the ingenuity and accuracy of the Bajan’s only true defenders and the natural line of mountains that started above Gojo in the west, traversed the southern borders and wound up touching the clouds in the north-east of Baja.

The landscape that Jock was used too was far away and far different to that which lay before him. He knew that in order to stop the Kruans the Arrows must learn to fight in all terrains efficiently and be able to kill a foe with an arrow in any province or area.

Jock kept moving.

Going west.

After about 3 hours of constant movement Jock stopped for a rest. He could feel the air he had breathed back in Forgandillon flowing out of him. He could feel his heart shrugging off its sluggish beating and slowly becoming what it was born to be. He could feel the fatigue in his muscles but he knew it was a good thing. He felt more like the Captain he wanted to become. His eyes felt more attuned and his vision clearer.

He scanned the thicket that surrounded him. Vegetation. Undergrowth. Trees. All tan coloured and moving with the wind. He looked for prints, etchings and more importantly the stain of blood. He saw none.

But he heard something.

A shout. An audible scream. A wail like a cheetah-caught-deer.

He ran out of the copse, once again too the west.

Something was happening far away. Across the other side of the valley. A river ran beneath him and the happenings.

He took out a crimson-flighted arrow and fitted it to its platform: a piece of Bajan Ash bent to the precise angle needed for optimum speed and accuracy.

He could make out more shouts and could just see movement across the basin. He focused and let fly.

One body fell.

It rolled and kept on rolling. It was stopped metres from the river by a mean-looking boulder.

Jock grinned.

‘Chung!’

The Face had gotten lucky. Bandits. Probably some sub-faction of The Tigers. This wasn’t the desert. What the hell were they doing here. And trying to rob him. Him!

They would pay for this.

He had been sprinting as usual, he liked to call it flying, and knew that once he reached the top of this valley he would be able to see the borders of Krua.

Unfortunately the bandits had been waiting. There were too many. He had killed five of them with his poisoned dagger but was caught by one fat bandit that would not let go. He could not get around to spike the git. The air had been quickly vanishing from his lungs. The big bandit didn’t look like he was merciful in the slightest. The Face couldn’t reach his poison pouches. His vision was going cloudy. The remaining bandits looked on gleefully. Laughing as the killer of five of their mates got his due.

Jock’s aim had been true. The Face was released from the Goliath’s grip. The Face didn’t know or care why. He would make these bastards pay for their laughter. Every. Last. One.

He dodged the spears and barbs and jumped cleanly over the bow-toting bandit. Ending his life with one swift slit in the jugular. He sprung like a jaguar and pierced another bandit in the heart with mind-boggling speed. The bandits continued their pointless folly: waving swords and shouting taunts. Trying to skewer the sneaky devil. The Face was filled with elation. This was where he was meant to be. The shouts grew quieter. The swords began to fall. The taunts stopped. A dagger thrust here. A broken neck there. The knife extinguishing everywhere it went. He could not be stopped. The last halberd clanged to the ground.

Finally The Face relaxed. An evil cackle ignited in his heart. He gazed around at the part-time bandits, the men only looking for food andcurrency to sustain and feed their families, the men that would walked away if they had seen the damage the Face could do.

Knowledge was a funny thing. The Face thought.

So is power.

‘The final face you all beheld was mine’.

Without a sound The Face’s darkened robes were gone.

Jock arrived a minute later. Fifty or so robbers lay strewn among the teak grove.

‘Too far’ said Jock

Oblivious to the battles of the islanders the sun sank, gradually, into the Poigan Sea. The brine was becoming less and less turquoise and thus more and more foreboding as the light retreated to the horizon and beyond.

There was trouble afoot.

Hinn, leader of the Slanid had his orders. By orders of Socu, the Kruan King and main Slanid benefactor, the mercenaries were to aid the invasion of Baja.

These orders had no moral implications for the Bajan-born mercenary. Morals were for the weak. The farmers and the nurses had morals.

Years of wheeling and dealing had turned Hinn into a gold-seeking killer. This job was like no other. True he would be attacking his own homeland but, he reasoned, what was blood but something that can be spilled.

Hinn had lost his Bajan blood years ago. The night he and his men encountered a family of Bajans who were traveling down the Yaik to the sea. They had killed them all and thrown the carcasses into the olive jungle that lurked beside the waterway. “Five screams and a whole lot of bullion, a means to an end” reminisced Hinn.

Tonight would be a night that earned Hinn and his men their gold.

It took the cloaked mercenaries one day to travel across land from Traajmeldon to Suvcaldrios. They were fleet of foot and did not tire easily. Hinn had deliberately picked the Slanid he knew would be able to cope with what was to come.

Hinn was marching out in front of his band. The turrets of the city of Suvcaldrios were illuminated by orange lights. Oil-doused rags on the end of sticks.

The Deetans would not see the Slanid mercenaries coming, which was exactly what Hinn wanted. For even though the two sides would be in an alliance for this venture Hinn didn’t want his allies knowing anything about how the Slanid operated. Who knows, Hinn thought, the Deetans could be next on the list.

So the Slanid entered into the forecourt of the city unseen by blurred Deetan eyes. Hinn ordered his troops into ranks and had them crouch inthe darkness. Being his own boss had granted the Slanid leader a certain arrogance. He prided himself in his style and professionalism and couldn’t help but smile at his own adept strategies.

He strode up to the main doors of the court and knocked in a way that only Hinn, leader of the Slanid, could.

One knock.

Silence.

One knock.

Silence.

One knock.

Silence.

The doors were swung open and out scurried an old man that had a dutiful and humble look about him.

‘ Hello there’ said the old man, foolishly.

The Slanid leader dropped to a crouch and bellowed back to the forecourt “SLANID!”.

‘HINN!’

The Slanid in the forecourt rose as one and cried “HINN” into the darkness. There was whistling sound and then ten knives embedded themselves into the old man. His body could not have took even one of these deadly barbs. He fell backwards into the light that emitted from the doorway.

Hinn kicked the corpse aside on his way through the doors. “Nothing personal old man. But some traditions have to be upheld.” he said.

The Slanid collected their knives and began to congratulate each other on their throws and precision.

Hinn reached the Royal Deetan House and was met by a couple of lazy-looking guards.

They rushed to pick up their halberds as the dark-cloaked mercenaries neared their post.

‘By order of the Monarchs of the Royal House I demand your name and your business in this place.’ Said one of the guards.

‘My name is Hinn. These are the Slanid. We do not come here for business. We come here for a pit-stop. Some refreshment perhaps and if the Monarch will be so kind the use of your wenches.’ Said Hinn in a nonchalant tone.

The gold encrusted door were pulled inwards by some sort of complicated mechanism to reveal a splendid cavern-like room that housed many teak tables and chairs. The walls were plastered in antiquities and ornaments that Hinn would never had deemed to exist. The walls themselves were etched with paintings that used colours and textures that intrigued the Slanid’ eyes.

A King and Queen were nowhere to be found. But a young woman stood in the centre of all the wondrous things, outshining their beauty by any mile.

‘ My lady’ said Hinn as he crouched once again, though this time there was no suggestion of foul play.

‘ You will leave this city. Now.’ Said the girl.

The mercenary leader laughed like a goblin.

‘ You misunderstand the situation my lady. The truth is unfortunate but true all the same. We are here to join up with some of your Deetan dunderheads; then we are too march on Gojo. You see, my lady, we have already left.’ Said the leader self-importantly.

Soph looked around. The mercenaries had ambled into the throne room as Hinn had made his speech and were now filching wine from servants and leering at Soph’s maids.

She didn’t like this one bit but unfortunately there was nothing she could do.

It took five hours for the Deetan squadron to prepare for battle. A battle that known of them really wanted to fight. But it was not the common soldiers place to speak up among princesses and mercenaries so the score of turquoise clad foot soldiers joined the mercenary crowd knowing well that what they were about to do would be an open betrayal of the Bajans.

Soph watched with her people as their only defences shuffled off into the dawn-approaching night.

Hinn gave Soph once last smirk before turning to follow his band.

‘GOJO HERE WE COME’ he shouted into the half-light.

From the top of the castle Soph watched until the lights were eaten by the fiends of the shade.

She turned to one of her servants.

‘Udaa’ she said.

‘Yes, my lady’ came the reply.

‘Send word to Gojo along the coast. Warn them of the impeding attack. We must hope that the arrows are ready’ said Soph in a businesslike way.

She had never been to Baja but she knew that there had once been an alliance between her people and the mountain-people and for her that meant something.

She knew that the Deetan-Kruan alliance existed for two reasons.

The main one being that the Deetans were afraid of an invasion from the dastardly Kruans. The other reason being that the Kruans needed food and resources to keep their war machine operational. The fertile fields of Deet provided the goods needed for protection while the crazed minds and well-placed sabers of the Kruans provided said protection.

It was a two way agreement that confirmed the insecurity of the Deetan government. They truly believed that their people weren’t strong enoughto stand up to the Kruans while the Baja, a relatively small and sparsely populated province, the people believed in their military and followed their leaders unwaveringly.

All the talk of gangs and alliances and wars and betrayals that ricocheted of the walls of Deet only succeeded in disvaluing what it meant to be a Deetan.

People either believed in the Kruan regime or had resigned themselves to the fact that their farms were supplying a systematic takeover of the island.

Soph closed her eyes. She hoped that things would be all right. That the Kruans would fail and that Deet could go back to be being the industrious province that is used to be. She hoped a lot of things.

But right now she hoped Hinn got an arrow twixt the eyes.

Luus stood at the head of her troops. A bumpy plain lay before the Bajan Arrows. Luus guessed that the Kruans were marshalling about ½ a mile from where the Bajans had made camp. A hillock protected the camped Bajans from view. With any luck the Kruan scouts wouldn’t have picked up on their presence but, she reasoned, luck was a mistress that was hard to come by nowadays.

The rest of the contingent were mostly sleeping underneath the shade of a few tarpaulins which had been brought from the markets of Forgandillon.

‘ Ahh’ Luus said aloud.

‘The markets of Forgandillon. The breeze whisking through the Bajan peeks as the sun casts its evening ginger luster down onto the secluded city.’ She reminisced.

‘But here we are on the plains of southern Hhhu fighting an enemy that does not relent and that seeks to take over the entire island’ she shouted.

Luus was fair even in anger but a few drowsing troops couldn’t help feeling scared for the Kruans.

Luus un-slung her bow from her shoulder and straightened her bow arm. Before selecting a crimson-fletched arrow from her sheath she glanced in the direction of her home: Baja. The last free province. The other provinces weren’t free anymore. Deet had become Krua’s sponsor while Hhhu had pretty much done nothing to stand up to the draganians and allowed their borders to be crossed.

Luus turned back to the only direction that mattered now: Krua. Appropriately the Kruans appeared to have camped in the rough direction of their own province, though, she thought do the Kruans even have a province any more or have they resigned themselves to the ways of home-stealing?.

The arrow was fletched from a Jalcon of Mount Forg. The bow was that of legend. The archer was of skill.

Luus loosed the arrow. She twitched her arm muscles and dropped the bow. A favourable wind had aided the arrows flight. A cry out into the evening alerted, though it seemed she barely needed alerting, of the accuracy of the shot.

Shouts, bellows and screams followed the cry. It sounded like a force was mustering in the waning light.

Luus marched back into camp and shouted to her comrades. “The Kruans have been alerted of our presence. Although, hopefully they shall be stalled by the death of their boss. A draganian is only as strong as its leader but a band of arrows is as strong as its leader!”

‘Hasten Bajans!’ she cried as the archers began to get ready to fight.

One minute later and the Arrows were prepared. A line that lined the bottom of the hillock. Luus stood at the centre.

The sound of swords on shields and of war-cries was growing louder.

The Bajans waited for their captain’s command.

The draganian came closer.

Dust began to rise over the grassy dune.

Some weird drum beat thumped in time with the ever-closer footsteps.

The Bajans crouched at Luus’s signal.

‘It came from this direction. It musta’ said a gruff voice.

‘Whoever spiked the boss it gonna pay’ said a similar voice.

Still the Bajans crouched.

‘Stop babbling and get searching. We gotta find the killer. Probably one of those Hhhuoni rebels. If it is I’m gonna chop them up’ said a third more cunning voice.

Grit and sand started to slide down the hillock as the Kruans moved closer and closer to the edge.

Luus drew her sword silently. The front twenty-five Bajans followed her lead creating only the tiniest disturbance in the dusty air.

‘Look over there!’ one of the Kruans shouted, pointing at something that looked, he thought, a lot like a bundled up sheet or tarpaulin.

Luus looked back at her fifty arrows and said “Now Bajans”.

A silent wave of twenty five crimson flies pierced through the air and hit the front line of Kruans. Meanwhile the Bajans climbed the slopes and reached the top just in time to see their fellow troops’ arrows do their work.

As evening grew in to night the arrows and swords of the Bajans began to shatter the Kruan’s resolve. With their leader somehow dead back at camp and all his lieutenants either dead or running away the surviving Kruans ran back the way they had came.

Five of the Bajan’s were dead. One hundred and sixty three Kruan carcasses adorned the sloped of the hillock and the plains above and below.

Luus, 18th Captain of the Arrows, looked west. Jocu was out there somewhere, she thought.

‘Possibly safe but probably dead.’ said Luus aloud.

‘We’ll meet again, vagabond. But for now, just you keep safe.’ she said into the evening mist.

CHAPTER FOUR- Voices On the Borders

There had been no footprints on the road. No sign of the killer. The only option Jocu had as the light danced away was to find civilization somewhere in this lonely part of the island.

‘Ha! The island of Poig.’ thought the aspiring warrior. “If this is an island then my name is Ugge Husvajet and I”m the king of the beyond. Ha-ha.’ Jocu muttered to himself.

‘I mean: where is all the water, the rivers, the tributaries and the sea? This place is so dry that you could cook your breakfast on the dirt.’ Jocu looked around, peering through the approaching gloom. There was a lone holly tree to his right, a bush of what looked like heather to his left and absolutely bugger all behind him or in front of him.

Five days he’d been tracking now. Five days. All the provisions that Luus had given him had run out leaving Jocu with a sense of constant hunger. He could feel his appetite using his fat reserves to fuel their reactions and he was not too happy about it. You see, Jocu prided himself on being a stocky lad and if that stockiness was called into question or decreased by any external or internal occurrence (a lack of food: external, an elephant appetite: internal) then Jocu would get annoyed.

Therefore Jocu was annoyed. He glanced to his left and his right and then patted his stomach in a reflex action to feeling hungry. The leaves of the holly tree were swiftly changing from jade green to lime green and would soon be taken by the night. The last beams of light retreated from Jocu’s eyes as finally and suddenly the sun buggered off.

Literally nothing stirred around Jocu. No sounds. No smells. Only a sphere of darkness remained on the Hhhu-Krua border.

Jocu through down his pack and hunted with his feet for soft earth. He found it and crashed down onto it like a tired meteorite. Jocu’s thoughts drifted off into the night. Suddenly, as soon as he closed his eyes, there were sounds coming from everywhere: voices from his past, voices of nature and, perhaps, voices of his future. Outside off Jocu’s head the ecosystem was a graveyard; an abandoned friend; a silent island of its own. But inside the confines of Jocu’s cranium people were speaking, time was passing and Jocu could see light.

The people of Jocu’s dreams told him a secret and the secret was this: there was a stash of mint cake and a flask of spring water hidden in one of numerous pockets of his sack.

Breakfast was assured. Everything was good.

The next day’s weather was fine; a bright iris of the primary colours that seemed un-touchable. Jocu slept on as the rest of the creatures of the ecosystem awoke and started to go about their business. Out of the heather bush came a hare-like creature. The leaves of heather rustled as the creature brushed past before going back to their original immobile state.

The small creature went up to Jocu and proceeded to nudge his left forefinger with its nose. Jocu slumbered on, regardless. The hare-like thing moved backwards on its pads and then charged at Jocu’s arm. Jocu still slumbered with no regard for the hare creature. The creature was starting to get annoyed. It wished this git would wake up and go away. The hare began to back-track until it was practically in the heather bush. Any second now the hare would strike. “One” said the heather. “Two” said the holly tree. “Three” said the wind. The creature darted forward with the speed of a hare and the agility of one too. Seconds before the furry head connected with the upper arm, Jocu woke up.

Hearing the sound of sand being scattered he turned to see a small hurricane coming his way. He jumped up and immediately wished he hadn’t. Every joint in his body clicked and slid in protest of their wake-up call.

‘Bloody hell’ he said.

The hare-like creature realized that it had accomplished its first goal in wakening the human. The next task was to get the human to leave this hill and to never come back. Unfortunately the hare-like creature could not outwit the human physically: hare-like creatures are not known for their insane fighting skills. That didn’t matter though, the creature thought as it scuffled around in the shade of the holly tree to Jocu’s right. The human must leave, now!

Jocu picked up his sack and took out some of the provisions that he had been told about in his dreams the previous night while taking no notice of the small fur-ball that seemed to be thinking intently to his right.

After fifteen minutes of breakfasting, Jocu put his gear back into his sack, stood up and hoisted the rucksack on to his shoulders. Instantly, a dull pain took his shoulders like a slow-motion tidal wave as the straps dug into his raw shoulders. Three days tracking the assassin had taken its toll on Jocu’s physical attributes: constantly running and carrying an extremely heavy pack was not easy.

‘But if I’m to become one of the Baja Arrows then I’m going to have to be tough.’ said Jocu.

Jocu closed his eyes and thought of his mum and his friends and the people he would know and through sheer thought transformed himself from a dazed, tired wreck into, once again, an arrow.

At that moment the sun rose and the rabbit-like creature disappeared, confident that the intruder was about to leave the clearing. The sun was the light of the island. It was orange and yet it was all colours to Jocu’s eyes; a globe of sapphire, scarlet and jade that enveloped the landscape that lay out in front of the young teenager from Forgandillon.

Jocu tightened the straps of his rucksack and took the first steps of the new day. He went faster and faster along the west-leading path like a cheetah accelerating to its prey. Suddenly there was no pain; there was no weariness in Jocu’s joints. There was only the hunter and the quarry.

150 miles to the south, the corsairs were leaving. Of the seven brigand ships in the harbour of Qorz, five of them were under Anzr’s command. They were: The Irixur, The Ouvalda, The Tlasmeldon, The Teog-Riz and the flagship The Qorz The two other ships were both unsuccessful in the ways of plunder and gold and so had not been added to The Qorz’ vanguard. The names of those two ships had been forgotten by Anzr because those who Anzr didn’t have “business” with were not worth remembering. One of the stand-alone ships was called the Nhusdala and the other was called the Oabern.