Chapter 1- Riders from the North.
Baramus sat alone in his tent, looking out onto the assiduous campsite. He shivered as a stiff wind blew in through the tent’s entrance causing scrolls to stir and feather quills to shiver. He used a lone piece of rope to tie up the two flaps, acting as a door, and shut away the outside world.
He returned to his scrolls and again he studied them with great care, taking in every precise detail that each possessed. He stopped once again upon the map of the northern region. Using the feather on the end of his quill he marked out any possible route that the soldiers could take. His eye fell upon a dark patch that was surrounded by trees and symbols that he did not yet understand.
Instantaneously, he gathered his scrolls, carelessly ripped the rope away from the exit and ran through the blundering winds. He dived into the tent nearby. Doing this had appeared to gain quite a lot of attention and had also become a habit.
“Ah Baramus, it is not the first time this evening that you have flown into my tent like a mad man carrying those scrolls. May I ask what the urgency of the situation may be this time? A hole in your tent? A desire for food?”
“I’ve found a way.”
Gomorra turned to face Baramus and gave him a pitiful look.
“Baramus, there is no way this army can regain the excellence of what it used to be. We will falter and the armed forces of Tarvanhay will fall. There is nothing man can do against such certain repulsion that the devil himself has conjured up to spite us, to weaken us and now to destroy us. We need aid but aid will not assist. The people of Rhomnas have not responded and those of Tafir plains have locked their gates. Who is left Baramus that will help us in this time of great need?”
Gomorra put his head in his hands and sighed, longing for a way to be rid of the fate that was carved upon him and Tarvanhay.
“We ride north.” Baramus looked away warily and twitched his feet in a nervous state.
“North; what lies north but wasteland and those that follow no law?” spat Gomorra whilst standing up and looking angrily at the man before him.
“It is those of no law I seek.”
“The same men of no law that slaughtered my uncle in the fields of Tarvanhay, after destroying my home and burning my scrolls? The same northern riders that shamed my name in the battle for the temple of Farmear?” Gomorra’s voice turned into a shout and he knocked over a glass of wine in his anger. “The same men that swore they would kill me if I tried to gain revenge for the death of my uncle?”
Baramus stared in silence at his leader, a sickening dread pulsating through his body.
“I just thought…”
“No Baramus you did not think or you would not have suggested such a thing to your leader.”
The wind blew at a mighty force which caused the tent to ruffle madly.
Baramus was generally a shy fellow. His uses lay in the mapping area where his quick thinking was often an asset to any armed force he was used by. It was rare to see Baramus in the midst of any battle so it was extremely unusual to have him present on the very peak of war-a war that would decide a large proportion of the fate that man had carved upon them.
Baramus headed for the exit to his leader’s tent and called out in a rather high pitched and nervous voice:
“I shall ride North and when I return, we will have our way out.”
With that he dived out the tent, in a very similar way to the way he had dived in.
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