Tales of Emoria: Past Echoes

The track the Emorans used for wagons was concealed on the edge of a large mountain meadow in a thick wooded area huddled against an imposing bluff. This alone warned the odd traveler to seek another path on their eastward journey.

"We’re going through there?" Seeran had stopped the wagon and stared at the dense tangle of vegetation.

The Emorans grinned as they grabbed the greenery and revealed that it was skillfully sown onto rough wooden screens. Behind these screens was a tunnel constructed of branches and vines.

"Clever," Tigh commented from on top of Gessen.

"You haven’t seen anything yet," an amused voice vibrated through her back.

Seeran studied the screens as Gelder took the reins and steered the wagon through the tunnel. The historian couldn’t believe that she was actually entering the legendary Emoria. She concentrated on every detail, placing them in her mind like a painting so she could recall it all later when she put pen to parchment.

"We tend this entrance like we tend our gardens," Argis, noticing Seeran’s wide-eyed interest, explained with more than a little pride. "It’s as important to our survival as the food we eat."

"Are we in Emoria?" Gelder stared into the heavy woods, broken only by the well-kept track.

She was answered with a dozen Emorans that were suddenly visible among the trees, their gray and green leather and armor blending them into the landscape. Three formidable warriors stepped onto the track, blocking the passage of the wagon.

Jame’s arms, wrapped around Tigh’s waist, tightened and the warrior could hear her angry, shortened breath.

"It’s all right," Tigh said softly.

"No it’s not," Jame responded through gritted teeth.

Sighing, Tigh threw her leg over Gessen’s neck and landing easily, turned to help Jame down. The arbiter glared at her, not even trying to hide her anger. "This is not the time and place." Tigh’s level reasoning calmed her a little. She’d go through the charade for now, but her aunt was going to get an earful about it.

Handing Gessen’s reins to a scout, Tigh guided Jame around the wagon until they stood next to Argis. The air was cut with the sibilant unsheathing of a dozen swords and the warriors paid homage to their returning princess by pressing the blades to their foreheads. A single sword hissed against a scabbard. The immediate stillness was as tightly wound as a well bucket rope. Tigh turned to Argis and offered her the black-bladed sword.

Argis grasped the sword and held it aloft by the hilt and blade. One of the three warriors in the road stepped forward and Argis delivered the weapon to her. The Emorans then faded into the woods as quietly as they had appeared.

"Why did they take your sword?" Gelder broke the thoughtful silence.

Tigh turned to the tall girl who suddenly realized that speaking up might not have been a good idea. She waggled between being fascinated by and frightened of the former Guard. "I haven’t been accepted by the Emorans as a friend, much less as a life partner to their princess. An outsider has to earn the privilege to hold weapons in Emoria."

Gelder frowned a little. "It doesn’t seem fair."

"Traditions come from a need to ensure survival. These kinds of precautions have allowed the Emorans to survive through long generations." Tigh turned to Jame and raised an eyebrow.

Jame took a deep breath. "I don’t agree with the traditions in this particular case, but sometimes we must follow them for the greater good of the tribe."

Tigh’s eyes sparkled as she gave Gelder a ghost of a wink. "The sooner we get to Emor, the sooner you can work to amend these traditions."

Jame relaxed as she gave her partner an one-armed hug. Argis shook her head, wondering how a warrior could be so placid and understanding, yet so deadly when needed. This dyadic nature of Tigh’s personality was going to be more troublesome than not among the Emoran warriors, who instinctively challenged what they perceived as weakness in order to keep them all strong.

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If countries are a reflection of what threatens from outside their borders, then Emoria was a study in isolationism. The route to the heart of the country was a series of concealed tunnels through narrow outcrops of stone and cleverly laid out trails that wound through rugged boulder-strewn landscapes.

Stepping from a shallow tunnel, they entered a narrow, grassy valley with a rocky creek meandering through it. Steep cliffs climbed to great heights on all sides. The wall on the narrowest end of the valley showed signs of considerable human modification. Pocked with regularly shaped openings, the larger holes were fronted by cups of protruding rock. From where they stood, two or three masked heads were just visible over the lips of these cups. Light from the late afternoon sun stretched long across the valley and spiked off the sword hilts and armor of the Emorans lining the uneven crest of the wall.