Byrthiri
Three
Over the weeks, we realized that the prediction at our dinner table couldn’t have been more accurate if it had been divine prophecy. At first the migrants came in a trickle; soon after it was almost a flood. Within couple of months we were hosting a different family almost every other night. Almost invariably, they would come at sunset and leave at sunrise, eager to move south before the northern invaders caught up with them. We saw others heading through on the main road that ran through our village during the day, but they would not stop except to share news.
“The invaders are moving farther south,” a woman told us one day at the local market, struggling to carry a child that must have been eight years old—too old to be carried like a babe—but had bleeding blisters on his feet, staining the mother’s dress as she held him. “I’m beginning to think this village won’t be safe much longer.”
That night my father came home more exhausted than I had ever seen him. He kissed my mother on the cheek and settled heavily into his chair in the corner.
“We had another group of strangers at the door while you were gone,” my mother told him.
“In mid-day?” my father asked. “What did they want?”
“To ask if we were leaving. They asked me whether we wanted to accompany them on their journey south.”
My sister Alani, five years old now, was tugging impatiently at my mother’s skirt with her stubby fingers. My mother didn’t acknowledge her yet.
“I’m starting to worry,” she said.
My father shook his head. “We have nothing to offer them. They have no reason to come here.”
I didn’t believe his false confidence. His voice lacked its usual booming timbre and there was no conviction in his eyes. I could tell my mother didn’t believe him, either.
“They’ve had no reason to come to Byrthiri in the first place,” my mother said. “They’ve had no business in Glitran or Hailkalle or even anywhere along the Rotslothe Trail that led them here.”
The Rotslothe Trail was the longest main road in western Tithind, stretching from Utlaga to the gates of Byrthiri and branching off to the east and leading to and through Bukrabi, the region on the other side of the mountains from Byrthiri. Hailkalle was one of the largest cities in the northern half of Byrthiri, where many of the traders from the south went after harvest. It was still a two week’s journey from Haugra, and the last travelers that had given us news had said that there hadn’t been violence there yet.
The Utlagi raiders had first reached Hailkalle eight days before, but many of them were only there at night at the inns and pubs. From the messages we were getting in Haugra from passersby, we heard that they were rowdy, but hadn’t caused any more harm than hollow threats, and many of them would be in the city only for brief intervals before heading further north again to cause destruction in the neighboring villages.
Still, it was cause for alarm to know that they were so far south—almost a third of the way through Byrthiri. I couldn’t help but wonder how complete their devastation was in the northern areas.
As more and more people fled south, heading through and past Haugra, we could only assume that the Byrthirians’ fight in the north was weakening and that the enemy was stronger than any of us had been expecting that hadn’t been in their direct path already. I knew my mother was thinking the same thing, and my father likely was, too, though he wouldn’t admit it then.
“Mama!” Alani reached upwards toward my mother, gesturing to be picked up. Normally mother would have told her that she was getting too big to be carried like a baby, but concern brought out her nurturing side and she obliged.
“Do you want our children in the path of danger?” my mother asked, holding my sister. “Do you want Alani to get hurt? Do you want our son to have to fight?”
My father’s face contorted with anger at having my sister and me used against him, but it only took a moment for him to regain his composure and fix his features with calmness.
“We’ll stay until they Dragon-Folk come south of Hailkalle. We’ll make further decisions then.”
My mother didn’t want to argue. She held Alana tightly for a moment, then set her down and whisked away to begin to prepare supper.
Alani watched my mother walk away, then ambled toward me. Rarely would she go to my father; she seemed intimidated by him. I was usually the one still willing to hold her in my lap and tell her stories. Without thinking I picked her up and set her in my lap, where she leaned against my chest happily.
In a strange way I couldn’t help but envy her. In her little mind, the world beyond our house and field may as well have not existed, and the strangers that came to our house, talking rapidly and shakily about the dangers to the north, were like characters in a story temporarily come to life and immediately forgotten once they left in the morning—a break from monotony. She enjoyed the new faces but ignored the words they said. She, it seemed, was the only person in our household—or anywhere nearby, most likely—who was blissfully unaware of the dangers abroad.
I shouldn’t have envied her for that. It only made things that much harder on her when the battles began to come close to home.
“The invaders are moving farther south,” a woman told us one day at the local market, struggling to carry a child that must have been eight years old—too old to be carried like a babe—but had bleeding blisters on his feet, staining the mother’s dress as she held him. “I’m beginning to think this village won’t be safe much longer.”
That night my father came home more exhausted than I had ever seen him. He kissed my mother on the cheek and settled heavily into his chair in the corner.
“We had another group of strangers at the door while you were gone,” my mother told him.
“In mid-day?” my father asked. “What did they want?”
“To ask if we were leaving. They asked me whether we wanted to accompany them on their journey south.”
My sister Alani, five years old now, was tugging impatiently at my mother’s skirt with her stubby fingers. My mother didn’t acknowledge her yet.
“I’m starting to worry,” she said.
My father shook his head. “We have nothing to offer them. They have no reason to come here.”
I didn’t believe his false confidence. His voice lacked its usual booming timbre and there was no conviction in his eyes. I could tell my mother didn’t believe him, either.
“They’ve had no reason to come to Byrthiri in the first place,” my mother said. “They’ve had no business in Glitran or Hailkalle or even anywhere along the Rotslothe Trail that led them here.”
The Rotslothe Trail was the longest main road in western Tithind, stretching from Utlaga to the gates of Byrthiri and branching off to the east and leading to and through Bukrabi, the region on the other side of the mountains from Byrthiri. Hailkalle was one of the largest cities in the northern half of Byrthiri, where many of the traders from the south went after harvest. It was still a two week’s journey from Haugra, and the last travelers that had given us news had said that there hadn’t been violence there yet.
The Utlagi raiders had first reached Hailkalle eight days before, but many of them were only there at night at the inns and pubs. From the messages we were getting in Haugra from passersby, we heard that they were rowdy, but hadn’t caused any more harm than hollow threats, and many of them would be in the city only for brief intervals before heading further north again to cause destruction in the neighboring villages.
Still, it was cause for alarm to know that they were so far south—almost a third of the way through Byrthiri. I couldn’t help but wonder how complete their devastation was in the northern areas.
As more and more people fled south, heading through and past Haugra, we could only assume that the Byrthirians’ fight in the north was weakening and that the enemy was stronger than any of us had been expecting that hadn’t been in their direct path already. I knew my mother was thinking the same thing, and my father likely was, too, though he wouldn’t admit it then.
“Mama!” Alani reached upwards toward my mother, gesturing to be picked up. Normally mother would have told her that she was getting too big to be carried like a baby, but concern brought out her nurturing side and she obliged.
“Do you want our children in the path of danger?” my mother asked, holding my sister. “Do you want Alani to get hurt? Do you want our son to have to fight?”
My father’s face contorted with anger at having my sister and me used against him, but it only took a moment for him to regain his composure and fix his features with calmness.
“We’ll stay until they Dragon-Folk come south of Hailkalle. We’ll make further decisions then.”
My mother didn’t want to argue. She held Alana tightly for a moment, then set her down and whisked away to begin to prepare supper.
Alani watched my mother walk away, then ambled toward me. Rarely would she go to my father; she seemed intimidated by him. I was usually the one still willing to hold her in my lap and tell her stories. Without thinking I picked her up and set her in my lap, where she leaned against my chest happily.
In a strange way I couldn’t help but envy her. In her little mind, the world beyond our house and field may as well have not existed, and the strangers that came to our house, talking rapidly and shakily about the dangers to the north, were like characters in a story temporarily come to life and immediately forgotten once they left in the morning—a break from monotony. She enjoyed the new faces but ignored the words they said. She, it seemed, was the only person in our household—or anywhere nearby, most likely—who was blissfully unaware of the dangers abroad.
I shouldn’t have envied her for that. It only made things that much harder on her when the battles began to come close to home.