The caravan arrives in the valley at the usual time, and something tweaks Temir Khan’s thoughts. Something is in the air, and it ain’t just the two giant eagles. Those guys and their elven riders are always circling the area, catching updrafts and watching the mayflies in their fields, perhaps catching glimpses of the swamp orcs though the trees. He woolgathers as the Grand Caravan heads toward Una’s Bower for a brief stop among Baron Sir Blandamour’s people. The first whistle stop on his tour usually sets the tone for this round of sales. Then it’s on to the full stop at Castle Caultrock, where he should manage to cover the trips expenses before heading north to turn his profits.
A moment, and Temur’s sense of forboding rises as realizes that the eagles aren’t circling. They are headed his way.
The Khan and his Marvelous Caravan trades with the elves from time to time, and even more rarely with the orcs off to the West in the mountains. The latter are poorly sorts with little to offer, and they only dash in furtively to make quick deals on the march, but their coin clinks the same as any other and the merchants in their wains would as soon stop for a penny as a pound. The orcs slip in and out like the wind – a few of them have probably already done so this morning – but the elves always await the Marvelous Merchant Khan in the relative safety of the town.
The great beasts alight on a stone wall a mile or so from town. Considerate of the horses. Oridove and Adrora, two lithe and self-assured specimens of the breed dismount and await him on the verge between road and fence. They pass a few words as the caravan halts. He doesn’t like the delay. It costs time and money. The elves pass a few trinkets and coins, and a vague warning. The meeting was an excuse. A way to get close enough to warn him that the pleasant valley is a coiled up spring. Human rebels in the night. Mountain orcs emboldened and encroaching on the human settlements. His own kind, innocent and patient with the young races, merely abides. Naturally.
Innocents, free of any guilt, they have nonetheless been targeted by the Young races. A few of their young trailguards have gone missing over the last few weeks. One at a time, plucked from their watch posts in the dead of night, and not even their best elven trackers could discern whodunnit. Someone of the clumsy young races, their tracks disappear into the river. They will pay for rumors of the responsible party, and handsomely for proof, though his word is as good as his bond. And then they withdraw into themselves in that timeless and unsettling manner. At least they have the good graces to wait for the last horse goes by before their parade raptors launch them into the heavens.
Temur hurries to reach his chief security guard, Bayan, at the head of the column. Discreetly, he orders the word passed to alert the men to keep a weather eye out for trouble.
More strangeness as they pass the first hovel and line of gape-eyed children. The Lord of Vale himself stands among the crowd, flanked by his woman, a few armored knights, and the local Baron. Sir Cambel, when he deins to make an appearance at all, usually waits for the full market set-up in town. To find him out here in this one-well Hamlet?
Temur is well versed in keeping the worry off his face. If they also feel the danger, the merchants show no sign of concern. They mob forward, all hoping to milk the knights dry before anyone else can shout “halloo” to the man. Soon the small cluster of houses and barns is a thing of farmers, millers, soldiers, and merchants. What a mess! It’s going to take an hour to sort this out, but after spreading some coin and dismissing the sellers, Sir Cambel explains to Temur he came because he has also heard rumblings of trouble that he will not name. He came to ensure the caravan, the life blood of his kingdom’s economy, safe travel for the rest of the journey. A welcome gesture.
The delay, not so much. They’ll be setting up in town late tonight, thanks to the elves and the presence of the wealthy nobles and knights in town. Instead of a few hasty treats, one of his more enterprising road chefs has set up to cook an exotic mid-day meal. They don’t have time for this.
Temur turns to sort out which of the food-shleppers could be so stupid, and instinctively flinches as a cry goes up in the distance. The locals surge as one, the knights form up to protect their charges, and the merchants and guards scatter like pigeons in a dozen different directions.
“Fire!”
It ain’t cooking smoke. It’s the heavy scent of new hay and old wood. Fingers point east, where several black plumes spiral upwards. A curtain of orange crawls towards the hamlet, through pastures just dry enough for concern. It is this way the locals have surged, grabbing shovels and forks and one dumb oaf a single bucket of water for all the good that will do.
Temur snaps his chief lieutenant, before the man can be distracted from his own duties. “Leave off. They know what they are about. You can send a dozen to help, but round up the wagons and stay sharp. We’re leaving in five minutes.”
The small village center clears out quickly, and Temur notes with satisfaction that Sir Cambel can recognize a trap when he sees one. Already Sir Triamond and his men are hurrying the Lady Cambel back up the road to the safety of the walled town. The Lord of the valley begs leave of Baron Sir Blandamour to take half a dozen good men west, over the river. Their horses struggle gain the far bank, but cross they do and begin sweeping the far side of the banks and the fields beyond for any sign of those responsible for the wildfire.
More shouts as it’s discovered that one of the few barns in the village has also been set alight. Men race that direction and Temur judges the alarm went up soon enough. A shorter fuse and it might have gone otherwise, but with some effort the fields and barn can mostly be saved. For his part, it gives him a tidy little excuse to get back on schedule.
“Three minutes!” Temur shouts at Bayan, and then to dirties his own hands with wrangling of merchants and guards into motion.
Over the din, a harsh cry and everyone stops to look skyward. Two arrows plunge headlong into the earth, several hundred yards ahead of the line of Sir Cambel’s hunters, then struggle back upward. Their wings beat ponderously to heave the combined weight of their riders, and for each of them, a second figure clenched in their claws. They are too far away to make out precise details, but Temur and everyone else in town can at least make out the bodies have lithe frames and wear the usual fighting gear of the elvenkind. They do not pause, but lunge up and west to the dark green smear of the Whisperwood.
Sir Cambel and his men fight to keep control over their amounts, who are spooked by the rush of feathers and deafening screams of the raptors. Not for long, the beasts are bred and trained for war after all. Then the line of them continues fanning out to the west
Still on the hunt?
Temur doesn’t like it. The elven seclusive nature won’t serve them well this time. The whole valley will know half the story by nightfall, and every wagging tongue will share a different theory of what really happened here today.
But he cannot spare more than a thought. News will reach him when it reaches him. He has to shepherd the caravan north. The merchants are agitated. Even the most mulish among them now senses trouble, and they all have different ideas about how to respond. Some would run, some would race ahead, and some would hunker down.
It’s up to the great Temur Khan to keep the Marvelous Caravan on schedule.