Olan Thorensen - Cast Under an Alien Sun

If past experience were repeated, most of the hetmen would acknowledge receipt but would not respond further. Too many clan leaders considered the Keelan hetman an alarmist, and in the view of too many hetmen, the Narthani were far from their own provinces, so why should they care? Culich’s innermost thoughts, those that prudence prevented him from sharing overtly with all of the other hetmen, were that failing to understand the looming Narthani threat was as dangerous as the Narthani themselves.

Culich hurried into the front entrance of Keelan Manor and to his office. There, he composed a two-part message: the number and type of Narthani ships, and a statement that the ships signaled another sign of future danger from the Narthani. He folded the paper, sealed it with wax, stamped it with the Keelan emblem, and strode back to the waiting messenger holding his horse outside.

“Take this to the Caernford semaphore station quickly. It’s to go out to all other clan hetmen.”

“Immediately, Hetman.” The man jumped into his saddle, pulled on the reins to spin his horse, throwing fine gravel onto his hetman’s boots, and spurred his mount toward Caernford.

Though Culich’s eyes followed the rider down the manor lane and out onto the road, his real attention was inward. How many Narthani were now on Caedellium? And how many of those were Narthani soldiers? Thousands? Tens of thousands? He could only estimate, since the Narthani had cut off all contact with the rest of Caedellium. Whatever the exact number, every piece of news of more Narthani arriving felt like a noose cinching tighter around his people’s necks.

As hetman, he feared the future. He saw no reason to hope the Narthani intentions were limited to the three lost provinces: Preddi, which they controlled, and the neighboring Selfcell and Eywell provinces and clans, who were now de facto allies of the Narthani.

“Why would the Narthani bother with Caedellium at all unless they intended to absorb the entire island?” he once asked his advisors, hoping they would argue. They hadn’t.

This fear stalked Culich every waking hour, along with frustration at his inability to convince more of the other seventeen clans’ hetmen of the danger. The clans of Caedellium had never faced such a threat, and Culich feared their stubborn independence and distrust of one another might be their epitaphs.

He sighed and returned to reviewing the quarterly reports from his district leaders. There was nothing more he could do today about the Narthani. He’d sent the news on to the other clans. Whatever the future held for them all, normal life went on in Keelan Province.

Even Culich Keelan, the presumed alarmist, had no idea how wrong he was.

Brisk morning sea air moved onshore. The sun peeking above the eastern horizon had not yet warmed the air, its light just hitting the tops of sand dunes. Gulls and murvors cruised the shoreline, the calls of the former and the whistles of the latter creating a strange counterpoint.

Yonkel Miron ran as hard as his seven-year-old legs would take him up the sand dunes from the surf’s edge and onto the Abersford-Gwillamer dirt road paralleling the shore. He then headed inland through the village of Abersford. As he passed adults and other children, they yelled out, “Why are you running so hard? Is something wrong?” He ignored them, his lungs too committed to running for him to answer.

He raced past the school his father made him attend three days a week and past the well-tended outer grain and flax fields of the abbey complex. When he reached the eight-foot-high stone wall surrounding the grounds of the Abbey of St. Sidryn, he sprinted up to the twenty-foot-wide main gate. The double doors opened with the first chimes from the cathedral and remained open until sunset. The chimes had not yet struck, and the gate was closed and barred.

Yonkel went straight to the foot-traffic door built into the leftmost main door. Gulping lungfuls of air from his mile run, he reached up to the metal ring knocker on the center of the door and clanged it against the underlying plate. By the twentieth clang, the upper half of the foot-traffic door opened, and a cassocked, bearded figure appeared.

“Yes, yes . . . I’m here, you can quit banging now,” said Brother Alber in an irritated voice.

“Brother Alber!” Yonkel gasped, still out of breath. “My father said to get Brother Willer to come to the beach. Some kind of dead man or demon washed up! He’s all pale and skinny and ugly! I thought he was dead when I found him. We were fishing when I saw him on the sand. I—”

Brother Alber shushed him with waves of both hands. “Slow down, slow down, Yonkel. Brother Willer is attending to a childbirth, but I’ll come with you.”

Yonkel looked doubtful. “Well . . . Father said to bring . . . I suppose it’s all right if you come.”

“Thank you, Yonkel,” Alber said dryly. “I’m glad I’m acceptable.”

“Can we go now?” Yonkel urged, bouncing on his toes like a hyperactive racer eager for the starting gong.

“Let me get my medical bag and some better shoes.” Alber closed the door, and within two minutes he returned wearing walking shoes and a cloak for the morning dampness. His brown leather medical bag hung by a diagonal strap over his right shoulder and rested on his left hip.

Yonkel ran ahead, stopped for Alber to catch up, and repeated this pattern until they reached the cliff above the beach. Below, Alber saw a cluster of people gathered around something lying on the sand. They took the winding trail down to the beach and slogged through the soft sand about a hundred yards until they reached the firmer sand where waves washed up. They approached the cluster of men. There, splayed out on the sand, was a naked man on his stomach. At first, Alber thought the man dead. His body appeared emaciated, and his pale skin had a grayish cast. Alber bent down for a closer look, then jerked back as the dead body twitched.

“Here!” he yelled to the others. “Help me turn him over! He’s still alive.”

The watching men hesitated until Alber barked at them again. As they turned the man onto his stomach, he gasped, but no water trickled from his mouth as Alber expected if the man had been in the sea and nearly drowned. The man coughed, spasmed, and breathed. He wasn’t dead.

“Quick! Gather driftwood and use your cloaks and coats to make a stretcher. We have to carry him to the abbey.”

The men scattered, and within minutes, four of them carried the man from the beach toward the abbey, with Yonkel and two other children alternated running ahead and circling the procession.

Word raced ahead, and when they arrived at the abbey, two medicant acolytes met them at the main gate. They transferred the man to a real stretcher and took him into one of the examination rooms where the medicants on duty waited. Alber watched the examination, talking with other medicants and Abbot Sistian Beynom, who appeared after getting word of the strange man found on the beach.

“Any idea who he is or where he’s from?” asked the abbot.

“Nothing so far,” said Alber.

After finishing the initial evaluation, Brother Elton Bolwyn wore a puzzled expression. “Physically, he’s in unusual condition. I know you say he was found on the beach, but I see no signs of that. If he had been in water even a short time and gotten washed up, his condition would be very different. There’s no seawater in his lungs, his skin is unblemished—no bruises anywhere on his body, no cuts or lacerations. That part of the coast has so many rocks that if he’d washed ashore, he should have abrasions from hitting rocks on the way in. If I had to, I would say he was placed on the beach, instead of being washed up on it.”