Chapter 1

Fickle rains had always plagued Sterich, as far back as its early settlement by the welklings, when the Vaenaen Empire still occupied the realm. In the very bad years, when the rains hid along the horizon and refused to come ashore, the oat grasses stunted, the stems curled and their leaves yellowed. The river ran shallow. Small flies buzzed above the brown stained basins of the dry, narrow irrigation canals. Boats rested at odd angles on the dry river bed. Frozen in a sea of hardened mud.

Summer scorched the stems and left them bleached brown. Summer winds lifted the dust into the air. Hazy, beige clouds veiled the sun and covered what few green leaves were left. Each morning, farmers bent over at the hip, futilely wiped the dusty leaves only for the afternoon winds to restore their patina. On the days they could see the sky, the sun had robbed it of all its blue, and left a tired, white smear.

Before summer left, stems collapsed. Farmers scampered through the fields, a dull scythe in one hand, the other reaching for grasses that remained upright. The brittle plants snapped more than cut. Worried faces, reddened by the sun, searched out the meager yield the gods left them.

At the fading light that closed each day, farmers returned home to a pale broth and porridge. The ambling wagons that creaked under the load of grain, driven by the landowners or imperial tax collectors came frequently to collect the noble's share. Stern faces backed by big men with spears, made their demands in a civil tone that felt anything but. They had threats in their eyes. They had eyes that searched, evaluated and questioned. Their expressions that dared someone to say, "This is all I have." The crop yields shrank, but the noble's share remained the same. The imperial cut rose and fell based on needs of people horizons away. The sterish people tasted hunger.

Those bad years happened as frequently as the good, and buckled the farmer's spirits. Older farmers who had rode out the worst years, buttressed their flagging hopes with reminders that good years turn bad just as surely as bad years will one day turn good. They had a name for what was needed to survive those trying times, they called weathering. "If we a weather this, the shoots will shine green in the sun next spring." Not everyone could weather it.

Stoic farmers, with red necks and leathery skin, rubbed the sweat and grime from the back of their necks as they looked over what remained and discussed in quiet voices so the children couldn't hear, "Do we feed the pig? Or do we just eat it? Will the pork last a month? Do we have enough salt to keep it? How soon you think the rain's gonna come?" In the evening, when there was nothing left to do but listen to their stomachs and look out across the greying landscape as night stole the sun, they'd spy the lands beyond the view of Fael and wonder. Pale, yellow hills rimmed the world to the east like crust of undercooked pie. A skirt of redwoods traced their valleys, wrapped their bases in a dark, jagged shade. From that distance, they looked still and quiet. No roads to cut the landscape into pieces.

Rumors of springs just inside the hill line spread. Some dismissed that kind of talk as dangerous, speculative. But to the more desperate, these rumors were pregnant with hope. And soon men were asking their wives what they knew of the hills. Wives were asking their husbands whether a garden, a garden they could keep, would grow under those towering trees? Or how about higher up, in the yellowed, faded part, that bathed under a lidless sky?

In the driest year yet known by the sterish, when on calm days the sun cooked the sky to a gauze-colored heaven above them; when on windy days the ulth (earth) shed great clouds of dust that devoured the sun, and gently buried everything in a fine powder; when the nobles sent guards with tax men and the collectors didn't just accept their offering but kicked in doors and turned over tables looking for hidden stores of food: the rumors of the hills took on a sound of testimony from someone whom someone knew, never directly, but close enough to ring of truth. "There's water, there's land, there's no nobles, no imperials." A trickle of carts pulled by men with barely enough strength to drag their lives up the slopes of the hills, but with the resolve to find another day, began on those nights. Frozen hearts stared over shoulders for fear of a call, or horn, or stampede of horses to give chase. Fearful eyes scanned the the moon-traced country for the glowing blue eyes of the watchful and dangerous fay. The unknown could be no worse than the life they knew.

Families left in clumps, and many settled in clumps. Most didn't intend it that way. The journey there had changed their minds. Nights were fireless. Hidden in copses and beneath the crown of hills, they feared the nobles would one day come and reclaim them, return them to the land that couldn't feed them. So on their journey, they remained hidden by night without light. They spoke in hushed voices. They chided the children that couldn't help but blurt out their excitement. The men and women spoke with a guarded enthusiasm of the promise of their own land. "I want a plot where I as far as I can see, the land is no one's but the gods. And I can grow for myself, for my children." That's how they spoke on the journey. But once there, in these foreign hills, alone, with haunting new night sounds, families found comfort in being together. There were a handful of such clumps, that became settlements in the hills. One such settlement was Nemheim.

The hills were called Hyll Hael Rudo (Saint Rudo Hills). Rudo, in his day, had negotiated with the fay to leave the river lands and settle in the hills. And in his honor the sterish named the hills for him. The fay never made the hills their home.

These families that settled Nemheim had escaped the burdens of life under the nobles of Fael. They could keep that which they grew from the soil. They found little flowing water, but they dug beneath the massive trees and found ground water. Wells were dug, lined with stones. Gardens were watered by the sounds of a winch raising buckets that sloshed and splashed even on the driest of days. Yes, they had found what they had hoped for, but it was not as they hoped for it. That was expected. The gods provide, it's not for men to say how. But they also found they had lost things they failed to notice they had. They lost the security granted by the great stone walls of Fael. They lost the great numbers of men who could hold spears and shields. Nemheim was exposed.

Welklings are quick to find exploits. As Altarik, the great gnomish bookkeeper of the Third Long, put it, "We gnomes play in the fine print of ledgers, while the welklings do the same but with people." It didn't take long for some of these settlements to figure out that taking what they needed was easier than the work of raising it. Raids became frequent. Nemheim was burned and raised and burned in almost annual cycle. At first the surest defense was no defense. The people would scatter, hide amongst the redwoods in caves and in dugouts camouflaged with blankets of pine needles. The raiders wanted their oats, lettuce, pigs, chickens, far more than they wanted blood. Once the raiders began to covet the people, hiding became less effective.

Huddled in dark shelters, they could hear the booted footsteps, see the flickering lights of torches at night, hear the huffing sniffs of dogs hunting their scents. Nemheim had to meet these threats head on. Berms were shoveled shoulder high around the approach from the west. They erected guard towers from redwood beams with ladders of lashings. Horns called, sometimes not in time. Still, a resistance gave pause to raiders hoping for easy prey. The raids grew less frequent, but more coordinated. Nemheim grew more savvy in response.

Unlike Fael where the law, the Dux's fist and above all the Imperial Naels (armies) maintained a sense of order, Nemheim only had kinship to hold it together. In lean times, they shared their hunger. But overtime, how they shared it came into question. There were those who felt entitled to larger claims. They argued they contributed more than the rest. Some said they were more needed and could leave for other settlements if they weren't provided for. And so, the greatest bounty found its way to those who were deemed the most important or the most vital. Warriors (that is to say anyone who could wield a spear, hold a shield, and not turn and run in the face of danger) got the first pick of the harvest. The reasoning was thus: they must be fit to defend everyone's homes. The priests came next. If they perished, then they wouldn't be there to tend those in need. Then the artisans. The elders. Those with knowledge. Then came the rest.

As these affordances were made, resentments grew. Murmurs of discontent hummed like the rise and fall of the locusts. Mothers who had but an apple to feed their children stared crossly from the corners of their eyes at the stout smith who showed no signs of hunger. The elderly, those not wise enough to be part of the elders, sat under the shades of trees on small stools and in few words exchanged their concerns. "I remember this." "Different though." Nods. Grunts. Looks exchanged from beneath bushy brows. Sun spotted hands wiped sweat from the backs of their necks. "Different, and the same." They all knew what was meant: this new life was not the same as the life they left at Fael, but it was not that much different.