The Brush Tiger Of Derven Ch 01 05

A note from AfterDusk:

As cliche as this sounds, this story came to me in a dream and stuck in my mind until I got it out onto paper. I hope you enjoy the journey.

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CHAPTER 1: ENGAGEMENT

Swift, silent steps carry Namora through the dark woods. She purposefully shuffles her feet against the dead leaves, forcing the rustle to keep the creature in front of her moving. Arrow notched in her bow, she leaves it pointed down, her pace steady as she guides her prey closer to the awaiting trap. About a quarter of a mile ahead of her the other members of her group wait patiently for the creature to come to them. No doubt Amyee and Cari—the older of the three—are hidden well in the trees while Talia—the newest member of her group—waits ready to strike. For her, it will be her first kill. Talia will soon pass into the world of womanhood and be able to accept marriage proposals.

Quickening her pace, Namora forces the beast to move faster. She intentionally sought out an older male brush tiger, past his prime. She can hear from the unevenness of his gait that he has an old injury that still afflicts him. Even though it is her duty as Head Huntress to keep the brush tiger population under control, killing such a beautiful creature hurts her heart.

Namora stops suddenly, drawing back her arrow as she whips around. She senses, somehow, that something is following her, perhaps another brush tiger. Arrow pointed towards its position in a brush thicket, she slows her breathing while she searches for a sign of movement. Her eyes cannot pierce through the dense foliage darkened by the night but her ears pick up the quiet, muffled noise behind them. Her right arm trembles from the strain of keeping the bow drawn but she doesn't release it, waiting for the precise moment. She takes in a deep breath; an out of place smell hits her palate: lemon with a tinge of metal.

Exhaling, she slowly releases the tension on the string, lowering her bow as she does so, "I almost shot you."

The familiar face of her teacher, her friend, the Advisor of War-Laren-comes into view, "I know."

Namora's ears pick up an animalistic yelp; Talia has made her first kill. "You aren't allowed to be here, you know that. Women only."

Though his stance is casual, his hand draped nonchalantly over the hilt of his sheathed sword, his voice conveys the importance of his intrusion, "Your father asks for you."

She puts the unused arrow back into her quiver before threading her arm through the bow. For her father to break tradition and interrupt the Huntress Festival can only mean something terrible. She follows Laren, who has already begun heading back to the women's camp.

"Do I have time to change?"

"No."

At the small Huntress camp, women try to act casually though it is obvious that all are unnerved by the intruding male soldiers. Namora shares in their awkwardness, feeling more out of place than most, in her hunting pants and slender leather vest that covers her skin tight, high necked wool shirt. The women of her country always wear modest dresses, made to cover the majority of their skin and curves. The Huntress Festival is the only time that they change into form fitting shirts and pants, out of a necessity for the hunt. Even this is a little known fact; most of the men think that the women hunt in the plain dresses that they leave their homes in. The women don't share information about the Festival freely with their male counterparts; all the majority of the men in Derven know is that the women go into the woods twice a year to hunt tigers.

While someone has managed to get a bridle onto Greystar, Namora's horse, he won't have any part in a strange person putting a saddle on him. Without hesitating, she mounts him bareback and spurs him into a trot to catch up to Laren. The rest of the troop, two in front and two in back, keep their distance from Laren and Namora. She has to raise her voice louder than usual to be heard over the pounding of hooves, "Do you know what this is about?"

"No, but he seemed..." Namora thinks he is about to say angry, but he rewords it, "It seemed urgent."

They make the rest of the ride in silence. Since the Huntress Festival is located in a forest just outside of town, it only takes them half an hour but each passing minute makes Namora's stomach churn with anxiety. The group weaves in and out of the narrow paths carved into the forests of Derven.

Though Derven is slightly larger than its three neighbors, it is comprised almost entirely of trees except for the small patches that were laboriously cleared to make room for horses and crops. Since woodlands and forests take up a large portion there are fewer people residing in Derven compared to the others and it only has one town. There are smaller villages throughout the country side but none have the shops and markets that the town does.

Four countries comprise the island; Derven, located on the far eastern end, lies in a valley encased by treacherous, uninhabitable cliffs and though the sea lies just beyond them the only way in or out is by the use of the public road. The public road winds from Derven, through the middle of the island, thereby separating Alumenia and Sceadu until it finally dead-ends in the costal country Geofen.

Alumenia lies on the south side of the public road. A country born of rock, the towns are set into the sides of cliffs. In appearance it is almost the complete opposite of Derven; there are no great woods or clusters of trees and very little plant life overall. The only animals kept are horses who pasture at the base of the country in the small amount of meadow that lies on Alumenian land. The people of Alumenia spend their time mining the mountains for all kinds of metals imaginable, relying on trade with others for food and resources. Even if another country were to find metal in their own lands, the Alumenians keep their skills a secret, putting them in the position to set their own prices due to the demand for metal.

While she knows almost nothing of Sceadu, Namora still dreams of the shinning beaches in Geofen. She used to accompany her father on trips there when she was a child; he would talk politics and she would be allowed to wander the shoreline just outside of the castle walls, but never too far. However, as soon as she blossomed into a young woman he would no longer let her tag along. "Your new found beauty provides too many temptations to thieves and ruffians and while they would never get a hold of you, it is best that we prevent them from making mistakes instead of punishing them when they do," he would tell her.

That was the stance of all Dervens: always promote peace before violence. They believe that the value of a life is high. Since each living being is unique it makes them impossible to replace. That is why Namora and her kinsmen like those before her and those yet to come after are always taught to take the route to ensure life instead of the darker path towards violence and death. Without hesitation any one Derven would sacrifice their own life if it meant they could save more or prevent disaster.

Though the other countries see this as a sign of weakness, their desire for peace isn't because they can't fight; on the contrary, all of them are taught how to defend themselves from a very young age. The seed of their outlook and ultimately their one flawed quality is that the strong willed people of Derven would never willingly enter a battle or duel without the full intention of dying for their cause. Because of that, those of Derven are taught to find other means to solve their problems, less there be none of them left to form a country when all is said and done.

Embarrassed to be seen in pants, Namora dismounts in the back by the kitchen door. She slips quietly through; still being about an hour before dawn, the chefs are just now waking up. Her soft leather boots carry her soundlessly through the halls, winding and weaving down the large corridors until she comes to the familiar, thick wooden doors of the throne room. Taking a deep breath, she pushes them open. Namora walks to the bench before the throne, curtseying before her father, King Nathanial of Derven.

Though he is ancient by any standards, he has always remained young at heart which kept age from creeping into his appearance. Today however, his face looks old, weighed down by great sadness. Namora had only upon rare occasions seen him this way. At times she would find him sitting alone in the throne room staring at the portrait of her mother while he recalled memories of their time together. But now he doesn't look at the picture of her mother. In fact, when she sits down in front of him, he can't even look her in the eye.

"King Irron has asked for your hand in marriage," is all her father can say.

Namora studies him for a bit, waiting for more direction but she never gets any. She knows little of King Irron, other than his arrogance, greed and her father's distaste for the man, "What are his terms?"

By the way his lips are pressed together, coupled with the expression on his face, she knows that the King doesn't wish to say them. He has always been honest with her. With the things he does not wish to share he simply says 'you will understand, one day.'

But though it hurts him so, he feels she should know the full threat that was made, "King Irron asks for your hand in marriage and in exchange he will allow the peddlers and traders from our land into his," the old man sighs, settling back in his throne as the weight of the news threatens to crush him. "He has said that if you do not accept his offer, he will deny anyone who has business with Derven access to his country."

As his words hit her, her expression remains calm and blank. She takes a moment to consider the options. Derven is not a wealthy county in terms of money or possessions. Its citizens are skilled and hardworking, mainly farmers and woodworkers. While the craftsmen of Derven are unparalleled and pride themselves in being self-sufficient, there still are things that they require which would be unobtainable if not for the peddlers: metal, certain kinds of wood for finer crafts and a variety of non-native meat.

Though she has never known what it is to love a man, she knows she could not love one who would threaten harm to win her over. But, being of Derven, Namora's desire for peace and the lives of her kinsmen outweighs her foolish hopes. Even so, she has to force her voice to come out steady, "And what do you wish me to do, Father?"

Only when the calm, assured voice of a Princess willing to do what is necessary over what is right reaches his ears, does her father look her in the eye, "I wish for you to do what your heart tells you to. Whichever decision you choose, you know that I and the country of Derven will support you." Over come with grief because he knows his daughter will make the selfless decision, the King presses his palms into his eyes to stop the burning tears from falling.

Namora drops her gaze to the floor. Ever since she was able to comprehend him, her father had never told her what to do but always gave her a choice. Throughout her life he has taught her that only one with the true mark of a leader would choose the right path, dark and cold as it may be and no matter how appealing the others were. Many a time she had found herself at a crossroad, wondering if it was right to follow her heart or her mind and in the end it was always her mind that offered up the right path, reminding her of everyone else's needs and wants. Though her heart always had the best intentions, it always directed her to selfishness.

While Alumenia can obtain what they need to survive from the other countries, Derven isn't in such a position of luxury. Being denied metal means no tools to harvest crops, no blades for saws, no way to carve trees and no more production of weapons. Without those, the people of Derven would starve to death if they weren't overrun by the armies of another country first.

"I will accept King Irron's hand," Namora responds. Though she doesn't want to condemn herself to a life of servitude and submission to such a deplorable type of person, her mind can't live with the causalities of war that her heart's choice would cause.

Having nothing left to discuss, Namora rises. Her father speaks softly, "He intends to arrive in two days, however I will tell him that you are otherwise engaged and we will be happy to expect him next week."

She bows slightly, unable to bring a smile to her face. While her father understands the importance of the Huntress Festival, he understands better than most that these will be her last remaining days of freedom before she is to become first married, then the Queen of Derven and Alumenia.

She has to will her feet to move and carry her out of the throne room. As a guard closes the doors behind her, Laren waits solemnly for the news of her meeting, "Well, Princess?"

Namora puts on the best smile she can muster and attempting to fool her teacher her voice comes out chipper, "Soon, dear friend, you will have to get used to calling me Queen, as I am to be wed to King Irron of Alumenia."

His expression darkens as he walks beside the Princess, "To cage an animal so wild and free would be more cruel than ending its misery."

Many of the Derven men suspect that Namora and the Advisor of War Laren have a relationship that is more than it should be. It is always awkward when someone happens upon the two together, speaking to each other in composed bits of poetry. In truth, Advisor Laren is no more than Namora's teacher and friend. Not only has he trained Namora in combat but he also has trained her in the finer aspects of espionage. He taught her when she was young to convey a message through poetry so that others wouldn't understand it. They practice regularly-their bits of seemingly love poems really hide the latest gossip or news of the day.

Namora stops in an empty hallway, taking a deep breath before turning to him, "The brush tiger, no longer a kitten, must above all else consider the pack, before herself." Seeing a sadness in Laren's expression, Namora knows that he is but one of a small few who can see her true sacrifice. Before he can respond, she tries to assure him, "Its fine. I'm fine. Besides, I'm getting to be an old maid and no one else has made any offers."

She turns away from him, continuing towards the kitchen. He keeps up pace, his voice a quiet whisper in case someone might over hear them, "That isn't because you are unwanted, Princess."

Namora sneaks a freshly baked roll off of the long wooden table while the chef's back is turned. Slipping out the door with Laren at her heels, she takes a big bite, doing her best to pretend that she is content. Once outside, Greystar ambushes her and steals the rest of the bread. She stares into the spotted grey neck of the beast, petting his mane until a hand on her shoulder makes her return her attention to her teacher. He squeezes her shoulder gently, repeating his words from before, "That isn't because you are unwanted, Namora, it is because the men of Derven know that they are not worthy of you."

She can feel the burn of the tears brewing behind her eyes. Quickly, she turns away and mounts Greystar. Though she wants to tell him that she would give up anything just to lead a simple, poor life with any man in her country over King Irron, she knows to utter those words would be a betrayal of all that is Derven. Instead, she offers him a weak smile and though she knows that there is nothing convincing behind her words, she says them anyways, "I'm just nervous, that's all. King Irron will make me as happy as any man could." Before he can respond, she turns her horse away and starts back toward the Huntress camp at a full gallop. As the almost deafening wind whips her face, she lets the tears flow freely.

CHAPTER 2: THE HUNTRESS FESTIVAL

She reflects on her life; her childhood was agreeable. She enjoyed her youth, hunting in the woods with the other women, listening to their stories of love and life while she herself remained sheltered within the confines of her title. She always hoped that one day she would be able to discover love as she had seen the other women do. Though no man in Derven ever caught Namora's eye in such a way to make her heart ache and race, as her friend Amyee tried to explain, it wasn't due to a fault in her exterior but rather one inside.

Namora is about a mile outside of the Huntress Camp when she slows Greystar to a halt. The harsh, bright sun stretches its arms over the horizon, pulling itself over the cliffs that surround Derven. She takes a slow breath and wipes her face dry. Never before has she yearned so desperately for the darkness, wishing that she could lose herself deep within its shadows and hide from her responsibilities. Drawing closer to camp, she can begin to make out the shapes of the women eagerly awaiting her return. Namora hopes that they won't be able to tell she has been crying.

No one speaks as she gets off of her horse; instead they all wait to hear what news was important enough to interrupt the Festival. With all eyes on her, she puts on a large smile and announces, "I am to be wed to King Irron of Alumenia!"

The cheers of ignorant happiness make her want to wretch.

"A feast this afternoon for our soon to be Queen!" someone shouts, only to get loud hoots in response.

Namora feels like her knees will buckle but she keeps her smile as large as she can. Someone's hands clasp on her shoulders and begin to guide her away from the group, "Yes, a feast! Let us all prepare while the Head Huntress rests," Cari's familiar voice appeases the crowd.

As the women begin to disperse, each with their own task at hand, Namora lets Cari guide her away from it all and towards the Princess' tent on the outskirts of camp. She feels tears leak from her eyes. Her old hunting companion stops just outside of the tent and as if sensing that Namora needs her privacy, she talks to her back, "I am...I am glad we are fortunate enough to have you as our Princess." The way the old woman's voice cracks leads her to believe that she senses Namora's distress.

"Thank you, Cari," she whispers in return, "I think I am just a bit overwhelmed with all of the excitement."

Cari hesitates for a moment; not saying anything, she gently squeezes Namora's arms before leaving her alone.

No longer able to stop the tears from falling, she retreats into her tent. The thick woven canvas, yet another product native to Derven that is woven from the bark of the juneao tree, prevents the daylight from intruding inside. Collapsing onto her cot, Namora lets her heartache free and she cries herself to sleep.

. . . . .

Soft hands brush Namora's cheeks, summoning her back to the world. Though she wishes desperately for them to be the hands of her mother, she knows that cannot be. The thick scent of evergreen tress fill her nostrils and before she opens her eyes, she know that it is Amyee.

"The women are almost done with your feast; I dare say, though all of the town's best cooks are at this Festival, we have never seen a meal to match this one," her voice caries the same optimistic tones as usual but when Namora opens her eyes she can see that Amyee is sad.

She sits up and rubs her face, "Just pre-wedding jitters, that's all." Standing up, she unbuckles her leather vest on her way behind the changing curtain. She pulls on a fresh pair of pants and a clean shirt before splashing her face with water from a nearby basin. As she presses the towel to her cheeks she can feel Amyee combing the tangles from her hair. Together they stand in silence, her friend's swift fingers gathering up her locks into a fishbone braid. When Amyee is finished, Namora hugs her friend.