Chapter 3: Impact

The first feeble rays of the morning sun were beginning to find their way over the distant horizon, painting the sky in vibrant hues of pomegranate and peach, when Soria stood up from the ankle-deep pool of brown water she had been laboring in for the past hour. Working in the rice fields was back-breaking, and she needed a couple of minutes of rest before moving on to the next paddy.

This early in the day, the weather was still reasonably cool, but later, temperatures would probably soar, making her work even more exhausting in the humid air of the Derimar rainforest. And as if the oppressive heat wasn’t enough, she knew the mosquitos would come out later to bite her skin bloody.

No, working in the early morning was better. Beside her, the women of the village toiled in the pools, planting the rice they would harvest when the dry season came around later in the year. To her right, Soria’s mother stood bent over, her arms deep in the murky water while she fiddled with the green seedlings, making sure they were firmly planted in the soil at the bottom of the paddy. Together, the women entertained themselves by singing a low, humming song about love lost and love found.

Despite its mundane nature, the work they were doing was important. The land the Derimar tribes were spread over was huge, stretching from the savannahs bordering the Cold Edge in the west to the rainforests of the east, and all the way to the low mountains and colder forests of the north. Although sparsely populated, Derimar was a large country, and with such vast areas, even a sparse population added up to many tribes, all with their distinct histories and cultures. The rice the Taoara harvested would be shipped by boat upstream to the Namanka tribe in the mountains, who in turn would send some of it on to the Reola of the savannah. In return, the Taoara would get metals and precious gems from the mountains, and meat and hides from the grassy plains.

Strength through diversity, Soria thought, the old mantra of the Derimar tribes echoing through her mind. It was the only way to survive out here, if you didn’t want to be subjugated by a central government.

The knowledge or resources one community didn’t have, another surely did. Standing alone, even the strongest Derimar tribe was weak and fragile. But when working together, they complemented each other, despite being separate and independent. Some of the tribes were small, like the Taoara. Some were city-states, tiny nations in their own right. And yet others were true kingdoms, albeit small ones, with regents ruling from cities scattered far across their own lands.

Together, they were the Derimar tribes.

Suddenly, the haunting bugle calls of a flock of white cranes caught her attention. In the distance, Soria could see the majestic birds lifting into the air on their wide wings, slowly becoming lit by the morning sunlight as they ascended above the lush treetops of the jungle. As they flew northeast towards the distant ruins of Taramarous, their melancholic calls slowly faded away before the birds disappeared entirely from view, hidden by the dark green hills of the forest.

Stretching to relieve her back pains, Soria briefly considered visiting the ruined city of the Old Ones later in the season, when there was less work to do in the rice fields and the rains would start to become less frequent. It was a long trek there, along treacherous, slippery jungle paths, not to mention the roaring stream of the River Taroka, which you had to cross using a hanging bridge that most certainly had seen better days.

She had been to the ruins once before, and she had not been impressed by what she saw there then. But that was several years ago, and she was older now, having turned eighteen just last month. Older, and more knowledgeable about history and the workings of the natural world. Perhaps she would find the city of the Old Ones more interesting this time.

Not that there really was anything for her to see there. The place was old—older than anyone could imagine. Had the Fires of the Old Ones burned ten lifespans ago, or a hundred? She couldn’t remember. Perhaps no one could anymore.

Whatever knowledge they had once possessed was now lost to time and decay. They had left behind no books, no manuscripts or papyri—only ruined buildings and broken fragments of metal, swallowed by the rainforest. If they had ever written anything, it had either burned up in the Fires or rotted away under years of unrelenting rain and humid heat. The jungle had claimed it all, and no one could say anymore who the Old Ones had been or how they had met their end. All that was left was the knowledge that such knowledge had once existed.

Lost in her thoughts, at first she didn’t notice the object that was streaking across the sky, crossing the jungle in a straight line from west to east. But when the women around her started to exclaim and point excitedly toward the heavens, she turned around to see what the commotion was about.

The sight was beautiful and terrifying at the same time. The celestial object moved in complete silence from horizon to horizon, burning with a bright white light and leaving behind a trail of roiling dark smoke that slowly dissipated in the air.

Then came the sound, a loud boom that reverberated across the jungle floor, a crack that seemed to split the heavens in two as the burning object passed high overhead. After that, silence reigned supreme once more.

When she eventually lost sight of the strange phenomenon, it disappeared behind the green hills in the east, not far from where Taramarous once had stood. For a moment, Soria thought the event was over, the experience of a lifetime gone as quickly as it had come. Now the villagers would return to their rice paddies as if nothing had happened, and in the evening, they would gather to talk about the strange sight while they prepared supper.

How wrong she was.

Suddenly, a strong light shone on the eastern horizon. For a moment, Soria thought the sun had risen above the hilltops, but the glow was brighter than any dawn she had ever witnessed. Shielding her eyes with her left hand, she tried to peer at the blinding glare that was suddenly casting stark shadows across the jungle, turning the green landscape into a black-and-white caricature of itself.

Slowly, the light faded, but this time Soria didn’t dare believe the terrifying event was truly over.

Her caution was justified. Less than a minute later, the ground started to shake violently. The water in the rice field began to froth and churn, cascading over the walls in otherworldly rage.

Then, the air itself slammed into her like a hammer wielded by the gods. She was thrown to the bottom of the paddy, the roar in her ears more intense than anything she had ever heard. Had she not been partially protected underwater, Soria expected she might have gone deaf.

At last, when she regained her composure, she pulled herself up from the excited waters, resting on her knees with her hands firmly planted on the bottom of the shallow pool. Shaken to her core and covered in mud and clay, she lifted her head to look around, trying to get a sense of the damage to the village. But before she could even begin to assess the destruction, Soria caught her breath.

In the eastern sky, where the celestial object had disappeared, now rose an immense pillar of cloud, colored orange by the morning sun, looking like a majestic bolete growing high into the heavens.

Despite the intense shock she was feeling, Soria couldn’t help but wonder what the burning thing had been. She was certain many who had seen it—particularly the superstitious peoples of the Agerian Empire to the west—would associate it with the gods and weave colorful but ultimately false stories, imbued with both meaning and myth. But to Soria, this had not been a mystical act of the gods. There was a natural explanation for what had just transpired, and if she looked hard enough, she knew she would be able to find it.

Perhaps, she thought, this was one of the wandering stars the Old Ones had placed in the heavens, returning home after many lifespans of longing for its creators. If so, it was a tragedy, like a traveler returning home after years abroad, only to find his childhood home had burned to the ground while he was away.

* * *

Early in the afternoon the next day, Soria found herself forced to reconsider her earlier dismissal of the celestial event as an omen from the gods.

In the first hours after the disaster, the Elders had searched through the huts and shacks of the village, evaluating the damage the earthquake had left behind. But the Taoara built most of their structures from soft bamboo that bent but never broke when the wind roared and the ground shook, protecting the buildings from the worst of nature’s rage.

The same could not be said for the villagers themselves, though. Many of them, perhaps even a majority, suffered from problems with their ears, ranging from permanent whistling sounds inside their heads to complete loss of hearing. The Flow Walkers of the village, Soria’s mother most prominent among them, had spent the better part of the day visiting families, drawing on the Deepwell to heal the disabled wherever they could be found.

The next morning, Soria had woken up thinking things were slowly starting to get back to normal. That illusion was rudely shattered when a messenger arrived from the western tribes, riding into the village with the speed of the wind.

The Agerian Empire had invaded.

At long last, war had come to Derimar.

“I know you’re all scared,” Chief Agmar told the villagers, who later that day had gathered in the large communal hut to hear the terrifying news. “For as long as we can remember, Derimar has only known peace. We’ve always had cordial relations with the Nimean Compact, and the Agerian Empire, while belligerent, has been stopped either by the Cold Edge or by the Burn. But last night, the Agerians crossed the mountains and raided an Orlev village. I know many of you have acquaintances there. I’m very sorry.”

After a moment’s pause, he continued, “I’m afraid there were no survivors.”

A murmur, a low, sad hum that filled the room with shock and grief, spread among those present, who sat closely packed in the hut. The Derimar had always known the Lion Empire looked upon the tribes’ homeland with greedy eyes, but nothing had ever come of that animosity—until now.

“In accordance with our customs and the laws of the Derimar tribes, we now rescind our independence for the duration of this conflict,” the chief continued. “We are no longer the tribes. We are only the Derimar. We are strong and proud, and we stand together to protect the lands of our ancestors.”

“Who’s going to lead us?” someone shouted from the back of the hut, eager for a scrap of hope to counterweight the bleak news.

Chief Agmar looked across the room to try to identify the speaker, but failed to do so. Nevertheless, the question was valid.

“The Palangea have offered the Derimar their city to act as our War Capital,” he explained. “The War Government of Derimar will meet there in two days’ time to plan our response to the Agerian aggression.”

Chief Agmar paused for a short while, his gaze sweeping over those gathered in the hall, making sure everyone whose life he was about to upend was present.

“With our delegation to Palangea, we will also send soldiers and healers, all according to the laws regulating the draft. Every tribe will provide. Together, we stand strong. Our village guards are courageous and competent, and will serve Derimar well as soldiers.”

That meant Cairn would go, Soria thought. Cairn—her older brother—had been serving in the guard corps for the past two years, mostly defending the village from raiding cats or venturing into the jungle on rescue operations. But he was brave and strong, and she knew he would be honored to do his duty in war as well as in peace.

“But we’re not a large tribe,” the chief continued, “and while we do have enough guards to send to Palangea to fulfill our obligations, we do not have enough experienced Flow Walkers. The Elders and I have discussed this at length, and we have decided that some of you untrained women will be sent to the academy in Palangea instead. There, you will be trained in the art before being sent out into the war.”

As he explained the situation, the chief locked eyes with Soria. She was not surprised when she later learned she was among those chosen to go. Perhaps, she thought, it was time for the villagers to petition Patera, god of healing, for help—now that the Flow Walkers were being sent away and few, if any, would be left to care for the people’s health.

Still, despite her fear of how the war would affect her friends and family, left behind in the rice fields, she was excited for the opportunity to see the world beyond the confines of the jungle.

Author's Note

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