Chapter 2 Harvest Run
HARVEST RUN
The harvest call rang through the twilight air.
“Harvesters, gear up! We head north in ten,” Delger announced. His broad shoulders, dark hair and weathered face marked him as one who had survived countless runs into the Everburning Forest. His voice carried the weight of authority earned through decades of experience.
They were the village elite, though not by choice or for glory.
Necessity had forged them into warriors who toiled between the Kingdoms of Nordraven to the north of the Everburning Forest and the Kingdom of Lamar to the south.
The villagers settled here along the southern edge of the forest for one reason: to harvest fire wheat.
The village was located in the region of some of the most active fire behavior.
Lamar’s major hub, Astral City, lay several days’ trek to the southeast. Storms near this tiny village drove wildfire with recurring frequency into the depths of the vast forest. Delger and the others earned a living for the entire village by frequenting the contested forest, chasing after a prize that dragons also coveted.
They weren’t after the magic that the gods produced in these storms; Delger’s team was after the wheat that grew in the wake of a firestorm.
Each harvester wore leather armor that bore the scars of previous runs, the material worked to a suppleness that whispered rather than creaked.
They positioned daggers strategically across their chests, waists, and legs.
But it was their scythes that marked them as truly different.
They bore six-foot shafts of seasoned wood crowned with curved blades that engulfed the fragile traces of light; tools that could serve as both a harvesting implement, or an instrument of death.
Lark stood apart, painfully aware of her outsider status.
Her borrowed clothes were tight, stitched with a patchwork of mended holes as though they’d been discarded by a soldier.
The brown pants and green wool long-sleeved shirt blended in with the forest, but the outfit was a far cry from the protection she’d need against anything other than the men’s prying eyes and the chilling bite of the storm’s wind.
The hole in her boot seemed to mock her with every wiggle of her exposed toe.
“Don’t just stand there,” Paq’s voice cut through her self-doubt, his boney elbow finding her ribs with familiar comfort. “Do as Delger says. Get your scythe and basket. The wheat will be sprouting and full grown by mid-day tomorrow.”
“You think this is a good idea?” Lark gestured to her makeshift armor, feeling the weight of unspoken judgment from the assembled harvesters. “Everyone here has held me at arm’s length, steering clear ever since I arrived. Why are they so willing to send me into the firestorm?”
Paq’s eyes sparked as he explained, “First of all, you’re not going into the firestorm.
That’s what the kings contract the Paragons to do.
Only the most experienced soldiers and Knights will dare to enter the flames if a god has pushed its power through the veil.
” He paused, letting the weight of those words settle.
“No, you’re going to the burn. Before the Giving Rain hits, anything seeking power will be fighting to escape.
Once the fire’s out, it’s a mad dash to get back to the protection of their army.
They’ll be long gone from the area by the time you all arrive.
Most likely, the deadliest thing you’ll run into is other harvesters. ”
The mention of the Giving Rain sent a subtle vibration through Lark’s necklace, though she tried to ignore it. “Those among this group?” she asked, watching as shadows lengthened across their gathering faces.
“Only the strongest of us can run in the harvest,” Paq said, his voice dropping to match the gravity of his words. “Those who are tested and have proven that they can hold their own should the group come under attack.”
“I haven’t proven myself.”
“But look at you, you’re built for this with those long legs. And that’s exactly why you need to go with them. What better way to gain the favor of from the rest of the village than by contributing to a successful harvest.”
“Don’t people die during these harvests?” she asked reluctantly.
“Not every time, although the average works out to be about one each, but you can beat the odds,” Paq said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ll do great! I know you will.”
Lark’s curiosity overcame her apprehension. “What happens if we run into another group of harvesters?”
“If it’s on the way in, and they’re from Lamar too, some will work with us.
But usually it turns cutthroat by the time everyone reaches the fire wheat, especially if you encounter harvesters from Nordraven.
But don’t worry, there’s loads and loads of the wheat after a burn like this.
How else do you think dragons get to grow so big without devouring entire towns every other day? ”
“Dragons eat fire wheat?”
“They love the stuff,” Paq said, giving her a sidelong glance that suggested she should have known this essential truth. “One seed is enough to feed a person for a whole day. Imagine how long a whole field would last for a dragon.”
“How big is this wheat?” she asked, her mind painting pictures of strange and magical crops.
Paq’s hands formed a circle the size of Lark’s defined quadricep. “That big around and the stalks are way taller than me. The seeds are what we want.”
Lark’s hand drifted to her thigh, measuring, calculating, wondering how many seeds she could carry in the large wicker pack. The practical concern grounded her, even as her mind wandered to thoughts of dragons and magical harvests.
“Now get your scythe and go before you miss the harvest.” Paq’s urgency broke through her reverie.
She took the scythe in hand, its weight unfamiliar yet somehow right, and made to join the group of harvesters. The absence at her side was immediately noticeable. “Aren’t you coming with me?”
“No,” he said, scuffing the ground with his foot, suddenly looking very young. “Pa says I’m not old enough yet. That it’s too dangerous.”
“What if I cut down the wrong wheat? I don’t know what fire wheat looks like.”
Paq’s confidence returned in full force. “You won’t mistake it for anything else. You can do this, Lark. You’re stronger and faster than anyone here. Well, maybe not so much as Mr. Delger there, but as long as you make it to the wheat, you’ll do great.”
“How do you know that? You’ve only known me for a few days.” The question carried more weight than she intended, touching on deeper uncertainties about her own identity.
“You’re different. Like me,” he smiled. “Just keep your eyes on Delger and his son, Tharon. Do what they do. Trust me, they’ll wish they had ten more of you by the next firestorm.”
Lark shouldered the scythe, its weight a constant reminder of the dangers ahead.
Paq’s exaggerated farewell waves followed her as she merged with the harvesters, like a tributary joining the growing river.
Delger moved through their ranks with the practiced eye of a veteran, his inspection methodical and unforgiving.
Each harvester’s equipment received his scrutiny: straps tested, blades examined, preparedness assessed with touches that spoke of years of experience.
When he reached Lark, he scoffed, his reaction carrying the weight of unspoken judgment, but he moved on without comment.
“Harvesters, with me,” he commanded. The group surged forward into the forested hilly terrain.
Lark found herself caught in the current of bodies, her senses heightened with both excitement and apprehension.
Through the press of moving forms, she searched for Tharon, letting conversations wash over her like waves.
When his name drifted through the air, she caught sight of him.
She noted his dark hair, stern brown eyes, and strong jawline.
The sight triggered something deep within her memory, overlaying his features with those of another, the mysterious figure from her vision, his pointed ears and striking green eyes haunting the edges of her consciousness.
Following Paq’s advice, she became Tharon’s shadow, even as her mind wandered to places beyond the forest floor.
The cool evening air chilled the sweat that had beaded on her brow.
She imagined what it would be like to be a rider flying over the forest, instead of running through it toward the firestorm.
She generated the thought with ease. What it would be like to fly on the back of a dragon.
The bond that connected a rider with a dragon.
Feeling the web of magic that tied them together, connecting their minds into one.
How it would feel feeding off each other’s emotions, knowing the other’s every instinct and reacting in kind.
In her mind’s eye, it was becoming a reality, almost like a memory, but closer to a dream.
“Do you think there’s any chance that this storm produced a Hyalite?” The question came from a young man running alongside Tharon; blonde-haired and blue-eyed, his voice carried an edge of restrained excitement.
“Why are you excited about Hyalites? Barson, we’re harvesters. You know we can’t collect them, even if we somehow stumbled upon one,” Tharon’s response sounded a warning that brought Lark back to the moment at hand.
Barson, Lark’s mind cataloged the name, remembering Paq’s earlier caution about threats from within the squad.
“Ashes, Bar, even trying to collect a Yogo is against the law. Every subject of Lamar knows that.”