Gemworld by Jeremy Bullard Page A

artisans, fletchers, and a number of other professions, all conducted business out of wheeled shops or tents. Indeed, Reit told him that it was customary to move every few weeks, whether they needed to or not. Food was rarely a problem, as the Vale teemed with game, and Caravan had a number of sister villages that aided in tending the numerous crops that they’d planted throughout the region. And then there were the thousands of nameless farmers, who grew their plantations out in the middle of nowhere, beyond the notice of all but their kin. Caravan and her sisters could easily disappear, never to be found by their enemies. Sal was still contemplating the tactical advantages of such guerrilla communities when the ground before him started sprouting arrows.
    Almost by instinct, Sal dropped to the ground and rolled for the nearest cover, a dense cluster of saplings just off the path. “Ambush, ambush!” he shouted, and waited for his companions to dive for cover. To his shock, they simply stood there, favoring him with looks of mild amusement. Reit shook his head lightly and stepped forward, harvesting two of the arrows at his feet.
    Reit flipped the arrows in his hands until he had both arrows by the head, and then directed his eyes into the trees before him. Sal followed his gaze and found a small compliment of archers spaced out between the branches. One of the archers lowered his bow and nodded. Even as Reit raised the arrows over his head, Sal got the gist of what was going on.
    The rebel leader was quick to confirm his suspicions. As the arrows reached their apex, Reit brought them down again, twirling out a series of signals so elaborate that Sal could barely follow them. The arrows seemed to come alive as Reit beat out a pattern as a rock musician would a drum solo. When he was done, Reit dropped the arrows and waited.
    He didn’t have to wait long. Whatever message he’d sent had apparently been accepted, for the rest of the lookouts lowered their weapons and allowed Reit and Company to pass.
    Must be the right place , Sal thought wryly. I didn ’ t wind up a human pincushion . Jaren extended a hand to Sal, though he guessed it was more to cover the mage’s amusement than it was to help him to his feet. He brushed off the dead leaves and twigs with as much dignity as he could muster, and then hurried to rejoin his companions as they descended the ridge toward Caravan.
    The village at the base of the ridge was set up roughly in a square. Camouflaged but beautifully decorated, the residential area—many wagons serving as both home and shop—made up the perimeter, broken every so often by a guard post. Within this perimeter was a commercial district which ringed a central commons area. A barely visible path led from the top of the ridge to the village center. As they approached, the path began to fill with people.
    But something seemed amiss. The village people were not the welcoming party that Sal would have expected. No grand parades for their fearless leader, newly freed from the prison of the Highest. Parents reined in their children, holding them close. More, the children looked as cautious as their parents. Something was wrong. It couldn’t be the wrong village; they had come straight to it, so Reit must have known the location well. And they obviously knew who Reit was, as he didn’t sprout arrows from his chest back at the lookout post.
    Then it hit him that he was the reason for their caution.
    For the first time since waking in the prison, Sal considered what he must look like. He was still dressed in his black SEAL jumpsuit—minus, of course, his personal effects, body armor, and weaponry, which he’d apparently been relieved of prior to his incarceration. His dirty blonde crew cut had more than a week’s growth on it, and he had the shabby beginnings of a beard. And then there was his eye. He still hadn’t had the chance to inspect the handiwork of the prison emeralds, or Jaren’s touch ups, so