Island in the Storm

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A lone tamarisk tree stood upon a deserted hilltop, bathed in dawn light. The cicadas nearby chattered as if today was just another day. Then the clopping of hooves sounded, scattering a pair of song thrushes from the tree. A lone rider galloped up the hillside, his iron lamellar armour shimmering, his crimson cloak and the black eagle feather plume of his helm flitting in the breeze. He came to a halt near the tree and removed his helm. A gentle wind whipped his silver-amber locks across his face. It was a face furrowed with age and determination: deep-set and saturnine emerald eyes looming under the heavy shade of his brow, a nose battered and scarred across the bridge and taut lips guarded by an iron-grey beard.

Apion slid from the saddle and led his war horse to a trickling brook by the tree. ‘Slake your thirst, rest your legs. She will come to me soon,’ he whispered, glancing up at the sun-streaked sky as he smoothed the chestnut Thessalian’s mane. The gelding snorted in appreciation before gulping at the water. Apion strode over to the tamarisk tree, then sat back against its gnarled trunk and took a long pull on his water skin. Pensively, he looked back to the south, down the hillside from where he had come.

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