It wasn't exactly that they were making her feel unwelcome.  They all
had so many responsibilities, after all.  She just wished that she had
something to do too. She longed to go riding, feel the wind in her hair 
and be free.  She missed her horse and she hopped he'd found his way to 
shelter and food.

   The last several days in Cleft Warren had given her a slight feeling of
claustrophobia.  There was no where to go and nothing to do.  She wasn't a
dragon rider so travel was limited. The quarters they'd given her were
luxurious compared to sleeping out on the Steppes. She just wasn't used 
to being able to  come and go as she pleased and she was restless.  

   Ani wandered into the main room with her harp over her shoulder. 
Sitting by the fire, drowsy from supper, sat about ten children. Their
were no adults around. 

   Ani joined them on the hearth and after watching them playing a game 
of marbles she absently began to tune her harp.

   "Can you sing, ma'am?"
 
   "Play us a song!"

   "No, a story!"

   "Can you tell us a story?"

   "Oh yes.  A story!"

   Forgetting their game for the moment they gathered around her feet 
their faces bright with expectancy.

   Ani hummed a few melodies while she thought of a suitable story. Ah
yes, and she remembered the story of the Two Thousand Stripling Warriors. 

   "Once upon a time, in a land far away from here lived a man and a
woman.  They had two sons.  Once was very good and rightious and a brave
warrior and the other was willful and disobedient."

   "I bet he wasn't a Dragon Rider!" shouted one little girl.

   "And I bet he was a coward!" cried out one of the boys.

   "He was a coward and not a very good warrior.  And what's worse is he
often desecrated the Temple ceremonies by splashing water at people from
the baptismal fount and he was known to give away the secrets of the
Temple for money.  Never-the-less, many of the men in his tribe believed
in his promises of a better life and one day they followed him away from
the land of his father to make a place of their own." 

   The children gasped at the mere thought of such mischief.
   
   "Over time this group met up with and later joined a group of people
who'd been lifelong enemies of the father's people.  The father's heart
broke in grief over this final act of defiance betrayal from his son. But
the good son cared for his father by shouldering the responsibilities as
Priest for the people of their town. The good son had always done what was
expected of him.  He always did the right thing--" 

   "That's boring... What about the bad son? What happened to him next?"

   "One of the mightest of the Chieftans of the group they'd joined up
with challenged the bad son's right to rule.  He also tried to force the
bad son and his followers into obeying their religious practices.  Well,
he'd never been any good at following anyone's rules but his own so he
accepted the challenge.  A mighty battle raged.  For several days they
fought. Their swords clanging and flashing in the hot summer sunlight. 
Blood soaked into the bright green grass and pooled around their feet. 

   These followers of the bad son had, by now, many sons of their own. And
these boys had begun to yearn for the old days.  They had many questions
about the old ways and no answers.  They wanted to be warriors, of course. 
But they also wanted to be worthy in the eyes of their gods again.  So of
one accord they laid down their arms and raised their eyes to the gods--" 

  "When do we get to the part with Dragons?!" asked the youngest of the
boys. 

  "Oh hush!  Let her tell the story."

   "Now, of course, the boys faced a dilemma.  Help their fathers fight 
the enemy or stick to their beliefs and walk away from their people.  
They could see that the bad son was losing the battle. They were young 
and inexperienced.  They did not know what to do, so they prayed.

   In the distance the sound of drums could be heard.  The sound of 
marching feet shook the ground with it's intensity. 

  The bad son rose in the stirrups of his saddle and saw his father's 
battle standard.

  "Father!" 

  In that one unguarded moment he felt the point of a spear go deep into
his chest.  In moments, he was dead.  He fell from his horse was lost
underfoot amidst the battling foot soldiers. 
  
  As the father and his son came upon the battle field they could see at 
once that they were outnumbered.  Their lifelong enemies saw their 
advantage and turned on them.  The two thousand boys watched as their one 
link with home and the old days was surrounded.

   One of the boys, a natural leader took up his dead father's sword and 
called to the stripling boys.

   "Come with me! We shall follow god by defending our home and our 
people."

  The boys followed him bravely grabbing what weapons they could 
as they ran toward the battle.

   The addition of the boys tipped the balance in favor of the father's
troops.  The two thousand stripling boys fought bravely along side their
kinfolk.  By sunset, the enemy had retreated into the trees.  And by
morning a truce was offered.  Most of the dead were buried and the wounded
tended that day.  The women grateful that peace was at hand, joined in to
help with nursing the wounded and preparing food. That night, the boys and
their families reunited with their people amidst great rejoicing and
feasting. 

  On the evening of the second day on the battle field the father along
with his only living son went out among the dead who had not been buried. 
Against an outcropping of rock, shaded by the sun, lay his son his sword
still clutched in his hand. 

   The father knelt down and offered a prayer to his god.  Then he rose 
up and with his own hands buried his son on the sodden earth of the 
battle field.

   When all was ready, the people, together once again with peace in their
hearts headed for home. The young warriors walked proudly on ahead talking
and boasting to on another of their of their accomplishments on the battle
field--" 

  "No Dragons!" the youngest boy stuck out his bottom lip.

   "She's crying!  Look at her. Some dragon rider you'll be."
  
   "I'm am not crying.  Shut up!"

   "That was a good story, Ani.  Thank you."

   "Yes it was Ani. Now may we sing a song?"

   Ani taught them a song she remembered from her own childhood and they
all sang together until their mothers came to take them to bed. They left,
one by one, until Ani sat alone by the fireplace. 

Ani dain Hehran
Holly Huckeba
***************


Hey! I'm back and ready to get involved again. 

BTW, Thanks to My Friend Mark for the story idea. 


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