Stevenson,Dawn Age poet My ancestors were men of no sensitivity or imagination. It takes many generations to produce a truly talented man.--Torquas the Poet, Vykan Galacton of the Second Empire,Middle Second Stellar Empire period The morning sun was marking its path along the western cliff faces of the valley of Trama as Glamiss led his company down the steep path into the treeline.A stillness lay on the valley. The wind was down and the sound of the river came softly through the forest. Occasionally a mare would mutter or a padded foot would bring a sound from the shale of the path. The warmen studied the sky, wary of the eagles.At the foot of the shale talus where the ground leveled and sloped more gently toward the meadows, Glamiss signaled the flank guards out. Three horsemen on each side vanished into the thickening brush growing among the tree trunks.From their packs the warmen had taken crossbows, stubby machines with curling pistol grips and twin horn-bows cocked by the small windlass at the butt end of the weapon.
