Despite being born the runt, Chief had grown into a big, strong timber wolf, though he remained a puppy at heart. His coat had turned from dark brown to white and gray. He had become a good hunter, often venturing out on his own and bringing back the occasional rabbit or other small game. Talon figured the extra meat had gained him the slight growth, and he was glad for Chief’s help, but it had not been enough.
He hadn’t talked to Akkeri since they had met, though he often went to his ridge at night and watched her from afar. She was always easy to make out, with her thick mop of fiery, red curls. Many times he wanted to approach her, though he never summoned the courage. On a few occasions, he thought she had seen him just before he ducked down below the cover of the high grass. If she did, she never came to talk.
On the morning of his Miotvidr, Talon was pleasantly surprised to discover that his amma had prepared him a breakfast of eggs, fresh bread, and reindeer steak, rather than gruel. The meal not only made his stomach growl with anticipation but also caused a lump to form in his throat. He knew this was his amma’s way of saying good-bye.
When he finished his breakfast, he gave the scraps to Chief and went to his bed to tidy up before he left. His amma Gretzen said not a word as she absently puttered around the tent. Aside from the grand breakfast, they both acted as if it was just another day and Talon would return shortly from his measure. In fact, they knew he would not.
In his corner of the wide tent, Talon made his disheveled bed for the last time and gathered a few of his most cherished things. Akkeri’s red ribbon was the first thing he took. He didn’t trust it to be put in the sack he would be bringing, so it went in his front pocket, secured by an affectionate pat. He also took his mother’s shark-tooth necklace, set with a single, large pearl. He tied it securely around his neck and gathered a few other odds and ends he had collected over the years; these he put in the leather sack. He had always been fond of his fishing stick, having carved it himself. But he was loath to arrive at his Miotvidr looking as though he had packed all his belongings for the Skomm village, even though he had. He planned to retain some dignity.
Talon gazed at his small corner of the tent one last time and said farewell. Returning to the main room, he found Gretzen sitting blank-faced in front of the fire. Her hands sat perched atop her work, frozen in time, having been weaving a basket of vine. She jerked her head when Talon and Chief came out of his corner and into her view, as if she had been disturbed from deep ponderings.
“The fire says hard day for you,” she told him with a brow fraught with worry and shimmering eyes. “Should leave the dog.”
“Chief is a timber wolf, Amma, and I could not keep him away if I tried.”
Gretzen nodded with a weak smile, unable to meet Talon’s eyes. He put down his sack and walked to stand before her. Given her height, he did not have to bend to kiss her weathered cheek, though she sat in a low chair.
“I’ll be all right, Amma,” he promised. Her smile agreed; however, her eyes didn’t lie. They spoke of pain.
He kissed her other cheek and hugged her tightly, unsure how she would react, as she was not one to show affection in such a personal manner. For a time she simply sat there allowing Talon to hug her. Then one arm, and slowly the other one, wrapped around him. She began to shudder. Before his tears could begin to flow, he whispered, “I love you, Amma.”
Her soft, keening sobs followed him all the way to the door and out into the cold day. He didn’t make it ten paces before the flap to his amma’s tent flew open and she called after him.
“Don’t forget your stars, Talon Windwalker; don’t forget your stars!”
A barbarian woman walked by, tearing pieces of meat from a roasted leg with her teeth. She spat a bone at Talon as he passed and cackled, “Don’t forget your stars, you filthy Draugr Throwback!”
In Timber Wolf Village, the Miotvidr took place on the first day of every month. Any children born in said month were required to be measured in the Samnadr at the center of town. He had never been to one on the insistence of his amma, but even from their far-removed tent on the outskirts of the village, Talon had heard the jeering taunts and teasing that followed any who failed the test out of the village. Talon may not have been allowed to attend a Miotvidr, but he had mentally prepared himself for it.
“How bad can it be?” he asked Chief as they made their way through the village.
“I have been beaten up as many times as there are stars—even had a few bones broken and lost two teeth, see?” He lifted his lip to show Chief and the timber wolf barked his approval.
The beatings had been a lot fewer of late, since Chief had grown big enough to appear threatening. Timber wolves had always been the sacred animal of his tribe, and as such, were highly revered by the barbarians. Talon had recently heard whispers of “Krellr’Troda” in his wake—Spirit Walker—and he had grown quite fond of the title. He had never been called anything he could be proud of before.
Talon came to the Samnadr and found it so full that many of those gathered peeked between the draped hides that made up the walls. Someone whispered “Krellr Troda,” and all heads turned to watch him and Chief walk into the gathering tent.
Inside he found the Samnadr was full to capacity. At the center of the tent, on a platform built in a wide circle around the fire, five other barbarians his age stood proudly as they waited to be measured. None of them seemed scared in the least; it was apparent they would all pass the Miotvidr.
He kept his head down and walked to the center of the Samnadr as the crowd parted for Chief. Talon had never been so glad to have the timber wolf at his side. He kept a pensive hand upon Chief’s back; the contact gave him the courage to go on. The whispered title of “Krellr’Troda” gave way to more vulgar names. Contemptuous accusations of Skomm runt, filthy Draugr, and Throwback greeted him as he climbed the stairs to the platform. His eyes, which had been kept downcast, found the Miotvidr Pole rising from the platform. His eyes followed the pole up, up, and impossibly higher until his head was craned back to see the line that would name him a Vald.
The other boys glared down on him with sneers and hate-filled eyes. He envied them for their height. To them, today was one of the proudest moments of their lives; celebration and gifts of manhood would carry on well into the night. For Talon it was a nightmare he hoped ended as soon as possible. His father Kreal was out there in the crowd, as it was custom for the fathers to bear witness the fate of their stock. And though barbarians deemed Skomm by the Miotvidr pole were shunned and excommunicated by their families, those families too bore the shame of the measure. The excuse that Talon’s size was due to an unfortunate sickness his mother had contracted when she was pregnant with him would fall on deaf ears, for the reason mattered not. To the seven barbarian tribes of Volnoss, weakness was weakness and could not be tolerated.
Chief Winterthorn and his son Fylkin joined the young men on the platform, and the crowd’s jeers toward Talon quieted. The chief wore a crown of bone and the skull of an alpha timber wolf upon his head; the lower jaw, with its long, pointed teeth, rested beneath his chin. Talon was grateful he had shown up last and had to take a position at the end of the line far from the chief and his son. Fylkin hated Talon, and he let him know it every time Talon was unfortunate enough to cross his path. A year older than Talon, Fylkin had easily passed his Miotvidr last summer. Talon cursed his stars time and again that he had gained the attention of the future chief.
“Endrbaga!” Chief Winterthorn growled, raising his seven-foot sword into the air.
The gathering fell silent at once; the only sound came from the quick kicking of Chief’s hind paw as he scratched his ear. Talon hissed for the wolf to stop, but he only stared up at him with a floppy-tongued grin. Talon could sense everyone’s eyes on him then; he froze and kept his head down.
“Don’t you ever bow your head in shame like a Skomm while you remain a Vald.” His amma’a words came to him, but he could not bring himself to face the crowd.
He knew the chief was looking at him as well.
“Like our tribe, the timber wolf has many fleas,” said the chief to the crowd’s amusement.
“The Miotvidr stick calls forth Brightborn Longblade!” the chief roared, and one of the boys towering next to Talon went to be measured. The cheers of the barbarians told Talon what his downcast eyes did not: the boy passed his Miotvidr by standing against the pole and covering the line marking Vald.
Another boy was called, and another. Soon only Talon remained standing upon the podium. The cheers for the previous barbarian who’d passed the measurement died down, and everyone’s attention went to Talon.
“Talon Windwalker,” said the chief with venomous disdain.
Gretzen’s words once again came to his mind, and he finally raised his chin to stare beyond the teasing crowd. He walked to stand with his back against the Miotvidr stick and his eyes scanned the crowd as they held their breath in mock suspense of the outcome. Kreal Windwalker glared at his son with shame-filled eyes, Talon’s filled with tears.
“The Miotvidr stick has spoken!” Chief Winterthorn announced to them all. He turned to Talon and pointed a giant finger at him. “You are a Skomm!” he spat.
On his father’s proclamation Fylkin Winterthorn ripped the sack from Talon’s back and began to tear the furs off of him. Talon did not fight, he held his head high and thought of Akkeri as he held her red ribbon concealed in his right fist. Even when his mother’s bone and pearl necklace snapped free he remained rigged.
“Rope the timber wolf!” Chief Winterthorn barked. “No Skomm is worthy of the sacred beast.”
“No!” Talon screamed and tore free of Fylkin. He grabbed Chief around the neck and held him tight.
He wished them away, praying to be anywhere but this hateful, frozen rock. His wishes went ungranted, however, and his prayers unheard. Strong hands grabbed his arms, long nails digging into his skin painfully. Chief was being pulled as well. He yipped and whined to match Talon’s protests. Something heavy struck Talon across the back of his head, but he held on. Again the blow came and his arms went limp. His head fell to the wooden platform, and Chief’s soft fur was torn from his grip. Groggy eyes fell again upon his father’s.
The heavy club turned everything black.
Chapter 4
Skomm Village
They will call him Draugr, Skomm…Krellr Troda.
—Gretzen Spiritbone, 4976
Talon awoke being dragged through the snow and mud by his feet. His furs had been torn from him, and blood stained the snow red in the wake of his naked body. Fylkin Winterthorn glanced back at him with a contemptuous sneer as villagers lined the way, throwing rotten food, rocks, chicken guts, fish heads, and manure. They spat on and kicked him as he passed. In the distance, Chief still put up a fight, but soon the wolf yelped in pain and fell silent. Talon clutched the ribbon still in his hand and tried to lift his head from bouncing on the stones.
Fylkin dragged him to the edge of Timber Wolf Village and with a powerful heave threw him down to the stony road leading out of the village. The wind bit his bare skin like needles, but he paid it no mind. His head swam as he got to his feet and staggered to keep his balance.
“Chief!” he tried to yell, but his voice came as a weak gasp.
“Get gone to the Skomm village, you filthy Throwback!” Fylkin warned as Talon stumbled toward him.
“Chief!” he finally managed to scream, and the howl of the wolf tore through the air, silencing the crowd.
Fylkin backhanded Talon, spinning him around where he stood, causing him to fall once again. The stench of the refuse made him vomit up his amma’s breakfast. He got to his feet once more upon shaky legs. His left eye had already swollen shut, and warm blood streamed down his chest.
“Chief,” he croaked and was struck again by Fylkin.
Talon lay on the frozen ground, falling in and out of consciousness. Fylkin knelt beside him. “You will learn your place, Draugr scum, now that you don’t have the wolf or your crazy amma protecting you.”
The world went black, and Talon spiraled down ever faster into the void, a place of infinite dark, neither cold nor warm, nor pleasant or painful. He lost himself to the darkness, favoring the void over the bright and painful world of cold and snow whence he came. He accepted his death with a sigh of relief, and he thought at least he had died a Vald.
A bright light flashed in the darkness, and pain shot through his body once more. He clung to the darkness of the void with all of his might, but he felt the cold, biting wind pulling him back. The cry of a baby filled the void—the cry he had prayed to hear just one more time during that night of blood long ago. Talon screamed for the baby’s cry to stop; he pleaded, but it only got worse, only drew closer, and the steady thump followed.
“Stop; make it stop!” Talon screamed and fought against the hands that pushed him down.
“Shh, Talon…Talon!” a soft voice called to him through the void. The pain rushed back to him and he suddenly had the need to get sick. Gentle hands guided him to a bucket. Violent heaves racked his body, and a burning fire from his belly bathed his throat in lava. Pain shot through his eye, and the candlelight blinded him as the hands guided his head back to the soft pillow.
Talon began to fall into the void once again. Through his opened eye, he saw the one with the soothing voice of an angel, and her hair was made of locks of glowing flame.
“Akkeri,” he said in a raspy voice he did not recognize. “Akkeri, why won’t the baby cry?”
When he awoke again he found himself in a soft bed with a thick, fur blanket covering his bruised and bandaged body. He realized immediately that the red ribbon had fallen from his hand. He didn’t recognize the earthen hut he was in. He lifted his head to look at something more than the back wall and ceiling, but when he tried, the pain in his head made him want to heave again. Soon he lay back, panting and wondering where he was.
This is no dream, it hurts too much, he thought as he gingerly felt the bandages over his eye. They must have dragged me all the way to the Skomm village. It certainly feels like it.
He thought of Chief then and wondered what might have become of him. Likely the Vald had put him in a cage like the other timber wolves they kept. He hoped Chief would be kept separate from the other full-grown wolves. He was little more than a year old, and though his back already came to Talon’s knees. Runt of the litter or not, Chief was growing into a large timber wolf.
Someone opened a door and closed it gingerly, for the creek of it closing went on for many heartbeats—not the steady whine of a door swinging slowly upon its own creaky hinges, but rather a cautious and deliberate sound. Soft footsteps approached and he closed his good eye. Slowly he opened it until he could peek through his lashes as the footsteps drew near.
Talon pretended to still be asleep as his mysterious caretaker moved to stand by his side. He spied the same fiery red hair from his dreams and wondered again whether he might be dreaming. Akkeri sat on the bed next to him, careful not to jostle him in his sleep, and laid a cool cloth on his forehead with a tenderness he had never known. Through the blur of his peering eye, Akkeri’s hair glowed like a sunset illuminated by the candle at her back. He made no move to give away his awareness and even steadied his breathing to mimic a sleeping person.
Akkeri began to sing to him. He was relieved that she sat on the side of his bandaged eye, for hot tears streamed down his opposite cheek as her melodic voice sang of sorrow, hope, triumph, and despair:
She watched the sea for nigh on a year,
Through ice and burning sun.
Her gaze held firm for nigh on a year,
Through wind, rain and snow.
Tears she held back for nigh on a year,
Through doubt, sorrow, and pain.
She prayed his return for nigh on a year,
Until the day he came.
I’ve been gone for nigh on a year,
And, oh, the sights I’ve seen.
I
’ve sailed the seas for nigh on a year,
To strange and distant shores.
I’ve searched the world for nigh on a year,
For gold and silver vein.
I’ve thought on you for nigh on a year,
And here I shall remain.
Akkeri finished her song and laughed to herself. “I never sung that to no one, but I would like to sing the song to my children someday.”
Talon thought for a terrified moment that she was talking to him. Had he given himself away? No, he realized shortly. She was not talking so much to him as to herself.
He fought to control his breathing, which had begun to quicken with her singing. She began feeling for his heartbeat with her soft hands upon his bare chest. He thought he might die, else burst into flames there beneath the thick fur blanket.
Akkeri rose and turned from sight; she returned shortly and put something soft in his hand: the red ribbon. She closed his hand around it and stood staring down at him. Talon worried she could see him peeking at her through his eyelashes; if she could, she gave no indication. She bent toward him and he fought not to stiffen as she kissed him softly on the forehead.
Someone entered the room and Talon snapped his spying eye shut. The voice of an older woman asked Akkeri how he was doing. She reported that he had begun to run a fever again and his heart was beating frantically. Talon felt a foreign hand upon his forehead and nearly flinched. The woman’s hand was rough and cold to the touch, and it was all Talon could do not to jump with a start.
Talon: The Windwalker Archive (Book 1) Page 3