Talon: The Windwalker Archive (Book 1)

by Michael Ploof

  “All right, get this load up to the top before I skin you all alive!”

  Talon and the others heaved while the three on the other end began to pull the cart up the start of the winding road out of the pit. At first the going was slow, but they steadily gained momentum and the cart began to meander up the incline.

  “This one here is crazy,” said a man opposite Talon. He could not be sure what the man really looked like, as he was covered from head to toe in black dust and dirt, the bright whites of his eyes stood out in stark contrast. The grime left them all looking relatively the same; soon Talon would look like them too.

  “Right, he’s crazy, ’specially with the bad wheel and all,” said another, giggling.

  “What are you talking about?” Talon grunted as he pushed. Already his legs burned, but he had no intentions of stopping and being whipped. He would fall dead with exhaustion before he felt the biting whips again. Every time a Vaka used one in the distance, he could not help but flinch, and he noticed most of the others did as well.

  A women beside him laughed and began a hacking cough. “You pick push side of the cart ’stead of the pull, and this cart got a bad wheel.”

  From the other side a man chimed in, “Wheel gave out just last week and crushed two of the pushers. That there’s a bit of a shoddy fix.”

  Talon eyed the wobbly wheel to his left and gulped. He hadn’t had the time to be concerned with which side of the cart might be safer.

  The man across from him laughed and added, “Don’t worry, if the cart starts to give, I’ll make sure and give an extra push so as it kills you clean. Save you the slow death of being tossed aside and ignored.”

  Talon glanced apprehensively at the others and they all burst into laughter, followed by hacking coughs, some of which left flecks of blood on the cart of stones.

  By the time they got to the top of the pit, he learned all of their names, and when they returned to the bottom and began loading the cart again, he knew most of their stories. They had all spent most of their lives in the mines—they said it with a pride Talon hoped he never earned in this place—and had the crooked fingers and toes to prove it.

  “If you plan on lastin’ more than a season here in Oreton, ye best start payin’ attention; been here less than an hour and already you got yourself whipped and tossed off the side of the pit,” said a big, tall woman named Sylva. She was well over six feet but still shy of the women’s Miotvidr of seven.

  “Seein’ how he came over the top of the pit runnin’ down here, looked like he couldn’t wait to get to work,” another laughed.

  The man next to him looked Talon over for a time. “Ain’t never seen you round the village; you from ’nother mine?”

  “Look at his baby-soft hands, Arlan; you could wipe a king’s arse with ’em!” laughed another, and they all followed in.

  “I lived in Timber Wolf Village until a few days ago.”

  They all fell silent aside from Sylva, who clicked her tongue and shook her head.

  “This one’s Ny’Kominn,” she said as if Talon had a disease.

  “I might be new to Skomm Village, but I’m not invisible; quit talking about me like I’m not here,” Talon grunted as the cart hit a bump in the road and slowed nearly to stopping.

  “Ain’t gonna be here for long by my reckoning,” put in a man who had not yet spoken. No one laughed.

  Talon counted thirty such trips up the winding road from the pits by nightfall, and when the horn finally blared for everyone to return to the village, every muscle in his body ached. He wanted to fall to the ground and sleep for a hundred years, but he had sworn not to earn any more whippings, besides, he had to perform his apothecary duties that night. The group he had been working with passed the waterskin around one last time and headed up the winding road out of the pit. The slashes all over his body had crusted to his itchy clothes, but at least they no longer bled.

  Jahsin was waiting at the top of the pit and didn’t recognize Talon until he had gotten close.

  “Feikinstafir, Tal; I was serious when I said not to get yourself killed,” he said with a nervous glance to Vaka Groegon, who scowled at them from twenty yards off.

  Talon only grunted and they walked out of the mines quickly. When they were far from the sight of any Vaka, Talon fell to his knees panting. From behind him Jahsin hissed as he beheld the whip marks on Talon’s back.

  “How did you get yourself whipped on the first day? And what happened to your forehead? Here, have some water; we gotta get you to Majhree.”

  “I have to report for apothecary,” Talon panted.

  “Here, just drink,” said Jahsin, shoving the waterskin into his hands. Talon tipped it back and greedily sucked down half of the cold water.

  “Slow down, you’re gonna puke,” said Jahsin, pulling it away.

  “By Thodin’s arse, Tal, you’re a wreck; c’mon.”

  Talon got up and took two steps and fell to his knees again. Jahsin got under his arm and lifted him with his good arm, and together they began the long walk back to Skomm Village.

  The sliver-moon hung in the cold clear sky among bright, shimmering stars. Talon had oft ventured out in the nighttime to gather for his amma. He was small and fast, and it was better to run from bullies in the dark than in the daylight where there was nowhere to hide. He had never been afraid of the dark; it sheltered him from the threatening eyes of the other Vald. He thought it funny he had gotten assigned the duty of gathering apothecary supplies at night, as he was quite good at locating the various plants in low light.

  A herd of white buffalo watched them pass; they munched on what grass they could find in the snow. The shaggy-haired buffalo were common in Volnoss and highly guarded. They could only be hunted one day out of the month, and then only with spears; no traps and no arrows. The penalty for breaking the age-old law was swift death. The barbarians of Volnoss had seen the effects of overhunting and had learned that they had to be careful, lest their appetites leave them with a feast of famine. Generations ago the white buffalo had nearly been wiped out; it was not until the seven tribes voted to enact the new laws that the numbers returned to safe levels.

  As they passed through the forest, Jahsin pointed out a big, white owl studying them from a high branch. Talon insisted they stop and watch it for a time. The owl proved more patient than Jahsin, who soon spurred his friend on. They had already taken more than an hour to get back.

  Chapter 8

  Akkeri’s Blade

  The beauty with hair of fire, how mighty her small blade.

  —Gretzen Spiritbone, 4978

  When they returned to the Skomm village, Talon’s heart dropped as he saw Brekken storming toward them. He had been waiting next to Jahsin’s hut.

  “Hear you been makin’ trouble in the mines today,” he came at Talon.

  “Sorry, Vaka Brekken,” he said with his head down.

  Brekken moved to tower over Talon, who was little over half his height. “Sorry Vaka Brekken? Do I have pig shyte in my ears, Draugr? Or did you just call me sorry?”

  “I said I was sorry…Vaka Brekken.”

  Brekken laughed and turned to Jahsin, who did not share his mirth.

  “First he says I am sorry, then calls me a liar. Your new friend tryin’ to get himself killed?” he asked Jahsin.

  “I think he is confused, Vaka Brekken,” he replied.

  “Are you confused, Plagueborn?” he asked, whirling back on Talon.

  “No…yes, I am, Vaka Brekken,” he stammered.

  A belly laugh escaped the big Vaka. “Sounds like you’re confused, Throwback.”

  Brekken’s feet twitched for the slightest moment, and Talon knew a blow was coming. On cue Brekken’s torso twisted, and a big, right uppercut sliced through the air toward his head. Talon had begun to move when the feet twitched, and his aversion caused Brekken’s fist to whoosh through the air, pulling the man forward in his stance as the ghost punch hit nothing. Brekken’s backhand came swiftly and Tal
on ducked under it, and then the cross from the other fist. He backed away from Brekken, looking over his shoulders, instinctively planning a route. Behind Brekken, Jahsin shook his head with a stone face that said “no!” Brekken fumed, his eyes promising murder. The few oohs and aahs from the watching Skomm only infuriated him further. He grinned at Talon and his split lip showed gleaming teeth set inside his closed mouth.

  Talon did what he had done his whole life when faced with mean people bigger than him: he turned and ran. He was exhausted from the long day in the mine, but the excitement of the moment caused his heart to pump so fast it ached. He sprinted as fast as he could toward the nearest hut. Brekken’s heavy footfalls sounded behind him, but Talon was quicker. He reached the end of the hut and began to turn the corner when the crack of a whip split the air. The thin end of the leather whip wrapped around his left ankle, tripping him. He tried to shake it loose as he was dragged backward through the snow, but the whip held.

  Brekken pulled him in like a fisherman’s net, with a grin promising death. Talon kicked and clawed at the snow to no avail. The Vaka pulled him in and grabbed him by the throat. The grip made it hard to breathe, but it was not crushing. Brekken had better plans for him. He lifted him into the air and threw him as high as he could. Talon flapped his arms in circles in surprise and panicked as he sailed higher than the nearby huts. Afraid he would land on his head Talon tucked his knees in quickly. The maneuver brought him around faster in his fall, and rather than land on the top of his head, he landed on his knees and face.

  Brekken was waiting with a kick to the gut, flipping Talon onto his back. The big Vaka grabbed him by the ankle and with a two quick steps flung him spinning through the air to crash into the frozen mud bricks of a nearby hut.

  Talon was knocked unconscious, but was soon jolted awake by the crack of a whip to his face, setting his cheek on fire. He instinctively curled into a ball as the lashes rained down on him.

  “C’mon, Brekken, he’s had enough already,’ screamed Jahsin.

  The whip stopped.

  Talon dared to look past his shaking, pain-riddled body as Brekken backhanded Jahsin. He flew back in a half spin and landed hard, clearly unconscious.

  Brekken turned on Talon again. Talon hid behind his arms. He heard the whip being turned back, scrapping across the hard-packed, frozen snow like the claws of a snow cat.

  “Stop it!” came a voice Talon recognized.

  No, no, no not Akkeri. Anyone but her. He thought.

  Akkeri jumped between him and Brekken, her arms raised high and her head desperately shaking back and forth. Time slowed as her thick, red locks bounced back and forth and the shadow of the giant Vaka fell over her. The whip cracked once more, and it was the most painful of them all. Akkeri’s head flew back and she fell on Talon. Their eyes met as she fell into his cradling arms. In her bright eyes Talon saw not fear but fury, a righteous anger that set his heart ablaze and his mind to vengeance. Talon leapt over her and shielded her from the whip that came again and again.

  “Vaka Brekken, Stodva!” a deep, booming voice let out.

  Talon shuddered out a breath that ended in a cracking cry of pain. His body twitched as his nerves jolted and tides of pain washed over him.

  The speaker turned out to be the chiefson, Fylkin Winterthorn. Brekken stood before him, arms flailing in explanation, pointing toward Talon and Akkeri and then to Jahsin, who still had not moved. Akkeri’s soft breath came on Talon’s neck and he gazed down on her. She did not watch the exchange between the two men; rather, she stared at him calmly.

  The incessant ringing in his ears went away, and the argument came rushing to him. He glanced back at Brekken and Fylkin.

  “To learn his place; they both do,” said Brekken.

  He and Fylkin stood face to face; though no malice laced Brekken’s words, he stood prouder than any Skomm dared before a Vald. Talon supposed he got special treatment, since he was tall enough to be a Vald, with only the curse of the catlip.

  “And what is her place?” Fylkin asked, pointing toward Akkeri.

  “She is a Skomm,” Brekken replied cautiously, as if suddenly understanding the future chief’s anger.

  “She’ll fetch me fine coin from the Agoran slavers. If her face has been marked, I will have your head,” Fylkin promised him calmly, even patting Brekken on the shoulder.

  Talon glanced back to Akkeri who locked him in a stare. She smiled deviously and brought a small blade to her cheek. Talon began to protest but her eyes begged him no. A small bead of blood appeared at the end of her blade and she dragged it down to her chin.

  Talon was ripped off her and thrown to the side by Fylkin Winterthorn. The big Vald grabbed Akkeri by the chin and turned her head roughly left and then right. When he saw the long cut on her face, he rose slowly, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. He turned on Brekken, who was shaking his head and patting the air before him.

  “I didn’t…my whip didn’t hit her face; I know better!”

  “Claim Bjodja and arm yourself like the Vald you will never be, Catlip,” Fylkin said calmly as he took three steps toward the man and stopped, planting his feet.

  Brekken looked around at the growing crowd as if looking for help, but no help or sympathy would be forthcoming from the Skomm villagers. Three of the Vald who had arrived by horse-drawn sleds with Fylkin moved to surround Brekken and block any possible escape. The crowd looked on, transfixed by the scene. Talon thought he had gone deaf in the perfect stillness of the moment.

  Seeing no retreat, Brekken turned from the crowd back to Fylkin Winterthorn and laughed nervously.

  “Chiefson,” he bowed. “I have served you well over the years, have I not?”

  Fylkin opened wide his muscled arms. “Claim Bjodja; challenge me.”

  A sudden dark shadow fell across Brekken’s face and he scowled over at Akkeri. All fear left his eyes as he accepted his fate. He straightened proudly and a fierce cry bellowed forth from his twisted mouth.

  “I claim Bjodja!”

  Fylkin smiled. “I accept your challenge, Vaka Brekken. Kill three of us and you shall be named a Vald, Slayer of Chiefson Fylkin.”

  A light flashed behind Brekken’s eyes at the mention of the title, and he gave another roar and unsheathed his longsword on the run. Fylkin stood motionless as Brekken charged. The longsword steered for his gut and Fylkin sidestepped the sword, backhanding Brekken as he passed. Brekken was thrown ahead of him and stumbled into the snow face first. Still Fylkin did not draw his sword.

  Brekken rebounded and came on with quick slashes of his longsword. Fylkin jumped back once, then twice, and came in behind the elbow of the passing arm with the speed of a viper strike. Blood sprayed from Brekken’s nose as a firm elbow snapped his head back. Fylkin shifted his weight and his direction and swept his opponent’s legs. When Brekken fell flat on his back, Fylkin kicked the sword away.

  “Perhaps you should fight with something you know how to use,” he said calmly as he backed away and waited for Brekken to get up.

  Vaka Brekken got to his feet and pulled a dagger from the small of his back. Talon looked to Akkeri, but her eyes remained locked on the battle, as did the eyes of the crowd. No cheers issued from the Skomm, but Talon saw the anticipation of death in their eager eyes. Many wished to see the hated Brekken get his due. How many of them imagined themselves Fylkin Winterthorn in that moment, Talon wondered.

  Brekken lunged forward with a quick feint and swiftly brought the dagger back in a slash that sent fur flying from Fylkin’s vest. His small victory was short-lived, as Fylkin caught his arm and twisted it back. There was a loud pop and a snap like a dry tree branch breaking. And how Brekken howled. Talon could not help but wince at the sight and sound.

  Brekken desperately whirled with a backhand that hit Fylkin’s face to no effect. The Vald chiefson grabbed that arm as well and broke it. He then whirled around and planted a swift foot to the side of Brekken’s head. The big Vaka went down like felled l
umber. Fylkin drew his sword.

  Brekken blinked hard, as if trying to wake from a bad dream. He tried to get up from his prone position, but his arms flailed at their breaks sickeningly. The sight made Talon’s stomach turn. Fylkin helped him to sit up and positioned himself behind.

  Brekken’s eyes fell upon Akkeri; next to her smiling face she held the small blade she had cut her cheek with—the blade that had sealed his fate. With a swift chop of his longsword Fylkin cut through Brekken’s neck to the middle of his chest. He pulled the blade back and the sword fell again through the other side of Brekken’s neck. He grabbed the head by the hair and pulled it off, bringing part of the spine with it. He held the head up to the crowd with a victorious roar.

  His demonic eyes fell upon Talon as Brekken’s blood bathed his arm. The chiefson grinned.

  Chapter 9

  The Red Ribbon

  To those he loves, he sees himself a curse; seeds sown with daughter’s last breath.

  —Gretzen Spiritbone, 4981

  Fylkin tied Brekken’s body to his big sled and set the head on one of the many spikes protruding from the sides. He eyed the crowd once more as he circled Brekken’s headless body. Blood dripped from the spike creating a ring of red in the snow as he went.

  “Who here claims Bjodja?” he roared. The only reply came from dogs off in the distance.

  Fylkin opened his arms wide. “Come forth and challenge the Vald; change your stars if you can.”

  No one stepped forth, and a sneer crossed the chiefson’s face. His eyes fell upon Talon who, like the others, was frozen in place; but, unlike the others, he looked into the big Vald’s eyes. Fylkin stared him down until Talon looked away. With a swift crack of the whip, the team of four horses led him west.