Remnant: Warwitch Book 1

by Teresa Rook

  My hand emerges from the second box. Same thing. A husk. I don’t answer Riksher, not wanting to upset Chloje with the uselessness of her husband’s sacrifice, but my conspicuous silence gets her attention. “What?” she calls from her seat on the ground. “What’s wrong?”

  I press what was once perhaps a potato close to my chest. “I’m so sorry, Chloje.”

  “What?” The swish of her shift as she stands. “Tell me.” Suddenly she’s close enough to swipe the vegetable from my grasp. I jump a little at how stealthily she’s moved in the dark.

  “It’s wilted,” she says with a dangerous lack of inflection. “Completely dried out.”

  Riksher calls for Ennis to bring one to him. I hear it crunching in Riksher’s massive fist. “How long ago was this harvested, Chloje?” he says in a strained voice.

  She takes a few quick, shallow breaths. “Weeks. Months. This must be the first of it. But the newer harvest. That will still be good.”

  She moves toward the wall, boxes clattering and splintering as she pulls them erratically off the shelves. I help her not because I think we’ll find anything, but because she needs somebody with her. I try to bring the boxes down gently so they don’t land on her feet.

  Within minutes, the entire storehouse is torn apart, and there’s not an ounce of edible food anywhere. Shards of broken boxes litter the ground. I feel them with every step.

  “How could this happen?” Riksher asks.

  I groan and close my eyes. “You were right,” I say as I pinch the bridge of my nose. He’s right.

  “About what?”

  “About the runes. The wall out there? It’s alive with them. All that stuff they pulled from the village to build their barrier, it’s witch tech. And they’ve enclosed themselves in it.”

  “What’s she talking about?” Chloje asks.

  Riksher makes a sound that could be a laugh. “Dear lions.”

  “I know.”

  I hadn’t believed him before, not really. To think that the runes could be at the root of the problem in Barnab, that the world itself is getting sicker because of them. I think, uneasy, of the trains I intend to leave intact. How much is too much?

  Before I can get too far inside my head, there is a massive splintering explosion from the door. Riksher jumps up to grab the handle, but the axe head comes through again, narrowly missing his fingers. He can’t keep the door closed if they destroy it. “Get ready,” he growls, drawing his sword.

  The splintering door lets in enough light to see the sad state of the storehouse. I pick up a shard of wood and tear the hem from my shirt, ripping the first bit with my teeth. I wrap the dirty cloth around one end and hand it to Chloje. She just looks at it. I gently close her fingers around the handle.

  I see Korde now, too, with the light that’s shining through the splintering door. He’s hunched in the far corner of the storehouse, head down, arms crossed. Completely shut off. I can’t make him into a fighter—I don’t want to. He’s a kid.

  The daylight shows me three bodies piled beneath the stairs. An unexpected surge of pride has me glancing at Ennis. He came through.

  I draw my knife from my boot and hand it to Ennis, who frowns and adjusts his grip several times. “You can do this,” I breathe. To all of us.

  Another crack and the door falls inward. I see sun-browned legs standing in front of the entrance, and one by one, cautiously, they begin to descend. At first, I think they’ve decided to embrace diplomacy after all, but once more than their legs have cleared the opening, I realize I was mistaken. The first one down is that woman, brandishing the axe.

  I’d planned to stop them at the stairs, but they have the higher ground. My fists can’t reach farther than that axe, or the spears held by the other Yurals descending after her. Riksher and I both retreat, backing Chloje, Korde, and Ennis into the corner behind us. I lash out at the woman when she’s still out of reach, hoping she’ll flinch, but she doesn’t react at all. I hold my breath. No one moves. Who is going to land the first strike?

  “You’re fighting over nothing.”

  Korde’s voice surprises me after an entire night of silence. The woman frowns and cranes her neck to look past me. “Ah,” she says, “the little spy.” She pauses, looks about to say something, and reconsiders. Frowns deeper. Finally, she adds, in what sounds like a contrite and conciliatory tone, “I’m sorry about your father.” The tonal shift is jarring.

  Predictably, Chloje doesn’t take this apology well. “My husband has died for nothing,” she spits.

  “Not for nothing. He had to try, just as we do. You think we have a choice? There are children here. Plural,” she adds with a pointed look at Korde. “We find food or we starve.”

  I glance at Riksher, and he’s as surprised as I am. Where was the Yurals’ fondness for commiseration a few hours ago? I look back at the leader and narrow my eyes.

  “You mean steal. And the joke’s on you. You’ll perish anyway. We all will.” Chloje’s voice goes high, a sob that she tries to turn into a mocking laugh.

  Her words confuse the Yurals enough that they spare a glance for their surroundings. One of the men crouches to touch the carnage on the ground and comes up with the shell of an apple. “Jerena.”

  “Hold your ground,” she says without looking.

  He holds the apple right up to her face, the bottom of his spear resting among the shards of wood. Startled, she takes it.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s your winter stores,” I say.

  The woman, Jerena, peers closer, and then begins to shake. The husk falls from her hand. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

  Her weapon forgotten, she flounders around the storehouse in much the same way Chloje did, tearing from one box to the next, becoming more and more manic. She turns back to us and brandishes her axe over her shoulder, menacing. “How did this happen? What did you do?”

  “It’s because of the witch tech you have guarding your camp,” Riksher says.

  “What?”

  I jump in. “That barrier, meant to keep us out. It’s hurting you.”

  Her followers bristle at this and jab their weapons towards me. Jerena’s wave calms them to a simmer. “This is a safe place.”

  “And a stolen one,” Chloje mutters. Jerena glances at her, and I speak before Chloje takes, or causes, enough offense for violence to star back up.

  “The witches left these things to hurt us,” Riksher says. I glance sideways at him. We’ve proven the runes are harmful, but not why they are here. “And you brought them all to one place and put your food in the very center of it all.”

  “Witches,” Jerena repeats, deadpan.

  “We can help you,” I say, as gently as I can. Chloje starts a snarling protest, but Ennis coaxes her silent. I approach Jerena slowly, hand outstretched. The Yurals behind her all bristle, taking attack positions, but Jerena herself doesn’t move. My fingers touch the cool blade of the axe. Jerena lowers it, drops it, and then wobbles to her knees, one hand bracing herself on the ground. Her eyes are distant. They see hunger, starvation, death.

  “It was for the children,” she says quietly. I think of the sleepwalker in the stable, a young thing whose physical condition was kept a mystery under a too-big, billowy nightgown.

  “What about our children?” snaps Chloje. “What about the people you took from us?”

  Jerena looks at Chloje and shrugs, a forced disinterest. Something she tells herself without believing. “You take care of yours. I take care of mine.”

  “By taking everything we had! Stealing our home and driving us to the desert!”

  She shrugs again, this time a little more naturally. “We were in the desert before. You didn't let us in. We took what we had to. We would have been exactly where you are now.”

  “You would not, because we wouldn't have taken your harvest. We wouldn't have exploited you the way you’ve exploited us.”

  “You would have once you got hungry enough.”

 
; Chloje’s accusations seem to be rousing Jerena from her grief, bringing out anger once again. I speak quickly, chasing a more productive subject. “Nothing grows in Yural?” I ask. Neither women look at me.

  “Nothing,” Jerena says. She practically spits out the words. “So we don’t have any choice. If we don’t take, we starve, and this woman would do no different if she were in my place.”

  “You’ve wiped us out,” Chloje says. “There is nothing left of us.” She swallows hard. “We lost a third of Tribe Iral last night.”

  “Not my fault. You invaded.”

  “To take back what you took when you invaded!”

  I try to put a hand on Chloje’s arm to calm her. I get it, I really do, and I’m on her side. But we’re outnumbered. We’re not the ones in charge here.

  She shakes me off, and then turns on me. “You!” she snarls. “You were supposed to keep us safe. That was the deal, my family in and out with our food, and you’d get your horses back. You lost nothing, only beasts that were already taken from you. I lost my husband. I lost my future.”

  “I’m sorry about Fariq,” I say, but I’m too numb to really feel it. My grief is turned off right now. We’re still in danger. “We need to go. There’s no food here. You and Korde can gain nothing by staying.”

  Jerena watches us with pursed lips. I clear my throat and step away from Chloje.

  “You and you,” Jerena finally says, pointing at the Irals. “Tell my tribe where you want the body, and they will get it there.”

  “We’re not taking anything from you,” Chloje spits.

  Jerena shrugs. “Suit yourself. There’s nothing to fight over here. Get out.”

  Chloje crosses her arms and stands her ground, and I see Jerena’s patience growing thin. I throw a pleading glance at Ennis, and he drifts up beside Chloje and speaks quietly in her ear. She closes her eyes, squinches them shut, and then tears begin to wind their way down her cheeks.

  “She’ll go,” I say to Jerena in what I hope is a reasonable, assuring tone. “Just let her have some time.”

  Jerena raises her lip in a condescending snarl. Then she shrugs. “And you,” she says, pointing at me. I freeze. “Let’s talk.”

  sixteen

  I follow Jerena out of the cellar, more than a little confused. I throw a glance back at Ennis, part panic.

  “They’ll be fine,” Jerena says without looking at me. “The Yurals won’t touch them without me.”

  I stay silent, wary of this turn of events. Jerena walks to the edge of the wall, rubs the heels of her hands over her eyes, and slumps. She sighs.

  “What do you want to talk about?” I venture.

  “This wall is what makes this place safe, you know,” she says. “For the most part. It’s tough to siege a place like this.”

  “But it’s also killing you.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  I grimace. “Come on. You saw that cellar. There’s nothing left.”

  “That’s true.” She breathes deep. “But I don’t understand why. You’re going to explain it to me.”

  “Why me? Why not ask Riksher?”

  “The old man, right?”

  “You’re—” I bite my tongue and cringe, but when Jerena turns to me, she wears amusement.

  “I’m what?” she says. “Old too?”

  “Sorry,” I say, my face red. What’s wrong with me?

  “Don’t be. I didn’t ask Riksher because I’m sick of his speeches.”

  I snort out a laugh, then cover my mouth. What a strange people. Jerena smiles conspiratorially and another laugh escapes.

  “Okay,” I say, “okay. What do you want to know?”

  #####

  Jerena tells me about the days before her tribe came to Yural, about the deaths they suffered from hunger and heat and other roving tribes. She paints a bleak picture of a desert I’d heard about but was completely insulated from as a child. When I was playing with my first litter of puppies, she was burying her first child. I don’t know why she tells me this. Maybe she wants my approval. Maybe she’s just lonely.

  “I’m sorry you went through that,” I say.

  The two of us sit atop her witch wall. The first time I called it that, she smiled, a wry amusement. “They built it, you know.”

  “They?”

  “The witches. This,” she says, jerking her head behind us to the village, “was their last stand.”

  “It doesn’t make sense to me,” I say. “There’s nothing here that’s tech. Look at this.” I flick a chair leg with my fingernail. “It’s a chair. It’s no good for anything. It’s just rubble. Not the kind of tech I’m used to.”

  She tilts her head. “And what kind of tech is that?”

  I tell her about Old Man Wells and the gypsies, the trains that used to carry massive cargo back forth across nations, between them. She nods along.

  “No trains here,” she says, leaning back. “Just this wall.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  She raises an eyebrow.

  “Why Yural?”

  She sucks in her lips and nods. “Yeah, I know you’re not on my side. And I know you want to help the Irals. But you can’t know, sheltered in Salis all this time. Things are different out here. Things make you different.”

  “You’re really not the warlord you want outsiders to think,” I say. “And I’m not from Salis.” I take a deep breath. “I’m from Barnab.”

  “Barnab Farms?” she repeats, surprised. “What’s a girl from Barnab doing with the Chirals? Didn’t you guys like the witches?”

  “Like them? I don’t think that’s the point.”

  She gestures inarticulately. “You’re barely a tribe. Practically witches yourself. It’s thanks to them you ever got as big as you did.”

  “And now it’s thank to them we’re about to starve.”

  She’s shaking her head. “No way. No thank you. Don’t act like Barnab is experiencing anything near what the rest of us are. You guys are practically an oasis. Whatever’s going on with the tech,” she says, “it’s barely affected you.”

  “I’m not talking about their tech, or how it affects our fields. Which are struggling, by the way. I meant the witches themselves.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “I don’t follow.”

  I glance around guiltily. I haven’t even told Riksher and Ennis this, but there’s something about a woman promising to listen that opens me up, gets me talking. I swallow a strange lump in my throat. It feels like so long since I’ve just been able to talk to anyone, really talk. Get all of this inside out. Another wave of emotion crashes over me, and I’m sure Jerena sees it in my face. I work to get myself under control. “There was a witch woman at the Farms. She broke into our storehouse and stole everything. So that’s why we’re starving.”

  Her stunned expression is validating. This is a big deal.

  “A witch,” she says. “From where?”

  “Niroek, must have been.”

  “Niroek.” She takes a few seconds to collect her thoughts. “Niroek still has witches.”

  “Yes, which means they aren’t suffering like we are.”

  “How do you mean?”

  I shrug. “Say Riksher’s right and the witches loaded Carnigai with runes just to make life difficult for us. Would they have done the same for Niroek, where they’re still living?”

  “I get it. So, if you think this drought is caused by the runes…”

  “Means there’s no drought in Niroek. Means they have food.”

  “I see.” She steeples her fingers under her chin. “So, what’s your stake in all this? What are you out in the desert for?”

  I hesitate. This is the part she might not like, but I can’t lie to her. Even if she killed Fariq—

  I hesitate. Remember that, Darga. She killed a man.

  This woman is your friend. You have a mission.

  “We’re destroying the runes. Burning everything. If this wall’s gone,” I say, and s
he looks up sharply, “you can grow food again.”

  “If Riksher’s right. You have no proof of that. You’re not burning this wall.”

  “You saw your food! Lions, Jerena. How much proof would be enough for you?”

  “Certainly not less than’s enough for you,” she counters. “Don’t play coy. You don’t buy this. You have a long game, and it’s not to destroy Carnigai’s tech. So why are you here?”

  I take a few deep breaths, try to calm myself. She’s not just being difficult. She’s right, and seems to be little point in putting up walls to make her think otherwise. Whatever else she is, she’s smart. I won’t trick her into anything.

  “Okay,” I say. “Okay. You want to know what I really want? I want the trains to run again so we can restart trade with Niroek.”

  She pauses and looks at me with a raised eyebrow, waiting for me to go on. But that’s all I have. That’s my plan.

  “Uh-huh,” she says. “And what makes you think Niroek would want to trade with us? Or have your Chirals not told you how the witch war ended?” I must look confused because she laughs more meanly than before. “You’re so young.”

  “I know it’s no guarantee,” I say, my voice clipped. “That’s why we’re burning everything. Destroying it all, just in case. Just not the trains.”

  “Are your Chiral friends aware of that caveat?”

  My face reddens at being caught in deceit. “Of course not. We both know a Chiral would watch the entire world burn before admitting that a solution could come from the witches.”

  She turns to face me, crossing her legs and leaning forward. She whispers conspiratorially, though there’s nobody up here to hear us. “You don’t want to burn this wall.”

  I look away. “Of course I do.”

  “Stop with the bullshit. You don’t. So why are you sitting up here, bothering to talk to me at all?” She leans even further forward. Smiles. “I’ll tell you. It’s because you feel bad for the people down there. For the family you tore apart, and for those Chirals, the ones who think you’re helping them.”

  I sit very still.

  “So, you sit here with me because it’s hard, isn’t it? It’s hard to be the one who makes the peace, and if you’re going to lie and cheat your way through this thing, you’re also going to take on every other burden you can find.”