Valkwitch (The Valkwitch Saga Book 1)

by Michael Watson

  Finding Anton was easy, all Tyrissa had to do was follow the voice booming out orders from among the mastodon’s feet. She felt a slight thrill walking beneath the gray one’s stomach to find Anton standing near the column of wrinkled skin that was the beast’s front left foot. The master handler took after his animals, a big, round, and hairy man with a swarthy complexion and large black beard. Tyrissa waited for a break in the torrent of commands to make her introduction.

  “Wonderful,” he said with no decrease in volume, “I shall have more hands than I need, though always fewer than I could wish for.”

  “This is Regun,” he gave an affectionate pat to the leg towering over them. “The other is Roth. They are our lifeline on the trip south. If either dies or falls too ill we’ll be little more than salvage.” He was a font of gregariousness, even when discussing disaster, with a voice that held only a touch of Khalan speed. “But with you and especially the robed one, we’ll make good time for Wilhelm.”

  “Robed one?”

  “Hali,” he called up to the top of Regun. A head peaked over the side, the face obscured by a deep raised hood and the lengthening evening shadows. She gave the slightest nod and disappeared.

  “Another ringing endorsement from the mysterious one. Pay no mind to the talk around camp over what she may or may not be, that woman works miracles. The ‘dons are healthier than they’ve ever been with her around. Follow me, observe and listen. I shall literally show you the ropes.”

  The complex network of harnesses, ropes and reins tied to each mastodon made her head spin, yet all were shed and neatly stowed in an organized pile when preparing the creatures for the night. The result left them looking strangely naked while splayed on their sides like corpses, asleep. By the time Anton’s tour ended, it was well past sunset and Tyrissa’s mind was packed full of facts and tricks and processes.

  When Anton let her go for the night he said, “Sleep well, for starting tomorrow I will work you close enough to death for the difference not to matter.” His tone never dropped below jovial through the entire tour, and didn’t now. Tyrissa couldn’t tell if he was joking, but decided it was close enough not to matter.

  The morning of their departure was damp and cool from overnight rains. The camp began to collapse in on itself, the mobile village disassembling at remarkable speed. It was a frenzy of activity and efficiency, though Tyrissa had little time to marvel at any of it. She woke with the dawn and hurried to the mastodons, pausing only for a quickly devoured breakfast of simple porridge from a briskly served line near the base of the North Wind.

  Anton’s instructions the night before were a blur, but she went where bid, aiding in whatever way she could. The underside of the massive saddle each mastodon wore was padded with thick wool, and it took half the team of handlers to drag over the back of Roth, the beast kneeling down and utterly patient with the process. What followed was an endless series of ropes and clasps and straps. Hold this, tie that here, thread this rope through there. Her hands were sore and half-raw from handling ropes within an hour. Then they had to repeat it all again for Regun. Tyrissa didn’t even touch the web of ropes and straps and hooks that connected the mastodons to the dozens of towing points at the fore of the North Wind.

  By midmorning, all was packed up, the wagons and their teams of horses harnessed and ready. The caravan’s workhorses were all big draft breeds that stood over even the tallest man. They formed into a long line two abreast behind the barge. To either side of the mastodons were open topped, two wheeled carts pulled by a single horse. Stacked in the back were pale green bricks of tightly packed grasses and feed. On occasion the mastodons would turn their heads to the side and send an expectant trunk for a brick of food. Tyrissa found a spot to ride along on the left side next to snow-dappled Regun. She shared her seat with a pair of broad, slightly rusted shovels that smelled faintly of dung. She was already acquainted with their use, but it was all worth it the first time she got to hold up one of the heavy bricks to give to Regun, adding to his considerable bulk. The two mastodons had swollen bellies, as if they spent the last weeks doing nothing but eating.

  Above it all, Wilhelm watched the bustle from the deck on top of the North Wind, directing the chaos. Once everything was in order, he gave a simple wave to Anton, and the hairy master handler bellowed for the drivers to spur the mastodons into motion. Ropes snapped taut and wood groaned and creaked. The ground, softened from a light overnight rain and the morning dew, became a churned, rutted mess beneath the mastodon’s feet as eight fleshy pillars pulled forward and soon the gargantuan North Wind rolled into motion, great wheels grinding across the grass and dirt. Soon the sounds became metal rims on stone as they caravan crossed onto the broad, ancient Heartroad, the path that would take them all the way across the continent to Khalanheim. A set of outriders led the way, their horses trotting out ahead along the Heartroad to watch for anything that could slow the caravan. The mastodons, naturally, held the front, pulling the massive barge over the smooth stones of the trade road. The creak and groan of the caravan dragging to life was replaced by the constant rumble of dozens of wheels on stone.

  And with that we’re underway, Tyrissa thought as they inched away from all that she knew.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tyrissa kept to herself in those first days of travel. The Pact weighed heavily on her mind in idle moments, to say nothing of the worry over the uncertainties that lay ahead in Khalanheim. Southern Morgale was a lush, hilly land where the winters came with a blunted ferocity compared to the core Morg lands to the north. The land, at least, bore some familiarities like the occasional crevasses marring the hillsides and fields, and the forests were still dominated by towering pines and other needled trees. The people here were seen as cousins, and softer ones at that. Granted, her mother was of southern blood and Tyrissa saw her as anything but soft. Especially with what she knew now. The Cleanse touched them, of course, but the damage was less profound, the outbreak of daemon-touched occurring in controlled pockets instead of a full epidemic. Guided by neither the innate familiarity of the northern Morg territories or the fanciful visions of realms further south, Tyrissa saw the towns they passed as little more than dots on the map. The caravan would take a day of rest outside some of these small towns, and the miniature village would spring up with mechanical efficiency to sell or trade with the locals while repair crews made runs of the North Wind, checking for the most minor issues before they became problems.

  She got to know the other mastodon handlers soon enough. Most were close friends or relatives of Anton, many from the same town of Jolenhem in the central Khalan state of Crebant. She’d never heard of it, but any of the handlers would speak at length about their proud tradition of animal training and rearing, best in the world they would say. Anton’s extreme gregariousness seemed to be a common trait in people from Crebant. Tyrissa used these impromptu lectures to train her ear to the quick Khalan style of speech. Anton made much of the fact that kaggorn or Morg breeds of sheep suffered down south, withering in the warmer weather, while the mastodons thrived so long as you kept them sheared and cool. And, he added in true Khalan style, you can sell that hair.

  The trees of the southern Morgale forests seemed to shy away from the Heartroad with each passing mile, though tonight they peeled away from the raucous scene around the caravan’s campfires. Kegs were drawn from the bowels of the North Wind and tapped, the fires were built higher, and the meals were made of rarer and finer stuff. Tonight was the Festival of Velhanan, the Founder of Khalan North.

  Bearing a pair of tankards, Tyrissa weaved her way through dozens of impromptu games of daajik toward one of the Morg mead casks. She only vaguely understood the game beyond the constant cries and jockeying for cards denoting metals, luxuries, stocks, and grains. It seemed that every Khalan knew the game like it was a part of themselves, and rounds would break out whenever the caravan stopped for the night. The Khalans were much like the game to her, speaking the same language but running
on a different set of rules and sprinkled with baffling jargon.

  She returned to Liran just as yet another series of call and response cheers broke out, all tied to the glory of the Guild, chief among Primes.

  “Such celebration for your employer, Liran,” she said, handing him a tankard. “I don’t understand it at all.”

  “The guild,” Liran began, only slightly inebriated and clearly about to launch into a lecture, “Used to be even more of a lifeline for people. Before the Rift opened and changed things, the Primes were a step or three away from being their own nations.”

  “You always call yourself Primes. Prime of what?”

  “Stratification! Just a way of differentiating us. The Primes are the six largest guilds in the Khalan Federation. Below that are the Majors, and the Minors. Things like banks, security guilds, taverns and inns, and so on. There are far too many of those to even attempt to list, unless you’re Central and have to.

  “We’re Khalan North because of the Unification Compact, when the seven Khalan states and the Prime guilds agreed to a unified nation. Khalan North was based in Velhem, the northernmost major Khalan city. In the great division, we were assigned a wedge of northern Khalan states, and later, mercantile domain over foreign lands that logically extend beyond. Vordeum, Morgale, the places in-between, and I suppose Guryarund but we never go there because those people are crazy.”

  “Sure,” she said. The Guryar were half myth at this point, a splinter group of the Morg peoples that took to the seas to the east and south of Morgale centuries ago. Contact was limited.

  “The other four primes have similar claims: Khalan Northwest, Khalan Southwest, The Rift Trade Company, and the Imperial Company with jurisdiction over Jalarn, Felarill, Hithia and the southern Rift-side towns, and the Rhonian Empire, respectively. Central is still technically a Prime, but they’ve morphed into government, their revenue taxes and their product bureaucracy. Everything in Khalanheim is a guild, whether declared with a badge or not, one man with a cart in Crossing Square or ten thousand working under the colors of a Prime. Because of the constant competition, loyalty is a premium asset, now more than ever.”

  “Do you ever run out of bits of history, or rumors, or other information?”

  “A merchant’s job is to know, equal to buying and selling.”

  Tyrissa scanned the assembled reveling caravan and spotted Hali, far to one side, watching alone. Tyrissa felt that she knew exactly where the woman was before looking, but dismissed the idea as foolish.

  “If that’s true, Liran, what about her?”

  He laughed.

  “Hell, I don’t know about that one. Maybe you should make that your specialty.”

  “I think I will.”

  Hali was an exception. The only other woman among the handlers, she insisted on pretending Tyrissa didn’t exist, even when answering questions about the mastodons. Her instructions were brisk and often monosyllabic, spoken in a perfectly audible whisper that hinted at an exotic accent Tyrissa had no hope of placing. She shared no stories, no details, not even a hello. Hali wasn’t just distant, she was unreachable.

  A challenge, to put it another way.

  Hali always wore a loose hooded robe the color of storm-churned earth over plain black boots. Only her hands and face saw the sun, and her face was always shrouded by the hood. It would be the outfit of a devout religious order if it weren’t for the belt of woven gold thread cinched about her waist and the long dagger sheathed at one hip, its crossguard an ornate set of wings. Tyrissa wasn’t the only one to pay such close attention, for Hali walked with a casual, honed sway that suggested unseen curves and drew other eyes, if out of desire rather than curiosity. If she dressed that way to discourage attention, she wasn’t committed to the idea.

  Tyrissa woke up one morning and resolved to steal a good look at Hali’s face. They were nearly two weeks into the journey and the caravan’s pace had slowed from steady to glacial due to poorer road conditions and late summer downpours. The woman made it difficult, having a preternatural knack for standing or turning away just so to avoid granting a clear look. Initial attempts to act casual or approach her with a question were stymied, and by midday Tyrissa was certain Hali knew what was happening and doubled her efforts to be elusive. The best Tyrissa could get was the barest glimpse of a wry smile. It became an unspoken game during repetitive days atop and around the mastodons. Hali disappeared to her cabin by night, rarely appearing at the communal line for dinner.

  It wasn’t until Roth was stuck by a sudden ill mood and began to shake violently that Hali’s streak of elusiveness was broken. On that day they traveled along a stretch of the Heartroad that lay half buried under dirt and sprouts of greenery, and the trees crowded in at the edge of the road. The mastodon rocked its head and shoulders, his tusks gouging deep rents in the rain-softened earth, his bellow reverberating through Tyrissa’s bones from her perch atop Regun. His brother was unaffected and looked on with passive interest as Roth’s fit began, peaked and ceased in the span of seconds. Anton had just begun to shout commands when it was already over.

  After the beast’s fit, Hali dangled from one of the many ropes attached to the harness, one hand with a firm grip on Roth’s fur. Her hood was down, revealing a face of stunning beauty framed by short auburn hair, the sort a face reserved for statues of goddesses and princesses in tales. She had zero reason to hide, yet kept herself obscured. Not a hint of surprise or panic crossed her face as she hung far above the ground, as if the perhaps lethal fall would only be a mild inconvenience. Hali locked eyes with Tyrissa and gave her a smirk and knowing nod, before scaling back atop the mastodon. Tyrissa accepted the tiny victory in their game.

  The further south they went the more the familiar bled out of the landscape in subtle shifts, until one day Tyrissa looked around and finally felt she was in a foreign land, one of broad leaved forests and houses built of red brick. Day by day her knowledge of what lay ahead lost definition and became a muddled mix of history and fiction.

  Her days settled into a routine of tending the mastodons, some tasks more enjoyable than others. The best were those days where she could ride atop one of the mastodons, taking in unparalleled views of a continent rolling by. Southern Morgale seemed to pass in a blink and soon the caravan entered the nebulously defined lands of the Vordeum Expanse, the land shifting into fully unfamiliar shades of green and yellow, glimpses of the coming autumn. Wind born waves coursed through the tall grasses and up along the low, rolling hills that dominated the landscape. Patches of shadow cast by clouds followed the direction of the wind, unhurried. Sometimes those patches weren’t shadows at all but actually massive grazing herds of woolen brown, thick-bodied beasts that shied away from the road as they passed. The outriders would sometimes return with a fresh corpse of one of the creatures, ready for the stew pot. They had long, bovine faces, curled white horns, and tasted delicious.

  Yet, despite the open, serene beauty and wildlife, Vordeum felt empty.

  The trees, that’s it.

  She was so used to the omnipresent trees of Morgale that their absence outside of scattered rows lining rivers or a lonesome tree towering above the grasses made the land feel hollow. The second flag atop the North Wind flew yellow as soon as they entered the Vordeum Expanse, a visual word of caution. The caravan’s guards were more alert, and rode out on more patrols, especially at night. Fewer villages appeared along the Heartroad, leading to stretches of days where the caravan was the only sign of human life. That wasn’t true, of course. On many of those empty days Tyrissa could spot horse-mounted riders as dark specks on the horizon, watching as the caravan lumbered by. They never approached, simply considering the travelers and declining to trade with or raid them, as the case may be.

  More frequent were the ruins, the once-grand constructions of carefully carved stone that were now piles of rubble overgrown by the shifting grasses. They became way markers, visual evidence of the day’s progress as they approached and retreated t
hrough the monotonous landscape. At times, rows of columns would stand tall and alone amongst nothing but grass, their attendant towns ground to dust and blown away on the winds. These were the most unnerving, the forgotten reminders of the civilization that had built this road. Why had the Heartroad endured through the centuries while the towns that once lined it vanished?

  The caravan took its first full day of rest in the Vordeum Expanse among more elaborate ruins, the corpse of a town that straddled a wide, muddy river. Though the nameless town was nothing more than a broken collection of the vanished nation’s architecture, the bridge spanning the river looked as if it were built yesterday. As the North Wind rumbled over the bridge, Tyrissa couldn’t spot a single seam or joint in the construction, as if it were carved from a single block of stone. It was much like the foul temple north of Edgewatch and implied magick construction techniques. The plaza where they camped didn’t fare as well over the years, a square of collapsed buildings and broken columns, where the countless nooks and corners felt like they had eyes watching, just out of sight.

  Once the Mastodons were settled, Tyrissa paid a visit to Ferdhan’s wagon. He parked it against the single remaining vine-covered wall of what could have been anything from a manor house to a town hall. His horse worked at the plentiful shoots of grasses that slowly buried and erased the flagstones of the plaza. Ferdhan’s wagon was half open, the interior a jumble of goods, Morg, Khalan, and otherwise. Tyrissa couldn’t see a place for the man to sleep that wouldn’t be like a coffin among the varied contents.