Ahead, at the center of the packed dirt road leading into Roduun, Wilhelm spoke with a delegation from the town, a trio of men in white robes and broad straw hats. Wilhelm wore his formal guild colors and was all bows and polite smiles. Two clerks stood behind him carry a fair sized storage chest. They left the chest at the end of the brief negotiations.
Liran joined her and said, “You just watched the most important exchange of the entire trip.”
“What’s that?”
“Water rights, as much as we can carry. We’ve three days here to rest and restock. Soon we enter the worst of it.”
One, two, three, four.
The clack of her staff deflecting a sword strike followed each mental beat. Tyrissa could hear the hiss of water, behind and far below. Kexal chose to have their training session atop Roduun’s dam, a curve of land cutting across the water and grown in with scraggly trees that lined the road to the opposite shore. At a glance, you’d never know you were standing on a massive stone dam plugging up the nameless river that meandered through Vordeum. Entrances to the dam’s bowels dotted the wooded area, well preserved examples of that ubiquitous Vordeum stonework. ‘We should get away from the caravan for a spell’ Kexal had said. Tyrissa only wished he had thought of it earlier. They would leave Roduun tomorrow morning.
Five, six, seven, eight.
The big man’s attacks came slower, but from wildly different angles. Kexal’s teaching style was unstructured and chaotic. He never told you what you were about to practice, he just came out swinging and expected you to figure it out on your own, and quickly. With all his talk of ‘No philosophy, no forms’ the Jalarni valued improvisation above all. Tyrissa doubted he ever had a plan when he gathered his small group of temporary disciples every other night. Everything was off the cuff, in the moment. Tyrissa could respect that.
One, two, three, four.
Their group numbered five today, including Garth who observed from the base of a nearby tree, a notepad and pencil in hand, making adjustments to a series of schematics. Kexal recruited four of the Khalan North guards into his training circle, though only Jearn and Rorstel had come along today. They were all young, eager, and gluttons for the punishment Kexal was able to dish out for hours at a time. The man never seemed to tire of the practices, the honing of skill. Tyrissa was able to defeat the other trainees most of the time, but they seemed to have come to accept that, and shrug off any inherent shame of being beaten by some northern girl. She could feel herself getting better, but wondered how necessary it all was. Eventually her Pact would manifest itself. What good was a staff when you had magick? Then again, Tsellien carried weapons and wore armor, even if none of it saved her in the end.
Five, six—
‘Seven’ landed just above her left elbow. Tyrissa clenched her teeth against the shock and sighed at herself for getting distracted. While these training sessions helped with putting those worries out of her mind, they still cropped up from time to time.
“Now, you were just about finished, Ty. Only a few more swings.”
“You always say that, whether you get me in the beginning or after ten sets.” And he always got her.
“I do,” he grinned while tossing his wooden practice sword between hands, “Because you never know how long it’ll last.” Kexal looked to the sky, noting the sun’s descent. “We should pack it up. It’s back to work tomorrow.” The two guild trainees had already gathered up their share.
“When’s the next time, Kexal,” asked Jearn, the elder of the two, and probably senior in rank in the guild.
Kexal glanced over his shoulder to the south, towards the Vordeum Wastes.
“After the pass down into Lirveer.” The answer wasn’t surprising. Tyrissa figured there would be no motivation for practice in the days to come, if the Vordeum Wastes were half of what was said of them.
They returned knowing nods, bid their goodbyes, and left through the trees.
Tyrissa knelt at her pack, dampening a cloth with her canteen and wiping down her face. It was hotter here than the worst days of a Morgale summer, long after the season’s peak according to the calendar.
She said to Kexal, “Worried about what’s ahead?”
“Any reasonable man would be. The wastes ain’t some easy stroll. But, hey, we did it once before. Right Garth?”
His brother made a quick sign in response.
“Yeah, should be safer with the caravan.”
“Why did you go to Morgale in the first place?” Tyrissa had asked Liran if he’d seen the two Jalarni on the way up. He hadn’t noticed them. Or Hali, for that matter.
“Chasin’ a ghost,” Kexal said wrapping a trio of practice blades together. “We’re bounty hunters. Our mark went north to Morgale and we followed in kind.”
“But you lost him.”
“That’s right. He gave us the slip around Greden. Your country is pretty and all, but has too damn many places to disappear. It was worth a shot, given the value on his head.”
Tyrissa stood and shouldered her pack. She turned to gaze out over the lower part of the river, the winding trickle that the dam let through. The river cut southeast, carrying its thread of life well away from the Heartroad’s route and the approaching wastes.
“Since we’re sharin’, what spurred you to go to Khalanheim?”
The question took her by surprise, and Tyrissa was glad that she had her back to Kexal. In her weeks with the caravan, no one asked her why she was there. She never thought up a cover story, never thought she would need one.
Kexal saved her from fumbling for a lie, “You know what, forget I asked. Just seein’ the world, right?”
Tyrissa turned and gave him a thankful smile. He seemed to understand without knowing specifics.
“Right.”
The landscape withered as they continued southward, the blend of green and yellow grasses turning to dry stretches of shrub dotted brown and red as the Expanse of Vordeum became the Wastes. It only grew hotter, even as the season should be shifting toward autumn, as far as the calendar was concerned. Snaking river-carved gullies were the main source of life, sparsely populated by dusty little villages and holdfasts so small that the caravan wouldn’t bother to stop.
Tyrissa rode Roth today with Anton, though the master handler was quite capable of directing a mastodon alone. He would fire off quick little tasks to Tyrissa, but the work was easy and allowed her plenty of time to drink in the desolate scenery, even if actual water was the scarcest sight.
The caravan had new followers in the skies. A growing flock of black birds soared above them, gliding on skeletal wings that granted flight in spite of a lack of feathers. When a bird flew low, it would burst aflame and lift upward, the fire trailing behind it like a comet’s tail. Emberhawks, they were called, and they grew in number the deeper they traveled into the wasteland, a macabre entourage that would descend to feast on any scraps of meat or the remains of horses that succumbed to sickness or heat, tearing away the flesh in charred strips.
“They are a bad omen,” Anton said grimly. “No traveler wishes to have the eyes of emberhawks on his back.”
“And what would be a good omen?” Tyrissa asked while eying the sky.
“Clear skies and cool winds. We’ll find neither in the coming days.”
Tyrissa expected a desert, and this land exceeded her imagination. The Vordeum Wastes were utterly barren, and shockingly so. Short bald mountains formed the distant horizon on either side, as lifeless as the rocky fields that flanked the Heartroad. There were no forgotten ruins here, and even the enduring Heartroad lay broken or buried in stretches. The heat in the air was odd as well. It wasn’t the sweltering heat of a blazing sun but an underlying, penetrating heat that permeated your bones. The air was thick and Tyrissa felt like she was being roasted alive. The storied, stark chill of desert nights was absent, instead the heat stubbornly lingered hours after sunset, the fleeting hours before dawn were their only respite.
They kept a modera
te pace, a cruel balance of speed and caution against exertion. Still, some of the horses withered and died at shocking speeds, well watered or not, healthy or not, many after they made camp for the night. They were butchered in short order, the investment partially recovered in the form of the chef’s nightly stew. It was palatable, but Tyrissa found the means made it taste unpleasant. Such efficiency applied to any wagons that broke down or found themselves without draft animals, stripped of parts, their cargos shifted elsewhere. No such fate befell anyone in the caravan, thankfully. In fact, Tyrissa couldn’t recall anyone being seriously ill since they left Morgale.
The mastodons held up well, though Tyrissa noticed Hali switching between them every couple hours, full of reassuring whispers and closely examining each beast. Her suspicions of the woman’s nature rose with the temperatures. Every time the woman switched to the other mastodon, Tyrissa found herself subconsciously looking in Hali’s direction, her attention pulled by a gentle tug and an odd sense of serenity in the midst of the stresses of the wastes. That worried her more than the heat or the blasted landscape or the growing flock of emberhawks eyeing the caravan from above.
Against all tension that the wastes gave the caravan, the alert flag flew yellow for the first three days. Stillness ruled to land to either side of the Heartroad, and by the middle of the second day they no longer saw signs of human habitation, past or present. Tyrissa found that she missed those haunting columns of stone. They were evidence that the land could, at one point, accommodate life and a visual record of the day’s progress. The Vordeum Wastes granted neither. This was no land of adventure and hidden treasures. This was a land of nothing.
Chapter Thirteen
Smoke shrouded the world in a pallid fog. No breeze stirred the air and the flags atop the North Wind hung limp. The alert flag flew red today and the caravan moved at a crawl throughout the morning, the wagons drawn into a tight circle around the barge and mastodons. From Roth’s back, Tyrissa could only see a few hundred feet before the landscape and Heartroad vanished into the haze. The outriders stayed close, fading in and out of sight ahead of the caravan. Her eyes watered and burned when they trudged through the denser banks of smoke that intermittently billowed across the road, carried on wind currents no one could feel. Sometimes, a burst of flame would cut through the haze above them as the emberhawks continued their escort, their numbers hidden. She had a knack for turning to catch sight of them through the haze, following an unconscious mental pull, similar to what she felt around Hali on occasion.
Tyrissa tugged at the moistened bandana tied tight about her face, the sky blue color now lost among the grime from smoke and sweat. Anyone outside the barge wore similar masks, in addition to water skins and whatever weapons they were handy with. She ran a hand over her staff, wedged under a pair of rope handles on the platform and taking some comfort in having it near, though it was clumsy to carry up to the Roth’s back. This was the hottest day yet in the wastes and Tyrissa could feel the grit of the smoke mixing with her sweat, coating her in a film of gray filth. She lifted her mask and took another measured swallow from her water skin though it was too warm to even pretend it was refreshing.
What I would give for the slightest wind. Anything to stir the air and grant the tiniest relief from the heat would be welcomed. They had many miles to go yet today. She almost missed the desolate views the smoke obscured.
Grefan guided Roth today. One of Anton’s nephews, he was one of the better drivers with an intuitive grasp of every little detail to keep the mastodons moving forward. He had a strong resemblance to the master handler, with lank black hair that clung to the sides of his boxy face and rivulets of sweat clearing channels down his neck and bared arms that were decidedly less hairy than his uncle’s. He hummed to himself between making slight adjustments to the mastodon’s direction, a tug on a rein here, a reassuring pat on the beast’s forehead there. Tyrissa still marveled at how the handlers managed such precise control over the beasts. One of the netted pockets near Grefan bulged with a water skin and a rusted smith’s hammer. Blades were scarce today among the caravan in favor of anything blunt and heavy.
Hali rode between them. The robed woman wore no face mask and kept her hood up, unaffected or unconcerned with the heat and smoke.
Tyrissa finally had to ask: “Why aren’t you wearing a bandana?”
“I don’t need one,” Hali said. Their little game was long over, but the woman was still as taciturn as ever.
It was the last piece Tyrissa needed, so she went right for her main suspicion.
“You’re Pactbound, aren’t you?” She saw Hali’s shoulders draw up and tighten. The woman didn’t look back at her. She simply sighed.
“What gave it away, child,” she asked, sounding unsurprised.
“The way you talk. How you move. How you hide yourself. You feel different.” Tyrissa spent the last couple nights considering this. Mostly it was the feeling and those strange tugs she felt in her mind that pulled her towards Hali. They were more than curiosity, more than lucky shifts of attention.
Hali shifted her feet and turned to face Tyrissa, staring her down with a look of pure iron, hazel eyes suddenly stern instead of pretty. “I could say the same for you.”
How could she know? Tyrissa looked down, away from Hali’s gaze. She barely knew herself.
“How…”
“Young ladies don’t travel halfway across the world without a good reason at their backs or in their hearts. Let’s just call it intuition.”
She wasn’t wrong.
“You regret it and are uncertain.”
“Yes.”
“But you consented, no?” Consent. She spoke the word as if it was all there was to say on the matter. Tyrissa nodded, though didn’t say how it was under somewhat extreme duress. She didn’t have to. Something approaching pity crossed Hali’s face, a flash of lightning across a statue.
“Tyrissa, They don’t care about your little doubts after the fact. You agreed. You accepted their gift. You have no choice but to uphold your end of the bargain.”
“I just…”
“Stop. You don’t have to hesitate anymore. You want my advice, from one to another?”
Tyrissa nodded, though she doubted Hali had as much experience as she claimed. The woman looked at best a few years older than Liran. But she would take any advice, any at all.
“Embrace it.” It was the most passion she had heard in Hali’s voice.
Embrace what? It’s easy for you to say Hali. You know what your gift is.
Hali’s cool self-assurance was grating, and Tyrissa buried her jealousy with another question.
“Which are you, Hali?”
“Life.”
Lifepact. Healer. That explained the perfect health of the mastodons and the disregard for her own well-being. She didn’t have to care. All the same, Tyrissa expected someone with a Life Pact to be warmer.
A stiff breeze finally stirred the air, but it brought no more respite than a bellows pumping a furnace, preserving the heat and drying sweat. Tyrissa found it a poor exchange. However, the air began to clear and Tyrissa tugged down the bandana to fall around her neck. The air was hot but fresh compared to before, and she took in a grateful, cleaner breath.
The wind carried away the haze to the west and slowly revealed a view of hell on earth.
On their right the land sloped away from the road, sinking into a basin of cracked, blackened ground. There was nothing but the wake of a wildfire. As visibility grew so did the enormity of the charred landscape. The air rippled from heat as wisps of smoke danced about on the haze-clearing zephyr above the smoldering embers that dotted the plain. Flocks of emberhawks wheeled about in the sky, many shifting course to join the caravan’s existing entourage.
“Welcome to the domain of char and ash,” Hali said. “Where our world is penetrated by the—”
“Elemental Plane of Fire,” Tyrissa finished. She knew of planes and domains from the stories. Planes were fantast
ic parallel realms where the native element held total sway. Worlds covered in water, ruled by death and decay, or continuously burning in an endless worldwide bonfire. Domains were scars upon their world, where the planes’ energies poured in and warped the land to conform to an altered nature. Tyrissa squinted into the distance, seeking evidence of the domain’s intersection, but could see naught but the charred plain. The land looked as if it were being consumed, the sunken basin a patch of earth drained of vitality.
“Where is the actual domain?”
“Many leagues from here. This is an extension where the domain’s reach grows outward. The merchants say it gets closer to the Heartroad every year, a probing finger of conflagration, as if it knows there’s a road here. Something to destroy.”
“Who made it?” Domains never occurred naturally. They were the mistakes of men or the ultimate goal of renegade Pactbound. The villains she feared she had the potential to become.
“The ancient fools of Vordeum,” Hali said with a flash of fervor in her quiet voice. “This is their true legacy, their heartlands reduced to a scorched husk. When you carelessly touch the flames you get burned. When an empire carelessly touches the flames, the world burns.”
“You sound almost as if you were there.”
“Not quite, but I can relate. If the winds are right, ash will choke the skies and fall as rain as far away as Khalanheim or the Jalarni coast.”
Shouts arose from the caravan. “Elementals on the right!”
Grefan stood and pulled Roth to a halt and Anton did the same atop Regun. The mastodons grumbled, sensing the incoming danger, the sharpening of the mood. Roth trumpeted a blast that drowned out the other rising alarms and caused the platform at Tyrissa’s feet to rumble like a fleeting earthquake. Tyrissa scrambled over to where her staff was stowed, sliding it out from beneath the ropes. She scanned the western side of the caravan and saw… nothing. A false alarm? Below, guards and merchants alike readied weapons and drove the wagons closer to the North Wind. Above, the emberhawks had begun to circle.
Valkwitch (The Valkwitch Saga Book 1) Page 12