Valkwitch (The Valkwitch Saga Book 1) (12 page)

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.

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 through 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.

He seemed not to notice her at first, focused on
stirring a ground powered herb into a cup of faintly steaming water. It smelled
strongly of the Morgwood, though Tyrissa couldn’t place the herb exactly. Liran
spoke true, Ferdhan was an easy friend to make and a lifesaver for the trip.
Tyrissa tore through
Tales
in a matter of days, but the old merchant’s
stock of books could keep her occupied for months. Granted, most of it was
drier stuff, related to economics and guild politics, but there was enough to
hold her interest.

She set the first book she borrowed from him on
an empty corner of the fold out table, a collection of mildly heroic stories
from the Khalan Federation.