Talon: The Windwalker Archive (Book 1) (2 page)

Volnoss

Winter (
Vetr
)

4980

The wind blew across the frozen world, sending phantoms of snow dancing and twirling in the half-moon light. In the night the cry of the timber wolf echoed throughout the wood. Stars twinkled brightly in the clear winter sky. All but the hungriest of predators huddled in nest and burrow.

The cold of Volnoss
killed men without shelter and fire; the freeze crept through stitched seams and clung to the bones. The winter was one of the coldest and harshest told by the elders, and none disputed their claim. The fall crops had long been eaten, and the ice grew thick upon the waters. Fishing spots had to be moved, often by more than twenty thrown stones. Every day the catch was less, partially due to illegal fishing near barbarian territory. Each season disputes erupted between the barbarians of Volnoss and the Kingdom of Shierdon, and every year the elders called for patience.

A sickness had taken hold of many of the children an
d elderly of the tribe. The terrible sickness had come with the harsh cold and, as such, had been named the Frozen Plague (
Frjosa
Mien
). The disease came in the night with a high fever and nightmares that left victims thrashing in madness. By morning the victims slept as if dead, their skin cold to the touch. About their hands and feet started a discoloring of the skin like frostbite, which slowly crept across the body until death.

The sickness had taken hold of a tribeswoman by the name of Kvenna
Windwalker, wife of circle member Kreal Windwalker. Kreal had been tending his sick and pregnant wife for nearly two weeks. The frozen plague had crept along her limbs to her shoulders and waist. Nothing the shaman or witchdoctors tried did anything to slow the sickness.

Kreal had been beckoned by duty to a gathering
to address the issue. The women of the tribes had become furious in their demands for action, but the men remained impotent to do anything about the sickness. The people demanded answers from the chiefs, but they had none.

Being no good to h
is wife fretting by her side, Kreal finally took his old mother’s advice to go to the
Samnadr
. When he entered the long tent, he found his tribesmen in chaos. A few fights had broken out; men and women alike screamed and cursed each other, while others cried at the spectacle or clawed at their hair to announce their grief. Babies cried and children mimicked their parents. Teen boys full of wolf piss and fire pleaded to be sent to Agora on a quest for medicine; others promised they would bring back ships full of food, supplies, and medicine if only given a chance.

The eld
ers, however, knew the truth. No help was to be found from any of the nations of Agora, and should they seek to steal its resources, they would be met with devastating force. What trade agreements they did have with pirates and smugglers were tedious enough, and war with Agora—namely its most northerly nation, Shierdon—would break those trade ties. If Shierdon set embargoes on Volnoss, the kingdom would need only wait until the dead of winter, at which point the starved barbarians would be forced to return to the negotiating table. Once again they would sign an unfair treaty they must adhere to whilst Shierdon never did. Always the Agoran kingdoms broke treaty, and ever more the barbarians raged for war. No love for the barbarians was to be found within Agora; the wounds of the past were still too fresh.

Kreal looked upon his
once-strong people now gripped with fear and panic, and he pitied them and was ashamed.

To gain the gathering’s attention, h
e grabbed the closest man and punched him in the face, sending him backward into the crowd. Charging across the tent screaming, he tackled two men who had begun fighting. He pummeled one unconscious, and as the other scrambled to get to his feet, Kreal pulled the man back down and beat him until his eyes rolled. With powerful arms and legs, he heaved them both into the crowd.

Kreal gained
the crowd’s attention.

Most ba
rbarians stood heads over any Agoran; even so, while the tallest of the mainlanders stood only to a barbarian’s shoulder, the tallest of the barbarians stood only to Kreal’s eyes. The man looked up to no one. His broad shoulders and thick arms were a testament to the might of Timber Wolf Tribe. Such was his size and strength that he could wrestle a snow bear to the ground and break its neck, as he had once done during a hunting trip in which two tribesmen had died. He wore the snow bear hide as a reminder to his kin and to other bears. Four long, deep scars ran the length of the left side of his face from brow to chin, as a reminder to him.

The room became quiet and all
eyes fell upon Kreal. There were nearly three hundred in attendance in the Sudroen Hall on this night. At the center of the large tent, logs burned, sending smoke twisting steadily up and out of holes in the peaks. Bones of ritual hung from the high ceiling, along with other herbs and enchantments of the shaman. Each of the tribes was represented within the Sudroen. The skulls of the snow cat, timber wolf, bear, fox, and dragon hung, respectively, above each tribe’s designated space, along with the beaks and feathers of both eagles and hawks.

Kreal
walked behind his chair at the circle of the seven tribes. Each tribe had seven seats at the circle, and in the center sat the seven chiefs. Each tribe’s people dictated to their seven members sitting in the outer circle, who in turn dictated to the chiefs. Men and women sat within the outer circle, though only men could be chiefs. Kreal eyed his chief, Winterthorn; as usual, the grizzled man wore no expression.

Kreal
addressed the crowd with a deep, snarling voice that demanded to be heard.

“
I too feel the pain of hunger; I too tend to dying kin; I too see no end to this winter of death. I feel as you feel, and I would feel it no more! Long have we sat waiting for this circle to decide upon a course that might lead us from our miseries, but
neinn
! More talk! We vote down measures that might bring us food and medicine. And why?”

The pain of his sorrow showed on his face
and in his voice; he was a man come undone. He glared at the seven chiefs and pointed a shaking finger. “I am done waiting; I leave tomorrow to search for a medicine that will save our people, and I will not be stopped.” He eyed the gathering slowly; many eyes found the floor, unable to match the intensity of his gaze. “Any who share my mind would do well to join me—any from all tribes.”

Amid the howls and cheers of the people
, Chief Winterthorn stood so quickly that the many necklaces of bone danced loudly against his barrel chest. Without gesture or word, he quieted the gathering. All eyes fixed themselves on him as he stared back at Kreal; there was no love upon his face.

“
This matter is settled, Kreal Windwalker of Timber Wolf Tribe. The circle has spoken.”

“
And the people have spoken! If the circle’s will were truly that of the people, we would not sit idle while we starve to death and die slowly from the
Frjosa
Mien
!” Kreal yelled, and many of the barbarians nodded and cheered in agreement.

Winterthorn walked slowly
and purposefully until he stood before Kreal. He was not as tall; his shoulders, however, were as wide as a pony’s body was long. The large tent fell silent for many breaths as the two stared each other down. Kreal wanted nothing more than to challenge his chief for his title and once again bring honor to the tribes. But he could not. Barbarian custom dictated that only a man with a strong heir could challenge a chief. Kreal’s wife was pregnant with their first child. Kreal had not yet a son, while Winterthorn had two grown sons. Winterthorn knew this, as did everyone else within the tribes. Kreal could not challenge his chief—at least not openly.

“
You would defy the counsel of the circle
and
the will of the chiefs?”

“
I would defy any who stand in my path, for I will find a cure, or I will not return to this land,” he promised.

Kreal
left the gathering, followed by the cheers of the tribesmen. Those within the circle eyed each other. Few of them spoke; the people already had.

The next morning Kreal kissed his dying wife’s forehead for what he knew may be the last time, gathered his things, and left for the docks. He said nothing to his old mother but accepted a kiss upon his cheek when she pulled him down to her.

At the docks he was met by the cheers of nearly two hundred men and women. They boarded four icebreaker boats and headed south to the shores of Shierdon. Word had com
e from pirates to a man of Bear Tribe that a similar plague had devastated much of western Shierdon, and a cure had been found. Rumor held that the cure had been discovered by the distant Sun Elves of Elladrindellia; whether the rumors spoke the truth or not, Kreal hoped to find out.

He and his men were gone for three tenday and returned by the next crescent moon. They had been successful in their quest and brought back the plant that was used to make the cure, forever after it grew along the coast of Volnoss and was incorporated into many new remedies.

Kreal and his men had saved the tribes, yet he
had not been quick enough to save Kvenna Windwalker. Just as he was returning to administer the elixir to his wife, she died. So close to seeing her alive was Kreal that he witnessed her extended hand fall to her deathbed even as he raced into the tent.

A
wailing cry escaped the big man as he ran to his wife and took up her frail, discolored body in his arms. He sobbed into her chest and screamed with fury, cursing the gods and the women who bore them children.

A
baby’s cry pierced the air, instantly silencing Kreal. He jerked his head and looked to his mother-in-law, Gretzen; in her arms she held a bundle wrapped in furs. From the top edge of the furs, a small, clenching fist shook with the baby’s wailing.

“
It’s a boy,” said Gretzen, her dark, leathery hands holding the bundle tight. “Kvenna name him before death. He is Talon; your son.”

Kreal went
to the infant's side quickly. The gods had taken his wife from him, but they had blessed him with a son, an heir who might stand beside him against Winterthorn and his sons. As Kreal looked upon his newborn son, the hope and awe on his face disappeared, and he was left horrified and quaking. Talon was born at only seven months and was small—too small. Kreal could have held him inside one palm.

Kreal backed away from the baby
, shaking his head.

“
That’s no son of mine; he’s a Throwback, a
Draugr
, a
Skomm
! He’s small, weak. This Draugr
will never bear my name; he must die. He must be cast to the stones as was the way in the past!”

Searching around frantically
, he finally found a skinning knife and turned back on Gretzen and her bundle.

“
I seen his stars,” she said, turning the baby behind her defensively. “He was forced into world on night of Dogstar Moon!” Gretzen screamed, furious at his words.

Kreal began
stalking toward them, staring at his dead wife. “Throw him into the ocean. We do not keep the weak.”

“
I’ve right to keep him if you refuse him. Until he stands for his
Miotvidr
,” Gretzen proclaimed. “His life be legend one day; I foreseen it. It in the bones and in the stars; he will do glorious things. Songs will be sung of man he becomes; mark my words, Kreal. Talon will make legend the name Windwalker!”

“
Give him to me,” Kreal growled.

“
Kvenna kiss him before she die; she smile on him, she loved him,” said Gretzen, circling around the tent away from him.

“
Shut your mouth!” Kreal flipped over the small table in his way, stalking her.

“
Would you kill child your wife loved?” she pleaded, reaching down quickly to scoop up the iron fire poker.

The fury died in Kreal and he hunched
, defeated. To Gretzen he seemed small.

“
Do what you will, old lady; I will not have him. He will not live to see the summer,” he said in a low, faraway voice and left the tent.

Gretzen wiped her grandson Talon with a soft cloth and sang the very song
she had sung to his mother; she cried as she sang, yet she smiled as she cried.

Frozen Plague
, bringer of death and woe, creator of legend.

—
Gretzen Spiritbone, 4975

Volnoss 4995

Gretzen nursed Talon to health usin
g all of her vast resources. She had been one of the tribe’s most skilled healers and mystics for decades; the chiefs themselves sought her many talents. She spoke with spirits, conversed with nature, and read the stars and bones alike. The tribes respected and feared her gifts; therefore Talon was not killed the night of his birth. To be a barbarian of Volnoss, one needed be hard and strong; they did not tolerate weakness, nor was anyone coddled. Being a Volnoss barbarian meant that one worked hard, fought hard, and had no soft side. The northern cold demanded such an attitude. Anyone who grew weak on the unforgivingly frigid island would die.

Talon slowly grew stronger, and when everyone thought he would die in a day
, he lived a week. When everyone thought he would die in a week, he lived a month and then another, and when one year had passed, his fellow tribespeople all said he wouldn’t live two winters. By the time Talon turned five years old, people finally stopped predicting his imminent death and began threatening to kill him instead.

He remained in the care of
Amma Gretzen, and though she was strict and severe in her punishment, she cared for the boy as she had for her daughter. She taught him everything he needed to learn and all the skills he would need for survival. Though Gretzen tried to teach him the craft of her trade, the spirits did not speak to Talon, nature remained silent, and the stars told him no secrets. She did not share his disappointment, however, and ensured him it was because he was destined to become a mighty warrior. This only convinced him further that she was crazy.

He
knew of his mother’s death and his father’s abandonment; Amma Gretzen held back nothing from Talon. He happened upon Kreal every now and again around the village, but his father never looked at him and never even acknowledged his existence.

Talon had been born many mo
nths premature, and though he remained relatively healthy, he grew small for his age. From his birth he had been short, weak, and too skinny, and he never caught up to children his age. He was teased daily, with only his grandmother and few others calling him by his name; instead others called him Runt or Plagueborn. Some even preemptively called him Skomm, Draugr, and Throwback. Almost daily, the other children punched, tripped, kicked, shoved, bumped, and beat up on him. The beatings were never broken up by the adults, and other children never came to his defense. He had learned early on that fighting back was useless; the one time he had tried, his tormenters nearly killed him.

By the time Talon
turned thirteen years old, he stood only to his peers’ chests, having not even put on half the mass of the smallest of the other children. His amma told him to quit expecting to grow and to make do with what the gods had given him. But Talon could not give up hope that one day he would awaken seven feet tall and muscled, and beat down every last one of the bullies who had made his life miserable.

A
s he got older, the differences between himself and every other barbarian became more obvious. At times he hated himself for being the runt; he hated his father for abandoning him, and he hated his amma for saving him. His early years were hard; had it not been for Chief, Talon may have turned out quite different.

On his fifteen
th birthday, his amma gave him a timber wolf pup she had found in the forest to the east of the village. The pup’s mother had been killed by hunters, and though its brothers and sisters had been taken to be used as sled wolves, the pup had not. Gretzen had barely stopped a hunter’s killing hand and taken the pup as her own. It was the runt of the litter and was no good as a future sled wolf. Gretzen found it fitting that Talon should raise the runt, and when she presented the pup to him, the boy had smiled for the first time in a season.

He named the pup C
hief, and they became fast friends. His amma refused to feed Chief, and so Talon was forced to hunt for food with him. The wolf pup went everywhere with him; be it hunting, lessons, exploring, or to market, the two were inseparable. Chief became a light in Talon’s dark world and warmth through the cold. Having a wolf also gave Talon a bit of a reprieve from the daily beatings.

Talon had dreaded his fifteenth
birthday because he was one year closer to sixteen, when he would become a man, and stand for Miotvidr
.
All barbarians stood for measure at the age of sixteen; if by then their heads did not reach the Miotvidr stick, they were cast away to live the life of a Skomm.

Skomm
, sometimes called Draugr and Throwbacks, had been the barbarian slave class for centuries, ever since the barbarians’ banishment from Agora. The Skomm were shunned at birth for their deformities, size, or sickness, and sent to live with the other Throwbacks, far away from the villages. They were not permitted to marry or have children upon pain of death, nor could they ever use their family names. The dominant Vald never called a Skomm by name, unless it was one of a derogatory nature. In the days before the barbarians were cast from northern Agora by the hated Agorans and Ky’Dren Dwarves, the Skomm would have been cast over a sacred cliff to be judged by the barbarian god of strength, Styrkr; if their spirits were deemed worthy, they would be born again into a stronger body. When the barbarians were driven from Agora to the frozen island of Volnoss, their numbers had been dangerously thinned, and they began to allow the Skomm to live.

Many of the Skomm females
were sold to the Agoran slavers, along with the larger of the men. Otherwise they lived a life of servitude to the Vald, and their masters were far from kind. Many of the Skomm they worked to death by the age of thirty.

Talon’s father had insisted
he be cast away at birth, knowing that he would never grow to be a Vald. But Gretzen insisted that he live as a Vald until the day of his Miotvidr
.
Talon learned this at an early age, and to his disappointment it became clearer every year that he would never grow to be the size of a Vald. The measure for men of age sixteen was seven feet tall. He had only one year to grow over two feet, and he knew as well as everyone else that he would not. The older he got and the more apparent it became, the more the taunting and teasing increased.

Talon often went out with Chief late at night and snuck to the
western outskirts of Skomm Village. The village was located far from the Vald, and much of it was built on barren, rocky land. The Skomm walked to the Vald villages every day to tend the crops, though they could grow no crops of their own. At night most of them returned home hungry.

Talon had been sneaking out and watching them si
nce he was ten years old. He was surprised to discover that they acted so lively around one another, almost normal. In the Vald villages, the Skomm walked with eyes always on the ground and a slight hunch to their backs, as if they expected to be throttled any moment for everything they did. And rightly so: a Vald could beat or kill any Skomm they wanted with no repercussions. But in Skomm Village, Talon found a cheerful, quick-to-smile people who told stories around the fires and sang strange songs full of harmony, unlike the Valds’ grizzly voices and sharp pronunciations. Softness of voice and song was not received well in the Vald villages, but here melody filled the nights and rose up into the heavens with the glowing ashes of many fires. The Skomm were not permitted to get married or have children, but what Talon saw of their villages was closer to family than he had ever seen.

One n
ight, a few weeks after his fifteenth birthday, Talon sat huddled low, watching Skomm Village as he often did.

“
Maybe being a Throwback won’t be so bad,” he said. Chief looked at him the way curious puppies do.

A cry echoed from the village and Chief gave a yip.

“Shh, pup,” Talon warned him, and he ducked down lower behind the bushy patch of frozen, brown grass that concealed him on the ridge. Two Vald dragged a Skomm woman from her mud and grass hut by the ankles. She clung to a crying infant in her arms and kicked helplessly against the towering Vald. One carried a heavy club in his hand, and the other a whip. The Vald with the club grabbed her by the hair and dragged her toward the bonfire at the outskirts of the village.

“
All right, then, you stinking Draugr, which one of you is the father of this miserable Throwback?” he yelled at them all.

Silent moments passed and Talon found himself ducking lower. N
one of the cowering Skomm stepped forward. The big Vald threw his club into the snow and ripped the crying infant from the frantic woman’s grasp as the other took her by the hair.

“
No, not my bab…” The Vald silenced her with a punch to the face. Her left arm twitched in midair as she reached for her child.

Talon watched
, horrified, as the big Vald carried the baby around by its tiny leg. A commotion began in the crowd, screams of “let me go!” were countered by “they will kill you!”

A
short, young man broke through the crowd with a scream of rage and rushed across the snow-covered earth with a shoddy spear leading the way. He meant to impale the man holding his child, but the barbarian slapped the spear away with his big club and kicked the man with a boot as big as his torso. The father made a painful, heaving sound as he was knocked back many feet. The smart crack of a whip rang out and Talon saw that it had wrapped around the father’s neck. He grabbed at it with both hands as he struggled for breath. With a snap of the wrist, the whip-wielding Vald broke the young man’s neck, dragged him through the snow, and threw his limp body on the bonfire.

Many from the crowd looked
on with horror, if they looked at all. Even from his distance away from the raging fire, Talon could smell the nauseating stench of burnt flesh and hair. The Vald walked a slow circle around the fire, holding the crying baby aloft, his club held threateningly out to the side, slowly swinging back and forth. He regarded the Skomm with scorn. In the firelight the bone through his nose and intricate ritual scars upon his face made him look like a demon come to life.

“
In the days of our
For’Eldra
your people was cast from the side of the mountain at birth. We, in our godly mercy, have allowed you to live, though you are weak, sickly, and diseased. We have few rules for you disgraceful Skomm,” he said, rounding on the crowd. “You are not to have children!”

The angry Vald swung hard with his big club a
nd hit the woman in the back. Talon heard the echo of cracking bone and was sickened further. He could think of nothing but the baby. Why didn’t someone do something? Surely the dozens of peeking Skomm could overpower the giants.

“
Then what?” his practical mind asked; to save the baby would be to kill hundreds. The Vald’s retaliation would be swift; it would be brutal. Only once had Talon heard of a Skomm killing a Vald. Two hundred were killed because of it.

Chief barked frantically
as women in the crowd screamed for mercy for the baby. Talon scooped up Chief, covered his muzzle, and ran as fast as the snow would permit. Hot tears trailed down his cheeks as he ran away from what he knew was coming. The club would soon fall again. He yearned to cover his ears but he could not put Chief down; even against Talon’s clutching hand he tried to bark.

The sound came.

The steady thudding of the big club followed him for many strides. At some point in his flight, the baby stopped crying. Talon cried and ran as the sound continued. Cries and screams mixed with the howling wind. He waited to hear the baby cry again, wishing for nothing more than the sound of that high keening.

T
he baby cried no more.