Valkwitch (The Valkwitch Saga Book 1)

by Michael Watson

  Liran had the decency to send his sharp, appraising eyes downward and look chastised, all the while still bearing a charming smile that implied a constant, private joke. The other girls always told her how Liran was ‘the pretty one’. Tyrissa didn’t see it.

  “Call it a merchant’s nature, Ty. It can’t be helped, only indulged.”

  Liran stepped over to her and they embraced. Upon pulling way he looked her over and said, “My how you’ve grown, almost as tall as me now.” Tyrissa would have to dispute that later, as they were clearly eye-to-eye. Liran’s face was sun bronzed from the trip north, a long journey through the vast emptiness and supposed dangers of Vordeum. The last two years had been kind to his beard, finally filling in the gaps and patches that haunted him from youth.

  “What happened to your arm,” Liran motioned at the fresh bandages around her forearm and hand.

  “Dinner,” she replied with a wicked smile.

  “I’ll let it be a surprise,” he said with a laugh.

  “Is this horse yours?” Tyrissa patted the mare’s neck and traced her hand along a splash of white running down the snout. This far north, horses were a rarity, the property of lords and the king, a symbol of wealth. Most Morgs used kaggorn as haulers, the burly beasts slower than horses and hardier against the fierce Morgale winters.

  “The Guild’s, but at least she makes me look all the more impressive.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  Liran chuckled and said, “I suppose. The novelty wears off quick when you’re around them for enough time. Maybe I’ll take you to the caravan while it’s camped over in Tav and you can get your fill of them.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I thought you might. Let me stable Izzy and we’ll head home.”

  The Jorensen family sat hand in hand around the table and dinner began with ten seconds of silence for the ten silent Morg gods, a practice done more out of tradition than reverence. The Cleanse shattered what remained of anyone’s faith. What good were nameless gods that cared nothing for their people in their darkest times? Tyrissa ticked the seconds off in the back of her head, paying more attention to the feel of her father’s hand in her left and Liran’s in her right, the contrast of calloused versus smooth, of wildly different paths in life.

  Ring-shaped wurm steaks lay in a stacked line atop a central platter ringed by a smattering of side dishes, mostly summer vegetables and a plate of pungent kaggorn cheese. Everyone save Sven had a glass of premium mead from the western Morg city of Stalven, the drink stained a murky blue from the berries used in its creation.

  “It looks wonderful Iri,” Orval Jorensen said after the blessing. Tyrissa’s father was a broad-shouldered man, the source of his children’s height and bright blue eyes. Well into his middle years, his blonde hair was thinning, or perhaps merely migrating to his thick beard that looked as youthful as ever. Tyrissa thought he always smelled of sawdust, as if fresh from the shop.

  “Thank you dear,” her mother said, “It was Ty, Oster, and Sven who brought in the wurm, though I’d prefer to not know the specifics on how.” Iri’s bandana was off, which was common in the evenings. Faint tan lines showed on her face, the slash of paler skin evoking the war paint of clan champions of old.

  Probably for the best mother, Tyrissa thought to herself. If Sven managed to hold his tongue about the incident, there might be hope for him yet.

  “A shame that Corgell couldn’t be here,” her father said, “but I suppose he has a family of his own to care for, now.”

  “The caravan is camped at the Tavleorn festival grounds, so I paid him a visit on the way in,” Liran said while attacking his steak. “Little Eirin is talking now, she can barely stop. His shop seems to be quite successful as well. I managed to score a discount on fair bit of Rhonian greenwood from the caravan for him. Expensive stuff this far north. He’ll flip for double making bookends for the nobles in Greden or some such.”

  “He has a pair of hired workers now,” their father said, voice clearly proud for the son that followed in his footsteps. Tyrissa was never close to her eldest brother, given their age difference. She was only eight years old when Corgell left home to start his own woodworking shop in Tavleorn, the closest city to Edgewatch, two or three days to the west by the Fjordway.

  Talk wavered through updates on members of their extended family. The food was exquisite; her mother had conjured a feast seemingly from nowhere.

  “Ty, your seventeenth is soon,” her father said. As if Tyrissa could forget. Seventeen was the traditional age of maturity among Morgs, the age when a child becomes an adult and commits to a trade or role. Terrifying, in a word.

  “Any further thought of what you’re going to do?”

  “Well in some traditions, the third-born takes a martial path. Army, militia, guard for traveling traders. That sort of thing.” Tyrissa made no mention her real desire: to rebuild the Rangers of the Morgwood. The order had fallen into disuse decades ago. It was a criminal abandonment of a vital need and a part of their people’s history.

  Iri gave a quiet scoff and said, “Third son.”

  “Mother disapproves, as usual.”

  “Because it’s not realistic or proper.”

  “You’re always so quick to tell me what a proper woman’s role is, despite the fact that you and everyone your age fought in the Cleanse.”

  “Those were different times. We fought so you wouldn’t have to be like—”

  “Be like you? Heroines and leaders instead of mothers and seamstresses?”

  “I won’t talk about it further, Tyrissa. It’s the… very opposite of proper dinner conversation.” Her mother said raised a hand to stroke the pendant engraved with her maiden initials that she always wore. Tyrissa knew that meant she was thinking about the Cleanse, an unconscious reflex that was as unexplained as the scar over her eye.

  “Ty. Not here, not now.” her father said with a hint of weariness. This point of conflict between his daughter and wife was nothing new.

  “Yes papa,” she said, a parting shot wrapped in obedience.

  “Liran,” he said, “Tell us of Khalanheim.”

  “Ah, Khalanheim, of course.” Liran paused for a moment, eyeing the end of his fork in thought. “It’s big, for one. A few times the size of Greden at least. When you first get there you’re struck dumb by how many people there are and how the city seems to stretch on forever. At first, I thought I would be out of place, being from so far away, but that was far from the truth. It’s the crossroads of the entire continent. People from all over the world end up there, and bring with them an endless supply of trade goods, foods, stories, and styles.”

  Tyrissa finished her wurm steak and listened as her brother spoke of the city’s size, and clustered rooftops, and the varied merchant guilds, and the endless lines of market stalls and bazaars. She couldn’t help but feel that Liran was leaving out something more… interesting.

  “Pactbound aren’t outlawed there, right?” Oster asked.

  There it is. Pactbound: the heroes and villains of many of the adventure stories that filled her imagination and spare time, blessed (or cursed) with magick bestowed by the unknowable Elemental Powers. Tyrissa hid a grin with sip of mead. It was very sweet.

  Iri sighed audibly. “All manner of polite dinner conversation tonight.”

  “He’s just curious mother,” Liran said.

  “The wrong sort of curiosity can kill with respect to Pacts. Especially here.”

  “It’s different in the rest of the world,” he continued. “And there are different kinds of Pactbound and none are like what we had here. Some are actually quite useful. Why, the Shaper’s Guild can—”

  “Liran,” Iri’s snapped, voice hardening from nearly-lost patience, “Please.”

  He hid a grimace with a grin and threw a quick wink at Tyrissa.

  “I simply worry about you,” Iri said, softening her tone. Slightly. “The south is less safe than Morgale, and having Pactbound roam free…
you can’t trust them. Ever. There’s a reason Vordeum is an empty land. Man wasn’t meant to toy with the power of gods. We made that mistake and it cost us more than you four could ever understand. Speak no more of it at my table.”

  “Of course, mother.”

  Talk returned to inconsequential fare as the meal wore down. Tyrissa stayed silent. Liran left out certain details about Khalanheim that she had read about in her many adventure books. She shot a glance at her mother, and knew Liran was omitting the more fantastic elements. While the meal was filling, Tyrissa still hungered for information. She would have to grill her brother for the good stuff later.

  Chapter Three

  Tyrissa stood among the fragmented ruins of the village’s watchtower, the late morning light promising a warm day. One Morg tradition Tyrissa embraced was the training of all children in basic weapon skills and self-defense, one of few holdovers from the old clan ways that had strengthened after the Cleanse. She poured nearly as much energy training with the visiting instructors as she did exploring the Morgwood. Her weapon of choice was the staff, enchanted as she was by fantasies of a warrior whirling at the eye of a storm of blunt power. Carved from local pine, her current staff was well-worn from countless hours of practice. It was too short for her now, but she had a plan to fix that.

  She had no sparring partner today so she fought against the air, flying through forms and techniques as quickly as possible in the pursuit of perfection. It helped to push away the aimlessness that grew like summer moss in the corners of her mind. Her formal schooling was finished and there are only so many minor tasks and chores that could use her hand. She never learned a trade, instead helping out with odd jobs here and there, mostly in her father’s shop or with the kaggorn herders. Tyrissa let the morning fade into the blur and whistle of her staff flying through the air. She knew she needed to find a place in the world, a true role to fill, instead of dreams of adventure and heroics. She hated the very thought of surrendering to practicality, but for now she faced southward, her back to the beckoning wall of trees, resisting the forest’s call.

  Eventually the build-up of doubts and worries broke her concentration. She misplaced a foot and stumbled, swearing quietly as she regained her balance. Tyrissa glanced around to see if anyone was watching. No one. It didn’t count. Sweat trickled down her back as she glanced to the sky. The sun neared its noon peak, its light drowning out the day’s faint aurora, now in its fading silver phase. How long had she been practicing? Shaking her head, Tyrissa propped her staff against the ancient watchtower’s stones and went to a nearby well for a drink.

  Upon her return Tyrissa spied her mother at the center of the lower village green, speaking with a group of strangers. Many other residents of the village watched from the edges of the green or their windows, the adults suspicious, the children fascinated. Tyrissa leaned into her staff and joined them. Strangers were always watched closely, more out of a lingering caution than overt hostility. Especially strangers such as these.

  There were five, each with a horse and each armed with a variety of weapons, all sheathed or stowed and marking them as warriors. They all had darker hair and skin tanned either by blood or from weeks traveling under the sun. That would make them unfamiliar, foreign, and mercenaries, three black marks against. Four hung back, clustered at the edge of the village green, while the fifth and only woman of the group spoke with Iri. Tyrissa could sense her mother’s irritation at this distance as she jabbed an accusing finger at the woman’s face. They were unwanted. When the other woman talked, she punctuated with small, respectful bows. Iri stood still for a moment, then looked over her shoulder at Tyrissa and pointed.

  A minute later Tyrissa faced down one of her dreams.

  The woman looked a handful of years shy of her mother’s age, with a round face that was once pretty but now tempered by age and experience into a quiet dignity, like a bouquet of flowers made from steel, mold lines and all. She gave Tyrissa an assessing look with bark colored eyes that tilted slightly downward toward her nose. Her gaze lingered on the staff.

  "Hello” she said bowing slightly. “I am Tsellien ar’Ival. You are Iri's daughter, Tyrissa, yes?" She spoke at a deliberate pace, her accent infusing her speech with an exotic buzz.

  “I am,” was all Tyrissa could manage at first. Tsellien wore a simple brown coat over a faded silver tunic, both worn and dusty from travel. Over one shoulder stood the hilt of a longsword, handle elegantly worked into a thicket of vines, the pommel a crystalline orb that glinted silver in the sunlight. Tyrissa knew she was staring and conjured a polite smile to mask against her gawking.

  Tsellien motioned at the staff, “You are a student of the staff?”

  “Yes. Only the basics. It’s a tradition.” And a part of everything she wanted.

  “From the look of you,” she said with a faint smile, “you were going through more than the basics. I spoke with your mother and she said you might be of some help to us.”

  “Do you two know each other?”

  She shook her head. "Not personally, no. Iri worked with a friend of mine many years ago."

  "During the Cleanse," Tyrissa guessed. An easy go-to. What else could it be?

  The woman returned a solemn nod. "Terrible times for many. Iri told me you know the forest better than anyone else in town.”

  At that, Tyrissa raised an eyebrow. "She said that? Yes, I do." Tyrissa glanced downhill to catch her mother watching them, just in time to see her turn back to her errand, shaking her head in slight disapproval.

  "Do you know of a place like this," Tsellien said, drawing a curled piece of parchment from an inner coat pocket. It unrolled to reveal a drawing of foothills at the base of a mountain range, a deep pass cutting between two peaks. The mountain peaks looked to be peeling away from each other, leaving sheer cliff faces that descended to the pass. The margins were crowded with notes and annotations written in an unrecognizable, delicate script that paired well with Tsellien’s accent. The landscape, however, sprang to mind instantly.

  "Looks like Giant’s Gap, the first major pass in the Norspine. It’s about a day and a half to the northwest, if you’re on foot. More with horses,” Tyrissa said, sparing a glance at Tsellien’s party waiting down the hill. Their progress in the thicker parts of the forest would be slow as none of the old paths made for kaggorn-pulled carts lead straight to Giant’s Gap.

  "You could mark it? On a map, yes?” Tsellien said with a smile that possessed surprising warmth and sincerity, as if Tyrissa could trust to her words without fear or doubt.

  "Of course." She could have pointed directly at the pass, though from here it would be obscured by the curve of the Norspine Mountains.

  "Vralin," the woman called down the hill to her party. A hooded man in loose, charcoal-colored clothing separated from the group. He walked with a flowing grace, as if his feet glided just above the grass, clothing rippling from a wind that Tyrissa couldn’t feel in the air. Braced around his belt were an array of vials, glass orbs, and knives. Despite the variety of gear, he made barely a sound as he walked uphill toward them, carrying square brown leather folder. Tsellien favored Vralin with a bright smile and fired off a rapid string of words in an ethereal language full of buzzing syllables and breathy sounds, like whispers on the wind. He replied quietly in the same tongue.

  Tsellien gave a small start and said, “Yes. Let’s stay with Northern for her sake.”

  Calling the common language ‘Northern’ was an odd and antiquated choice. Tyrissa only ever saw it called that in the older stories from the southern nations. Each detail placed these strangers from an ever further homeland.

  Vralin nodded, produced a pen and flipped open the folder to reveal a printed map of northeastern Morgale and the Morgwood, the lower right corner bearing the family seal of a cartographer from Tavleorn. Tyrissa knew the seal well; an older map made by same family hung on a wall in her bedroom. She frowned at the newer map, noting the new blank spaces in the Morgwood and other wildern
esses on the fringe of civilized territory, visual evidence of exploration being undone. The Norspine Mountains ran along the west border of the map, and a handful of recently drawn crosses dotted the both sides of the range. Most were wildly off the mark for Giant’s Gap. Shameful.

  “Add yours if you please, miss", Vralin said, his accent less pronounced, a low vibration instead of a buzz, like a house subtly creaking in a steady wind.

  She leaned in and added her own on the east side of the mountains, not far from the little house icon labeled ‘Edgewatch’ on the map. Tyrissa glanced up to catch a look at Vralin’s hooded face and came away disappointed. He looked normal, sharing Tsellien’s angled eyes and rounded face. He was the only one of the five foreigners dressed like that. Why would he hide his face so?

  “The way is rough in places, and you'll have to make a few detours around two larger crevasses here and here,” Tyrissa inked in two thin lines a few hours northwest of Edgewatch. “There might be other unmapped rifts in the way as well.”

  "How wide are they?"

  "Twenty to thirty feet. They opened two winters ago." Tyrissa remembered the thrill of discovering them after the thaw, only to be saddened when no one else seemed to care. The forest was far from static, the earth below seeming to shift every year with gradual changes. It lent all the more need to a constant presence in the Morgwood, knowledge and guidance that a ranger could provide.

  "That shouldn't be a problem,” he said, dismissive. “Is there anything more significant in the straight line route?"

  More significant? As if they could fly over them…

  "No."

  "Thank you, child.” Vralin snapped the folder shut and turned to Tsellien, his use for Tyrissa done and the girl now invisible. “Ellie,” he said, “it is still early enough. It’s best if we kept moving.”

  “Vralin, there’s no reason to jump at shadows this far north. It’s no longer quite as bad as the last time we were together.” Tsellien said, frowning.