by Colt, K. J.
“I don’t know…I thought you might want it,” he stammered instead, wishing he could tell her how he felt. She smiled at him as though she had read his thoughts.
The mention of the red ribbon had brought Talon’s thoughts back through time, to the night before they had met, when the Vald had killed the two lovers.
“Who were they?” he asked.
Akkeri didn’t ask who he meant; her face shone with understanding and sadness.
“I am sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s all right,” Akkeri breathed. “She was my Systir, Feather. She had gained the eye of Vaka Brekken when she was fifteen; he put a baby in her belly. Of course he would not admit such a thing to the Vald, and named her friend Arri as the father. Feather begged Arri to stay out of it, to save himself, but of course he would not. They loved each other so…”
Tears pooled in her eyes, and Talon wished he could take her pain away and make it his own. He understood now why she had risked showing Brekken the small blade as he knelt dying.
“I was oft sick when I was young, and my parents sent me here. Feather and Majhree saved my life. Systir was born with a bad leg, Majhree took her in too. She is the closest thing to a real mother I have ever had.”
Talon smiled. “She is a loving person.”
He wondered as he often did what it would have been like to know his own mother. If it hadn’t been for the frozen plague he might have grown to be a tall Vald like his father. The old pang of sorrow constricted his throat, and he shook the thoughts from his mind, they never led him to a good place.
“Where is Jahsin?” he asked, seeing the empty bed.
“Off to the mines,” she said. “We are allowed a replacement. Long as the work gets done, the Vaka don’t really care who does it.”
Talon moved to sit up. “He has his own work to do; I don’t want to cause him any more trouble than I already…” Pain exploded from the numerous wounds.
Akkeri helped him to lie back on his side. He broke out in cold sweats instantly, and his head swam once more.
“Shh, you just sit back. Jahsin insisted on taking your place. He set out before dawn to get a head start on the work. He’ll be all right. Been here since birth; he knows how to handle himself with the Vaka.”
Talon knew she didn’t mean to insinuate anything about him, but she may as well have. He had only been in the Skomm village for a few days, and already he had been whipped and beaten and had caused someone’s death, albeit a hateful Vaka’s. Still he felt no satisfaction from Brekken’s demise. The man may have earned such a punishment in his lifetime, but he was as much a victim of the barbarians’ twisted culture as any of the Skomm.
“I have my apothecary duties to attend to,” he sighed.
“Majhree is the one who reports your work to the Vaka. Fret not; your herbs are being collected. You must rest.”
Talon was glad to comply. If it meant being in the care of Akkeri, he hoped he never got well again.
CHAPTER TEN
A PLACE IN THE WORLD
Oh, how they curse themselves with word and deed.
—Gretzen Spiritbone, 4990
Talon eventually healed from his wounds and returned to the mines where he worked by day, and then went out with Akkeri during the night to collect supplies under the stars. Although his days in the mines were hard, the nights made up for them tenfold.
He thought often of Chief and prayed to the spirit wolf, Valdr’Skaer, to watch over his friend. His amma had told him Valdr’Skaer had come to her in a dream, and told her where to find the timber wolf pup. The spirit also told her to give the pup to Talon, though she would not say why.
Talon was determined to save Chief’s life, as the wolf had done for him. He, Jahsin and Akkeri had searched throughout the village when their duties took them there, and other times sneaking at night; however, they had yet to see the wolf. Akkeri told him not to worry, that they would find him soon. Talon wanted to believe her.
By the time the endless cold of the long winter gave way to the thaw, Talon had become accustomed to his new life. He kept his head down and minded to not gain the attention of the Vaka or the Vald. He saw Fylkin Winterthorn more than once in Timber Wolf Village, and the chiefson’s glare reminded him he had not been forgotten.
In the mines he had been moved from the cart and given a long hammer due to his youth and energy compared to the half-broken Skomm elders (anyone over thirty). At first the hammer was heavy and cumbersome, but as the days dragged by it became lighter and lighter still. Talon grew half a foot over the next six months and chalked it up to the humor of the gods.
When they had gotten far enough ahead in their foraging for apothecary supplies, or on days when the mines shut down, he, Akkeri and Jahsin spent their time playing bones in the commons with friends or sitting under the wide expanse of stars, seeing who could make out the most constellations and dreaming of leaving Volnoss forever to explore the wide world together. Sometimes their fantasies had them sailing around Agora living a life of leisure. In others they all found a warm corner of the world, built a farm, and lived off the fat of the land. In nearly all of their daydreams, Jahsin added how he had somehow gained the love of an elven beauty. He named her Vindalf, after the beautiful wind-elf of children’s bedtime stories—whose fury was that of a hurricane, and whose love was as gentle as a soft summer breeze.
In all of the fantasies, Talon secretly dreamed Akkeri was his wife, and they had a half-dozen little gingers running around raising the hells.
He knew she wanted him only as a friend. Why would she want him for anything more? He was small and weak, and nothing like the big brawny men women liked. He didn’t mind. Friendship was fine if he could be with her. She had a laugh that made Talon happier than anything else, and he wanted to hear it always. She often gazed at him longer than normal, but Talon suspected she was searching for the meaning to his stares. He was reluctant to admit his true feelings, for if they were not reciprocated, the admission would force an eternal wedge between them—one that could be overlooked, yes, but never ignored completely. Things would always be different.
Time for planting came sooner than anyone had guessed, and the elders told of good tidings. The winds blew softly from the south, and the green was on the trees a full two weeks before normal. Many of the older naysayers warned of another frost, but then again they always did, and enough seeds were kept back in case such a thing occurred. The frost never came, and the seedlings soon took hold.
Talon loved planting time, though the wait for the vegetables to bear fruit seemed nearly as hard as the wait for winter’s end. To him spring was a testament to all the good in the world—a time of birth and rebirth, of younglings, family, and celebration.
The Vald and the Skomm alike had many celebrations attributed to spring, and to their credit the Vald let the Skomm have their festivals. Talon had never partaken in any of the Vald festivities, knowing he might likely get himself killed trying to mingle with the giants. But in the Skomm village he had become part of the community—just another Throwback trying to guzzle as much grog as possible before the taps went dry. That spring was the best one he had ever known. It was the first time he ever danced with a girl, and to his utter delight the girl was Akkeri.
The spring celebration, or Kelda Agaeti, marked the first day of spring, and the entire Skomm village and the Vald alike took part in separate festivities. For the Vald the celebration was just another excuse to drink too much and fight. To the Skomm, to the Throwbacks, the season meant so much more. They saw spring as a time of plenty. Where gruel and the occasional scrap of meat or fish from the underground trade market had been the way of winter, now was the time of fish aplenty.
The ice had begun to loosen from the shore, and the boats had been launched in preparation for the thaw. The Strait of Shierdon never froze over, and fishing there to the south of Volnoss was good; however, the Shierdonians fished the strait and guarded the waterway with warships and rammer
s. Any barbarian vessel caught in those waters was destroyed, though they were allowed to fish off the shore in the south.
Jahsin had been working his way into the underground trade, called Kaupmadr by the Skomm. He came to Talon and Akkeri on the morning of Kelda Agaeti as they headed out for the day’s work.
“Come on, look at this,” said Jahsin as he passed them coming out of the hut.
“Close the door!” he said with a hissing whisper. Talon glanced sidelong at Akkeri, who only shrugged and closed the door.
Jahsin peered over their shoulders at the closed door as he unwrapped his clutched bundle as if the contents were invaluable. The burlap fabric fell away, and a grin spread across his face. He lifted up a bottle with a dark, red liquid inside.
“What’s that?” Talon asked, though he guessed spirits of some sort.
“Dwarven whiskey!” said Jahsin.
Akkeri, who had been in the midst of rolling her eyes, became intrigued. “Dwarven?”
“Feikin dwarven,” Jahsin said with a proud smile.
Akkeri grabbed the bottle and reached for the cork as if to smell it.
“Easy now, eh,” Jahsin urged.
Pop! went the cork, and Akkeri took a whiff. Her head snapped back and she pressed her hand against her nose. Talon took a sniff as Akkeri handed the bottle back to Jahsin. The fumes erupted in his nostrils and he coughed.
“Thodin’s beard, Jah, the stuff’ll kill you!” Talon laughed.
“You don’t need much is for sure; it’ll be fun,” said Jahsin, corking the bottle once more.
Akkeri shook her head and patted Jahsin on the back before heading to the door. “See you tonight, crazy man,” she waved as she left the hut.
“It’s gonna be fun,” he promised Talon as he too left.
“All right, Jahsin, see you tonight.”
The day went by slower than most. Talon spent all morning shoveling stone and dreaming about the night’s festivities. He cared not so much for the food or the dwarven whiskey Jahsin had procured; instead he looked forward to dancing with Akkeri. He had at first been apprehensive about dancing, but her smile had lured him into the dancing circle. He had lost himself in the midst of the music and energy of the crowd.
The horn marking the quitting hour blared, tearing Talon from his reverie. The days had grown longer, and therefore the sun remained to guide him home from the mines.
As he walked the many miles back to the village and crossed through the small forest, a sudden wailing cry came from the woods to his right. As his head swiveled to pinpoint the sound, he spotted a white owl watching him from a tree. The cry sounded like the call of the lynx, but with a desperate keening to it, almost as if the cat cried, “help, help, help,” as was surely its meaning.
Talon and the owl studied each other for a time, but soon Talon could not bear the sound of the lynx’s suffering. He moved to leave and the strangled cry of the trapped animal stopped. The last of its keening cry echoed through the forest and died away as if it had never existed.
Talon thought then of the baby’s cry. Shaking the memory away, he searched the woods. What snow remained sat in scattered patches; piles remained gathered beneath the wide pines whose canopy kept the sunlight away. The earth was sodden with the melt, and branches encased in ice had begun to drip steadily to the forest floor.
He waited for the lynx to cry once more, but no sound came. Looking from the owl to the sun, he gave a sigh.
“Leave well enough alone, Talon,” he said to himself.
He began again down the road and thought of the baby and the lynx. He stopped in the road when his thoughts became too overwhelming to bear. Why had the lynx stopped crying, he wondered.
With a frustrated sigh, he started into the woods, heading in the direction he thought the sound had come from. A shadow flew across the snow as the owl flew overhead, deeper into the woods. Talon started into a jog and followed the owl through a patch of pines that gave way to white birch trees and other scattered varieties. A rustling came from his left and he crouched to listen. Something thrashed beyond the thicket. Twisted vines and thick underbrush forced him to take a roundabout route. The vines grew along a big, dead tree that had fallen to lean on others. Going around, he came to the other side slowly. Movement caught his eye and his guess was confirmed. A big, white lynx peered at him through the ferns. The animal appeared to have been snared by a trap.
Talon searched for a stick to defend himself should the animal become violent. Skomm were forbidden to carry any kind of blade, unless it had been approved for a job.
What am I doing? This cat will tear my face off if I try to help. Besides, the fur belongs to the owner of the trap now. Talon told himself, and he knew it to be true, but that didn’t stop him from investigating further.
He walked cautiously toward the lynx and it followed his every step. Only its head moved as the eyes followed him around to the side. One of the hind legs was sticking straight up, hanging from a partially fallen tree. Talon didn’t know a lot about trapping, but he was pretty sure the trap had not been intended for this animal; at least he told himself so. The snare had caught its hind leg, and from the looks of it, the lynx had fought frantically to extract itself and had gotten hopelessly tangled.
The lynx gave a hiss and a dangerous, painful sounding moan. Talon didn’t know what to do. His inner voice told him to turn around and leave. How was he to help the lynx anyway? A trapper would come along and club it in the head to be skinned and dried.And likely end up draped across Fylkin Winterthorn’s neck. Talon thought. He knew that this was the way of the world and that he should leave it alone.
In his indecision, he mindlessly gazed up and saw the white owl watching him a few yards off with its neck turned halfway around.
“Why don’t you do something since you’re so curious?” Talon asked.
He turned to leave. There was nothing he could do. He wasn’t about to try to untangle a full-grown lynx from the snare. Nature would take its course; these things happened every day. Talon stepped on something that felt strange through his boots. He looked down and saw a small knife. He ducked and peeked around the forest suspiciously. Satisfied that he was alone, he grabbed the small blade and wiped it off. It was a skinning knife three inches long and curved up to a point at the end; the handle was whale bone and carved with barbarian runes that spoke of the seasons, the gods, and game.
Talon looked to the lynx and back to the blade once more. If he got caught with a blade, he would be killed on the spot. He had seen it himself the month before. One of the Vald’s personal slaves had been caught with a small blade. His punishment for the crime had been beheading outside the commons. They had left the head on a pike to remind everyone of the consequences. Talon thought the crows picking at the head for a week drove the message home even better.
“Feikinstafir!” he said to himself. “Hurry up, then, Talon.”
He got as close to the line as he dared until he knew the extent of the cat’s reach. When the lynx began to thrash and claw at the air, he discovered that the animal could hardly move at all.
Before he lost his courage, he moved quickly to the fallen log and slipped the knife carefully between the line and the cat. He sawed at it for only a moment before the sharp blade cut through. The cat instantly went to clawing and hissing and thrashing about. The sound was incredibly loud as close as Talon was to the lynx, and Talon wanted nothing more than for the cat to be quiet. He was sure someone had heard and would be coming any time. The cat worked itself into a frenzy as it fought the strong rope, only getting itself stuck more.
Talon found a suitable stick with a crook at the end where two branches had grown in different directions. It would have made a good crutch and would suit his purposes. Knowing no gentle way to go about it, he pinned the cat’s neck and held firm as he frantically cut as many of the binds as possible before leaping away. The lynx again fought to get loose and finally did. It shot into the forest and didn’t stop until it was f
ar away. The animal looked back at Talon and studied him.
The owl watched on.
“You’re welcome,” he yelled to the cat and returned the knife to where he had found it. He had no further need for the death sentence.
Talon headed back to the road in the twilight. He had not noticed how dark it had become. When he got to the road, he saw the last of the sun’s fiery crown setting the clouds to the west ablaze. He headed for town anxious to clean up and get to the celebration.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
KELDA AGAETI
BENEATH A RIVER of blood he shall find his resolve.
—Gretzen Spiritbone, 4979
Talon reached the village as the stars began to cover the night sky. Jahsin met him with a loud cheer when he reached the tent; he had already tried the dwarven whiskey. His breath reeked of the stuff and his stupid smile told Talon that maybe he had already had more than a little.
“How much of that stuff you drink?” Talon chuckled as he stripped out of his dirty clothes and began to wash from the basin. The fire in the middle of the room raged more than its usual low burn. Jahsin had saved up what he called “ace pieces” of firewood for more than two weeks. They were stacked in a neat pile beside the circular fire pit—enough to keep a fire for days.
“I ain’t but tried a few swigs,” he hiccupped.
“A few swigs? You don’t hardly drink! You’re gonna be shytefaced before the music starts.”
“Listen,” Jahsin slurred, leaning on him heavily. “Take drink of this’n we’ll talk ’bout my drin…king.”
Talon shook his head and got out of his dirty work clothes. He washed up quickly and pulled a fresh shirt over his head and ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “One of us has to keep his head.”
