by Colt, K. J.
“Feikinstafir, Tal, have a sip, would you? Besides we got…Akkeri to look after us.”
Talon pulled on his new pants, a pair of socks, and his boots. All the while, Jahsin held out the bottle, swaying and waiting patiently. Music began in the distance, and a long grin spread slowly across his face. He began to dance with the bottle all about the hut, nearly knocking over the water basin. He went to take another drink as he passed and Talon swiped it up quickly.
“Never take a man’s dwarven whiskey bottle…unless you plan to par…take in the spirits!” Jahsin said as seriously as he could.
“All right, all right, for Thodin’s sake, let a man get his trousers on,” said Talon.
There came a knock at the door.
“Who’s it?” Jahsin blurted, and Akkeri walked in already shaking her head.
“The music has barely started and here you are slurring your words,” she said to Jahsin. Talon put the bottle down quickly on the small table beside the basin.
“They are my words to s…s…slur,” Jahsin said and went into a fit of the giggles.
“This isn’t funny; you are going to get yourself in trouble.” She chastised him with a grim scowl but was not able to keep a grin from her face in the midst of Jahsin’s drunken stupidity.
“I ain’t too drunk m’lady, just a wee bit,” he said, showing the measure between his finger and thumb.
“Hold on!” he suddenly howled, and Akkeri looked to Talon with a flustered smile that asked, “What shall we do with him?”
“This calls for a proper toast!” said Jahsin, rummaging through a shelf on the wall near the few cooking tools.
“Ah, ha!” he said, and he whirled around brandishing three cups. They were not made of crystal or even glass, but clay.
Jahsin looked at Talon and gestured toward the table Talon cleared it of the wash basin and the cups were set on top. Surprisingly, Jahsin poured three cups without spilling a drop.
“To my two best friends on this miserable rock. May we all see the sun set upon distant shores some day!” he said as he raised his glass and teetered.
“Here, here!” Talon replied.
“Here, here,” Akkeri said with a smile.
Talon tipped back his glass and downed the fire water in one quick gulp. At first there was nothing but a smooth sugary taste, but soon his nostrils flared and a burning rose up through his throat like an erupting volcano. He thought for sure that fire would be coming from his nose as he coughed and choked.
“Smooth, ain’t it?” Jahsin hummed.
They shared another drink and Akkeri convinced Jahsin to leave the whiskey in the hut for the time being. At first he protested, but when the beat of the music changed, he became a dancing fool.
“Relax, you two. Ain’t a Vaka in the world gonna bother patrollin’ tonight. They got they own party going on in Vaka Kastali. And the Vald are probably all shytefaced by now anyway. The night is ours, my friends,” Jahsin sang.
Talon and Akkeri shared an apprehensive glance. The whiskey had warmed Talon’s belly and mellowed his mood. Gone were the pains of the day. His body was loose and he felt good. Akkeri felt it too; her cheeks were flushed and small blotches had formed on her chest and neck. Talon giggled and she followed suit. Ahead of them, Jahsin spun in circles and laughed all the while.
They arrived at the commons in short order, and Jahsin wasted no time in joining the circling dancers. The many drums vibrated in Talon’s chest, and he found it nearly impossible to not move to the beat. Akkeri laughed and grabbed his hands, and together they went spinning into the fray. Under the stars they danced to the infectious beat of the drums. The song of the flutes sang of merriment and plenty; strings joined in with a joyous melody. Wood and pipe smoke meandered throughout the dancing circle as the strong, warm breeze bathed the flames in life-giving breath. It was a night of magic and wonder, far removed from the violence that would mar the memory.
The night raged on and the fires were piled high. Spirits were passed around with less and less discretion, and when the full moon made its appearance, the Skomm lost all inhibition. The winter had been long and hard, and the food had been short. But the spring was early, and the summer and harvest this year would easily carry them all through to the next winter. The Vald would be placated, and there would be less violence from the Skomm’s masters.
Then the howling of many timber wolves silenced the music.
The dancing stopped as the baying of the wolves drew nearer. Screams issued in the distance, and the hoarse laughter and commotion of the unmistakably drunk Vald filled the silent commons. Many of the Skomm ran for cover. Talon looked around for Jahsin but could not find him anywhere.
“Come on,” he told Akkeri, and together they began to quickly make for his hut.
“Stop where you are!” bellowed one of the Vald from behind them.
“Go!” Talon beckoned Akkeri and shoved her into the shadows. He turned reluctantly to see what nightmare had come for him now.
Fylkin Winterthorn and four other big Vald stalked into camp. One of the burly men led two timber wolves from the shadows of the nearby Svell Hus. More then twenty of the Skomm had not escaped, having frozen when the chiefson told them to stop. They bunched together close to Talon as the wolves were led around the raging fire toward them.
“We have come to join in your Agaeti!” Fylkin declared with open arms. The other Vald laughed and more of them arrived. Soon twenty surrounded the bonfire, blocking any way of escape.
“Line up and kneel in the mud!” one of the barbarians commanded, and the Skomm were quick to obey.
“Who would like to help me settle a few bets?” Fylkin asked between swigs from a bottle of spirits. One of the Skomm raised his hand and stood. Talon didn’t know whether it was foolishness or the hope for leniency that made the man volunteer.
“We have a volunteer!” Fylkin roared, and the Vald cheered.
Talon prayed he would not be seen by the chiefson, knowing he would be dead if he was noticed. He hoped Akkeri had found Jahsin and ran far away.
“Here you are, Kroll. Let us see the outcome of our wager. Five gold pieces says that you cannot kill a man with one punch!” said Fylkin, holding up a sack of coins. The Vald cheered once more.
Talon turned his eyes to the ground and backed a bit behind the man next to him. The Vald called Kroll rolled his shoulders and approached the unlucky volunteer—a short man with a gimp leg that dragged behind him as he walked. Talon knew him to be a funny character, a fisherman if he remembered correctly. Kroll squared on the man who was little more than half his height and adjusted him as he saw fit. The Vald began to cheer for or against Kroll as he backed up two steps and balled his fist. Talon wondered whether the man would be able to stand for the punch. If he moved, he would likely die, but then again, a direct hit from a Vald as big as Kroll would be devastating.
The big Vald gave a cry and swung his fist in an uppercut, snapping the Skomm’s head back and lifting him high and far. When he landed limply, the Vald went berserk and demands of payment from both sides were made. Fylkin raised a hand as he moved to kneel beside the man. Everyone waited in anticipation.
“He yet breathes!” declared the chiefson.
The winners cheered and the losers booed.
“Double or nothin’!” Kroll demanded.
“A bet’s a bet, my friend; pay up,” said Fylkin with his hand out.
Reluctantly Kroll handed over the lost coinage.
“Who is up next?” Fylkin asked and tossed back another drink.
An enormous Vald stepped forward and began to walk the line of quivering Skomm. He grabbed one of the biggest and dragged him next to the fire.
“Ten coins says I kill this Skomm with one finger!” he said, holding up his hand and pointing upward.
“Who will take Icetooth’s bet?” Fylkin asked.
The Vald broke out into frantic betting. Talon dared a peek at the condemned man. He held his head high, intent on at last
regaining his lost dignity.
“No finger through the eye!” one of the Vald yelled before also taking the bet.
“Would be too easy,” Icetooth replied with a devilish grin.
Bets placed, Icetooth squared on the Skomm man. He pointed a long finger down at the man’s head and pulled back his arm as if pulling a bowstring. Talon couldn’t help but watch from under his brow. Icetooth took one step forward and jabbed the man in the throat as hard as he could. The Skomm man immediately brought his hands up to his throat and made a retching sound as he stumbled backward, tripping over the stone and falling into the bonfire. Talon turned away horrified as the man went up in flames, scattering burning wood in all directions and thrashing wildly to get out of the fire. He soon stopped moving as the flames devoured him.
“Ha, ha!” Icetooth raised his hands triumphantly, and instantly an argument broke out.
“He died from the fire!” one of the losers yelled.
“You said with one finger!” another added.
“I used only a finger…and now he is dead!” Icetooth laughed heartily with his hand out. “Ain’t my fault he fell into the fire.”
“I call for a Domari!” said one.
“Yes, we need a judgment!” another agreed.
“Endrbaga!” Fylkin roared and began walking down the line of cowering Skomm. Talon sunk lower and put his head down until his chin touched his chest. The Chiefson was coming down the line and only a few dozen Skomm separated him from Talon.
“You!” he said, pointing to one of the Skomm men. “You be the judge.”
“That filthy Draugr ain’t no Domari!” Icetooth protested.
Fylkin led the man to stand before Icetooth, and the barbarian scowled down on him.
“We all have a stake in the outcome; the Draugr will decide,” said Fylkin. “So what will it be Skomm? Did the mighty Icetooth kill the feikin Throwback or nay?”
Safely concealed for the time being, Talon snuck a peek at his fellow villager. The man looked nervously from Icetooth to the still burning corpse and gulped.
“Ice…Icetooth…”
“Speak up, Throwback!” Fylkin yelled.
“Icetooth killed him with his finger,” the Skomm said in a quivering voice.
Icetooth roared victoriously, and the losers booed but paid up. One of the Vald who had bet a large sum against Icetooth growled and grabbed the Skomm man by his hair and ankle and lifted him over his head. With a heave, he threw him ten feet to land in the fire. The other Vald laughed and guzzled back their spirits, which dribbled down bare chests carved out of thick slabs of muscle.
“Let the test of the blades begin!” Fylkin declared, and the Vald cheered.
“The measure will begin with five bodies. Line them up,” Fylkin ordered, and a few Vald grabbed five of the Skomm and forced them roughly onto long logs set down by the other Vald. The five Skomm—men and women alike—were laid down one on top of the other. One of the Vald unsheathed a long, gleaming sword nearly a foot thick and raised it to the firelight.
“Newly forged from the fires of Styrkr himself; his name is Amattugr! And he will cut through ten bodies!”
“That may be so, but we begin with five, Warhorse,” Fylkin laughed. “Who will challenge Warhorse and the mighty Amattugr?”
“My blade, Faela, will cut through eleven bodies!” came the challenge.
The challenging Vald stepped forth and drew his great sword. It was longer than Talon—and likely weighed near as much.
“Gimmalder has answered the challenge; place your bets!” said Fylkin.
Talon glanced down the line of Skomm and his stomach turned. The dwarven whiskey threatened to come up, and Talon was forced to choke it down.
Are they really going to test their blades on us? This is madness! he thought.
Many of the Vald came forth to steady the quivering pile by holding tight to the Skomm’s arms and legs. Gimmalder laid his longsword across the lower back of the man who lay atop the pile; he pulled back Faela with a roar and swung down hard. Talon closed his eyes tightly as the sword tore through their stomachs and hit the wood below. With a triumphant cry, Gimmalder raised his bloody blade to the heavens.
The Vald discarded the dead off to the side, and six more Skomm were picked from the lineup and placed one atop the other. This time Warhorse brought his blade Amattugr to bear. He tossed his bone necklace around to his back and lifted his sword high. With a grunt he chopped through all six Skomm. Talon had never seen so much blood. It pooled around the logs and hissed where it sprayed the fire. The two bare-chested Vald barbarians smeared the blood on their faces and even licked their fingers, laughing all the while.
Talon knew he would surely die; only he and six others remained. As he stared at the ground, heavy boots stopped directly in front of him. A big hand the size of his head grabbed his face, and he was forced to look into the gleaming eyes of Fylkin.
“Look what we have here,” the chiefson grinned. “Put this one on the bottom of the heap!” he yelled and pushed Talon to the ground. Another Vald picked him up and he was placed on his back on the logs. The remaining Skomm villagers were piled on top, end to end so their bellies lined up. Talon thought he might be crushed before the sword fell. One of the women tried to flee, but the laughing Vald grabbed her and knocked her out. The Skomm above him cried while they prayed; he would have joined them had he been able to draw breath beneath the crushing weight.
Talon hoped he would pass out soon and not feel the biting blade cut through him. From his vantage point at the bottom of the pile, he watched as two timber wolves chewed on the remains of the piled dead. He wanted to turn away from the sight but could not; neither could he close his eyes. He watched as Warhorse brought his sword up to his face and closed his eyes as if in prayer. He spat on the shining steel and took up his stance before the Skomm. Those who had bet on him cheered him on, while his opponents declared the feat impossible. Time slowed as Talon teetered on the brink of consciousness. In his last moments, he thought of his mother, Chief, and Akkeri.
The sword fell.
Talon heard the gruesome crunch as the heavy sword came down in a powerful strike. Warhorse gave a mighty roar, and the weight of the blow was crushing. The blade bit through them one after another, and stopped.
The man directly on top of Talon gave a startled cry that turned into a gargle of blood. A river of blood washed over Talon, and Fylkin’s big boots came into his waning vision. The chiefson’s eyes found Talon’s as the big barbarian knelt beside the stacked bodies.
“One yet lives; Gimmalder is the winner!” he bellowed to the cheers of many Vald. He peered again at Talon. “A lucky one you are, Plagueborn. We will see how lucky you are when I come for you on Freista. On the night of death, you will be first.”
Talon watched him walk away, and his vision went red as the rivers of blood covered his face and he passed out.
“Get these poor souls off of him!” Talon vaguely heard Jahsin screaming; he no longer sounded drunk. The crushing weight of the other villagers stacked on top of him lessened as they were dragged off. Many hands lifted him from the blood-soaked logs and set him down on the ground far from the fire and pools of red. He frantically wiped at his eyes and fought the hands that held him. Through blurred vision he saw Jahsin and Majhree standing over him.
A shrill scream issued nearby as he fought to break free of Jahsin’s grip. He soon realized the shriek was his own. Jahsin helped him to stand and Talon tore from his one-armed grip. He ran as fast as he could toward the small river snaking through the Skomm village.
“Talon!” both Jahsin and Akkeri yelled after him.
He tore at his shirt as he ran, desperately trying to be free of the blood-soaked clothes. He was still screaming but he couldn’t stop; the sound kept him from his thoughts and his visions of mutilated bodies piled high.
Finally he made it to the stream and fell into the icy waters. He thrashed about and scrubbed and scratched at his skin, desper
ate to be rid of the blood. A strangled cry escaped him as he scratched at himself. Someone crashed into the water and came to him. Arms wrapped around him and held him tight. He fought the embrace until Akkeri’s soft voice spoke to him.
“It’s all right, Talon; it’s over. I am here; it’s over,” she promised.
“It will never be over,” said Talon through his sobs. “I’m getting us off this insane island, Akkeri, if it’s the last thing I do!”
Across the stream he saw the white owl perched atop a hut, watching him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DARING TO DREAM
IN THAT strange land of giants, I found a child of death—cursed at birth, hated by all, yet his heart is kind, his eyes open. How could I ignore such purity?
—Azzeal, 4997
Gimmalder’s greatsword had cut through to the spine of the Skomm man stacked on top of Talon, and when he retracted it angrily, the tip of the blade cut down across Talon’s side. The cut proved shallow and not life-threatening, but Majhree insisted he stay in bed to heal.
Talon found himself in the lowest mood he had ever known. Food was ash in his mouth, and water carried the copper taste of blood. His life was hopeless. Akkeri and Jahsin tried to lift his spirits but to no avail. Fylkin had promised to kill him during the Freista, which was in only two months. Talon felt trapped. He was stuck on Volnoss, separated from the mainland of Agora by nearly twenty miles of water, and he was stuck in the skin of a weakling, unable to control his own fate, unable to fight the giant Vald.
His mind incessantly showed him images of the slaughtered Skomm villagers. Twenty had been killed; for some reason, he had not. Surely there were better people among them. Why had he survived? He didn’t deserve it; he had never been good for anyone around him. His mother died because of him, and his father was robbed of a Vald son.
Kreal Windwalker was well-liked by the tribe and would have been elected chief—if elections occurred. In Volnoss a chief could only be made through victory. Should the tribe grow to dislike a chief, they could select a warrior to challenge him—a challenger with a son of age, a Vald son. Talon’s amma had told him that his father had hoped he would be such a son, but he was not; he was a runt, a Throwback—he was Skomm.
