Exodus: The Windwalker Archive: Book 3 (Legends of Agora) (21 page)

The exodus has begun. Until now it was only the memory of a dream vision, only the ramblings of a crazy lady. But Gretzen show them all who’s crazy. Gretzen show them in the end.

-Gretzen Spiritbone

They arrived many hours later, having marched miles before reaching the eastern outskirts of the village. The Vald were waiting for them, but they were not prepared for the tens of thousands who were quickly descending upon them. Their eyes grew wide when they saw the army of Skomm, and they grew wider still at the sight of Chief leading the migration.

“Krellr Troda! Krellr Warg!” they declared, awestruck.

The Vald parted for the group as it began to file into the village along the road leading to the coast.

The Skomm made their way to the center square, and Talon put down beside the burnt-out ceremonial fire pit.

“Chieftain Winterthorn! I have come here to offer a challenge!” said Talon, eyeing the gathered Vald, who stood on the other side of the wide circle, glaring at the Skomm.

“Who has spoken such words!” came a growling voice from beyond the surrounding tents.

The crowd of Vald parted, and Chief Winterthorn walked into the circle, followed by a snide-looking Fylkin.

“Plagueborn,” he said with a grin.

Chief Winterthorn raised a hand to silence his son and the crowd. He walked across the circle and stopped a few feet from Talon, glaring down on him with a look of disgust.

“Windwalker,” he said, glancing back at Fylkin with disapproval. “You and everyone with you will die this day. Yet you stand before me offering this ridiculous challenge.”

“I have a right to challenge you,” said Talon, standing his ground bravely.

Winterthorn laughed, and many of the Vald joined in. “You have no heir with which to offer challenge.”

“I am the heir. I offer this challenge in the name of my father, Kreal Windwalker!”

Winterthorn laughed once more and glanced around at his tribesmen. “Windwalker? He has no Vald son.”

“I am a Vald,” said Talon, causing many to share confused glances. “I have claimed Bjodja, and I have slain many more than three Vald.”

“Who might speak to this feat?” Winterthorn asked, spreading his arms and circling.

“I bore witness to it,” came a voice, and Talon was relieved to see Felltree.

Winterthorn whirled around and eyed the man as he shouldered through the crowd. “You have asked, my chief, and I have answered. When the Skomm pirates hit the harbor, I was there. I saw this man defeat six of our brethren.”

“These Skomm cannot be punished for following me here,” said Talon. “For they were obeying my command, the command of a Vald.”

The Vald and Skomm watched on, enthralled.

“As well as being a Vald, I have gained the favor of the spirit of Timber Wolf Tribe. Chief!”

A blue light streaked through the crowd and shot around the circle, coming to rest at Talon’s side. Chief shimmered and sparkled in the sunlight, and shot back his head and gave a long proud howl.

Winterthorn was for a moment taken aback, but he quickly composed himself. “Your devilry means nothing! You are no Vald, you are a Skomm, plagueborn, throwback!” The chief stalked toward him with every word and finally unsheathed his eight-foot sword. “Kill him!”

A half dozen armed Vald rushed forward, but a voice suddenly split the air.

“Halt!”

All eyes turned to see the speaker, and Talon’s heart leapt to see Kreal shoulder through the crowd wearing well-worn armor. Murmured whispers echoed through both crowds as the Vald parted for Kreal. Talon’s father walked past Fylkin without looking at him, his eyes set on Chieftain Winterthorn. He came to stand before Talon and stared down on his son with a face unreadable.

To Talon’s utter shock, Kreal laid a hand on his shoulder and turned to face the Chief. “Chieftain Winterthorn. I challenge your claim of chief. I present my Vald son, Talon Windwalker, as my heir.”

Winterthorn glared at the both of them with hate-filled eyes. Fylkin came to stand beside his father, and leveled murderous, jeering eyes on Talon.

The chief glanced around to gauge the crowd. By the look on their faces, Talon realized that they agreed with Kreal’s claim.

“So be it,” said Winterthorn, turning back and staring Kreal in the eye. “Your challenge is accepted.”

“A challenge has been made!” someone from the crowd yelled, and the proclamation was taken up by all.

Winterthorn offered Talon and his father one last glare and turned and put an arm around Fylkin before walking away and pulling him in conspiratorially.

“Father…I can’t believe you ca—”

“Get your head out of the clouds, Windwalker,” said Kreal, pulling him off to the side. “We are about to fight for our lives, and for the title of chief and chiefson. Save your sentiments until after the blood is soaked up by the ground.”

“Yes, Father,” said Talon, unable to stop his grinning.

His heart fluttered in his chest, and Kyrr burned brightly on his hand.

“You cannot use the wolf,” said Kreal, eyeing Chief, who stood beside Talon, cocking his head to the side at the mention of his name.

“What? Why not? This is Timber Wolf Tribe, is it not? The spirit has chosen m—”

“He is Gretzen’s devilry. You do not fool me, boy. Leave him out of the fight. They have no such . . .weapon.”

Talon eyed his father, wanting to argue, but thinking better of the idea. “You heard him, Chief. If something happens to me, you just protect the Skomm.”

Chief barked, and Kreal eyed Talon.

“What is the meaning of their presence?”

“We’ll talk about that after we win,” said Talon.

Kreal nodded and glanced over his shoulder at their opponents. The Vald had gone to work quickly, lighting the ceremonial fire at the center of the circle and laying out stones that no one should cross. Within the wide circle of rune-covered stones, the chief and his son would face their challengers, and history would be made.

Everyone backed away from the circle and created a ring of bodies around the growing pyre. Chief Winterthorn, Fylkin, Kreal, and Talon remained inside. A tall, robed Vald entered the ring, holding a thick leather book with bound pages. He moved between the four men and raised a hand to the heavens, quieting the anxious crowds of Vald and Skomm.

He began to chant in the Vald language, and many others took up the song. They spoke to Thodin, god of gods, and Styrkr, god of strength. They asked that the gods choose the next chief, and guide their blades in offering judgement.

“As tradition dictates,” said the robed man as the chanting died down to a murmur, “he who is left standing shall be named chief. Be it the chief, the challenger, or their sons. The outcome of this challenge shall be held as sacred law, passed down by Thodin himself, and it will be respected as such!”

Kreal leaned in while the speaker spoke of past challenges, and the winners of such battles.

“You hold off Fylkin long enough for me to deal with his father. I’ll do the rest.”

Talon smiled up at his father and unsheathed his daggers. “I plan to kill Fylkin. You just deal with the chief.”

Kreal raised a brow to that and nodded. Together Talon and his father stepped forward to stand beside the fire. Chief Winterthorn and Fylkin strode forth as well, and the speaker came to stand between them.

He raised a shaking hand to the heavens and bellowed, “Let the first sacrifice be given!”

A lamb was brought forward and its throat was slit. The Vald who had brought it backed away, letting it bleed out in peace.

“With the blood of the lamb, I call to Thodin, god of gods.”

Two Skomm girls were brought to stand before the witchdoctor, and blades were brought to their necks.

“To the goddess of love, I offer these—”

“Let them go!” Talon yelled, shocking the crowd.

The speaker glanced at Winterthorn, who offered a snide grin. “Continue!”

The knives were pulled across the girls’ soft necks, and the blood of the Skomm virgins soiled the grass.

“No!” Talon screamed, charging forth before the speaker could get out of the way and batting him aside with his increased strength.

Kreal and Chief Winterthorn clashed as Talon sped past the speaker and descended upon Fylkin. His daggers worked in a blur of furious motion as Talon knocked back the big sword and quickly went for the neck. To his surprise, Fylkin met his speed and parried hard, smashing Talon in the face with the hilt of his sword.

Talon reared back. To his right, Kreal and Winterthorn were locked in heated battle.

“You’re not the only one with elven magic, plagueborn!” said Fylkin.

Talon noticed then the red glowing ring on Fylkin’s hand. Kyrr flared with his rage, and he came on again, stronger this time.

He lashed out with a strike that would have slashed Fylkin’s throat, but the big Vald moved with the strike quicker than was natural. He parried and left Talon dancing back, so swift was his long sword. Talon received a slash to his left shoulder that cut through his leather armor and painted it red.

He winced and reeled back in a spin, but Fylkin only came on harder. Talon parried an overhead strike with his daggers, sending the sword out wide and thrusting forth with the right-hand blade. Fylkin slapped the strike wide and kicked with a big boot that took Talon in the chest and sent him flying back to land on the ground hard.

Talon scrambled to his feet and found Fylkin. To his horror, the chiefson lunged forth with a strike meant to impale Kreal, who was locked in combat with Chief Winterthorn. Talon cried out and whipped his right-hand dagger, which spun through the air and caught Fylkin in the wrist right before the blade plunged into Kreal’s heart.

Fylkin dropped the blade and cradled his injured hand. Talon pounced on the weakened foe, throwing his left-hand dagger at Fylkin’s chest. To his surprise, the big Vald slapped it away, even as Talon unsheathed his short sword and came on spinning and struck at Fylkin’s side.

Fylkin caught it under his arm and grabbed ahold of Talon’s throat, quickly squeezing the life out of him. Talon instinctively dropped the blade and grabbed ahold of Fylkin’s arms, which were knotted and thick as an old birch.

The red ring on Fylkin’s finger flared to match Kyrr’s overwhelming glow. Fylkin backhanded Talon, sending him spinning to the dirt. He kicked the short sword away and stepped on Talon’s throat when he turned over. Talon caught the boot and gave a great heave, scrambling out of the way when Fylkin staggered back.

Kreal and the chief exchanged heavy blows with their giant swords, which sparked and screeched angrily when they came together. Fylkin had returned to take up his blade and now charged across the circle toward the other two combatants. Talon glanced around frantically for his weapons, but finding that his short sword and daggers were too far away, he ran to the fire and pulled out a long, burning log. He rushed around the pyre to intercept Fylkin as he bore down on Kreal.

Talon gave a warning cry as the chiefson brought his sword back for the strike. Kreal turned and blocked it in time, but left himself open to Winterthorn, who quickly took advantage of his distracted foe and slashed him down the back.

Kreal cried out in pain, and Talon swung the burning log at the chief, hoping to give his father time to get out from between the two opponents. Winterthorn’s heavy sword sliced through the burning log easily. The blow nearly twirled Talon around in a circle, but he dug in and spun back around, throwing what was left of the wood at the chief. It hit Winterthorn square in the chest and knocked him back as he was cocking back for another swing.

Fylkin cried out suddenly, and Talon turned in time to see Kreal lift the chiefson over his head and heave him into the fire. Talon wasted no time and ran around the fire to retrieve his weapons. He found a dagger and his short sword and took them up even as Fylkin emerged from the fire, trailing smoke and burning embers. He gave a cry of rage and joined his father on an attack on Kreal that left the man peddling back and working furiously to block the blows.

Talon charged across the circle in a flash and slashed the back of the chief’s leg before stabbing Fylkin in the side. Fylkin spun, bringing his heavy blade around, and caught Talon in the shoulder. Pain shot through his arm, but he ignored it and engaged Fylkin in combat once more. He attacked with as much speed and power as he could muster, but Fylkin somehow paced him, turning back the quick strikes with his longsword. If he felt any pain from the flames and the stab to his side, he didn’t show it. Try as he might, Talon could not get inside the swing of that big sword. He hoped that Fylkin would eventually tire, but the Vald showed no signs of fatigue. His wild, deranged eyes seemed to see every strike coming, and his feet moved with the same speed and grace as Talon’s. He knew it was the effect of the mysterious red glowing ring on his hand, which seemed to be akin to Kyrr, giving Fylkin increased speed and agility. The chief seemed to have no such ring, and so Talon abandoned his attack on Fylkin and ran the short distance to engage Winterthorn. Fylkin hurried after him, giving Talon only one chance to strike. He leapt through the air and came down with his blade at Winterthorn’s back, but the man spun around suddenly and knocked it away with his sword, sending Talon flying to the side.