Chapter 1
“THINK I SHOULD GO FOR the eye or the heart?”
Dwapek’s father, Aldrek, the Sachem of their tribe, remained silent as they trudged toward the Veld.
Excitement over his first hunt was too great to be cowed by the strong winds that caused the occasional word to go missing.
“Father! Father!”
Aldrek reluctantly looked Dwapek’s way.
All right, he’s listening. “Should I go for the eye or the heart? How about the throat?”
Sachem Aldrek’s round, pronounced nose crinkled before he returned to face forward. “I think you should be preparing yourself for the silence of the Veld, should you succeed. This is not one of your frivolous sagas, this is reality. Do not fool with fancy.” His father lengthened his stride and Dwapek fell behind, his zeal deflated.
His mother, Geothelis, reached over and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll change his tune once he sees how hard you’ve been working to improve. Just you wait.”
Dwapek acknowledged his mother’s comforting words with a nod, then slowed to avoid further conversation. He appreciated the sentiment, but his father was at least partially right: he needed to prepare. He would have to outthrow his father before he was even eligible to enter the Veld, let alone join the hunt. He should not be wasting time commiserating with his mother. He was here to prove his manhood.
Up ahead, Dwapek spotted a Renzik camp. He quickly counted seven caribou-skin tents, all in the domed style, which meant they likely belonged to a hunting party much like their own, only from Tribe Ash. Dwapek sighed in annoyance, for it would be considered rude to pass by without stopping to break bread with their kinsmen. Considering the lack of cookfire smoke, this would cost them half a day.
As they drew closer, Dwapek saw no movement. Had the entire party drunk themselves into a late-morning slumber? No sooner did Dwapek have this thought than his foot hit something hard in the tall grass. He tripped and fell to the side, cursing. The ordinarily soft, wavy grass leading up to the Veld felt more like brittle straw against his face. Rising to his feet, he attempted to locate the cause of his untimely fall.
He expected a small, downed tree, perhaps an unseen rock. Instead, he found a deerskin boot. What’s a boot doing out—
He gasped as the grass stirred in the breeze, revealing the rest of the body. An unmoving body. The twisted expression of torment frozen upon the corpse’s face told of great suffering. Dwapek was soon joined by five others, staring wide-eyed at the horrifying corpse. The wind picked up and Dwapek caught the stench of the death’s rot. He turned away and gagged.
His father yelled, “Check for survivors.”
As Dwapek turned to regard the rest of the camp, he noticed another discomforting oddity: the grass. It was brown and bent awkwardly in the wind. The crunching that accompanied each step confirmed what he had been thinking: it was all dead. Everything here was dead.
The others in the party fanned out, and Dwapek played his role. Reluctantly opening the flap of the nearest tent, he recoiled as a powerful stench of decay assailed him and he stumbled out coughing.
The entirety of the camp was gone. Dwapek saw the beads and headdress of a Shaman outfitting a corpse that seemed to have perished in the middle of crawling, perhaps in some vain attempt to escape whatever had befallen this place. The image was more disturbing than even the stench. How could an entire camp of people die like this? The grass, too?
“No flesh wounds,” said his father. “We should not linger here. They have been cursed.”
Shaman Varik nodded in agreement. “Dark magic. Let us say the words and be gone.”
“We need to bury them!” shouted Theresak, her voice cracking with anger. “We can’t just leave them for the—”
Shaman Varik cut her off. “We know not the cause of such affliction, but whatever it was, it took every last soul. The very soil beneath our boots has been damned! To handle these bodies could mean to share in their fate. Let us gather round, say the words, and be gone. We may have already done too much.”
The group resumed their march toward the Veld. Dwapek’s father finally asked Shaman Varik, “What offense could bring about such wrath?”
The Shaman shook his head. “I cannot imagine. Let us just pray we remain in the favor of the Earthmother and her children.”
The party moved on in silence. Dwapek felt a heavy cloak of guilt weighing down each step, the burden of avoiding whatever misfortune had befallen the others. This was irrational and unjustified, he knew, but the feeling lingered nonetheless, tempering his ability to fully prepare himself for what was to come.
The boy finally found his strength, wiped tears shed for the fallen, and chided himself. Feeling sorry will not bring a single one of them back. Father is right. I need to prepare my mind for the throw, as well as my silence. As soon as they passed the ridge marking the beginning of the Veld, speech of any kind would be strictly prohibited until reaching the Valley of Nar. Violating this sacred law was punishable by tribal banishment. This, of course, seemed a triviality after what he’d just witnessed. Apparently the gods were taking a more active role in assuring vengeance of all kinds.
Not long after, the group of fifteen Renzik male and female hunters fanned out to form a line before a spire of weathered stone shaped to resemble a spear, though Dwapek had to use his imagination to see it. This stone was surrounded by brittle grass and a smattering of misshapen bushes and small trees. No other vegetation was stubborn enough to endeavor against the cold, windy steppe known as the Veld. The distant ridge marking the Veld was perhaps half a day’s walk, a place of blessings and curses, monsters, and sustenance. They had arrived.
Dwapek stepped into the vacant space between the tribal Sachem and his mother. His nerves swirled in his stomach like winter flakes blown down from the north. In just a few days, he could—no, he would—return a full-fledged Renzik man, earning not only the respect of his tribe but perhaps also that of his father. He had been waiting for this day his entire life!
He stood in silent anticipation as Shaman Varik raised his staff and spoke. “The first stage in a Renzik’s ascent to adulthood is the throw. As is tradition, the father of the Renzik in question will throw his spear in the direction of the Veld. If no such father lives, or is able, a sponsor will take this role. Who stands to throw on behalf of the eligible Renzik, Dwapek?”
Silence.
Dwapek dared not look over at his father, the Sachem.
Gods, why isn’t he moving? He wouldn’t let me come all this way only to deny me the right, would he? I’m of age!
Just as Dwapek gathered the courage to turn his head and question his father, the Sachem stepped forward and spoke loudly, if unenthusiastically. “I, Sachem Aldrek of Tribe Danswa, stand for Dwapek of Tribe Danswa.”
His father’s hesitation was further evidence to Dwapek of Aldrek’s disdain. Intentional or not, the barb stung.
Shaman Varik resumed the ritual speech with stoic indifference. “The father will now step forward and throw his spear into the Veld with all his might.” In truth, the father’s spear was nearly always thrown with minimal effort to ensure the child wasn’t barred from the hunt by something of mere symbolic value. However, Dwapek had no such illusions; he would have been a fool to believe that his father would make this easy for him. “The Renzik in question must then outthrow their father, a sign that the new generation has come to usher in renewal of body and mind to the tribe.”
The thought transported Dwapek back to the roving merchant whose visit had finalized Aldrek’s contempt toward his son. Dwapek vividly recalled his first and only encounter with visitors from the land of men to the south. Those humans had been twice and more the height of the tallest Renzik, though not nearly as thick.
Most Renziks had believed humans to be more legend than truth until they arrived in the village. Reading about them was one thing, but these were in the flesh. Tall, gangly merchants seeking trade like any other. As was customary among Dwapek’s people, the guests had been invited to share a meal by the fire before any discussion of commerce was permitted. Dwapek and the other children had kept their distance while the adults broke bread. The following day, the wagons had been set up to display their wares.
Dwapek hid behind a tent with the other children, spying on the party of men, feeling very clever as he asked, “Why do men wear boots filled with rocks?”
The others looked around confusedly. A perpetually annoying girl named Fusa whined, “Humans do not wear rocks in their boots.”
“Sure they do,” replied Dwapek as he winked at the others. “Because if they didn’t, they’d blow away in the wind!”
This had elicited the desired laughter, but as the chuckles died down, one remained: deeper, throatier than the rest. This was no child. Dwapek whirled to see who had invaded their private show. “Hey! What are you—”
Dwapek stared directly at the waist of a human. His blue eyes slowly drifted up to stare into the shadowy darkness behind the drawn cowl of the tallest two-legged figure he’d ever seen. From the darkness came a voice, calm, emotionless, and terrifying. “You know, there are those among us who would rival your kind with their stoutly shape. They require no stone in their shoes.” He winked at Dwapek. “I, however, find that such shapeliness does not do well on the road, thus my companions remain wary of blowing away in the wind. Hah! I do enjoy a good jibe.”
Dwapek was speechless. The man didn’t appear offended, that was good.
Then Dwapek’s mother, Geothelis, said, “Hey! What’s going on over here? You younglings bothering our honored guest?”
The human released another hearty laugh, bowing slightly as the Sachem’s wife approached. “Not at all. Not at all. In fact, I was venturing into the village to see if anyone was brave enough to try their might with the Blade of Taldronis.”
All eyes widened in surprise, then shot to Geothelis, begging for permission to follow this man. Her expression hardened and the excitement in the air vanished. “We’ve no such bravery in our midst.” Then she raised an eyebrow. “Do we?”
The stale silence hovered a moment before exploding with cheers from the children as they rushed to follow the thin man toward the wagons, Dwapek foremost among them.
Deleanor, a female Renzik with beautiful jade-green eyes, gripped Dwapek’s coat as they went. “Can you believe it? The Blade of Taldronis!”
Everyone knew the stories, but that didn’t stop an excited Deleanor from restating the legend. “The blade was a gift from the Earthmother after Sachem Faeldrek knelt before her on behalf of the seven tribes, marking the beginning of the covenant of the tribes.”
Pendrik chimed in from the left, “The eight tribes.”
She gave him a quizzical look.
“The Forsaken? Remember?” He said this as if she’d forgotten her own name.
She rolled her eyes. The Forsaken were one of the original eight tribes, banished from the land centuries ago. An irrelevant clarification.
“Anyway, they say every single stone in the temple of the gods was cut with the magic of the Blade of Taldronis. Few have been deemed worthy enough to wield it, as the magic only works for the pure of heart.”
A crowd gathered at a massive, colorfully painted wagon drawn by an equally mammoth equine. To call the creature a horse would be liken to calling a human a Renzik. The difference in size was too extreme. The horses in these lands were hardly large enough to be ridden by Renzik children, while the creature pulling the wagon stood taller than this human’s already towering form. How such things had been transported from the southern lands of men was as great a mystery to Dwapek as the question of the treasures concealed within the wagon itself.
The gathered children continued to chatter about the various myths surrounding the blade and Dwapek likewise returned to such thoughts. The blade was said to have had gone missing centuries ago, rumors and fakes emerging every now and again. All had proven false, and Dwapek had little hope that today would be any different, but the possibility was exciting, nonetheless.
Dwapek’s eyes were drawn to a stack of leather-bound books among the man’s wares. He wondered if they held stories from the land of men and, if so, what quests they might entail? What manner of monsters might they include? Of course, his father would sooner pay for dung than allow Dwapek to purchase more stories. Aldrek resented Dwapek’s obsession with the few works his mother had brought to their family. He said reading made a man weak. Reading was for the keepers to keep.
The merchant flourished his hands and suddenly there appeared an onyx dagger with a golden hilt beset with white stones. The books may as well have disappeared. Gasps escaped the onlookers, followed by cheers.
The merchant asked them all, “Who among you believes themselves worthy of the Blade of Taldronis?”
The hand of every child shot up in an instant, along with those of several adult Renziks playing along.
A line formed as the man produced a stone the size of a skull and set it on a wooden stool for the test. The merchant hushed the onlookers with a gesture, then handed the blade to the first in line, Genevor, an especially plump female Renzik. She raised the blade over her head, eagerly preparing to plunge the inky-black weapon into the stone before her. “Whoa,” warned the man. “Many aspiring heroes have sliced palms or worse in their zeal to cut the stone. Just press the energy of the world into the knife, and if you’re worthy, the blade will sink into the stone with little effort.”
Genevor slumped slightly, then she stabbed the blade into the stone—or, rather, at the stone. It bounced off with a loud twang, then fell from her hands as she yelped. She received only a slight nick, but it was enough to keep everyone else in check as they made their own attempts.
A disappointed Deleanor turned and pressed the hilt of the knife into Dwapek’s hand. “If anyone is worthy, it’s you.” She smiled warmly before stepping away from the stone.
Warmed by the sentiment, Dwapek wanted nothing more than to prove her words true. According to the human, utilizing the blade required the wielder to push the magic of the world into the knife. This was something most Renziks could handle. It would be rarer that a Renzik be unable to wield at least some measure of the residual gift left over from creation.
Dwapek was suddenly nervous. No matter how much he doubted himself, he could not completely discard hope.
He drew power from within the earth beneath his feet. He had to reach deeper than normal after so many others had taxed the most immediate natural energy. Manipulating the Earthmother’s power had always come easily to Dwapek, but as the son of a Sachem, excellence in every way was a foregone conclusion. Unfortunately, he was little more than ordinary. And being ordinary, for him, meant he was an utter disappointment to his father.
But still, the Blade of Taldronis . . . ordinary or not, he had to try. He pressed the power he’d drawn into the blade and felt the alloy drink it hungrily. Then he swung the knife slowly, not wishing to embarrass himself as some of the others had. He closed one eye and turned his head as if expecting some terrible fate to befall him upon his inevitable failure. Except . . . the knife continued right into the stone, stopping only at the hilt.
Those nearest him gasped in surprise and the human spoke loudly, drawing the attention of everyone else. “At long last, a wielder worthy of the blade!”
Dwapek recalled vividly the feeling of triumph, the effortlessness of the knife as it slid through stone with such ease it could have been cutting into water.
And then all came crashing down. Sachem Aldrek’s voice cut the cheers to pieces in an instant. “What’s this?”
After the situation was explained, Aldrek’s attitude changed. “Ah, so there’s hope for the boy after all.” He held out a hand for the blade and Dwapek obliged. “If Dwapek is the only one to have succeeded, then our Shamans have done poorly with this generation.”
Geothelis said, “Actually, several of our more skilled adults also—”
Aldrek spoke over her. “It’s no wonder we struggle to remain relevant among the tribes.”
Dwapek felt his father draw in power before stabbing at the large rock. It skidded and sparked harmlessly to the side, and Aldrek cursed. He dropped the knife, blood oozing from his open palm, then whirled on the human. “What game are you playing at, swindler?”
The hooded figure ignored Aldrek’s question as he retrieved the tool. He finally said, “The magic of this blade perceives more than just current ability. It—”
“A parlor trick at the expense of my authority and my people! Take your wiles and be gone. Return to this land at your own peril, for it will mean your deaths.”
Geothelis said, “But what of the Blade of Taldronis? Our son is able to—”
“The Blade of Taldronis is a myth. This blade is a ploy.”
Still, the damage had been done. That Aldrek’s son had surpassed him in his command of the Earthmother’s gifts were the least of the rumors that spread in the following days. Dwapek even heard stories of “wielder adept.” Apparently being more than ordinary was only acceptable so long as it didn’t outmatch the skills of his father.
“Don’t go around thinking you’re something special. A cruel game is all that was. Probably paid to come here by Sachem Horgath or Sachem Taeldrek. Perhaps both. They’d love to see me ousted after opposing their plans to negotiate new borders. Petty and foolish to think such a trivial act would work. Only a fool would believe a child like you could outmatch the skills of a Sachem. My enemies grow desperate.”
Shame overwhelmed Dwapek as he realized the role he’d played in his enemy’s games, a cruel betrayal of the gods. “I’m sorry, Father.”
Aldrek waved a hand. “Fetch your mother some water for dinner. I believe you are worthy of that task.”
Dwapek had not seen another human, nor had he heard another kind word from his father, since.
He shook his head to clear it of the traumatizing memory. He needed positive thoughts. Waiting for the throw, Geothelis offered a warm, reassuring smile that calmed Dwapek’s nerves and gave him the confidence that everything would go according to plan, that this hunt would be one of the best experiences of his life. She had asked her own brother to work with him on his throwing technique, and Dwapek had poured his heart and soul into the training that would prepare him for this very moment. A moment that would prove his worth as a Renzik.
Sachem Aldrek raised his spear.
So it begins . . .
***
Dwapek’s father stepped back, cocked his arm, and a tingle of summoned energy could be felt flowing forth from the earth. With a few short shuffles forward, Aldrek slammed his fur-covered boot into the ground and sent his spear spiraling into the northerly wind. It flew like a meteor, striking the distant knee-high grass with such force Dwapek almost thought he heard the thud. The wooden shaft flexed upon impact.
The onlookers gasped, as did Dwapek as he stared at the mark so far from where they stood. He realized his training had been all for naught. He could not hope to outdo this throw. He would soon be on his way back to the foothills and their village, unable to participate in the hunt, unable to attend tribal meetings, unable to even take a wife. Beautiful Deleanor, his “promised,” would be so disappointed. He could picture her grief-stricken expression, or perhaps even anger, maybe betrayal. Surely she would turn her attention elsewhere once she realized she would have to wait at least another year, only for him to fail again.
Why? Why did his father hate him so? It couldn’t all stem from the visit from the humans, could it? Perhaps he wasn’t suited to rule the tribe as his father and grandfather had, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t contribute. His father’s doubt hurt, but it also infuriated him. Who was Aldrek to decide when he was ready to be a man? Sachem or not, this was beyond the scope of his dominion. Well, according to tradition, it was not, but it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It won’t happen like this.
Dwapek gritted his teeth and rolled his throwing shoulder to loosen the muscles. His tan deerskin coat was tied at the waist with a leather belt. His jacket and boots, worn, comfortable, and familiar, allowed unfettered movement while his wool underclothes kept his temperature perfectly regulated in such a cold, unforgiving climate. A leather jerkin and various matching patches added a layer of protection from the wide array of dangers that might lurk in the Veld and beyond.
Shaking out his nerves, he hefted his spear, and with the full fury of his rage pumping through his veins, he glared at the ridge that separated the southern foothills from the Veld. Then he whispered a prayer. “Earthmother, I beseech thee to borrow the power of thy world, for it is not mine to take but thine to give.” Dwapek extended his mind into the world around him, reaching for the residual energy he would need to surpass his father’s throw. There was enough strength in the grass to fill him, but it would resist his pull and he would waste much of his own energy just trying to extract it. He searched deeper, finding sod, but it was filled with living grubs, worms, and creatures unknown, which would also limit the efficiency of the power he drew. Then he felt what he was really looking for: hard stone just an arm’s length beneath the grassy sod. He opened his mind fully to grip the energy hiding within, then drew it deeply. Dwapek pulled in as much as his young body could handle.
He shook, brimming with more power than he had ever held as he waited for the near constant northerly wind to ease its perpetual beating upon his face. Several moments passed in silence before the lull. The windless moment held, and Dwapek gave his spear grip one last readjustment, then he lunged forward, shouted, and threw. He imbued his throw with every fiber of effort, passion, magic, and rage he could muster. He put so much into his throw, he lost his footing and fell forward upon releasing the spear. He kept his head down as the bone-tipped object split the air.
Everything remained eerily still, including the wind. Dwapek stayed where he was, one knee sunk into the earth, the other leg extending behind him, hands gripping the weedy soil.
Dwapek heard the distant thunk, and thought he felt the vibration in his feet. He had closed his eyes, but with no audible reaction from the onlookers, he had to see. He had to know what had happened. He could not hope to have matched his father’s throw, but had his attempt been so poor that no one dared even react? Were they concealing their laughter?
Dwapek lifted his chin slowly and peered into the Veld. His eyes widened. He heard his breath, felt it linger in his lungs. His heart beat like the drum of an army marching in step toward battle. It was the only sound in the world in that moment. Then reality came crashing down. A cacophony erupted all around.
It was as if seeing the spear somehow released sound itself back into the world. The wind whipped across his face and several oohs and ahs of excitement blanketed Dwapek.
The success of his throw was impossible to judge, as the spears were so close. In fact, from where he stood, the spears appeared side by side, equal.
Without a word, Dwapek stalked toward the spears. He needed to know. As he closed in on the truth, his father’s eyes narrowed, and he marched past. Dwapek’s stomach twisted. He had been expecting an instant answer to his fate. Delaying such a weighty response was just cruel. The gods were punishing him yet again.
His father stopped, standing directly beside the two spears. His posture remained tall and proud, giving nothing away. When Dwapek reached his side, together they stared at the two spears. His father looked over his shoulder at the line of others making their way toward them before returning his gaze to the spears. Dwapek’s lighter spear mimicked his father’s in every way, right up to its angled entry in the earth. Every way except the distance thrown. Now Dwapek could see that the expanse his spear had traveled was a difference of only a finger’s width. But it was a finger’s distance farther!
He had outthrown his father! He sank to his knees and held up fisted hands in triumph. Dwapek opened his eyes as the others reached them. He looked at his mother, tears of joy forming at the creases of her eyes. His gaze then shifted to take in the reaction of his father, who, of course, still provided none. He wouldn’t meet Dwapek’s eyes, but his shoulders sagged as if in disappointment; the pain of that was crushing.
Dwapek’s heart sank. It was a victory, a major victory, but without the approval of the Sachem, of his own father, it didn’t feel like one. Aldrek finally straightened and spoke above the ripping wind. “The hunt commences. All who have traveled here today may partake.” He met Dwapek’s eye, and there was a slight sparkle. “Son, I’m . . .” His lips pursed in what Dwapek thought could be the beginnings of the word proud, but then he said, “I’m pleased you have shown such dedication to . . . something.”
Whether he said the word or not, Dwapek knew his father was at least a little bit proud. A weight lifted from Dwapek’s shoulders as he followed Aldrek over the ridge and into the silence demanded by the Veld.
