The Witchling of Alsira

Prologue - A Different Kind of Story

The first details that came to me, were those that transfixed my sight. I could see great carrion birds flying overhead. Similar as they were to ravens, yet massive in their size. Each of them with wings that could blot out whole sections of the darkened and clouded sky above. There were hundreds of them, swarming the skies, and swooping low in search of meals.

The next details were those that overwhelmed my tactile sense. The feeling of an oppressively warm sea of blood that I floated in. My body had a strange sort of buoyancy in this fetid and coagulating morass of still-warm gore. I was able to keep myself aloft on the gently moving waves, which churned and moved the vast ocean of bodies around and below me.

The further details that my sense of smell endured were the stench of it all. Rancid meat, clumped blood, festering wounds, and recent disembowelments stretched all around me from one end of the horizon to the other. My nose and throat were filled with it, making me want to retch, yet at the same time, I was so physically and emotionally exhausted I was no longer able to even gag or heave.

The final details and assault on my senses came in the strange sounds that moved through this world-turned-mad. The screeching of the carrion birds felt distant and had a strange reverberation to it, like hearing screams from beneath the still surface of a lake. Beyond that strange screeching was an eerie silence, like the entire world had died.

To my left, I heard a distant warbling sound, seeming as nothing more than an echo, until my eyes moved to the source. I saw a man there, floating as I was floating, a look of fear and shock on his face as he tried, vainly, to get above the bloody, churning waves. He struggled against the bodies around him, trying to get out, but he could not. Above him, the great carrion birds began to circle and begin cautious dives down to him.

My eyes had to pull away, there was activity in these fetid waters, as the bodies around me began to wake up. Some floundered, and others remained still, floating on their backs, or surrendering completely with their faces drowned in the gore. The birds in the skies flew into a frenzy of activity, blotting out what dim glow the sun provided in the low, storm-filled heavens.

I looked back to the first man I had spotted, off to my left, and saw him fighting against one of the birds. Another had taken his eye, straight from the socket, and he began to scream with every bit of his breath. I looked back to the other bodies around me, fighting as they did against the birds as well. Each of these people, alive, dead, or somewhere in-between held me in looks of accusation and contempt. Their eyes burned into mine before their own carrion birds ripped their eyes from their sockets, then their screams ripped through into my ears.

These fitful sensations of brutal chaos seethed at me from all angles, tormenting me with their gruesome revelry. My body began to tense at the horror I took in, and at my own fear of the inevitable ravaging that I would undergo once the birds sought me out for their next meal.

My body was tensed, my arms were numb from being contorted under me, and restricted from movement. The muscles of my legs were exhausted from being stuck at sharp angles, fighting against the flow of the gore around me. With sputtering gulps, I managed to draw in several shallow breaths. These, filling my lungs slowly with each pitched effort until finally, I had enough air in me to let out my own terrified scream.

I was given a hard shove to the ribs by some bony protrusion next to me. My eyes began to swim with distorted visions, from the horror before me and into a blurring world of dim colors. The visions of gape-mouthed, living corpses, with their piercing and accusing eyes, began to fade away. The battering wings of these huge and twisted carrion birds, as they loomed over me, and continued their pecking of eyes out of screaming skulls, gave way to a soft and familiar whisper to my left.

“Jykal… You’re snoring… Again.”

The last details of my nightmare drifted away from me, carried off and hidden away by the gossamer veils of Sethos, the faceless god of dreams. I pulled my leaden arms out from under my body, feeling the numbness within them turn into pin-pricks and incessant tingles. I looked to my left, in between milky eyes, covered in the sand-like leavings that Sethos deposited in those he took away to his realm for the night. There, I beheld the woman I had promised myself to in the bonds of brodenkynd, young as we were still, her form bent so that her face was looking down towards me. Her eyes puffy and half-open, a sour look marred her otherwise youthful and beautiful face.

She continued to stare at me for a moment, over her nose and chin, her body half-turned away from me. I was heaped up in a ball at the foot of the bed we had made from miscellaneous furs, pelts, and authroc-down pillows. The earlier nudge to my ribs was from her bony elbow, which she continued to hold between us. I could hear the soft murmurs and snores of the children we lived with, the other members of our broden, nearby in the dark. Each of them in their own beds, dreaming their own dreams.

With the prickles in my arms abating, their use gradually returning from their previously limp state, I lifted my hands to my face to rub the sand from my eyes. I looked up again to my brodenkynd, paired as we were in the traditional way of our people and drew in a deep breath to respond to her. As I tried to draw in, again I felt a sputtering, then surrendered to a long yawn. I tried once more and was able to draw in a breath fully to speak with her.

“Zynna, the nightmares… They’re back.” I stretched out my arms, moving my way upwards to her, and resting my hand on her side.

“I don’t care. Keep them to yourself.” She viciously began to fluff up one of her pillows, rolling now so her back was fully towards me. “Nightmares means you’re sleeping. That’s more than I’m getting.”

I quickly began to realize the source of her sleep disturbances, as I felt an echo from my earlier nightmare of being surrounded in the warm and moist gore of a dead world. Inside the room we lived in, known as a brodenskappf, it was excessively humid and warm. As my mind continued to awaken, I became aware of the known source of this oppressive heat, it was the day of Lover’s Rest, the sunniest and most hot day of the year.

Zynna never could handle excessive temperature, her body ran hot, as did my own. In this heat, with the two suns beating down on the land outside our shelter, she couldn’t sleep at all, and she was now taking her exhaustion out on me. I bit my lower lip, and held her closely, feeling her shift and push against me for a moment.

If only she knew, fully and with exacting detail, of the repeated tortures I endured in my non-waking state. Each time Sethos whisked me away to his realm of Ginnithol, I was trapped in a new vista of madness and pain. This was not typical sleep that I was in, it was more like a never-ending series of spiritual tortures. A realm that held such beauty and wonder for others, was twisted for me into a reminder of all the pain and horror that existed in this dying world I lived in.

I wanted to speak out to her, but I couldn’t press the issue. Whenever Zynna was tired, she would be in the foulest of moods. Even when she wasn’t, she was often as stubborn as a herdsmoll, and as biting as most courtiers that plied their barbed tongues in the far off courts of the Alwhedein Empire. I loved her despite, and because of those personality traits she had, good or bad. I know she endured her fair share of my own.

Breaking me out of my romantic fixations, the heavy cloth covering over the entrance of our brodenskappf lifted open with a force that set the small bits of metal, bone, and wood tied to the bottom of it, into a cacophony of sounds. We had been taught to collect small and noisy baubles to put on the entrance by our caretakers. Such items served as alarms to alert us to any animals or interlopers that made their way into our shelters.

I sat up immediately, ready to react to any danger that presented itself. The others in the skappf around us began to roll around, groaning with exasperation and annoyance. At the doorway, hunched in silhouette against the intense sunlight outside was a form that crept forward and into the skappf. A hand held the tanned hide of the entrance, folded and pushed out of the way. It took my eyes a few moments to adjust to the shift of light and dark, but soon the details emerged from the shadow before me.

It was Old Annesen, our broden-mother. The woman whose charge was to care for us and teach us the ways of our tribe. The leathery and freckled skin of her face was contorted into a large grin that revealed more gaps than teeth. Over her shoulders slung a long, brown and green hood. This being made of stitched linens that followed her shoulders down, breaking into two long and deep sleeves over her sunburnt arms. Around her hood, and trailing to each of her shoulders were leather pauldrons covered in crimson-dyed wolf’s fur. This fur was a mark of her station as broden-mother for our community, as well as her experience being a healer and seeress of our tribe. Most members of our tribe were known for their grey and black wolf’s fur, a sign of the vhulkovyr, or warrior caste, that made up most of our tribe.

Around her waist, trailing to the mud, ice, and sand-strewn ground was a set of leather dresses that further set her apart. Given that she was a revered member of our community, with a very important position, she was able to wear such. Many considered the old traditional dresses of high station members of the tribe to be impractical and antiquated, Old Annesen felt otherwise and rebelled against such traditions whenever she could.

Around her chest and stomach was a further deviation from the warrior-oriented armors that most of our tribe wore. She refused to wear chest armor or coverings at all, and this made far more sense to many in the tribe, given her station as broden-mother. Old Annesen preferred to have a bare chest, open to the elements, displaying her abilities as a caregiver and surrogate mother figure proudly. At this particular time, she was demonstrating her ability, clutching a tired and naked infant to her bosom as she entered into our sleeping quarters.

My gaze fell away from the form of Old Annesen, and to that of the infant she held to her. That child, for all the world, seemed content with its lot. It remained there, curled up, supported and well-fed. The infant’s eyes were closed, and it’s wrinkled and pudgy face showed the peace that came from blissful and ignorant sleep. Despite this, it continued to suckle away, with all the instinctual fervor of a typically healthy and perpetually hungry babe. I began to wonder for a moment, wistful sleep pulling at my consciousness one last time, if I ever was so content, at that tender age.

“Wake up! Wake up! You lazy, little stendrals!” Old Annesen usually had a kind, low and melodic sort of voice when she spoke, this time, however, her voice had taken on a sadistic and shrill sort of quality. She enjoyed waking us up in the mornings, and I’m quite sure she was delighted to end our heat-disturbed slumber on this day, most of all.

She enjoyed calling us strendrals, that being a type of bird that nested nearby our lands, within the reeds on the salty coast of the Frothing Blood Sea. The reason she chose such a term to call us, is that these particular birds were very well known for their laziness, stupidity and ease of catching. Our current Skaell-father, Brimden, who worked alongside Old Annesen to raise us, had told us many techniques for catching these birds. They were known for their lack of physical exercise, for their plumpness, and for their succulent flavor. I realized, as my stomach began to groan, that I could do with some stendral, myself.

“It’s the day of Lover’s Rest. Get up. Both of the burning gods are in the sky, blazing their eternal glow. It’s time for you to rise up and meet it.” She continued to stand in the middle of the room, tossing side-to-side gently, rocking the child she held.

“If it’s the day of Lover’s Rest…” A muffled male voice called out, from far off into a shadowed corner of the skappf, nearby the doorway. “Then for the love of all the gods, old and new, let us bloody-well rest, you old hag!”

Old Annesen leaned forward, peering into the wane light and gathered shadow before her. She wavered to and fro for a moment, looking for the source of the voice. “I hear you, Heskir. Now where are you?” She propped the baby in the crook of her arm, balancing it with all the care that a Haakuenth peasant might show a basket of freshly sheared wool. She was graceful and quick, but not given to the consideration that many would expect one to show a new life.

She leaned forward, padding with her free hand at the furs and pillows at her feet. “Ah, I feel that scrawny leg, Heskir.” Her voice trailed off with mirth in it. She got back up to her full height, again, hunched as it was with age. Old Annesen gave a hard kick that was eagerly met with a large gasp from a mound of furs at her feet. She had found Heskir, it seemed, right in the gut. “Get up, my little stendrals. Get up now, before I teach each of you the same lesson that Heskir here won’t soon forget!”

With a turn of her heels and a quick wave of her arm, she was gone once more. The cloth door-cover jostling slightly and the inside of the brodenskappf returning to darkness. I reached forward, into a mess of old furs and cloth to grab my tunic and leather riding leggings. At this time, I could hear the same rustling from beside me. It was Zynna clamoring to get her tunic and leggings on as well.

I was pulled back to her as her voice softly called out to me in the dark. “You’re a herdsmoll’s arse, Jykal. A snoring, annoying, clogged up…” She trailed off for a moment, then gave me a light slap on the shoulder. “Herdsmoll’s arse!”

***

We gathered around the area that the old elder’s circle used for their meeting place, on the crest of the cliff nearby our broden-skappf. The elders, themselves, were still asleep in their own quarters. I heard from some of our broden that the elders would not be rousing this day, and so Old Annesen would allow us to use their area as a common ground for our daily activities.

In the time it took us all to get dressed and make our way across the encampment to the cliff-side circle, Old Annesen had already managed to stop by the broden-nurse’s skappf to drop off her previous infant and exchange it for yet another. This one was far more hungry and loud than the first, but she managed to lull the child into complacency once she sat down in the old skalten’s seat at the head of the circle.

She was just beginning to make herself comfortable, lightly rocking the infant in her arm, and taking to chewing some tolsen weed to keep her vigor and constitution up. She had one of the most important roles in our camp, was respected by many, but envied by few in her role. Her’s was an important and often demanding lot, caring for us children of the camp while our parents were busy with matters of their castes. Most of them off hunting, fighting, surviving, playing at games of augury or diplomacy. All of them striving to continue our meager existence as a people for another day. Her’s, however, was the important role of keeping the life of our tribe, the future members of it, alive.

Still, as I began to trail off into my own thoughts once more, as important as the role of a broden-mother, broden-nurse or skaell-father was to our tribe, few took up the calling. Most preferred the role of the warrior caste, the revered vhulkovyr. It was a life of war, blood, and violence. A short life, to be sure, but one filled with the promise of adventure, with few rules imposed by tradition.

Zynna and I had chosen that caste for ourselves already. Both of use were just two more changes of the seasons away from our Kollishi Thaulp, our first trials of adulthood. If we could pass our trials, we would be able to take up the grey and black furs of the vhulkovyr that we had sought so much.

The other children of our broden, of differing ages, some of them paired off already with their chosen brodenkynd, while others sat lonely or huddled with their bloodclutch relatives. All of us were slowly taking up our seats upon wooden stools left out or were currently laying hide mats across the rocks or packed earth of the cliff-side. All of us tried to encircle and take our positions of audience around Old Annesen.

Those of us like Zynna and myself, who were brodenkynd, in the traditional ways of our people, the Tolsi-Kavi, sat together on hide mats. Everyone in our broden knew the daily chores we must do, and the first was that of the morning’s hair-braiding ceremony. To begin this, many of the female members of our group sat down, cross-legged on their chosen mats or stools. Then the male members would sit behind her, on his knees.

We began each day in this way, we were taught that this was a way for us to come together as a group. To show caring for one another, and to learn the often-complicated traditional hair-dress of our tribe. First the female would have her hair braided by her brodenkynd, and then the male would have his hair braided by her, in turn.

Many in our broden chose not to follow the traditional ways, and Old Annesen, being a bit of a more liberal broden-mother, allowed this. Many chose to keep with their bloodclutch, or immediate blood-sibling, relatives. This was contrary to many of the values instilled in the broden model of child-rearing, flying the face of old traditions, but was tolerated. Some members of the broden were paired into brodenkynd groups that were seen as non-breeding relationships, male-to-male, or female-to-female and their choices on who would be braided first were up to them. Some members of our broden had neither bloodclutch relatives, nor brodenkynd pairings, and those members often sat alone, or would partner up with a friend.

Old Annesen had mentioned to many of us over the years, that she had traveled extensively as a seeress of our tribe before finally settling down into her current position. She had seen how many different camps, or even entirely different tribes, did things in their own ways. She had learned many different traditions and cultures in her life, as such many of us in the broden she cared for were thankful for her openness, her liberal nature, and her overwhelming tolerance.

Zynna and I, however, preferred the older and more traditional ways of doing things. Honestly, it wasn’t because of any real love for the old ways of our people, or any desire to cater to the elder circle who often set the traditions for us. It was more of a selfish reason, simply, so that Zynna and I could always be together. That is what we have always wanted.

I began to notice, as I unfurled and set two segments of deer hide over a flat section of rock for Zynna and myself, some distracting activity over by Old Annesen. It was Jemsyn, skittering around our broden-mother like some insect buzzing around a carcass. Somehow, between us leaving the broden-skappf, and finally sitting down at the elder’s circle, he had managed to find his way into Teshin’s kitchen. At this time he was bringing the spoils of his trip back to the group, that being a heaping clay bowl full of sarkrass stew.

Everyone in our broden knew that Old Annesen’s favorite dish was sarkrass stew. It was just like that scheming weasel to somehow find, or more likely steal, a bowl of it so as to suck up to her. He continued his buzzing around her for a moment, until she finally got more comfortable the old skalten’s seat. Once he had gotten her attention, he ceased his incessant buzzing, then held out the dish before him.

Her eyes went wide at the sight of her favorite food before her. “Oh Jemsyn, you are a kind one.” She took the bowl and set it beside her on the wooden, fur-covered armrest of the seat. Jemsyn sat down at her feet, looking around at the others in our broden, taking up their own seats or still sorting out their hides on the ground. “All of you, I’ve said this many times before, need to take heed of the generosity this young man shows to your broden-mother.”

She gave a low chuckle, the baby at her chest bobbing up and down, causing it to whimper for a moment. I looked forward and could see that weasel’s face turn to us, with those squinted squirrel eyes, beneath that dark and bushy brow. A sickening, smug smile spreading across his lips.

“Especially you, Heskir. I won’t be forgetting the fact you called me a hag, for some time, boy.”

Off to the far left, alone on a wooden stool, Heskir looked back to Old Annesen with a scowl. His arms were crossed, his brown eyes and pock-marked face holding a sour look that seemed more at home on an over-pampered toddler, than on one who was only a month away from his Kollishi Thaulp. His mouth opened to say something but was quickly met with a clucking from Old Annesen. He shut his mouth, biting down audibly, turning away to from her to gaze angrily off to the horizon.

My eyes went back to that smug look still on Jemsyn’s face. He sat there, half-hunched, like some old sorcerer’s homunculus, eagerly waiting for a drop of his master’s blood. He had told me several times in the last few months he wanted to become a skaldt of our tribe upon adulthood. I laughed at him every time he mentioned it. Skaldts were heroes and the keepers of lore in our tribe, they were not simpering little gremlins. I had told him many times he should take up the role of courtier, and allow some debauched aristocrat from a distant land to make merry with him. As he was so fond of manipulation to get his way, perhaps he could put that ability to good use, to actually better his tribes-people rather than just himself.

“Jykal.” The voice was from beside me as I finished unfurling and setting my segment of hide on the ground next to my brodenkynd’s. I was quickly met with a smack to the inside of my left leg as I began to cross them, to sit down. “You’re staring at him again. Seriously, if you hate him so much, get it over with. Grab a rock and dash his brains. For the love of Jhulkos, you’re obsessed with him.”

I turned towards Zynna and mimicked the same scowl that was framed on Heskir’s face. “I am not obsessed. I simply don’t trust him. If ever, in the future, we are in a war party with him, I know he will get us killed.” I gave a long sigh, closing my eyes for a moment. “I know it. He’s a coward.” I opened my eyes to see Zynna’s face, just a few finger’s widths from my own.

“Like I said, you’re obsessed.” She blinked several times, looking me up and down with her face still pressed forwards. “I might even think your feelings for him are more passionate then they are for me.” I could see a smile creep across her lips. Her grey-blue eyes glinting, as they often did when she was concocting some goad or jest at my expense.

I gave into her goading in the best way I knew how, quickly and with the full strength of my body, I began to wrestle with her. She gave a laugh, deflecting one of my arms and trying to worm her way out from beneath me. It only took a few movements of her arms and legs and we were both pinning each other. In training, our skaell-father Brimden, always said the only equals Zynna and I had, were each other. That is, both in skill, strength, and bull-headed recklessness.

Within a few moments, we both heard the stern clapping of Old Annesen to get our attention. Zynna and I stopped, breathless, and looked to her. “It’s the day of Lover’s Rest, you two. Not and elder’s circle dispute over a Lover’s Quarrel. Cease this and begin braiding. I have a story to tell all of you.”

I looked to my right and noticed that toad, Jemsyn, making his way towards Zynna and I. His face was furrowed and he continued to clap in mimicry of our broden-mother. He continued until he was with arm’s distance from us and he kept that furrowed brown pointed at us.

I let Zynna go and clenched my fists tightly. I could feel the blood rush through my veins and the warrior’s rage begin to take hold. I stared that coward in the eyes until he sat down on a wooden stool next to us. I continued to watch him, realizing he was just a scant dozen feet from the cliff’s edge that framed half of the elder’s circle. If I could just give him a couple hard shoves, I could finally be done with his existence once and for all.

As I entertained murderous thoughts, I was quickly brought back by a hard slap to the back of the head by Zynna. I turned to her, and I could tell in her eyes she could see the determination I had on my face. She cut through it by batting her eyes and pointing to the back of her head.

“Do what Old Annsy said. Do up my hair.” She pouted her lips for a moment and couldn’t hold her expression for long without laughing. “Do up my hair with passion Jykal. Like you actually love me, the one you’re devoted to, and not the man who will someday kill us all.” She scooted forward on her hide mat, crossing her legs and flourishing her hair with both hands.

I moved towards her, heeding her words, taking a few short glances back at the smug-faced toad squatted next to us. I got to my knees behind Zynna, just as she began to slap my right knee with her hand.

“With passion! With passion!” She continued to goad me, slapping my knee like a horse’s flank with her right hand. She gave out a chuckle, and I leaned in close to her neck to give her a kiss on the cheek. She held up the side of her hair with her left hand and I took hold and began to braid it for her.

Everyone had already taken up their seatings, some already beginning to braid one another’s hair. The only two that hadn’t paired up yet were the pouting Heskir and the smug Jemsyn. I looked forward and could see Old Annesen nodding her head and checking on all of us. I saw her eyes narrow on Heskir and then on Jemsyn.

“Ah, it seems that two of you haven’t found anyone to take care of this morning.” She gave a laugh and waved her hand, motioning for Jemsyn to come close to her again. “One of my dearest boys, and one of my rudest. Perhaps your gentle soul, Jemsyn, can educate our dear Heskir here in the ways of propriety.”

I gave out a deep sigh as I saw Jemsyn get to his feet and make his way towards Old Annesen, and then slowly towards Heskir. I was glad that he would not be close to Zynna and I this morning. I was hoping to enjoy one of Annesen’s tales without his leering presence beside me.

Everyone in the broden, still attentive to their braiding with their hands, watched as Jemsyn took a seat on a hide mat before Heskir. He turned in place, crossing his legs, and then offered a portion of his black hair towards Heskir. The poor older boy sat there for a moment, looking to the back of Jemsyn’s head, to Old Annesen, then to the rest of us, incredulous that he have to take care of someone he too had contempt for.

Old Annesen cleared her throat and began to slowly and gently to raise the infant she carried, up and down. “I’ve just taken my seat, boy. You don’t want me getting back up to my feet again.” She scowled at him hard.

Heskir took the offered portion of the smaller boy’s hair and began braiding it. Pulling hard on Jemsyn’s hair until he winced. I couldn’t stifle a smile at his expense, perhaps every day Heskir should have to do Jemsyn’s braids. It might do the both of them some good.

Everyone returned their gaze back to Old Annesen, who took her first spoonful of sarkrass stew. She held the spoon to her lips for a few moments, letting her eyes roll back into her head. She gobbled up the spoon’s contents readily and then gave a long smile.

“Because it is a good day, my dear stendrals, and because I am in a good mood, we won’t be doing our usual storytelling.” She lifted another spoonful to her nose and gave a long sniff, the steam from it quickly filling her nostrils. “We won’t be doing any parables, sagas, or that usual fluff that the elder circle wants me to instill in your mushy noggins.” She gave a desirous slurp on her spoon. “Instead, I’ll tell you a tale from our history, one you won’t hear from many skaldts or sages.”

She set the spoon down and lifted a cloth blanket over her lap to set the infant on, who was now drowsily drifting off to sleep. “I’m going to tell you about a dark time in our people’s history. Of a woman, much like many of you, who wanted to grow up to be a warrior. Who was filled with courage and zeal for battle, and whose recklessness, like much of you have, not only cost her dearly but led to the end of her people.”

“I’m going to tell you the story of a woman named Ghelta kolst Wyghtsmourn, of the Alsi-Kavi tribe. The woman that some of you might know as the betrayer of our blood, and the bringer of our doom. This is the tale of how she became an adult, a full-blooded warrior of our people, and how she destroyed an entire tribe of our people in turn.”

I could feel Zynna’s breath pitch with anticipation, as I continued to braid her hair. She and I both were happy to hear a story of blood-lust and battle, finally. No more of those dusty old tales the elder circle wanted us to learn. Maybe Old Annesen was right, today could very well turn out to be a good day, indeed.