Val grumbled bitterly as she prepared the wagon alone, yet again. Normally she had a lot of patience for Dorius, but a buzzing had begun growing in the back of her head the last few days, and it stretched her nerves thinner than usual. The bulls were both unyoked, grazing to the side where she’d dropped the feedbox for them on the ground with the morning's allocation of grain for their feed. Bracing the yoke on her shoulders, she shook out the straps to get them straight.
Bastian and Dorius argued over the remnants of their camp from the previous night, they’d passed from the stretch of the highways that had regular rest stops several days back, and were now on the final stretch north towards the Spine. The mountains were visible on the horizon, which likely put them at about a week out. Their travel north, as well as the passing into late summer, meant the chill from the night air still lingered.
Bastian was goading Dorius into a dispute about his latest and favorite topic, the decision to travel north ahead of the escort.
“Speed is of the essence,” insisted Dorius, “We’re already losing half a season because we cannot travel by talon steed with so many.”
The two-legged avian steeds were significantly faster than the bulls, easily able to take a rider four or five times the distance in a day that the fell beasts could. But they were unable to take much weight, could not pull any cargo, and Val was fairly certain she would crush them if she tried to ride one. They were better suited for scouts, runners, and planned routes where steeds could be changed at regular intervals. Horses were exceedingly rare, remnant creatures still cultivated by families with old blood. One of Dorius’ cousins had once bragged of their stable containing six such animals, declaring he had a foal that year with feathered fetlocks, a desirable trait apparently indicative of strong blood from the ancestor species. They were all flighty, unreliable steeds in Val’s limited opinion, ridden by nobles for show and often with a handler nearby if the beast spooked. Apparently they were capable of the best of both fell bulls and talon steeds, swift and with a good strong back. More commonly though, they were bred for color and appearance rather than temperament, to match their prestige status, and Val was uncertain if you could even get two of them to coordinate to pull a load.
“And so travelling alone will make a great difference,” moaned Bastian, “At best the hours saved each day will add up to a weeks head start on the rest of the party.”
“I would rather have the opportunity to understand the situation on the ground while we can. Everyone will be on guard once a Prince arrives and our opportunities to discern the truth of matters will be slim,” Dorius explained.
This conversation had already been had several nights in a row, as Bastian’s patience for actual hard work had run out and starting fights with his favorite target could pass as seeming busy. It had left Val with the bulk of the daily labors, and no companions to cycle tasks with. If she were not so annoyed, she might have reflected that this seemed to the lot of women no matter their species.
“Ha, you wanna bet,” chaffed Bastian, “You’ve forgotten what being a nobody is actually like. You’ll be lucky to speak to anyone of importance, let alone get any ‘truth’ on matters from them. We’ll be stuck in an inn waiting for your robes, and seals, and letters of introduction to arrive to get anything useful done and this will have been a miserable trek with no benefit to anyone.”
Val sighed, and looked at one of the bulls who stared back, chewing his grain with a vacant expression. This one had a few white patches, and handsome dark horns not unlike her own. She did note there was some hair loss on its head where a band was strapped around the horns to allow the bull to pull with its forehead, mimicking their natural inclination. Laying the yoke and straps neatly on the ground, she returned to the wagon to find something to use as padding for the leather strap that rested there.
“What are you even doing!?”
Bastian’s exasperation pulled her attention back to the fire. Dorius had begun to unpack his truck then, scattering his belongings haphazard about the camp.
“Making more work, you’re an outright slob to clean up after.” Bastian was on his feet, picking up a growing pile of clothing.
Dorius ignored him, searching for something he had packed deep. With a grin of victory he pulled a metal token from the trunk. Val was not close enough to tell much except that it appeared to be a rectangular iron casting, not much larger than the palm of a hand.
“We will make our entrance as pilgrims,” he declared, holding it for Bastian. This was a new addition to the argument, Dorius must have felt inspired to share his hidden plans now they were closer. Bastian only stared back at him, shrugging slightly to show his arms were already full with another load. “It’s a welcome token,” Dorius explained, drawing it back again, “I think my father hoarded it from a disused Vigil house one time. Hart remembered where it was.”
“Do you even know enough about the Vigilants to pass as an actual pilgrim?” accused Bastian, beginning to pile his collected load back into Dorius' trunk, trying in his own way to keep their departure that morning on schedule.
“I know enough of things I think,” admitted Dorius, “I was hoping you’d work out the rest as we went along. You’re good at that sort of thing.”
Bastian’s shoulders slumped. “What am I? A mummer,” he grumbled. He kicked Dorius’ trunk and gestured to the remaining scattered belongings, “Clean up your own mess, Prince.” He then marched over towards Val, to finally help get the morning underway.
Bastian fished back the feedbox from the bulls and hung it from the wagon again, then gathered up their short leads and began to bring them to Val who hoisted the yoke on her shoulders again in preparation for getting the bulls underneath it.
Dorius trailed after with the token, having completely ignored the order from Bastian. Instead he seemed to be offering it to Val for a look, ignorant of her mission to get them on the road again.
She obligingly glanced at it, still taking the weight of the yoke as Bastian got the bulls settled in position. It did appear to be cast in dark iron, but the inlaid pattern struck her as odd. It looked to be the front of a throne-like seat, with many wiggling lines emerging from behind it in an arc to the edges of the piece.
“Doesn’t look welcoming,” she absently commented, “What’s it for?”
Dorius turned it in his hands, “The symbol is the figure they call the Weaver. I suppose it might be a mark that you were meant to be on your journey or something?”
“I don’t suppose you asked an actual Vigilant that?” asked Bastian, skeptical.
“I read it,” he replied, so no. Likely the Company was unsure if having it was taboo, and admitting to scavenging a disused Vigil chamber seemed like risky business.
With the explanation, Val did recognize the design. The Vigil recognized four gods although she did not know all their names, just the symbols. The Watcher everyone knew. You might wish for luck from the Watcher, or attribute a fortunate series of events to the Watcher’s attention. But the Watcher.. watched, they were not a god who intervened. And the Vigilants who typically remained apart for most affairs were actively hostile to any activity or sentiment from the populace that resembled worship for the Watcher other than the odd curse or passing remark. It was extremely important to them that people did not get the wrong idea about who or what the Watcher was.
The next was the Weaver, the throne with thousands of snake-like tails. Every action was the Weaver’s doing, the good and the bad. To the Vigilants there was no free will or choice in one’s actions, only destiny and inevitability as the Weaver wove. Their intent was not malevolent, but neither was it benevolent, whatever purpose the Weaver sought was theirs to know alone - observed by the Vigilants and the Watcher.
The final two gods she knew less of, one was associated with water and life, and the second with the color purple and death.
While essentially present in some manner in any decently sized settlement, the Vigil was a reclusive sect. They did not evangelize their beliefs, and seemed to actively detest worship of their gods outside the walls of their chambers. They had no real authority, although they apparently did before the unrest. But they documented, kept records of births and deaths, ownership of lands and descriptions of boundaries, odd seeming administrative tasks. The thought that there might be pilgrims, or sacred lands for such a belief system struck Val as odd.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Bastian held the straps clear, and helped Val get the bulls in just the right position for the yoke as it was lowered to the back of their heads behind the horns. A system of straps then secured the yoke to the horns and around the bulls foreheads. Each side of the yoke was customized to the shape of that animal’s horns - each bull even had their own side, and the teamsters on Dorius’ estate and at the Company had careful rules about which bulls worked well together and what their respective equipment was. Val appreciated anyone concerned about good horn care, and she carefully ran her fingers along the straps making sure they were snug and comfortable. Bastian also was serious for a moment, giving the leads a gentle tug just to watch how the beasts leaned into the yoke to assess the position.
Val left him to final preparations and turned towards the fire and Dorius’ discarded belongings. She bent down to gather the last of his things and tossed them in the trunk. Dorius followed her, turning the token in his hands, slightly put off by Bastian’s reaction to the plan. She gestured to him to pass it to her, which he obeyed, and she added it to the top of the trunk and forced the lid closed. Slinging it up on one shoulder, she kicked dirt over the fire to put it out.
“I didn’t think it was the worst idea,” bemoaned Dorius.
“Half your ideas are shit,” called Bastian who had overheard, and was urging the bulls and wagon onto the road again by their leads.
Val rolled her eyes, and returned to the wagon to deposit Dorius’ trunk. Summoning what inner strength she had, she reassured, “Bastian is just upset there’s fewer hands to help.”
“As if you are any happier,” rebuked Bastian, “Oh, hold!”
Val followed his eyes up the road, a flock of a dozen or more guinea fowl were crossing the clearing. Bastian already had his war bow, single arrow in hand from the narrow quiver strapped to his thigh. Taking a slow breath he planted his feet and drew the string back with practised grace. With a thwock, the arrow flew, and one of the guinea fowl had their head fly clean off.
—
“This is ominous,” declared Bastian from the front of the wagon, the bulls slowing the wagon to a stop as his pull on their lead slackened.
Val strolled forward from her position at the back of the wagon. The slope had been steadily rising for the past few days as they began to gain altitude, the Spine now looming over their every action. The peaks were still capped in snow, despite it being late summer, and several glaciers crawled down the sides carving huge valleys before melting to streams. The buzzing in her ears had only grown more insistent as they had grown closer.
Bastian’s attention had been caught by the town ahead of them, it was nestled in the crevice of one of the valleys. The town walls were huge, solid granite structures - the perfect, smooth surfaces remnants of their magical origins. Oddly, they circled not only the town, but spread arms across each side of the valley, completely blocking passage to the higher slopes. The size of the town was hard to judge, it was masked by the walls. But, a lone tower - likely the chapel - peaked high enough to be seen. It was a similar dark stone to the walls. Entry was a single gateway, door emblazoned with the Watcher’s eye - and the door was shut.
Instead a ragtag community of lean-tos, tents, and even rough wooden structures had formed off the road in the shelter of the walls. They were not the first to arrive and find the way barred.
The community appeared to be divided into two halves. One half was not unlike a military encampment - a small number of neat, square tents and felled logs corralling mounts left to graze. The second was much larger, larger than many villages, and composed of an odd assortment of tarps and makeshift hovels, centered around a bonfire that appeared to form its heart. Small wooden buildings had been constructed in the center, and the scaffolding of new ones implied that the community expected its wait to continue.
A single horse grazed on the encampment side between all the beasts, tall and black. Several figures sat by it on guard.
Dorius drew his blanket around his shoulders tighter, perched on the front of the wagon.
“I guess it’s not just us then,” his eyes were narrow and his attention was on the more organized camp. Val similarly scanned it, looking for a flag or sigil that might identify the occupant. They were on independent land here, the odds were just as likely that it was a foreign dignitary as it was to be someone from the Fourth.
Bastian was already at work, throwing some old tarps over the contents of the wagon and hiding his bow and quiver, opting to instead strap a dagger to his hip. He located Dorius’ trunk and pocketed the token they had argued about several days earlier, then stripped off his leather jacket in exchange for a tattered old vest. He offered Val an old cloak, who unbuttoned her Phoenix sigil from her own jacket to exchange with him, and she obligingly wrapped the cloak’s collar around her neck. Aware they were visible to any lookouts and lingering too long would attract attention, Bastian tossed Dorius his cap, and quickly returned to the front of the wagon, encouraging them to pick up the pace again.
As they approached the camps, the sound of voices caught their attention. Several hunters had two huge elk strapped to a makeshift sled, and were struggling with the load crossing the meadow.
One man raised a hand as they drew near with a welcoming “Ho strangers!” Two of the hunters broke off and approached their wagon.
“Friend, can we borrow a bull?” asked the older of the two as they drew closer, “The snake won’t lend his teams to the other pilgrims.”
Dorius’ eyes lit up, but it was Bastian who responded, “I’d rather get my wagon in first, Val here can help you,” he offered, gesturing back to her. The hunters sized her up, and seemed satisfied with the counter-offer.
“Who’s the snake?” asked Dorius around Bastian.
The hunter who had spoken gestured to the other camp, “Some lordling and his retinue, been camped here since mid-summer.”
Val began to trudge off the road towards the two hunters. The high meadow was surprisingly boggy, no wonder the sled had gotten stuck.
“What’s the deal?” Bastian asked, jerking his head to the closed gates.
The man shrugged, “Long story. There’s a big tent by the fire, woman called Clara organizes this little encampment, she can catch you up and help you get settled. You’ll be in for a wait.”
The hunter turned to join Val then and began the slog through the spongy meadow back to the elks where the other hunters were waiting. The ground was uneven beneath the low greenery and if she was not careful where she placed her feet there was a good chance of turning an ankle. Val noted the second hunter was barely a boy, in his young teens, wide eyes staring up at her horns.
“You one of them Laons? You got horns like one,” exclaimed the boy. The older hunter cuffed him across the back of his head.
“Don’t be rude,” then to Val, “Your kind are welcome here, ignore the boy.”
Val’s curiosity about the creature the boy had named was almost strong enough for her to ask after it, but she was unsure if it was instead something obscene or an insult she didn’t recognize, so she kept her mouth shut and continued to follow. She stumbled on something with a large flat edge, sticking out of the earth and bent to inspect it. Brushing back the groundcover, the curved, dented, sharp line of something man-made stuck up from the earth at an angle. With a sickening start, she realized it was a shield. The meadow had once been a battlefield.
The issue with the sled was immediately obvious, it had hit something in the dirt just like she had and snapped a runner. The broken edge had dug into the soft meadow and the sled was already well on its way to being consumed like the rest of the battlefield. Val stood over it with a frown while the hunters looked at her expectantly.
“Worst case, we were considering butchering them and carrying them piece by piece…” offered the hunter that had called her over.
Finding her voice, Val ordered, “Unstrap them, I’ll carry them.”
There were several raised eyebrows. Val unstrapped her battle-axe and laid it on the ground, then drawing a small knife from her hip she began to twist the tip into the back of one elk’s hock. Understanding, the hunters got to work helping. In short order they had each elk bound by the hocks to either end of the haft of the axe, and their heads and tied forelimbs bagged in the tarp they’d rested on on the sled. With Val squatting, the hunters helping her get the axe positioned across her shoulders, her hands locked around the makeshift yoke. She leaned forward, and with a groan stood, the elks hanging down her back. She’d judged their length right, and the bagged heads would keep them clean where they dragged on the ground behind her. Several of the men seemed stunned at the monumental feat of strength, giving her a few congratulatory oohs and ahhs. She shrugged the axe a couple of times to get things balanced, and indicated for them to lead the way.
The young boy, seeming to take a liking to her, bounced ahead while she slowly marched with the original hunter that had summoned them, pointing out debris on the path ahead of her. The weight on this uneven ground was no easy feat, even for her, and her steps were slow and methodological so she would not lose her footing. The child chattered inanely as they walked to fill the silence. Soon enough, they were in the camp, and the hunters led her to a tent where makeshift scaffolding was prepared for processing the meat. A nearby field kitchen already had a communal pot going, and there were even some boxes packed with hay containing cut bricks of compressed ice from somewhere up the slopes.
“You’re not a talker eh,” remarked the hunter as Val silently hung the elk for them, “Come, let’s find your companions.”