Authors: JD Byrne
The Water Road
The Water Road
Book One of
The Water Road
Trilogy
JD Byrne
The
Water Road
. Copyright JD Byrne, 2016. All rights reserved. No portion
of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, except for brief
quotations in reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.
First
edition.
Cover design by
Deranged Doctor Design
.
This
is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, to real people, living
or dead, or to real geographical locales, are intended only to give the fiction
a sense of reality and authenticity. Names, characters, places and incidents
either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously,
and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely
coincidental.
It had been ten years since Gaven had
been confronted by an angry Neldathi with a gun. Had it been longer? It had
been at least ten years, he was certain of that. Given the current situation,
he did not waste time recalling the details.
His mind was focused on other
things, most notably the Neldathi warrior standing in front of him, weapon in
hand. He was tall, even by Neldathi standards, and towered over Gaven. He wore
thick animal skins over some sort of leather, the typical dress of a warrior
any time except the height of summer. Only his hands, wrists, and face were
uncovered. His skin was the palest shade of blue Gaven had seen in these parts.
Down his back hung a long clump of black hair, twisted and knotted into a neat
and orderly braid. In the midsection there were a series of dyed stripes,
alternating in bold orange and dark blue. The colors indicated he was a member
of the Dost clan.
The gun in the Neldathi’s hand was
a long weapon, but it did not look like one of the finely crafted long rifles
for which these people were known. He had a determined look on his face.
“Yes, sir. How may I be of
service?” Gaven asked, in his best practiced Neldathi. As he asked the
question, he was wondering where his pikti, his fighting staff, was. It was not
within immediate reach, that was for certain. And where was Klaron, anyway?
The Neldathi held out the gun in
two hands for Gaven to inspect. In the confusing mélange of word, pitch, and
tone that made up their language, he said something. Gaven did his best to
translate it in his mind.
“Trade?” This provoked a nod.
“Trade that,” he said, pointing to the gun, “for something else?” He gestured
around at the interior of the tent, pitched against the side of a wagon, that
passed for his store.
The Neldathi nodded vigorously.
Gaven held out his hands for the
gun. “Look?” He pointed first to his right eye and then the gun.
“Here,” the Neldathi grunted in low
Altrerian. He handed the gun to Gaven. “Trade.” He then held his own finger to
one of his eyes, then pointed around the tent.
“Yes, yes,” Gaven said, nodding.
“Look.”
The Neldathi backed away and began
to examine Gaven’s wares. Gaven, meanwhile, turned the long gun over in his
hands. His initial impression was correct. This wasn’t one of the finely
crafted Neldathi weapons. Still, it was too large for an Altrerian like himself
to use more than once. It would pack a kick that would knock Gaven on his
backside. He placed the gun down on the counter and stooped behind it, looking
into the barrel. It was smooth. Standing back up and examining its entirety one
more time, Gaven concluded that it was a mass-produced musket.
Gaven stepped out from behind the
counter and walked over to the Neldathi, who was examining a leather travel
bag. “Sir?” he asked, getting the warrior’s attention. He pointed to the gun.
“Why do you wish to trade?”
“It does not work,” the Neldathi
said, his rising pitch suggesting he was upset about that fact. “Does not shoot
straight. Is not good for hunting.”
Gaven shrugged as they walked back
to the counter. It was certainly true that the musket would be far inferior to
a rifle when it came to the hunt. He paused for a moment to consider his words.
Gaven’s brain had never adjusted to thinking in Neldathi. “Where it come from?”
“A gift from my thek,” the Neldathi
said.
Gaven paused again, trying to find
the right words. “How did your thek get it?”
The big Neldathi shrugged.
Gaven was more confused than ever.
Why would a Neldathi chief give one of her warriors a musket like this? And
where would she even get one? There would be time to ponder such questions
later, after the Neldathi had been sent on his way. He shifted the conversation
towards the bag the Neldathi had been admiring. Within minutes, the transaction
was complete and the Neldathi disappeared into the snowy expanse outside the tent.
When the warrior was gone, Gaven
finally let himself relax, but only for a moment. “Klaron!”
~~~~~
Klaron poked his head out from the
back room of the wagon where he had been hiding. He slunk out into the main
room, as if trying to avoid detection.
“
Now
you materialize,
Klaron,” Gaven snapped, turning on his heels to face his apprentice.
“Yes, master,” the young man
stumbled in reply. “I… I was… I was in the back room when I heard you in
conversation with a Neldathi. I thought it better to collect intelligence from
a safe distance.” He tried to smile as if he was pleased with the answer.
“In other words, you were willing
to hide in the safety of the wagon while that barbarian was waving a gun in my
face. That will go in my report, you know.”
“No, sir, please,” Klaron said,
rushing to the older man’s side. “I could tell you were capable of handling the
situation yourself, master. The sudden presence of another,” he paused to
choose the next word carefully, “
peddler
might have aroused the
Neldathi’s suspicion. Had the situation become more fraught, I would have come
to your aid with the element of surprise.”
“Is that so?” Gaven didn’t believe
the young man’s explanation for a second. Still, he had a point, not to mention
a knack for conjuring
post hoc
justifications for his behavior. Neldathi
were, in general, emotional, quick to anger, and hard to deal with. One armed
with a musket, even if he could only use it as a club, was a real danger. All
that being true, it was fantasy for Klaron to suggest that the appearance of a
second Altrerian in the shop would have aroused the Neldathi’s suspicion.
Most Neldathi had never even heard
of the Sentinels, much less would they be able to recognize one on sight. For
over one hundred years the Sentinels had loitered at the fringes of Neldathi
society south of the Water Road, posing as peddlers, guides, or wandering
entertainers. The entire system depended on the Neldathi not knowing who they
really were. That was the only way the Sentinels could stay in position to observe
the movements and habits of the clans, as well as the conflicts between them.
At one time after the Great
Neldathi Uprising had been crushed, any major event among the Neldathi was known
in Tolenor before it reached the ears of other clans. The system worked
efficiently and thoroughly. In Gaven’s time, however, he had seen the alliance
begin to grow complacent. He and Klaron were responsible for a much larger
territory than Gaven and his mentor had covered. They still relayed information
quickly and accurately, but they had no hope of being current on all the
important news.
It was a role Gaven played well. He
had done so for nearly twenty years. When he first arrived here, he was like
Klaron, a young apprentice learning his trade in the field. He learned then,
and had it confirmed numerous times since, that no matter how well trained new
Sentinels were when they came here, there was no substitute for experience.
This land, with its rugged mountains and long stretches of winter, was as harsh
and unforgiving as the Neldathi who inhabited it. For them, it was enough just
to exist. For the Sentinels, however, much more was required. Some Sentinels
did their time here and returned north as soon as possible. Gaven was one of
the few who took to the work, the land, and the people. He had been here so
long, he wasn’t sure he could ever return to the Guildlands. Given his gift, it
was unlikely he ever would.
What he lacked in experience,
Klaron made up for with his encyclopedic recall of anything he had been taught.
Gaven thought he might as well make use of that resource. “All right, then,” he
said, trying to sound pleasant, “since you were watching so carefully from back
there, tell me what you think it all might mean.” Gaven picked the musket up
off the counter and handed it to the young man.
“It is a rifle, master,” the young
man said, without giving it a close look.
Gaven shook his head and scowled.
“Look closer, Klaron. This isn’t a rifle, is it?”
Klaron rested the butt of the
weapon gently on the ground and peered down the barrel, adjusting it to catch
the most light from an overhead lantern. “It has a smooth bore, master,” he
said, looking back up. “It is a musket, then.”
“So what? Why should that arouse
our interest?”
“The Neldathi do not make muskets.
At least so far as we know.”
“Precisely. Why is that?”
“The first priority of a Neldathi
warrior is the hunt, not battle. A smoothbore musket does not have the range
and is not accurate enough to be an effective weapon on the hunt. They prefer
long rifles, which are more accurate. Altrerian armies have adopted muskets
because of how quickly they can be reloaded. Rate of fire means much less on
the hunt. Neldathi warriors tend to stick with bows, aside from a few truly
elite riflemen.” He paused for a moment. “If I remember my training correctly,
sir.”
“Correct, Klaron. So how does an
average Neldathi warrior, concerned with the hunt, on the north slope of the
Vander Range, wind up in possession of such a weapon?”
The young man thought for a moment.
“Perhaps this particular clan has decided to follow the Altrerian model? They
are moving to the use of muskets in warfare. Which clan was he from?”
Gaven snorted. “I see you weren’t
paying that much attention, were you? Didn’t you see the colored stripes of his
braid?”
Klaron looked down sheepishly.
There was no need to answer.
“It’s not that important,” Gaven
said, sure that Klaron had learned his lesson. “Regardless of which clan he
comes from, none of them have the industrial capacity to manufacture muskets in
large numbers. Besides, he told me it was a gift from his matriarch. If there
was a strategic shift underway, they wouldn’t just give them away, would they?”
“But if the Neldathi are not manufacturing
them, master, then where are they coming from?”
Gaven took the weapon back from
Klaron. “That’s the critical question. The Islanders trade with the Neldathi,
since they aren’t bound by the Triumvirate’s embargo. But they don’t have the
resources to manufacture them in large numbers, either.”
A brief silence hung between them.
“Then who, master?” Klaron asked.
“I don’t know. Perhaps someone else
will. What time is it?”
Klaron took the timepiece out of a
pocket buried in the layers of clothing it took to stay warm in this climate.
“Almost seven past apex, master.”
“Good. Then we can pass on this
information right now, while it is fresh in our minds. Close up the shop,
Klaron. Someone should be listening.”
~~~~~
It took several minutes for Klaron to
close up the tent and ensure that no stray passersby would disturb them. While
he did that, Gaven took the ladder from its hiding place in the wagon—next to
his pikti, he noticed—and hauled it out behind their compound. He was just
beginning to fuss with it and make sure his connection between the ground and
the platform high up in the nearby pine tree was secure when Klaron appeared,
holding a lantern.
Gaven took the lantern from the
young man. “Go fetch the musket. In case they want details.”
“Yes, master.” Klaron darted
swiftly back under the tent into the shop. He was back almost as quickly as he
had left.
“Good,” Gaven said, stepping back
from the ladder. “Sling that across your back.” Gaven secured the lantern to a
loop on his belt. “For goodness’ sake, be careful as we are climbing. If you go
roaring down this mountain on your backside, I am not coming after you. Is that
clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Klaron said, securing
the musket across his back.
The two climbed in silence,
clinging tight to the rungs of the ladder against the unpredictable gusts of
wind. Gaven thought that this had to be the last severe cold snap of the
spring, but one could never be sure. The winter had not been particularly
harsh, in context, but it had overstayed its welcome. The winds that lashed the
north face of the Vander Range had normally subsided by now, yet this year they
persisted. Before long they were picking their way up through an increasingly
dense screen of limbs, branches, and evergreen leaves. At least it helped
provide some shelter from the wind.
Gaven clambered off the ladder,
grasping a sturdy nearby branch in his right hand. He maneuvered himself over
to the wooden platform that had been built into the tree. Once he was sure on
his feet and braced against the wind, he turned and offered his hand to Klaron,
who was following silently at his heels. The young man took his hand and
climbed up on the platform beside him. They paused for a moment to catch their
breaths, Klaron standing with his hands on his hips, while Gaven leaned against
the tree trunk.
The Vander Range ran parallel to
the Water Road for most of its length. All across the north slope of those
mountains, platforms like this one could be found. Most were temporary affairs,
meant to be used only a few times before the Sentinels moved on. Others were
more permanent, way stations for the Sentinels to return to again and again in
their travels. In either case, they were cleverly concealed and impossible to
spot, unless the eye knew precisely what to look for. The Neldathi, in spite of
roaming lands that contained great stands of timber in places, were not prone
to climbing. No Neldathi had ever discovered a Sentinel’s platform, it was
said. Gaven thought that was unlikely. It was inconceivable to him that no platform
had ever collapsed just from neglect, not to mention the swing of a Neldathi
axe.