Valkwitch (The Valkwitch Saga Book 1) by Michael Watson Page B

colored a
simple gray with bright silver threads lining the edges in delicate, curling
patterns. At the neck was a metal brooch bearing an emblem of a shield with
four quadrants. The shield was winged with ten curving feathers, five on a
side. Stamped below the emblem were a pair of runic letters in a language just
as foreign as the lettering that adorned this temple, though these were
graceful rather than sinister. She saw now that the same winged shield emblem
adorned pieces of Tsellien’s armor, discreetly placed, hidden in plain sight.
Tyrissa held the clasp tight in her hand and then threw the cloak over her
shoulders.
    She recovered her staff and bag next, fighting
through the flares from her foot that were becoming a constant, but ignorable,
presence as she crawled across the channels of sunlight and shadow on the
cathedral floor. Gritting her teeth, Tyrissa poured part of the contents of her
water skin over her foot. Flecks of filth, residue of the daemon’s touch,
washed away. She folded over a length of the leather strap of her bag and bit
down on it, took the bandages from the bag and wrapped them around her foot.
Tyrissa pulled the bandages tight and birthed a new supernova of pain,
screaming through clenched teeth. She spat out the leather with a string of
profanity, drank the rest of the warm water from the skin and lay back, waiting
for her breath and heart to slow. Pulling on Tsellien’s boot was mild by
comparison.
    After repacking her now woefully insufficient
supplies, Tyrissa struggled to her feet, leaning heavily on her staff as a
crutch. Step by pained step she retraced her path out of the damned, unhallowed
grounds of the temple. She kept her eyes down, focused on the stairs before
her. This time the temple was silent, no aural tricks, no grip of hot darkness.
There was only the black stone, quiet and eternally uncaring, without menace.
She walked through the patches of black ash on the floor without fear, knowing
she trod upon the remains of daemons slain by Tsellien and her fallen allies.
    Outside, the air felt right again. Birds
and insects flew above the blackened circle and midnight spire, where before
the air was empty. The spire itself no longer seemed to devour the light, as if
accepting its place in the natural order. Instead of relief, Tyrissa only felt
a steadily building hatred for the spire, its unearthed temple, and for
herself. Her luck today was only exceeded by her stupidity, her ignorant
assumption she was invincible.
    The descent to the valley was the worst: an
extended blur of gingerly placed hand and foot holds. Tyrissa lost track of how
many times she slipped or lost her grip on the way down, numb to the little
scraps and cuts from the rocky ground. They were inconsequential. She’s had
worse now. For the rest of her days she will always have had worse.
    At the base of the hillside she found a narrow
stream flowing into the valley, the water fed by the still melting snows from
the Norspine peaks. She rested here, refilling the water skin and trying her
best to rinse some of the blood out of her clothes, hair, and skin. Her motions
were automatic, unthinking. The sun dipped toward the heights of the Norspine
Mountains in its extended summer sunset. With precious few hours of light left,
Tyrissa stood, wincing, and started the slow march back down the rock-strewn
valley.
    Will never make it home before dark. Must find
shelter. Must get away from here.
    Tyrissa’s mind looped through those three
thoughts. This morning she was a queen of these woods, striding through the
trees fearless and untouchable. Now, hobbled and stunned, she was prey,
carrion. She even smelled the part.
    Tyrissa found what she sought after hours of
scant, agonizing progress, just as the sun began to pass behind the peaks at
her back. At the center of the valley, not far from where she descended this
morning, were the gutted ruins of a cluster of homes. Abandoned during the
Cleanse like every other sign of