The Water Road Read online

  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.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part II

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part III

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Coming in 2016!

  About the Author

  Also by JD Byrne

  An Excerpt

  Prologue

  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.

  For all his years doing this work, Gaven was not particularly comfortable on the platforms. Even very sturdy ones, like this one, gave him an uneasy feeling. Those apprehensions were a small price to pay for the view, however, which was ultimately the point of the climbing, for the Vander Range also ran parallel to the Triumvirate forts that dotted the southern bank of the Water Road. The garrisons in those forts stood ready against another Neldathi uprising, if the Sentinels failed to prevent it. The direct line of sight provided by the platform allowed for those Sentinels working undercover to communicate directly with their counterparts in the forts without the Neldathi knowing anything about it.

  “What time is it?” Gaven pushed himself off the tree trunk.

  “Seven and one-half past apex, master,” his apprentice replied, using the glow of the lantern to illuminate his
pocket watch.

  “They should be in position, then. Send the signal.” Gaven handed the young man the lantern.

  Klaron took the lantern and walked over to the edge of the platform that faced due north towards the Water Road. The platform itself was surrounded by a low fence—not enough to keep anyone from falling off, but useful as a place for setting things. Klaron placed the lantern on top of the fence, then pulled a small telescope from somewhere in his clothing. He extended the scope and looked out towards the north.

  Through the telescope, Klaron could see the great river off in the distance, shimmering like a ribbon on the other side of a darkened room. Along the river he found a fort that had a beacon hanging high above the ramparts, stuck in a tall tower. He repositioned the lantern so that it beamed out towards the beacon. Still holding the telescope in one hand, Klaron reached down with practiced ease and began to rapidly open and close the aperture on the face of the lantern. He repeated the short pattern twice before he saw a response from the other side through the scope.

  After a brief exchange of coded signals between them, Klaron stepped away from the fence. “They are ready to receive you now, master.”

  “Thank you, Klaron,” Gaven said. He stepped up and positioned himself directly behind the lantern, facing the fort’s tower across the land. Whatever his faults, Gaven had observed how Klaron took to this task as if he was born to do it. It seemed like a cruel joke, at times. Klaron lacked Gaven’s gift, to be able to speak with others in their minds, yet he yearned for it so badly. Gaven, and those like him, most often viewed the gift as more of a curse. Perhaps Klaron worked so hard to be correct in his part of the ritual because it was the closet he would come to this.

  Gaven stood there for several moments, merely reaching out his name with his mind, until he received a response.

  “Greetings, Gaven,” the other’s mind said in his. “This is Pyrsal. Does this night find you well?”

  “Greetings, Pyrsal,” Gaven answered wordlessly. “This night finds me as most nights do. I do have news to send, however.”