Free Talon: The Windwalker Archive (Book 1) by Michael Ploof Page A

Vald who had arrived by horse-drawn sleds with Fylkin moved to surround Brekken and block any possible escape. The crowd looked on, transfixed by the scene. Talon thought he had gone deaf in the perfect stillness of the moment.
    Seeing no retreat , Brekken turned from the crowd back to Fylkin Winterthorn and laughed nervously.
    “ Chiefson,” he bowed. “I have served you well over the years, have I not?”
    Fylkin opened wide his muscled arms. “Claim Bjodja; challenge me.”
    A sudden dark shadow fell across Brekken’s face and he scowled over at Akkeri. All fear left his eyes as he accepted his fate. He straightened proudly and a fierce cry bellowed forth from his twisted mouth.
    “ I claim Bjodja!”
    Fylkin smiled . “I accept your challenge, Vaka Brekken. Kill three of us and you shall be named a Vald, Slayer of Chiefson Fylkin.”
    A light flashed behind Brekken’s eyes at the mention of the title , and he gave another roar and unsheathed his longsword on the run. Fylkin stood motionless as Brekken charged. The longsword steered for his gut and Fylkin sidestepped the sword, backhanding Brekken as he passed. Brekken was thrown ahead of him and stumbled into the snow face first. Still Fylkin did not draw his sword.
    Brekken rebounded and came on with quick slashes of his longsword. Fylkin jumped back once, then twice, and came in behind the elbow of the passing arm with the speed of a viper strike. Blood sprayed from Brekken’s nose as a firm elbow snapped his head back. Fylkin shifted his weight and his direction and swept his opponent’s legs. When Brekken fell flat on his back, Fylkin kicked the sword away.
    “ Perhaps you should fight with something you know how to use,” he said calmly as he backed away and waited for Brekken to get up.
    Vaka Brekken got to his feet and pulled a dagger from the small of his back. Talon looked to Akkeri, but her eyes remained locked on the battle, as did the eyes of the crowd. No cheers issued from the Skomm, but Talon saw the anticipation of death in their eager eyes. Many wished to see the hated Brekken get his due. How many of them imagined themselves Fylkin Winterthorn in that moment, Talon wondered.
    Brekken lunged forward with a quick feint and swiftly brought the dagger back i n a slash that sent fur flying from Fylkin’s vest. His small victory was short-lived, as Fylkin caught his arm and twisted it back. There was a loud pop and a snap like a dry tree branch breaking. And how Brekken howled. Talon could not help but wince at the sight and sound.
    Brekken desperat ely whirled with a backhand that hit Fylkin’s face to no effect. The Vald chiefson grabbed that arm as well and broke it. He then whirled around and planted a swift foot to the side of Brekken’s head. The big Vaka went down like felled lumber. Fylkin drew his sword.
    Bre kken blinked hard, as if trying to wake from a bad dream. He tried to get up from his prone position, but his arms flailed at their breaks sickeningly. The sight made Talon’s stomach turn. Fylkin helped him to sit up and positioned himself behind.
    Brekken’s eyes fell upon Akkeri ; next to her smiling face she held the small blade she had cut her cheek with—the blade that had sealed his fate. With a swift chop of his longsword Fylkin cut through Brekken’s neck to the middle of his chest. He pulled the blade back and the sword fell again through the other side of Brekken’s neck. He grabbed the head by the hair and pulled it off, bringing part of the spine with it. He held the head up to the crowd with a victorious roar.
    His demonic eyes fell upon Talon as Brekken’s blood bathed his ar m. The chiefson grinned.

Chapter 9
The Red Ribbon
     
    To those he loves, he sees himself a curse; seeds sown with daughter’s last breath.
    —G retzen Spiritbone, 4981
     
     
    Fylkin tied B rekken’s body to his big sled and set the head on one of the many spikes protruding from the sides. He eyed the crowd once more as he circled