Chapter Eleven: The Militia Returns
Tyruc witnesses a tense exchange in the Honeycomb Inn’s tavern and receives a different viewpoint on the Final Battle’s aftermath. Now, he awaits the arrival of the town’s militia which is suspiciously overdue.
Sareit asked Tyruc to join her at the town’s eastern entrance, where she would be standing vigil for the arrival of the militia. “I’d like to follow up on our conversation from the other day, if that’s all right with you, Sir Tyruc?”
“Of course!” he blustered. “I’ll meet you there after my morning patrol.”
And Tyruc made it a point to patrol very thoroughly with the avatar of Asena padding alongside. They first completed a revolution of the inner circuit before moving to the outer ring of buildings.
The first day they patrolled together, people gasped, pointed, and occasionally applauded at the sight of the duo, but how quickly the novelty had dissipated. Today, the townsfolk smiled and waved, but few were bothered enough to stop their activities to speak with him. The notable exception was the golden-scaled man running the last standing booth of the harvest market.
“It’s me, Armek,” he re-introduced himself with an enthusiastic handshake. He had already introduced himself twice before, but Tyruc felt no need to point that out. Armek swept around his shaded table with a flourish, arms extended to display the various exotic fruit he had for sale. “Please, take one!”
Tyruc tried to politely decline, but the friendly merchant pressed him into accepting a spiny, red fruit as a gift.
Tyruc now stood at the east entrance and tried to figure out the best way to approach eating the fruit. “I’ve never had one of these. Do you just bite through the rind, or do you peel it?”
“Take a bite and find out,” Sareit said, but Tyruc detected a hint of a dare in that. Her arms were folded across her chest, and her eyes were trained on the winding country road that stretched away from the township.
“What’s it called?” he asked, scratching at the peel’s surface and sniffing it. It granted him no odor to betray its flavor.
“A sweetpyre fruit. They’re fairly common in Merros.”
Tyruc turned the fruit in his hands a number of times before finding a thin ridge tracing its circumference. He then sharply cracked the fruit, exposing a pulpy interior. Pink juice spilled out, and he reflexively brought one half to his mouth to catch some of the nectar. The liquid tingled across his tongue and into his throat, an intense mingling of sweetness and spice.
Sareit had not taken her eyes away from the horizon, but she struggled to hide a grimace at the slurping sounds Tyruc made as he attempted to keep the juicy fruit from dripping on his clothes.
Tyruc felt eyes upon him and turned to see the avatar of Asena alternating her stare between him and the other half of the fruit in his off hand. Does she need fed? he mentally asked his guardian. A sudden guilt of neglect threatened to seize him.
She does not need to eat, came Asena’s reply. Your own health and wellbeing are what sustain her form, but…
The avatar licked her chops, her eyes growing larger and more doleful. When a small whine escaped her, Tyruc relented and offered the other half of the fruit to her. A small snort escaped her as she snapped the treat up, devouring it joyfully with all tails wagging.
“Sweetpyre fruit is bad for dogs,” Sareit chided.
Tell her to mind her own business.
“Asena!” Tyruc exclaimed with an astonished laugh. The avatar turned her back on them both, lying down on the path to continue to chew on the rind.
Sareit finally turned away from the road and looked at Tyruc.
Uh-oh.
“Sir Tyruc, I really would like to ask you more questions. Like that.” She pointed to Asena devouring the fruit. “I’ve never seen anything like it. You command it like a guard dog, but you’ve been calling it Asena.”
“That’s right.” Tyruc gave the rest of his half to the avatar. The fruit was delicious, but he was getting far more amusement out of watching the divine canine enjoy it. “What do you know about Asena?”
“I believe I was in the process of asking you that first,” Sareit countered.
A faint rumble pulled their attention toward the road. A wagon approached in the distance, kicking up considerable dust in its wake. “Is it the militia?” Tyruc asked, but the image was wrong. The cloud of dust surrounding the wagon was white. Not dust, smoke. “Smoke! They’re on fire!”
“Calm down, Sir Tyruc.” Sareit grabbed his sleeve to stop him from darting down the path. A relieved grin stretched across her face. “They’re fine; just wait.”
Tyruc’s heart thumped in his ears, but as the wagon drew nearer, his stirring toward panic morphed into wary curiosity. A grinding sound accompanied a keening whistling. No animal pulled the wagon. “A steam carriage,” he murmured.
The carriage was near enough that Tyruc could finally make sense of its details. It was shaped in the same general configuration of a large, covered wagon, but every inch of it was reinforced with black metal. White steam poured out of a stout chimney near the front, but it did so fitfully. The steam sputtered, the grinding turned to screeching, and the carriage shuddered to a halt while still well outside the perimeter of the town.
Sareit’s smile fell. “Something’s not right. Gilli isn’t driving.” Sareit broke into a run toward the carriage.
As Tyruc followed after her, a panel on the carriage’s side lifted up, and a man leapt out. A lux man, like Tyruc, but taller and with pale skin and short-cropped, black hair. He was clad in traveler’s clothes and a black cloak that draped over his left side, and he wore a pained scowl.
“Ronnil, where’s Gillibrand?” Sareit demanded.
The man grunted as he pulled on a handle toward the carriage’s rear, sliding open another door with one hand. “Back here with Murth. It’s bad, Sareit. I brought them back as fast as I could, but…" He gestured to the back of the wagon.
Sareit clambered into the vehicle and released a sharp gasp. Tyruc moved to follow but found a hand pressed firmly against his chest.
“Who are you?” Ronnil’s scowl slid into a sneer. “Sareit, who is this guy?”
“Not now, you idiot,” she called from the carriage in a strangled voice. “Give me a hand!”
Ronnil gave Tyruc a small shove before turning his attention back to the wagon.
What’s this guy’s problem? Tyruc wondered in Asena’s direction. He looked around to see that the avatar had not followed closely but sat on her haunches halfway between the carriage and the town limits. What’s wrong?
Dismiss the avatar, came the true Asena’s voice.
Why?
You don’t have time for this right now. Dismiss the avatar before that man sees her. Asena’s tone with Tyruc had seldom been so sharp.
Tyruc concentrated on his connection with the wolf and, instead of pushing on the tether, severed it. With ease, the connection broke, and the avatar of Asena disappeared in a small flash of blue fire.
“What are you doing out there?” Ronnil called from the back of the carriage. “Sareit said ‘help,’ so help!”
Tyruc gritted his teeth and kept his mouth closed, opting to play along for now instead of making whatever this situation was worse with indignation.
Good, Asena said. I was not sure if you would be of the temperament to bite your tongue.
Any objections Tyruc might have had fled his mind as he was pressed into service pulling two unconscious, bloody bodies out of the steam carriage.
By the time Tyruc, Sareit, and Ronnil transported the two wounded men to the inn, someone had already called upon the healer Yuill. He and Oliette designated the room on the second floor directly across from Tyruc’s to house the injured. The room was smaller than Tyruc’s, still decorated with rural charm but only furnished with two small beds, the nightstand separating them, and a worn chest-of-drawers.
Tyruc had carried the one called Murth over his shoulder and was instructed to place him in the bed farthest from the door. It was not until he flopped the patient down and took a step back that Tyruc got a look at him. The man was a Deepfolk, his blue-black skin and silver hair accompanied by a single, ram-like horn that curved back from his right brow in an ‘S’ shape.
As Oliette shooed Tyruc away, he also noticed three long slashes cut across Murth’s torso.
Sareit and Ronnil worked together to deliver the body of the dwarven Gillibrand to the room. Though he was quite short, his heavyset build and worryingly limp state made maneuvering him challenging, but Sareit did not tolerate any offers to take her place in carrying him. Once they laid him down on the bed, Yuill moved in to examine.
“What happened?” Yuill asked, searching for a pulse beneath Gillibrand’s mane of dark auburn hair.
“We were out on an investigation,” Ronnil answered gruffly from the doorway. “Everything was fine until something jumped us at Zifa’s Farm.”
Sareit paced the small space at the foot of the beds. “What was it?”
“I couldn’t see it. It was the middle of the night. The thing hit Murth hard, and then…” He trailed off, staring at the inert form of Gillibrand.
“What did it do to him?” demanded Sareit.
“The blasted thing could fly,” he responded through gritted teeth. “It picked Gilli up and dropped him, more than once. Like it was playing with him.” He slammed his right fist into the doorframe. “I knew he shouldn’t have come.”
Sareit wheeled on him. “Liar!”
“Hey!” Oliette barked. “Both of you, out of here, now!”
Sareit folded her arms. “I’m not leaving.”
“Neither am I,” Ronnil echoed.
Oliette looked to Tyruc, who stood near the foot of Murth’s bed. He heaved a sigh and nodded, putting his arms out as a barrier and ushering Sareit toward the door. She moved begrudgingly, pushing past Ronnil with a contemptuous shoulder-check, but the cloaked man stood his ground in the doorway at Tyruc’s approach.
“Just who do you think you are?”
“Apparently, I’m the bouncer,” Tyruc replied. “Now move along.” The two held a long stare, one that Tyruc desperately wanted to break but refused to on Oliette’s behalf, until Ronnil’s glare morphed into a growing recognition. Tyruc began to feel the same, but not before Ronnil departed with a parting growl of something none too pleasant.
“Thank you, Sir,” Oliette said without looking up from tending to Murth when Tyruc clicked the door closed.
“No problem.” But Tyruc felt like it definitely was a problem. He had apparently gotten off on a very wrong foot with this man, and he did not foresee the situation improving. “Is there anything I can do to help either of you?”
Oliette responded first. “Not me, but thank you. The cuts aren’t as deep as they look, but there is a danger of infection. Fortunately, the harvest market was plentiful in supplies for this kind of thing.”
‘This kind of thing?’ How often does ‘this kind of thing’ happen around here?
“Yuill, is there anything Sir Tyruc can help you and poor Gilli with?”
The elf checked each limb of his patient. “One leg is broken,” he said softly. He felt around the man’s torso. “Perhaps a cracked rib, as well. I am most afraid for his spine.”
Tyruc drew in a steadying breath. “So what can I do?”
“Nothing, Sir Wolf Rider. I can set the bone in his leg myself, and I can try to mend his other injuries through my orisons.” Yuill pulled on a leather cord around his neck to bring a white, crystalline pendant out from the collar of his tunic. Etched into the crystal was a pair of branching antlers. He held the pendant over Gillibrand’s broken leg and muttered in a language Tyruc could not understand.
After observing his help was not needed at the moment, he slipped out of the room to search for Sareit and the militia man.
It was not difficult to locate them. The shouting could be heard from the lobby, and when Tyruc crossed into the bar, the slightly open curtain and ajar door in the far corner beckoned him toward their argument. The few patrons picking at their late lunches sat wide-eyed, no doubt pretending they could not hear each venomous word coming from the war room. Tyruc stood just outside of the curtain but did not immediately enter.
You should not eavesdrop.
I can’t just go in there while they’re in the middle of arguing. I’ll wait until there’s a good moment to cut in.
Asena remained silent, but her disapproval prickled at Tyruc’s mind.
“We’re gone for a few days, and suddenly you’re running around town with some new ‘friend.’ Are you taking in strays again?”
“Do you have any idea who that is?” Sareit snapped. “And why are you worried about that when Gilli and Murth are hurt? You were supposed to protect them! Gilli didn’t even want to go until you started all of this ‘pull your own weight’ rubbish, as if he wasn’t already the most important part of this militia!”
“‘Militia?’ Are you still calling it that? There are four of us, Sareit, which isn’t even enough for a squad.”
“There’s five of us. Me, you, Murth, Gilli, and—” Sareit stopped. “Where’s Thochag?”
Ronnil did not respond.
“I said, ‘Where’s Thochag?’”
“Sareit, I had a call to make.”
“What does that mean?”
Ronnil cleared his throat. “The kid disappeared at Zifa’s place. I searched for him, but he was just gone. Gilli and Murth were hurt, so I made the call to come back here and regroup.”
Tyruc heard the sound of hard steps marching across the floor and then a telltale thwack.
That’s my cue.
He entered the war room to find Sareit glaring up into Ronnil’s reddened face, daring him to strike her back with the fist he had clenched at his waist.
“Hey!” Tyruc called out, and both faces turned to him, Sareit’s with a degree of embarrassment and Ronnil’s with unconcealed fury. “Everything all right in here?”
“Mind your own business,” Ronnil snarled, but Sareit shoved him back before moving to Tyruc’s side.
“What is wrong with you? It is his business. He’s the newest member of the militia, and the two of us will be heading out to deal with your mess and find Thochag.”
“I am?” Tyruc asked, earning him a pleading look from Sareit. “I mean, I am.”
Ronnil laughed derisively. “Don’t bother. I’ll deal with this myself.” He pushed between them toward the exit. In the process, his cloak caught against Tyruc and revealed his left side, and something in clicked into place for Tyruc.
“The healer’s tent.”
Ronnil stopped at the door. “What was that?”
The memories flooded back too quickly, too viscerally for Tyruc to articulate.
Ronnil slowly turned, the cloak still pulled back enough to expose his left arm, which terminated slightly above the elbow. The look of suspicious recognition returned. “I’ve seen your face.”
“Ronnil, this is Tyruc,” Sareit said with a note of wariness. “The Wolf Rider.”
“That’s not how I know his face,” Ronnil insisted. “I never met the Rider. I was too busy getting my sword arm sawed off.” And then it clicked for Ronnil, too. “You?”
Tyruc remembered his knee buried in the man’s chest as he forced a rag between his teeth. The same teeth that were currently bared at him. He began to think this man’s quick hatred of him was perhaps not entirely unfounded.
“The butcher’s helper and the Wolf Rider are the same man,” Ronnil said in disgust. “Of course.” His right hand clenched the pommel of the sword sheathed by his side, his face flushed and his eyes quivering. He then turned on his heel and left the war room, and the glass doors to the veranda opened and closed violently.
Sareit slumped against one of the tables. “This was not how today was supposed to go.”
“It certainly took a turn,” Tyruc agreed.
“I’m sorry about him. Ronnil is the vanguard of our,” she hesitated, “… little militia. He was a Merrosian soldier brought here after the Final Battle. It seems you two may have a history.”
“Something like that.”
“Ronnil has a temper, but he’s a good man. This isn’t like him. He must be panicking over what happened. I shouldn’t have hit him.” Sareit slid a hand over her face. “Did they say anything about Gilli and Murth?”
“Your mother said Murth’s injuries looked worse than they really were and just needed to be kept from infection.” He drew a breath before continuing. “Your other friend is pretty beat up. The healer’s working on it, but I don’t hold much faith in priests.”
“His orisons are quite effective,” Sareit rebutted. “It may seem odd, but orisons are just another way of channeling the elements, usually in the form of prayers for healing.”
“But prayers to whom?” Tyruc scoffed.
Sareit ignored that his question was largely rhetorical. “It depends on the priest. Most pray to the Court of the Fel, either as a whole or dedicated to a specific god, while others pray to people and creatures from legend. There are still others who make their orisons in honor of concepts. Yuill is one of the latter. He prays in the name of peace.”
“That sounds nice, but how does that translate into an actual effect?”
“There are a multitude of theories. The most accommodating is the thought that the deities, myths, and good thoughts actually listen to the orisons and grant the power. Most scholars agree that’s bunk. It’s more likely an alternate form of elemental conjury wherein the user’s concentration on the orison is the means by which they command the elements.”
Tyruc slowly worked his way through that. “So, priests think really hard about what they want to happen, and because they spend all that concentration and belief on that result, they are subconsciously making it happen?”
“That’s actually exactly what that theory means. Very good, Sir Tyruc.”
“Hmm…” Tyruc hummed. “But that power to conjure something comes from somewhere, right? And surely someone’s listening to those orisons.”
Sareit gave him a curious look. “I suppose that follows.”
Not yet, Tyruc. There is no time for this conversation right now. Do not push.
Tyruc very much wanted to push, in part because he felt like he was on the verge of understanding something important himself. He settled for questioning Asena. Am I right, though? Is Som listening and answering those orisons?
Som is always listening, and He is faithful to answer the prayers of those who entreat Him. However, His answer is not always yes, and His answers come in their perfect timing.
But it sounds like these orisons always get answered.
Som is not the only one who listens.
“What is she saying?” Sareit asked.
“We’re talking about Som,” he responded. He then froze, recalling the familiar feeling of having been caught with his hand in the jar.
A slow smile crept across her face. “I knew it. You can hear her, can’t you? You’re talking to The Great Mother of Wolves.” She scrambled for her notebook and furiously jotted down her discovery while Tyruc fought the age-old urge to run.
“How did you know?”
“You get a funny look on your face, and sometimes you respond aloud. I either had to believe that you were talking to Lady Asena or that you were insane.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, I guess.”
Sareit tucked her notebook away. “I have so many more questions for you, but not right now.” Her excitement vanished as quickly as it had arisen. “I was serious about searching for Thochag.”
“All right. When do we leave?”
Sareit blinked at him.
“What?” he asked.
“I didn’t expect you to agree that easily. You don’t even know him.”
Tyruc shrugged. “You’re the boss of the militia, right? Since I’m apparently a new member, I’m yours to command. Besides, if your friend is lost or in danger, we can’t just ignore it.”
Sareit stared at him for a long moment before she stepped forward and grasped him in a tight hug, pinning his arms to his sides. A muffled, “Thank you,” a squeeze, and then she was gone, briskly moving from the war room. Tyruc thought she was wiping her eyes as she went.
That was sudden.
For you, perhaps, but not for her.
Care to explain that one?
Tyruc felt Asena consider the question. I would not like to meddle in your interpersonal relationships, but in this case, I will make an exception. You have been a fixture in the Honeywillow home for three years. Upon awaking, you rescued the entire town. And now, when Sareit’s friends are injured and endangered, you have elected to support her unconditionally.
Tyruc scrunched his face in dissatisfaction. “I don’t feel like I did anything special. I just agreed to help. That’s what I’m supposed to do, right?”
Yes, but not everyone does what they are supposed to do. You have developed a bond with the proprietors of this inn. You are fortunate that much of the groundwork was laid while you were sleeping. Such relationships are not easily forged, but once made, they are rarely broken.
“Well, I’m happy if she’s happy. Hopefully I can also fix my standing with that Ronnil guy,” he added doubtfully.
Asena’s place in his mind rumbled, a sound somewhere between a growl and a crackling flame. Beware that one, Tyruc. He is cloaked in bitterness that even now builds into rage. His anger is his vice, and such vices are infectious.
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Asena’s warning spoke to more than just a sour disposition. Tyruc hoped the niggling anxiety he felt was just paranoia and not a premonition of troubles to come.
Coming up in Chapter Twelve:
Tyruc travels to the site of a monster attack in search of the missing militia member, and he encounters a new companion along the way.