Chapter Sixteen: Braveblade
Tyruc is immediately attacked upon entering farm by a crazed Zifa and her tormentor, a harpy. He finds refuge inside the windmill where all the others are hiding and nursing their wounds, including the missing militia member Thochag.
Tyruc suppressed a wince as navigated the ladder leading up to the loft. Once he reached the top, he ducked beneath the beams to come next to young man staring intently at the panel on the wall. “Mind if I join you?”
Thochag grunted, an odd vibration travelling through the noise. The magic light held by the girl below did not travel far into the loft, but even so, Tyruc could see Thochag shivering violently.
Fear or pain? he wondered but did not voice. Instead, he knelt down next to him. “I’m Tyruc. Sareit sent me.” When Thochag did not respond, he continued, “She’ll be glad you’re okay.”
“Are we?” he whispered. “Okay, I mean?”
“Yeah, of course we are.” The words felt like a lie as they left his mouth, but this orc lad did not need to know that. “Have you heard of the Wolf Rider?”
“Everybody knows about the—” Thochag’s eyes finally tore away from the wall to gawk at Tyruc. He asked in an awed tone, “Are you…?”
Tyruc blushed, which he hoped was undetectable in the dim, and answered, “Yeah, that’s me. I’m Tyruc, Herald of Som. And you’re Thochag, right?”
The young man nodded vigorously.
Tell him.
What?
Tell him about yourself, about the events that lead you here. It is important that he knows.
Tyruc internally groaned yet obeyed. He quickly sketched out his awakening, the jackal invasion, and the time he had spent in Bodra thus far, and Thochag was enrapt by his story.
When Tyruc mentioned the orc siblings he had encountered, Thochag grasped his arm. “You met Guardall and Everbloom?!”
“I thought the older boy said his name was ‘Volok.’”
Thochag sank back into a seated position and chuckled. “Why did they get to meet you first?”
Tyruc made himself more comfortable as well as he considered a question that had not been presented with a moment to ask. “Actually, I’ve been confused about the little girl’s name, too.”
“It’s a family tradition,” Thochag explained with a degree of pride. “We all have a special middle name our father gives us. You met my little brother and sister, Volok ‘Guardall’ and Kinnio ‘Everbloom.’”
“Oh,” Tyruc said. “How many siblings do you have?”
“Thirteen.” Tyruc whistled lowly, but Thochag continued, “I have six older siblings and seven younger ones. Most of them live on our family farm north of Bodra.”
“So what’s your special name?”
“‘Braveblade,’” Thochag answered bashfully, rubbing the edge of his cloak on his axe’s blade and avoiding eye contact.
Tyruc had not paid much mind to the weapon, but now that his attention had been drawn to it, he marveled at the artisanship. The dual-bladed head looked like it was made of silver with intricate designs scrawled across the metal as well as the long haft. The grime Thochag worried at looked like the same dark green substance Tyruc had on his shirt, spilled from a wound in the harpy.
“It looks like you’ve been living up to your name.”
“I’ve been trying to keep them safe,” Thochag said with a nod at the folks below them, “but the kids don’t listen. Honestly, they’ve been the brave ones.”
“If my headcount is right, everyone is here in the windmill now, so it’s just a matter of keeping the danger out there and us in here. You’ve done a good job, Thochag.” Tyruc assessed the young man, his eyes having adjusted some to the dim. “I heard you got hurt, though.”
Thochag shifted away from Tyruc. “It’s not bad. That thing tried to take off with me, but Murth came to the rescue.” He sniffled. “Murth’s a good friend like that.”
Tyruc sensed more there, something along the lines of guilt. He wanted to ask about what happened but stopped when he saw the pool of dark liquid on the wooden planks between them. Thochag caught his gaze.
“All right, show me.”
“It’s not that—”
“Now.”
Thochag hesitated before pulling back his cloak to reveal a gash in his side. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he insisted. “I’ve been tending to it, see?” He put down his axe to pass his hand over the wound, expanding frost across it in an attempt to close it.
But Tyruc also now recognized how his ashen skin had taken on a sickly pallor and the clothing around the gash was soaked a dark red. “Have you let any of the folks down there help you?”
“No, and I’m not going to,” Thochag said with a stubborn edge. “If any of them have healing magics, they need it down there more than I do.” He picked up his axe and resettled his stance in front of the panel, his jaw clenched but his body swaying.
Tyruc gestured to the panel. “This has got you worried, doesn’t it?”
Thochag nodded. “I noticed the panel when we arrived yesterday because it’s just like the barn loft doors we have at home for tossing hay.”
Home. Tyruc looked down at the shattered families below them. This settlement had been home to them, but could they ever consider it so again? Would the events of these two days undo all the years of community they had built, the joyful memories forever marred by the painful ones? Would they even survive?
“They’ll be fine now that you’re here,” Thochag said, his bright green eyes nearly luminous in the dark and full of trust in Tyruc. “You said it yourself.”
“What are you, a mind reader?”
Thochag giggled boyishly, his young age bleeding through the hardened shell the circumstances had molded around him. “No, I’m just the middle child of a big family and I know how to read looks like that one. You should have a little more faith, Wolf Rider.”
Tyruc blinked at that. “What do you mean?”
“You said that you’re a Herald of Som, right? Then I think that means everything is going to work out okay in the end.”
“You know about Som?”
Thochag nodded. “Of course. My whole family knows about Him.”
Tyruc nearly choked and was about to question Thochag when a gust of wind rattled the loft door, startling Thochag badly. The young orc shook violently again, all the unwinding they had accomplished with their conversation instantly undone.
“You all right?” Tyruc asked him.
“Ronnil said in militia training to follow my gut, and it’s in knots right now over this door.”
“Ronnil,” Tyruc scoffed. “He has some explaining to do.”
Thochag furrowed his brow. “He left us.” He stated it emotionlessly, as though caring would take too much energy, would distract him from the danger he must guard against.
“None of this is like him. He’s been off this whole trip.” Thochag seemed to drift off for a moment, but then he asked, “Did they at least make it back to Bodra okay?”
“Yeah, they did. Gilli and Murth were banged up pretty bad, but it looks like they’re going to be all right.”
Thochag paused again, then all at once snapped his attention to Tyruc. “What did you just say?” he asked loud enough to startle the folks below them.
“Gillibrand and Murth are going to be all right,” Tyruc answered in confusion, alarmed by the young man’s sudden urgency.
Thochag shook his head. “What do you mean—”
A thud and the mad scrabbling of claws on the wood panel cut him off. The children beneath them squealed in fear, their mothers hushing them in vain, and Tyruc could see those pitiful sounds visibly steeling something in Thochag. His flagging energy returned, and the young orc hefted his axe and braced himself for whatever would come next.
But Tyruc would not let it come to that. Something was being steeled within himself, too, by this young man’s hopeless bravery. Thochag was here to protect those men and women, but it was now up to Tyruc to protect Thochag.
“Hold down the fort,” Tyruc told him before ducking back beneath the beams, sliding down the ladder, and making straight for the door. The older boy stood by it like a miniature sentry and held Tyruc’s sword, ready to hand it off to him. “It’s Talfen, right?”
The boy blinked in surprise and nodded. “Yessir! My friend Anlow told me he was your lookout during the invasion. Can I be your lookout, too?”
“Absolutely, so long as you stay safe, got it?”
Talfen nodded vigorously.
“I’m going to put an end to this mess.” He gestured to the door, which Talfen made ready to open. “Here we go.”
Talfen cracked the door just wide enough to allow Tyruc to squeeze through, and another gust of wind blew rain into the windmill. Tyruc pressed against the gale, satisfied to hear the door clank shut behind him. He turned quickly to look up at the beast assaulting the side of the windmill.
The harpy kicked against the panel keeping it only a few feet away from Thochag’s position. Water ran down his sword arm, and as an idea formed in his mind, the sword’s pommel began glow blue-green.
He aimed a sweeping slash of his sword in the direction of the creature, pushing forward mentally on the rainwater coating the blade, and the movement sent a shearing wave through the air to slam into the harpy’s back.
“Ha!” Tyruc whooped in triumph, but his victory was short-lived as the harpy let burst from its porous torso a blast of baleful screams. Its wail sent blinding pain through Tyruc’s head.
Silence her! Tyruc’s companion commanded. Tyruc flicked his sword again in the direction of the sound, sending another slicing blade of water through the air. It struck the creature in its chest.
The holes sputtered and pulsated hideously as water filled the cavities to dampen the sound, and the harpy shuddered violently before flapping away from the windmill.
Tyruc’s ears still thrummed with a ringing sound, alerting him too late of the rapid footfalls coming up to his rear. In the next instant, Zifa leapt on his back and dug one of her taloned hands into his scalp. She reared back her other hand, holding aloft her hatchet. Tyruc spun quickly and flung himself backward against the windmill door, crushing the madwoman against it. She screamed and tumbled away from him, and she scrambled around the corner of the building.
“That was hardly fair,” Tyruc quipped, touching his hand to his hair and feeling blood there. “Hey, Father Time, you still there?”
That is not my name, the voice replied in a singsong lilt. It had apparently returned to its previous demeanor of playfulness, which Tyruc found altogether inappropriate for the situation. And we are always here with you, whether you hear us or not.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure. But what do I need to do to get you or Asena out here to help me? These water tricks are fun but aren’t going to cut it while I’m outnumbered.”
Asena would be at a distinct disadvantage in this weather and terrain, but I would be happy to help you.
“Thanks—”
As soon as we finalize a deal between us.
“Spoke too soon.” Tyruc kept his back to the windmill and watched for any signs that either of the dangerous entities out in the rain were about to attack, but the heavy rain and thick cloud cover severely limited his vision. “What do I need to do?”
Simple. Answer my riddle correctly, and I will join my power to yours. Quite a bargain, I think.
The many-voiced cry of the harpy lanced through the air, and Tyruc glimpsed Zifa crouching behind the corner of her cabin, watching him and fidgeting with her hatchet.
“You have to be kidding.”
Coming up in Chapter Seventeen:
Tyruc must contend with a vicious monster, its maniacal victim, and a riddling Herald all at once if he is to save the folk of Zifa’s Farm.
You have got to be kidding, indeed! I’m all fighting for my life here and you are going all Gollum on me!