Chaptwe Twelve

The Grief-Mares, despite being dead, had left a lasting impression on the flock. The children, terrified that straggling meant being eaten by a horse skulled nightmare, marched in lines so geometrically perfect they would have made a Roman legion jealous.

'...ACCEPTABLE FORMATION,' Obi noted, the ring pulsing with a rare, low hum of satisfaction. '...FEAR IS AN EXCELLENT SURVEYOR.'

They broke through the tree line as the moon hit its zenith, spilling out onto a wide, rolling prairie miles from the main road. The grass was waist high and silver in the moonlight, a stark contrast to the suffocating gloom of the woods.

"Camp," Siurad announced, his voice raspy.

The single word was like a spell breaking. The rigid lines dissolved into a huddle of exhausted relief. Yona had a fire going in minutes, feeding it with dried scrub and deadwood.

The camp was primitive, a collection of wool blankets looted from Kel’s supply cart spread over the flattened grass, but to the traumatized group, it was a palace. 

The firelight flickered against the dark, casting rhythmic, dancing shadows that reminded Siurad, for a fleeting, surreal moment, of the strobe lights at the club back home. But instead of bass, there was only the wind.

The children ate their rations in silence and were asleep before the crumbs hit the ground.

Siurad, however, did not get to sleep.

"Up," Yona commanded, tossing a heavy, knotty branch at his chest. "We’re burning daylight. Or... moonlight. Whatever."

Siurad groaned, catching the wood. "Can't we just do theory tonight? My soul hurts."

"Your soul is fine," Yona said, hefting her own cudgel. 

"Your sword arm, however, is a tragedy. Let's fix it."

The dimly lit embers of the campfire illuminated the periphery of the sparring circle. Siurad was on one knee, breathing hard, nursing a fresh bruise on his ribs.

"Again," Yona shouted, waving her cudgel side to side like a metronome. "You can't just depend on magic! You have to get good with that stick of yours. Right now, you swing it like a drunk goblin trying to kill a fly."

Siurad groaned, forcing himself up. He knew she was right, but training was hell. He was already bruised on the entire left side of his body. The problem was that his bouncer experience, grappling, shoving, and using weight, didn't translate to steel. 

He tended to flail the sword like a baseball bat, looking for a home run instead of a kill.

They squared off again.

Siurad tried to focus. He watched her shoulders. He watched the stick. It was made infinitely harder by the ever-present color commentary in his skull.

'...YOUR STANCE IS INEFFICIENT,' Obi’s voice boomed, vibrating against Siurad’s molars. 

'...RAISE THE ELBOW. WIDEN THE BASE. NO, NOT THAT WIDE.'

It was too much data. He hesitated.

WHACK!

The force of Yona’s cudgel smashing into his shoulder sent him reeling back into a tree. The bark scraped his cheek as he slid down.

"For fuck's sake, Obi!" he hissed, clutching his shoulder. "Shut up and let me focus!"

"You’re thinking too much," Yona said, standing over him with a smirk. "You have to be natural. Your body is telling me what you’re going to do three seconds before you do it. If you keep this up, you'll be dead. Then who am I going to watch feed people to the shadows?"

"Okay," Siurad wheezed, holding up a hand. 

"Break. I need a break."

'...PATHETIC,' Obi chimed in.

Siurad sat by the fire, nursing his wounds, deep in a doom spiral of thoughts.

How the hell am I ever going to survive this?

In the movies, in the anime he watched back home, this was the easy part. There was a montage. Some upbeat music played, the hero chopped some wood, carried some water, and five minutes later, he was a badass.

Reality, it turned out, lacked a soundtrack. Yona had been beating him nightly, and he felt like he had made negative progress.

Yona watched him stew for a moment, then kicked the sole of his boot.

"Off your ass," she commanded. "We go again. This time, ignore King Boogey. Ignore the pain. Just watch me."

Siurad rose to his feet, every joint protesting. 

They went again.

This time, she attacked with fury. Each strike connected with his already over stimulated bruises. It hurt, but he didn't waver. He forced himself to stop thinking about the block and just look.

'...CORRECT THE ANGLE!' Obi seethed. 

'...STRAIGHTEN THE SPINE! XARA WAS NEVER THIS INEPT!'

Siurad tuned him out. Obi was the ultimate backseat driver, but tonight, Siurad was listening to the engine.

He watched Yona. She was elusive, a blur of motion, but he started to see it. The Pattern.

It was just like a boss fight. She couldn't hide the telegraph completely. Her ankles twisted inward ever so slightly when she was loading up for a left swing.

There.

She pivoted. Her ankle twisted.

Siurad heaved his aching arms up to the left.

CLACK.

Wood met wood. The impact vibrated down to his toes, but he held it.

It worked! A surge of pure gamer euphoria hit him. 

Holy shit! Obi, did you see that? I blocked the…

WHAM!

Yona spun with the momentum of the block, reversing her grip and slamming the pommel of her cudgel into his ribs. Siurad folded like a lawn chair and face planted into the dirt.

"Whew," she whistled, spinning the stick. "You okay, big guy? You actually blocked the first one. I'm impressed."

"I’m okay," Siurad groaned, his voice muffled by the grass. "I’m just slowly dying of internal bleeding. No biggie."

'...MEDIOCRE,' Obi judged, bringing an end to the physical portion of the evening.

Yona sat down on a log opposite him, wiping sweat from her forehead. She tossed the cudgel aside.

"Alright," she said, her tone shifting. The drill sergeant was gone; the teacher was here. 

"You're getting better with the stick. Slowly. Glacially. But we need to talk about the other thing."

She pointed to his hand. To the Ring.

"The Grief Mares," she said. "You tried to cast a spike. It failed."

"I was empty," Siurad defended, sitting up and wincing. "I used everything on the camp, it took a lot out of me."

"Exactly," Yona said. "You drive your magic like you drive your fists. Full throttle. Maximum output. You try to solve every problem with a nuclear explosion."

She picked up a small, smooth stone from the ground and held it up.

"Siurad, tell me. How much mana did you spend to kill Borin? To absorb Kel?"

"A lot," Siurad admitted. "Most of it."

"And what happened when the Mares showed up? You had to use a rock. You had to get your hands dirty because you spent your entire wallet on the first store you saw."

She leaned forward, her amber eyes catching the firelight.

"Magic isn't a hammer, Shepherd. It's ink."

'...HEDGE WIZARD TALK. YOU ARE NOT—'

We don't cast, we open, I know. Shut up, Obi.

"Ink?"

"You have a limited amount in the bottle," she explained. "Right now, you're splashing the whole bottle on the canvas to paint one picture. It's messy. It's wasteful. And when you need to draw a second line? You're dry."

She tossed the stone to him. He caught it.

"We're going to practice control," she said. "I don't want you to make a spike. I don't want you to teleport. I want you to cover that stone in shadow."

Siurad looked at the pebble. "That's it? Just cover it?"

"Not a cloud," Yona corrected. "A skin. I want you to paint it black. Thin. Precise. Use as little mana as possible. If I see a single wisp of smoke coming off it, you fail."

Siurad focused. He called on the Void. Usually, he opened the valve and let it rush out. This time, he tried to trickle it.

It was excruciating. It was like trying to fill a thimble with a firehose.

He pushed the power into the stone. A massive plume of black smoke erupted from his hand, engulfing his entire arm.

'...SLOPPY,' Obi critiqued. '...EXCESS DISCHARGE IS 90%.'

"Fail," Yona said simply. "You just wasted enough mana to blind a guard, and all you did was make a fog machine. Again."

Siurad dissipated the smoke. He took a breath. He tried again.

And again.

For the next hour, there were no explosions. No teleporting. Just a man staring at a rock, sweating with concentration.

The next morning, Siurad drifted toward consciousness, stirred by a gentle, almost loving caress against his cheek. For a hazy, blissful second, his brain reset to factory settings: he was back in Chicago, in his own bed, safe and sound.

​That illusion lasted exactly two seconds.

​He cracked one eye open, and the sun assaulted him immediately, an offensive, blinding glare that no curtain existed to block. Reality rushed back. He wasn't home. He was in a field. To his left lay the huddle of sleeping orphans. To his right, a noise that sounded like a diesel chainsaw idling in a library.

​It was Yona, face down in the grass, snoring with a violence that defied her small frame.

​Siurad went to lazily brush the stray strand of hair from his face. His finger snagged. It wasn't hair. It was sticky. It was tensile. It was a web.

​The realization hit his brain like a tactical nuke. He wasn't being caressed; he was being colonized.

​"GET IT OFF!"

​Siurad roared, scrambling upright in a panic that completely bypassed his dignity. A single, silky line ran from his ear to his shoulder like a suspension bridge for some invisible, eight-legged monster.

​He tried to tactical roll away from the enemy, but his coordination hadn't booted up yet. His boot caught the log he’d been using as a pillow.

​CRASH.

​He went down hard, face planting into the dirt and taking a stack of firewood and a metal cooking pot with him. The metallic clamor echoed across the silent prairie, loud enough to wake the dead or at least anyone within a two mile radius.

​The crash had the immediate effect of a bomb going off.

​Fifteen children snapped awake instantly, terror etched across their faces. They scrambled, huddled together in a defensive knot, eyes darting around for the monsters they assumed were attacking.

​Yona detonated.

​She sprang from her prone position to her feet in a single, fluid motion, emerald hellfire already roaring in her palms, her eyes scanning the tree line for threats.

​"CONTACT!" Yona yelled, her voice vibrating with lethal intent. "WHERE ARE THEY?! LEFT FLANK? RIGHT FLANK?"

​She spun around, ready to incinerate an army, only to find... nothing.

​Just the morning mist. The terrified children. And Siurad, lying face-down in the dirt, tangled in a blanket, with a cast-iron cooking pot covering his head like a helmet.

​The green fire in Yona’s hands sputtered and died. She blinked.

​"Siurad?" she asked, her voice dropping from mercenary to confused. "Are we... are we under attack, big guy?"

​Siurad slowly pulled the cooking pot off his head. He sat up, brushing wood chips from his hoodie, trying desperately to summon a shred of the shepherd’s dignity.

​"No," Siurad wheezed, tossing the pot aside. “No attack."

​He stood up, dusting off his knees, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

​"I was just... checking our combat readiness," he lied, his voice cracking slightly. "Reaction times were... acceptable. You passed. Efficient. Carry on."

​The campsite was dead silent. A cricket chirped.

​'...YOU ARE AN IDIOT,' ... Obi pulsed, the mental voice heavy with cosmic embarrassment.

​We all can't be as esteemed and infallible as yourself, O Great One, Siurad thought back, rolling his eyes so hard it hurt.

​He cleared his throat, clapping his hands together to break the awkward tension.

​"Right. So. Yona," he said, turning to her with forced casualness. "You ready to get this show on the road?"

​Yona stared at him for a long beat. She looked at the scattered firewood. She looked at the cooking pot. Then, a slow, shark like grin spread across her face.

​"Sure thing, big guy," she drawled, leaning against a tree. "But we probably should feed the cargo first. You know, unless you want fifteen malnourished children passing out before we hit the mile marker."

​Siurad paused. He looked at the children, who were watching him with wide, fearful eyes, likely wondering if their savior had finally snapped.

​"Right. Food. Logic," Siurad muttered, rubbing his temples. "Another test. You passed with flying colors."

​"Uh-huh," Yona smirked. "This partnership is going to be awesome."

​Siurad grunted, turning to the looted supply cart. He cracked open the barrel of salted pork. The smell was strong of brine and cured meat, but to the children, it must have smelled like a banquet.

​He used the black steel sword to slice the meat into even rations, handing them out with the same solemnity he used to dispense corrections.

​"Eat slowly," Siurad commanded, his voice dropping into that deep, resonant register that seemed to bypass their ears and speak directly to their instincts. "Gorging causes sickness. Sickness is inefficient."

​The children, who had been eyeing the food like starving wolves, instantly slowed down. They chewed methodically, eyes fixed on him, obeying the authority because it made them feel safe.

​'...CALORIC DISTRIBUTION OPTIMAL,' Obi noted, sounding bored but approving. '...THE FLOCK REQUIRES MAINTENANCE.'

​Yona watched him from the edge of the clearing, chewing on a piece of dried apple. She wasn't smirking anymore. She was watching the way he checked the bandages on a girl’s knee, the way he organized the lines not with cruelty, but with a rigid, protective structure.

​"You're good at that," she said quietly as he passed her to take point.

​"Good at what?" Siurad asked, adjusting his pack.

​"Herding cats," she said, pushing off the tree. "Ready, partner?"

​Siurad looked at the map Limmel had sold him. He looked at the sun rising over the treeline. Three days to Brookshire. Three days of walking, training, and keeping fifteen traumatized souls alive.

​"Ready," Siurad lied.

​He turned to the column.

​"Move out."

​The flock began to march.

The forest was alive in a way that made the high definition graphics of Cassalia look like finger paintings.

​Siurad found himself constantly scanning the treeline, infatuated with the world's alien biology. Pixies, no bigger than his thumb, buzzed around glowing wildflowers like iridescent hummingbirds. Rodents scurried through the underbrush, but they weren't squirrels, they were six legged things with fur that shimmered like oil on water.

​To Siurad, it was a world straight from imagination, rendered in terrifyingly real fidelity.

​The atmosphere smelled strangely sweet, like crushed berries and honey another reminder that he was foreign to this reality. Yet, compared to the blood and mud of the previous day, the march was peaceful.

​Siurad looked back. The children marched in two perfect, single file lines. They moved with purpose, their fear sublimated into discipline.

​Yona walked beside the column, spinning a dagger idly in her hand, humming a tune that sounded dangerously cheerful.

​"So, Yona," Siurad said, looking over his shoulder.

​She didn't stop humming. "Yeah, big guy?"

​"Why?"

​She caught the dagger mid spin. "Why what? Why is the sky blue? Why do you snore like a dying bear?"

​"Why are you... doing this?" Siurad clarified, gesturing between himself and the flock. "You're a Kitsune. A mercenary. You could have taken your cut of the gold and vanished. Why stay? Why follow a guy with a boogeyman in his head?"

​A strange look passed over her face, a flicker of something old and tired, before her usually sly smile returned, sharp as glass.

​"I invest in the interesting, Shepherd," she drawled, sheathing the blade. "Most people are boring. They live, they work, they die. But you? Tall, dark, spooky, and carrying the literal god of order as a fashion accessory?"

​She winked, her amber eyes glinting.

​"Seems like the only bet worth making. Besides... if I leave, who's going to keep you from tripping over your own feet?"

'...MORE LIES.'

Shut it Obi.

​As they walked through the woods adjacent to the road that led to Brookshire, Siurad could see that everyone was miserable. Yona looked bored out of her mind, spinning her dagger with lethargic rotations. The line of children moved with a mechanical efficiency that made Siurad’s skin crawl.

​No one was crying. No one was complaining. They just moved in a silent, orderly fashion, staring at the boots of the person in front of them.

​Siurad was sure Obi would approve in glowing fashion, but it didn't feel right. It felt less like he was leading them to safety and more like he was taking a line of prisoners to an internment camp.

​"Alright," Siurad shouted, pointing over to a grassy plain bathed in sunlight. "Break time!"

​The command was obeyed instantly. The children moved over to the plain and sat in a straight line, in complete silence, watching Mara, who was watching Siurad.

​Yona sheathed her dagger and walked over, arching an eyebrow.

​"Okay, what's up?" she asked. "What's the reason for the stop? We’ve barely covered three miles."

​"Look at them, Yona! They're miserable," Siurad hissed, gesturing vaguely at the silent rows. "I know this isn't Disney World, but jeez, they're just children."

​“Disney World?” Yona said, giving him her usual look of I have no idea what nonsense you're spewing.

​"It was a fun place for children and adults where I'm from," Siurad explained, exasperated. "Anyway, let's liven them up a little. Maybe some hide-and-go-seek? Play tag? Maybe you could let them play with your tails?"

​Yona recoiled as if he’d slapped her.

​"T-Tails? Are you crazy?" she whispered harshly, glancing around to make sure no one heard. "That's a part of me, Shepherd. It’s intimate. I don't know what kind of place this Disney is, but it sure as shit shouldn't have children there."

​Siurad’s brain screeched to a halt.

​"What? No! It's not... It's a theme park! With mice!" He groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Forget it. Just... look at them. They're so miserable."

​"Miserable?" Yona corrected flatly. "They're terrified of you."

​"Of me?" Siurad’s voice rose an octave. "I saved them from fucking slavers! That doesn't even make sense!" He gestured wildly. "Hey kids, here's the guy that keeps you in a cage, and here's the guy that let you out! See, Yona? Doesn't seem like much of a choice to me."

​"True," Yona said, crossing her arms. "But you also fed their slaver to the shadows and then went on your psycho spiel about order and chaos. Yada yada. They're children, Siurad. They don’t see a hero. They see a bigger monster who ate the smaller monster."

​Siurad deflated. The truth of it hit him harder than a physical blow. He looked at the kids. They weren't looking at the flowers or the pixies. They were watching him, waiting for the next correction.

​"Okay," Siurad sighed. "Okay. So what? They're scared of me. I don't think I can just mosey on up to them and make it instantly go away."

​"Fine," Yona said with a dramatic sigh, cracking her knuckles. "I'll give it a try."

​Yona walked over to the group of children. Kneeling in front of a small boy with tear tracks on his dirty face, she gave him a bright smile.

​He just looked on, terrified.

​Yona tried a joke. "What did the piffle wag say to the tree?"

​Silence. More stone cold terror etched across their faces.

​"Welp, I tried, big guy," Yona said, standing up and twirling around in exaggerated fashion.

​Just as she spun, the air shimmered around her. Her illusion spell dropped. With a soft pop, five fluffy, amber tails fanned out behind her, and a pair of large, fox like ears sprouted from her hair.

​The children gasped in shock.

​"Oh, you like that, do you?" Yona said, a true, mischievous smile spreading across her face.

​She didn't stop there. She began to weave a story, her hands dancing in the air. She told the tale of the brave Kitsune maiden who felled the ogre guarding the spirit tree. As she spoke, she used harmless fire and ice magic to illustrate the story, creating tiny, shimmering illusions of the ogre stomping through the grass and sparkling lights drifting from the spirit tree to wow the children.

​For the first time in days, the fear vanished. Their oohs and ahhs fed her showmanship. When she was done, the children were no longer in a straight line. They were relaxed, sitting cross legged, some even beginning to wander around, chattering excitedly about the magic fox lady.

​'...INEFFECTIVE,' Obi pulsed, the ring vibrating with annoyance. '...CHAOS IS  DISTRACTING.'

​Shut it, Siurad thought, watching with delight. It’s called morale.

​He decided he would join in. If he couldn't be the storyteller, he would be the coach.

​He grabbed all the loose branches and twine he could find. "Yona!" he called out. "Water magic! Right here!"

​She shot a small jet of water onto a patch of dirt, creating mud. Siurad went to work, packing the mud around the twine wrapped branches, fashioning a small, lopsided, heavy ball.

​He held the muddy creation aloft like a trophy.

​"Alright!" he declared, his booming voice drawing every eye, but this time, with curiosity rather than fear. "Anyone here ever played soccer?"