Dragon Kindred_And The Gyr Worshipers

by Marshall Drews

  As Trent tended to his large falcon, Joshein sought to deal with the beast of a hundred legs as it writhed on its back. It struggled to even gain a single hold with its numerous legs to overturn its body and continue the assault.

  “Maven,” Joshein barked as he raised his fist. “Appeal to Keuth and bury it with me!”

  Together they thrust into the ground, compelling the dirt beneath the creature to open up and begin to swallow it whole as it thrashed about. They almost had the thing consumed by Keuth when it suddenly righted itself using the very same dirt that had fallen upon it and rush at Joshein with a new fury. Quick to counter its swift action, Joshein knelt down before grounding his shield, pinning the head of the hundred-legged beast to the dirt as its mandibles snapped at his ankles. It was pinned but struggling with might, driving Joshein to keep the shield grounded with both hands, unable to act in any other fashion.

  Maven was at first hesitant in the face of such a beast, but he soon leaped into action to capitalize on the creature’s vulnerability with a decisive downward slash across the back of its chitin. Yet again it had no effect aside from knocking the creature loose from Joshein’s grip. In return it kept at Maven, wrapping the entirety of its legs around his arm as it bit down upon his shoulder, far too close to his face.

  “Get It Off! Joshein, Get It Off!” he cried as the creature locked onto his shoulder-plating, refusing to reprieve or loosen the grip.

  Swinging a sword would be too risky and a shield would be rather useless if it wasn’t pinned, so, sheathing his sword, he ran up to his friend before striking the creature with his palm, catching it within his firm grasp. This time however he cupped the underside before tearing the thing from his friend’s arm and shoulder to pin the thing between a tree and his forearm.

  “It’s a Centicada,” Trent shouted to Joshein as it continuously writhed and wriggled about with its mandibles crunching and crushing nothing within its grasp. Its legs struggled to gain traction as Joshein kept both forearms against it, one near the top, the other near the very bottom.

  “That’s Terrific Of You, Boy!” Joshein jestingly retorted. “What Does That Mean?”

  “Pull Its Legs Away!” Trent answered. “It’s The Weakest Bit of Its Body!”

  “Maven!” Joshien called as the Centicada began to finally break free, first rearing its head from his grasp to clamp down upon his bracer. “Maven! Help Me Here!” In an effort to pin the head back, Joshein first slammed it against the tree before moving his other forearm to assist. But that proved to work in the Centicada’s favor, for it coiled itself back up, clinging to his left arm as it bit down upon the right bracer.

  Maven was still quite stunned yet, hoisting himself to his feet, he stumbled forward until he too began pinning the Centicada, and with one hand he began ripping the legs a handful at a time. There was quite a bit of resistance to be had for each spiny leg was resilient indeed, yet with great strength they tore away quickly, one after another, until only a few were left as the creature writhed on the ground unable to move.

  Falling back next to Trent, Joshein allowed himself to breathe before holding up his bracer to observe a yellowish liquid coating its surface. Throwing his arm to the ground to rub it in the dirt in disgust, he turned to Trent asking, “How’d you know that about the…the…”

  “Centicada?” Trent answered garnering a nod from Joshein. “Page o-hundred four,” he directed as he outstretched an arm containing the Index of Carthinian Arthropods, the same one used to identify the Gypsy Seenth.

  Shaking his head Joshien waved it away saying, “I’ll take your word for it, kid.” He looked over to Maven. His shoulder plate leaked with the same yellow fluid where he was bitten, but he was still somehow on his feet he after the traumatic event.

  Joshein watched as he neared the writhing Centicada before poking it with the tip of his blade. It hissed and coiled about. Maven couldn’t help but shiver before letting loose with a clean swipe to its back. He had nearly no effect, cracking the chitin as opposed to cutting it.

  “Is this thing’s armor impenetrable?” Maven asked as he struck it again only to garner the same hissing writhing from the Centicada. “I hate Arthropods,” he murmured before shivering quite viciously, patting himself down as if more little crawlers were on him and his armor as he spoke. “C-can we just get out of here, Joshein?” Maven asked as his gaze loomed about the trees as if there might be another beast lying it wait.

  Joshien cast his gaze from Maven to Trent as he coddled the rather large falcon within his arms, listening as Varrult seemed to produce a low, throaty cortle tune to his master. “Is that bird gonna make it?” he asked in a low, faintly tired voice. Trent nodded his head, softly running fingers through the fine feathers of the gyrfalcon as it rested and murmured low tunes. “Had it found what we were looking for? Where is it now?”

  For a fleeting moment it seemed as if Trent would rather stay quiet then answer, but before Joshein could pursue him any more, the boy answered, “Varrult signals to the north. We should listen if we are to find what we’ve been sent to find.”

  Joshien pulled himself up from the ground before helping his partner to his feet. “That would be the best idea, aye,” he agreed. “But we’re in a tough spot right now, and I’m torn between letting you follow and…”

  “What are you suggesting, Joshein?” Maven interjected. “That we send him off to the village alone? That’s a day’s journey.”

  “It’s not the most compelling alternative,” Joshein agreed. “But he may be in more danger if he follows. I don’t favor seeing him struck dead by some rabid bandit or fiend of the forest while under my command.” Waving a hand he said, “Kid, you shouldn’t even be here.”

  “But I am here,” Trent argued. “And there was one very good reason for that. It was to train Venneith and his dragon in the falconry arts. I came of my own volition to see to it that the best interests of the dragon were seen to and thus far they have been.”

  “Yet your bird lies mostly dead.”

  “Half dead,” he retorted. “Yet well enough and rejuvenating. Trust me, I care more for him than either of you two, or Venneith or that foreigner for that matter. But the call of Myndre whispers to me and my time draws near to when I join the armies of Carthol and raise the sword to its truth. What’s the matter with a little sampling of servitude now and then, eh?” he asked, shrugging rather obnoxiously.

  With a shake of his head and a sigh, Joshein gave in. “Fine, fine! It’s not as if we have any other alternative regardless. Follow closely,” he pointed. “And do nothing too heroic like last time. Nearly killed yourself.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” Trent thanked rather excitedly as he gently pushed himself to his feet, taking care not to cause Varrult any pain. Walking past the infantrymen Trent then paused for a moment to look skywards to spy the sky. Taking a moment to consider and gather his bearings he hesitated before pointing to enquire, “North?”

  With a sigh, Joshein too looked to the sky to read the sun and its whereabouts. “Yes, thats north.” Waving a hand to Maven before pulling him up he assured, “Let’s go, Maven. We have our bandits to find.”

  “I’d be more reluctant to find Venneith,” Maven muttered as he followed Joshein as he led them through the forest, slashing and hacking at bushes and thickets in their path. “If anything he would destroy them all.”

  Traveling north the band of four braved the forest whilst Knight Venneith and his follower Amyth trod the road in no great hurry, seeming as if they were on nothing more than a casual stroll across a calm meadow. Both Astregra and Benphal kept three hooves to the ground as they moved along, gaining no such urge or command to make haste and kick up dirt to speed down the road.

  “Amyth,” Venneith began in a stoic if not approachable tone of voice. “You’ve been awfully quiet since we arrived in town and left with our task. Has something dire befallen your mind, compelling you to speak little as you wallow in thought?”

  Amyth wa
s caught a bit off guard. Often the knight wouldn’t address him lest there be a task to be carried out in his name. “Well, err,” he began, still taken aback by the sudden enquiry. “Quite simply most would prefer me not to speak.”

  “Because of your ethnic origins, yes?”

  Amyth had paused for a mere moment, resisting the urge to chant ‘I’m not a Narrovinnian’ for there was no need given the knight’s choice of words. It was as if Venneith understood Amyth’s current predicament despite having previously been ignorant to his true nationality. Yet where most would continue calling Amyth a Narrovinnian, Venneith showed understanding.

  “Yes,” Amyth simply answered. “It’s what I’ve speculated, yet it’s clear to see.”

  “Yes, some would say…”

  For a brief moment Amyth’s gaze was drawn from the knight and to the foliage round the pathway. Perhaps it had been a scurrying rodent, but having heard this path is where bandits had once raided was enough to raise concern.

  Amyth urged Benphal to follow alongside Venneith. Once he reached his side he asked in a hushed voice, “Venneith, my Knight, perhaps we shouldn’t tarry about the bushes and keep in the way of caution instead? You warned us of bandits, are you now not concerned?”

  “You have a good eye, yes?”

  “My Knight?”

  “Your vision,” he stated, now lowering his voice to a hushed whisper. “Peering through a slit in my helmet doesn’t allow for quite the same vision as a man who be not hindered in the same way. Keep your eyes to the bank of the road and above for I just may not see. But tell me about yourself!” he suddenly said, raising his voice to an almost jolly level. “You’re a man like I, yet you have wishes, dreams, wants and desires. Tell me something now before the thunderous storm falls upon us.”

  True to his word, a storm was brewing as dark clouds with tenacious cracks of light took hold and advanced over the land, bringing with it the smell of dew and the rush of wind. Amyth then understood Venneith’s words as they were nothing more than a subterfuge. A way to mislead any observers, if there be any, of their true intentions, to mistake them for men having idle conversation, unaware and unprepared for any type of engagement, ambush or otherwise. With this knowledge, Amyth played along rather rightly.

  “Wants and ambitions?” he asked with a half laugh as he kept his head low, scanning the bushes for anything that may stand out. Like judging a picturesque canvas, was there a color unbefitting to its surroundings? Was there a detail overlooked or twig slightly out of place for no discrepancy would be too small for each would be an allure to the truth, signaling the danger, inviting them both to act. “Dreams and desires… Is there such a thing in a time within a land riddled with widows and the elderly unable to make any use of themselves?”

  “You speak of the war, aye?”

  “Aye,” he answered in a drawn-out, suspicious tone as he gazed upon the road in the distance. The dirt was thrown about, some even coating the nearby grass. Perhaps this was where the first ambush happened; were they still around? “But what say do I have in it? They’d much rather a slave enlist for his freedom then a man like myself fight for the land he was born and raised in.”

  Leaves were unusually strewn about the ground unlike anywhere else before. They lacked the density to cover the ground entirely yet were numerous enough and seemed to be largely of the same parent tree to raise suspicion.

  “Are you saying you’d rather the call of Myndre adhere to you so that you too may fight along the seafront of Xanthian?”

  Pulling slightly ahead of Venneith, Amyth continued at his pace atop Benphal as he neared the sight of suspicion. “I say I know of two men,” he began rather slowly and deliberately, yet casual enough for anyone who may be listening, waiting. “These men were…raptured, so to say, before my very eyes to the call of Myndre. They ascended into the canopy of trees.” He rested a hand on his waist where he found the grip of his bow. To his left was the quiver and with the reins in his hand he easily lowered his palm until it fell upon the fletching of two arrows.

  “So fortunate are those two,” Venneith stated. “And what of our earthly brethren? Are they so numerous to be unnumbered or does the call of Myndre call upon a finite number of men?”

  “Call of Myndre,” Amyth muttered as he spied the strewn dirt once more as they neared ever closer, enabling him to gather greater information. “For those too senile to be called upon they’ve often whispered speculation…or persecutions on the true nature of the god of war.”

  Discrepancies, too numerous to count. Perhaps this was a mistake.

  “And what of those persecutions, aye, Amyth?”

  “That he contends with none but one god.” His grip tightened, two sure shots, the rest too obscure. “That contender being…” a quick flick of his wrists, that’s all it would take. “The God Vreuth!”

  Pulling back, he let loose before drawing once more to fire a second time in the space of less than one second. The first shot found purchase, a lethal injection indeed. The second, although still finding purchase, hadn’t hit a vital part of the target’s being as it thunderously struck, easily penetrating the target’s arm as the arrow pushed him from his perch to fall to the earth below.

  Then, before Amyth could react, there was a great hustle, a rush followed by a swift kick from the Dark Armored Knight Venneith. It was sudden and harsh as his armored leggings collided against Amyth’s side, causing him to fall from Benphal just in time for the arrow to fly past where his chest would have been. The collision with the ground wasn’t kind, combined with the kick to his side, rendering Amyth winded and devoid of breath for the time being as he clutched his chest, gasping for air.

  The knight was intent on taking action as he scanned his surroundings, first spying the one who let loose upon Amyth. Yet his efforts were cut short when Astregra panicked in the face of sudden action, casting the commands of her master aside as she panicked and darted forward. Yet Venneith wasn’t intent on charging his horse into such danger. Fire ignited within his palm and he threw it at her hooves to deter her advancement. In great distress Astregra reared up, throwing Venneith off her saddle only to double back and retreat with Benphal now following close to her side as they entered into the forest west of the road.

  “My master, my knight!” Astregra cried as she fled. “He’s gone mad yet again!” She could feel the singed hair on her hooves and the heat as the flame passed by her face. Why would he do such a thing to her? Again the knight had turned on her and her distrust gave way to betrayal.

  “Astregra!” Benphal called as he followed. “Return! You’ll be lost within this wilderness!”

  “I care not anymore!” was the last Benphal heard before giving up the chase to retreat back to his master, for he knew loyalty and he hadn’t been betrayed.

  Regaining his footing, Venneith took a stand before his attackers. Four stood before him; two lay upon the ground, one dead, the other wounded. The bowman that had made an attempt on Amyth’s life had taken to cover, lurking about. It seemed he knew the strength of the knight’s armor and that it’d be too great a risk to give away their cover without the assured possibility of taking a life. Only then did it make sense to kill a weaker, less armored foe, for one man is easier to deal with than two men could ever be.

  “Get Him On The Ground!” one shouted before two advanced.

  Venneith did a quick assessment of his current situation. He had no weapons, for Astregra had run off with his poleaxe. These four currently wore fur with metal woven into their shoulders and a few vital parts of their chest. Only two had a weapon; a sword was held by one man, a second held many sharpened shafts at his side in both hands, the other two had no weapons yet Venneith could tell by the leather pouch sloshing with liquid that these two had an affinity for at least one or more Euths. Water was the most likely for one yet the other could have appealed to any of the other three Euths.

  Together they seemed to advance all at once. The boy with the sharpened shafts
first threw one at Venneith, not so much to harm him but more so deter or make him flinch. Venneith did not. It struck his chest and bounced off his armor without leaving a scratch, yet shattering the tip to barks.

  Venneith, however, had focused on the two that advanced, raising his hand before him ready to act. The first offensive advancement made was by the young man with the leather pouch of water. He waved his arm, urging the water to obey his command before it sprang from its pouch, aimed at the knight’s helmet.

  They were attempting to stun him temporarily through blinding and obscuring his vision. However, as Venneith moved his head to avoid the first attack, the second unarmed young man weaved a Xull, that the knight hadn’t cared to identify, before raising one fist and thrusting with an open palm, cloaking Venneith in a thin mist of dirt. This boy in particular appealed to both Keuth and Heuth for he controlled the dirt as well as the air to lift it.

  As Venneith’s vision became obscured, the knight could only act on what he had last seen. For one, he knew the two that wielded Euths hadn’t made a physical advance for they hadn’t raised a foot towards the knight before or during the moment he became blinded. However, in that last moment, Venneith had witnessed the swordsman prepare for a strike by raising the blade over his head, intending to bring it down upon the upper half of the knight.

  It would be an embarrassment if Venneith couldn’t repost such a well-projected attack, even while blind. So, the knight raised his hand where he knew the blade would fall upon him and, just as he predicted, his armored forearm deflected the sword off to his left, and with his right hand he prepared an open-palmed strike aimed for the swordsman’s upper torso.

  With Venneith’s combined weight, stance and delivery of attack, the knight was able to deliver a powerful firm strike to the swordsman’s shoulder, throwing his attacker well off balance, shunting the boy about until he faced away from Venneith, stunned, with his back exposed. With the boy turned away, the knight then latched his arm around the swordsman’s neck in a tight embrace as his free hand, that glowed with a smoldering red flare, rose before he firmly applied it to his attacker’s face. He cried out in great agony as the knight branded his face.