Fenner’s foe slammed to the ground. Now, with that one down, the old Chief scanned the crowd. The trees were ablaze, but he knew his warriors would have leapt. Freck. His eyes darted searching for his grandson.
Summoning his nimble WynSprign body, Freck swiftly swung his leg out, and with the tip of his foot, he kicked the purple rag out from the Mysra’s belt. It landed on the trodden ground. Simple. It was just enough. At the odd movement, a distracted Mysra looked down. A flash of steel and Freck took one heavy and swift swing that sent the Mysra’s head flying as he gazed at the purple rag. The head fell with a muffled thud and rolled slightly to the ground. Freck’s eyes were wild and crazed as his sword followed through and stuck into the ground.
Another Mysra caught a glimpse of his fallen fellow warrior in that instant and stopped short, frozen in the moment.
“No!” the Mysra’s hoarse voice bellowed horrified. He pulled his knife from a slain WynSprign. His eyes bulged in disbelief and blind rage, and he swung his knife at anyone in his way, even his own unfortunate Mysra. He focused his blood-red vision on small Freck and stomped toward him, his steps heavy and fast.
Freck felt his heart beating in his throat. He was shaken by the sight of this massive and furious Mysra charging at him, a red rag dangling from his pocket. He knew that the warrior he had just killed—the one with the purple rag—was someone important. He felt his body quiver, his heart racing, and his hand felt numb on the sword’s grip. He didn’t know if he had energy to continue the fight with this looming monster.
Neen was closing in on Freck when suddenly, as if from nowhere, Fenner came flying between them. His deep glaring eyes and wild hair caught the Mysra’s focused attention.
Fenner held his sword out as he stood in front of his grandson Freck, who noticed in that moment that Fenner was bloodied and bruised; he had already killed a Mysra. Without a word, Fenner began showcasing his hidden prowess, twirling the sword with ease between his hands, bending his wrists, sending the blade revolving in an endless torrent of sharp steel that sang in the breeze. The Mysra had to jump back twice to avoid the rampant blade, the approaching promised death trap.
Fenner could feel a deep rage exploding in him. The last time he’d taken up his sword had been when his twin brother Frik was killed by the Mysra during the seizure of Odana.
Fenner was smaller than this Mysra, but his charge at the sword was mighty. He was extraordinarily skilled and his mission was to save the life of his grandson. The Mysra had stolen his brother from him, his other half. They will not steal my grandson, nor any other Sprign, as long as I breathe.
“Yah!” the Mysra yelled as he leapt forward with precision timing to swing hard at Fenner’s sword. He would not easily yield to this WynSprign. The sword and the knife clashed loudly. The Mysra was powerful, but slow at his attempts, and Fenner’s thin arms and body accepted the forceful clashes and blows in defense. The anger between them was palpable and the flames of burning trees surrounding them only intensified the engulfing rage.
✽✽✽
Chaos enveloped gripped the village, where Mysra warriors had wandered further in search of hiding WynSprigns. Despite the unfolding mess of battle, they’d still need to bring back slaves. It was getting out of control.
Two rogue Mysra came across a lone WynSprign seated at an emptied tavern. He had a sword, but it leaned away from him, inadvisably out of reach. The Mysra easily trampled the small wooden fence of the tavern and approached the still WynSprign, who seemed more interested in the contents of his cup than in the fire and violence taking place so near. The Mysra looked at one another with amusement and stood quietly behind this large old WynSprign.
Trayvor tossed back another big swig of ale. He didn’t seem to know that they were directly behind him, or perhaps, he didn’t care. He had decided not to engage in the battle. He never meant to in the first place. He decided his strength lay elsewhere and preferred not to anger Grude by engaging.
“Come to claim me, eh, boyss?” he asked unexpectedly without looking back at either of them. “I’m old, I’m tired, and . . .” He paused, turning around in his seat to look up at them, trying to focus his eyes on their faces towering high above. “And . . . I’m drunk,” he concluded. “I hear the sound of distant thunder. My, my. So, Lanico decided to show up, did he?” Another tug at the mug and a wet sigh: “I’m afraid you boysss won’t get much use out of me as a slave—why, I can barely eve’n walk. But I do have a businesss mind.” He gestured to his cane.
The Mysra looked at each other, confused. Did he want them to fetch his cane for him? It was true—what use would they have for this elderly, immobile WynSprign back at the mines? They didn’t give a rat’s ass for his “business mind.” Clearly, he was more a smart ass, if anything.
“Grude and I go way back,” Trayvor said. “You see, I’m the reason that you are here today, actually.” He made a smug face at the two warriors. “I wasss the one that gave Grude the idea to have more WynSprign slaves.” Trayvor seemed very proud of himself despite his slurring.
Grude had never mentioned sparing this particular WynSprign - never mentioned any WynSprign involvement in his plan, other than turning the lot of them into slaves. This one, this old WynSprign, he was cunning. Trying to get out from his fate. The Mysra warriors knew better.
“You’re probably right,” one Mysra said, still standing behind Trayvor. He lifted his knife, pulled the old WynSprign back against him—"But we haven’t a use for smart asses.” That instant, he slashed his knife across Trayvor’s thick neck. The WynSprign’s eyes flashed in sobriety, in disbelief. He wasn’t expecting that.
The warm crimson blood flowed from his neck and quickly flooded down his chest, soaking his tunic. He choked, starring at the leafy tree branches high above that had shaded so many hours here, at the tavern. Drowning gasps bubbled from his exposed vocal cords. The sound was nightmarish to him. He jerked and convulsed until he fell backward from the seat and onto the blood-muddy ground. His trusty cane tipped and fell on top of his body.
The two Mysra looked at each other in amusement.
Trayvor felt himself become cool as warm blood flowed from him. His sight darkened and his heart slowed. His last breath was a foggy wisp in the cool air.
The Mysra wiped the blood from his knife on Trayvor’s shoulders. One stepped over his corpse and reached for his cup. They took a few drinks of his remaining ale. They didn’t want that to go to waste. Once finished, they’d seek out other deserters.
✽✽✽
Despite the smoldering rage they both felt, the warriors began to tire at the limitations of their bodies. Fenner moved heavily through Neens defensive strikes and a failed thrust through his sternum. He was moving slightly slower than Neen at his final thrust and received a fatal jab in an instant.
Neen, large, powerful, and determined, drove his knife through Fenner’s thin flank. The WynSprign took the deep pierce but remained stubborn and unrelenting. He’d see his purpose through. Fenner, never letting on that he was willing to die, used his sword to return the favor as Neen lunged forward at him, delivering a deep stab up into Neen’s unguarded chest, so deep that the long sword’s tip jutted out from Neen’s upper back.
Neen’s eyes widened in shock. His mouth slackened and gushed purple saliva. The heavy Mysra fell hard to his knees and grabbed the hilt of the sword that protruded from his chest. He couldn’t believe that this thin, old WynSprign had just run him through.
Returning to rage, Neen looked at Fenner eye-to-eye and glared with seething hate. Bloodied saliva was thick now in his gaping mouth: “You bastard Wyn—"
That instant, the glide of metal sang, unforgiving, taking the final words from Neen’s filthy mouth as the swipe freed his head from his neck. The head rolled and landed to the ground. Freck loomed from behind the headless form, his stare unflinching.
“I hated the sound of his voice,” he commented. There was a deep look into his grandfather’s eyes. The Mysra’s body lea
ned and then toppled. “You finished him grandfather—I only ended the nagging.” A quick flash of silver, and Freck sheathed his sword.
Fenner had bested the Mysra, whose decapitated head held a blank face, staring into the void. Fenner huffed slightly and glanced back up to meet the worried gaze of Freck. The old Chief then felt an urgent pain. The deep stab wound radiated agony from his side through his whole body, with much bleeding from within. Fenner quickly crumpled to the ground and hot blood leaked from the wound as he clutched it. Already, a sizable pool had collected beneath. He was bleeding out.
Freck collapsed next to his grandfather, panicked. He held the old man in his arms and felt his body light, bony. Fenner gazed at him peacefully.
“Freck, you fought well today. I’ve—I’ve never been prouder of-of you than I . . . now.” His voice had become softer, a mere breath. “This moment . . .”
Freck’s eyes welled as blood began to bubble from his grandfather’s gaping mouth. His breathing was labored and his lungs gurgled.
It was happening!
It was happening too quickly!
“I love you, Grandfather,” Freck whispered. “Please. Don’t d-I’m sorry. Sorry I dishonored you.”
Fenner’s glazed eyes rolled, behind his lids. He sighed and steadied his focus on Freck, in effort. A thin wisp of a voice sighed, “Forgotten, boy . . . it matters not.”
Freck tightened his grip on his grandfather. His heart raced, on the verge of exploding.
Fenner continued, almost too quietly, “I love you, my boy. My biggest pride.” A long sigh sent his breath floating to the air as a silvery slip, at that moment; his body was emptied of his soul. Fenner—Odana Chief and Soldier, grandfather, and trustworthy aid of Lanico—died.
Freck looked down and sobbed with large heaves of groaning. His ebony hair was caked with mud and leaves and his soot-covered face stained with trails of tears. In those final moments, Freck had forgotten the battle happening all around him, and the roars and screams had dulled in his numb ears. His tears reflected the glow of flames, and as if he were under protection from Odan, no one seemed to notice the saddened Freck collapsed over his grandfather, in the midst of the battle. And the familiar and comfortable damp of the settling mist began to kiss at his hot skin.
Under Fenner’s command, the majority Mysra had gone down within the first few vital seconds. Under his command, an army of the innocent had risen. The quiet, the humble, the faithful, and determined rose . . .
And won.
Freck would pick up where his grandfather left off. He would live to make him proud.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Cooled soot
Night reached the deep forest, setting crickets chirping and tree frogs croaking. The WynSprigns that had fled, the ones unable to fight in the Great Mist, had found safety among the trees, settling into their tents and eating fish they’d caught in the lake. Stoutwyn was pleased to see the young ones enjoying themselves. They shouldn’t have to be burdened with the worry and fear that he and the other adults carried.
When time for bedding down came upon them, campfires were extinguished, candles blown out, and voices quieted. Stoutwyn was thankful for this peace, this quiet. He dismissed the concerns in his head by delegating tasks and providing assistance to others. He peered around at the open space, at the now-empty campsite. Everyone has turned in, it seems, he mused.
He directed a longing glance towards the Great Mist, where he made out a faint orange glow. But the sun doesn’t set in that direction. An ominous feeling grew. This isn’t right. The brighter aura lingered over, beyond the tree line – from miles away. He squinted through his spectacles and gasped as his mind caught hold of the truth.
Oh, Odan on High! A fire! A roaring blaze in the Great Mist!
The heavy blanket of worry shrouded him. Panic. His mind raced. What to do?! What to do?!
Then he remembered himself. He steadied. My group—they are safe, bedded, at rest.
He peered around, making certain that everyone was indeed in their tents, that no one else was out seeing this. There’d be no sense in waking others to worry further with him. But he needed to find a way to help. He covered his gaping mouth with his thick hand, then went to his and Murah’s tent.
He startled her as she was getting dressed for the night.
“Stout! Why on earth would you startle me so?” She shook her bonneted head. “For goodness sakes!” She held up a nightgown against her chest.
Stoutwyn quickly closed the entrance flap behind him. “Shhh!!!” He waved his hand in the air. “Listen, Murah”—he came close to speak low and quiet, for the tent was merely fabric and his voice would carry if he was not careful—"I think there is something wrong at the Great Mist.” He pulled away, holding a serious look.
She met his frightened gaze. “What is it, Stout?” Her tone now matched his. Low. Troubled.
He whispered lower, in a small voice just over his breath: “There is a bright glow over the woods in that direction”—he gestured—"a fire.”
She breathed in shakily, an attempt to stifle her panic. “What should we should do?” Her hands trembled, but her voice tried at control.
He paused. His mind raced. There was nothing that he could do, but . . . “I’m going to walk toward the Great Mist, and perhaps the Fray—Thara—will meet me again. She is the Fray over water and mist. Perhaps she could—"
Murah stared.
He didn’t wait for her response. Fray Thara was the only solution. He turned to grab for his robe, which had been flung over several satchels on the freshly cleared ground.
“Oh, do be careful, Stout. I wish you wouldn’t”—she sighed and her mouth began to quiver.
He locked eyes with her, her soft gaze meeting his. This moment, Stoutwyn and Murah knew, people they cherished were suffering, were perhaps dying. A sob broke from her, but she covered her mouth and sniffed hard to contain the sound. He leaned in close to embrace her, pressing his lips to her forehead, feeling the warmth of her soft skin. “I’ll be back soon enough, my blossom.” He leaned back to meet her tear-laden eyes. “Tell no one I’ve gone. There is no sense in alerting the others. We need them here, safe.”
She nodded another silent reply.
He held onto his own resolve. To do what was needed, he denied his feelings, at least for now, to focus on his mission, his path.
He reached out to pull the ribbon from Murah’s tied bonnet, to loosen it. She managed a small smile as she recalled she still had it on. She’d forgotten. Stoutwyn looked at her, reluctant to go. Then he turned and opened the flap to walk out into the misty night.
The night air was cooler than the trapped air in the tent. The smell of wet, decaying leaves grew as he went deeper into the forest, leaving behind the smell of lake and earth worms. He had been walking toward the Great Mist for some time, trying to follow the same path they had used to make the journey there. It wasn’t long before the trees grew dense enough that he determined he was far enough from camp.
“Thara!” he called, his hands around his mouth to further the sound. “Fray Thara of the Great Mist!” His eyes darted about, looking for sign of her. The lingering blue mist intensified. Time was passing, and seconds were precious. He walked closer, moving toward the glow, toward the Great Mist, looking for any signs of her. “Th—Thara! Please! I—I need your assistance!” He believed he could feel the warmth of the fire as he drew a little nearer the glow.
Then the blue mist thinned out all around him and collected in a gathered but shapeless mass. The blue luminescent form shifted slowly, hovering over the ground. It was Thara, the blue lady of the mist. The glowing mass moved several times until she transformed into her beautiful glowing form. Just as before, her light periwinkle skin and rich violet hair pierced his vision.
“Fray Thara!” He held back a cry of relief. “Oh, thank Father Odan you’re here!” He didn’t delay: “Urgent help is needed. I noticed the glow of a blaze, just ahead”—he pointed—"I’m st
arting to smell wafts of smoke from beyond the trees.”
Her face gave no hint on her thoughts. Just as before, she was beautiful, but expressionless.
“I ask humbly,” he said, nervously fidgeting at his buttons, “that you use the power of your mist to slow the expansion of it. WynSprigns, my WynSprigns, could be dying.” The look on his face, his eyes, pleaded.
The ethereal being loomed over him. Her purple hair floated in a phantom breeze that he could not feel. Her cool breathy voice emanated out to him: “Stoutwyn, it’s true that the Great Mist has fire, from battle.” She smiled slightly. “I have already moved on this, and that is the reason for my delay to your call. My mist, the slight rains, will work to slow the spread.” She lowered, edging closer to him. “Though my mist will bring success here, you, Stoutwyn, are needed. Please advance to the village—the warriors, your warriors, need you. Now.”
Stoutwyn was surprised they needed him, but he nodded without question. “Yes. Yes, Fray Thara. I will continue on. My thanks to you.”
After what seemed to be hours of walking, the smell of smoke was unmistakable. His eyes burned, and his body was covered in sweat. The air that breezed his way was suffocatingly thick. The orange blaze was not as bright has it had been earlier, even from afar. It seemed Thara’s mist had indeed slowed and perhaps diminished the flames. A quick flash of relief washed over him, but that was replaced quickly. Something had caused that fire; someone had caused that fire. It was from the battle. What dread will I find? What horrors? . . . Death?
The village could be seen ahead where trees thinned and gave way to the ground of the clearing. He stayed back for a moment to gauge the scene ahead. He needed to exercise caution. Despite the hammering of his heart, he stayed hidden and silent, fearful of what he would see. Who would he see? He squinted his glowing eyes. But there were no screams. No running.
The Legacy of Lanico: Reclaiming Odana Page 31