1
Midnight Attack
Tirak ran his hand along the rough grains of his family's handmade wagon as it rolled along beneath him. The jungle road rocked and jostled him just as badly as the last time they'd come this far into the southwest peninsula to see the water cybrii. Hopefully, they would stop and rest for the night soon, but dad had always talked about how much he didn't like the beasts in this area, so maybe they wouldn't.
He flexed a scrawny arm that was quickly building up some really tough looking muscle as he picked at a loose splinter. A piston engaged with a hiss as he put a little more oomph and tore the piece away. Better to have a small gash looking ugly than a needle point catch something and tear it. His mom gave him a flick across the forearm.
“Stop that. I thought you were still listening. Do you want to hear the rest of it or not?”
An eerie chatter wafted through the blackness outside the wagon's window and interrupted his answer. Tirak shrugged, then nodded. He knew them all by heart now after octets of months spent listening to each one. But, it was still fun to hear the way she told them. She smiled, smoothing out a few hairs atop his head and started back in.
Tirak watched the dark underbrush roll by, and could imagine they were cold stony walls of Onok's cavern, just like in his mom's story. More sounds crept out of the darkness to join the first cry. Soon, a dozen chilling voices echoed an ugly song together through the night air. Tirak couldn't help edging away by instinct, deeper against his mother's side. Her hand combed through his hair, fingers skimming the glassy ridges of his memory cores. If only she'd let him grow it out a little more, then the cores wouldn't stick up like a glowing red mohawk.
“The Maker gaped at the high, craggy ceiling above them as they entered the cavern at last. 'Onok!' He cried, 'This is incredible! How in my great creation did you even manage such a thing? Look! The way you carved new seams out for the wellspring into… Wait. Is that supposed to be my mask?!'”
Tirak rolled his eyes at how silly his mom sounded when she was trying to put on a deep, manly voice in stories.
“Onok looked down sheepishly and gripped the beautiful Biri's hand a little tighter. It had been her idea, but Onok didn't want to put her on the spot. 'Oh, it wasn't all that hard… Most of the place was already like this, Biri and I just touched it up a little where a gap wasn't big enough, make it more homely and all.'”
“Maker continued to gawk and press him about each little detail. In their haste to explain the process, Biri showed Him the chisel Onok had found that first day.”
“The air went deathly still. Maker's sunken eyes looked back up at the hero; twin mixing pots of sickness and rage.”
“Onok,” She slipped into that awful Maker voice again, “Where… where did you get that spear? Throw it away! Get rid of it right now!”
Tirak lurched away at his mom's sudden intensity. Her eyes had become cats-eye slits, a wild craze filling them. She hugged him once the moment passed.
“Yep. Onok was as scared as you were just now. He had never known the creaky old Man to react angrily at anything, and he still remembered smashing three separate holes in Maker's home when he'd first been born and ran away.”
Tirak tilted his head up. Had he heard right?
“Nuh uh! He couldn't be scared. Onok's a hero.”
She squeezed his waist in a silent laugh.
“Oh yes. Even heroes get scared sometimes, love. I guess not everyone can be as bold as your father all the time…” His mom sighed.
She rested the flat of her free hand against the rough-sawed wood behind their heads. She was wearing that dreamy expression that she got whenever they talked about dad for too long. The mushy, stupid one.
He didn't really mind though. After all, he'd met a few friends whose parents weren't like that, and their lives all seemed awful.
He stuck his hand into the leather pouch tied around his shoulder and rummaged through it by feel while he waited for the expression to wear off. His fingers brushed a warm lump of metal, and it reminded him of how chilly it was that night. He pulled the favorite locket out and opened it. A red glow hugged his face on all sides and drove away that chill completely. Dad said the jagged shard inside was called “Trueglass,” and that it was basically money. He stared at the glowing twist of heat and warmed his hands against its sides.
His mom cleared her throat and put on her “Maker” voice again, this time hissing through clenched teeth as if she'd just bitten her tongue.
“That… thing is a weapon of putrid destruction! It's a relic from… long ago in my time. We called them Disintegration Staves. Only a monster that wanted to see its friends turned into little meat clouds would ever touch such a thing.”
She let the image sink in quietly for a few seconds while the wagon lurched its way over several rocks and roots. Tirak's teeth rattled hard. Huge tangles of ferns were growing thicker around them every minute, and he wondered when they would have to get out and push their stuff the rest of the way to the water people village. The brush was even starting to drag against both sides of the wagon at the same time.
He had hoped the nights would get more pleasant once they'd left the foothills behind. But instead, all they'd done was trade the awful mountain chill for a jungle clamminess that was trying to choke him from the inside. Mother had said it would only get worse once they reached Limna. He wondered if they were called water people maybe not because of their elemental power, but instead because they didn't need to breathe. Who actually could breathe in this oppressive swamp air? He tugged his shirt away from his neck and purposely distracted himself with Mother's story.
He could almost picture a black cloud of blood, with that barely-visible purple glow around the edges. In his mind, it began to condense like a sticky rain and plop to the ground. The wet splats sounded just like the game his parents would bring back to camp and gut together before cooking supper.
Gross.
“Onok looked down in horror. He could see it now. He could feel the hate crackling in that purple lightning along its tip. How'd he ever thought something so destructive was a chisel?”
This story seemed to be going all wrong. It didn't even make sense, no matter how many times she told it. Why would Maker be so mad at them for creating things the way He did? He just couldn't keep quiet.
“But, but! Elder Onok never used the chisel to hurt anything, cybrii or creature!” Tirak protested.
He caught himself on the last word, his voice cracking. Had that been too loud? His mom's face was turned toward the window, but he could see that thin reflection of her pupils in the crystal. He winced. Yes, too loud for sure. He hated it when she looked that worried.
More quietly, he added, “Even the Chasmheart was an accident. He didn't think he could hurt the thing. Plus, it was the light that killed it…”
She turned back toward him, her eyes their normal round shape again. She tapped a hardened orange finger on his nose.
“Yes, you're right, love. And… that's exactly what Biri pointed out too.”
“She said, 'Maybe, love, it doesn't matter how evil a tool is. It was made to destroy, but You turned it into something creative.'”
Tirak frowned. Was that supposed to be answer? It still didn't explain why it made Maker so mad!
“Onok watched her speak, more enthralled by the colors of her armor that reflected Maker's little flameless torch than by what she was saying. Two shades of blue, one like the deepwater far out beyond the shore and the other as piercing as that salt spring we took you to a few months ago, wove between skin as pink as a sunburn. He wondered how had he'd ever convinced someone so wonderful to love him.”
Mother turned her head up toward the ceiling and smiled as the wagon rocked from several more bumpy stones in the path. It sounded like one of them had even launched Father a little from the solid bump overhead.
“Onok reached out to embrace his beloved Biri, and they shared a kiss like—”
Tirak clapped his palms over his ears, striking the rims of his drums painfully.
“Moo-oom! Why do you always have to add the mushy bits?” He hissed.
She smiled down at him again with a twinkle in her orange eyes, brushing another hand through his hair.
“The 'mushy bits' are part of the story too, love. One day, you'll grow up and start to appreciate them too. You know, when I was about—”
His mom gasped.
Out the window, two eyes glowed a hungry red. A howl pierced the air nearby. Tirak trembled as the beast locked eyes with him and began to growl.
Except, no. That sound was coming from beside him. Mother reached a steady hand toward the wooden panel above their heads and gave three soft knocks. Tirak was amazed to see her throat quake as her growling dropped an octave lower. Any second now, Father's single knock would reply…
A red paw smashed a hole through the wood.
It reformed into a metal fist and disappeared again. A canine voice let out a wounded yelp, and the wagon rocked violently a second time.
Mother screamed Father's name, reaching for the door's latch.
“Wait, Mom! Don't we need to run? You said fighting beasts angers the island.”
She nodded to herself, her lips moving in a soundless whisper. Tongues of fire began to leak from her fist. Tirak had watched them spar often enough to know what was coming. Her voice had held its guttural tremor as she answered him.
“Sometimes, Tirak, the island decides to be angry no matter what we do.”
Fangs sprouted as she spoke. Her lips split into distinct halves as pointed ears rose above her head. She planted two metallic hind paws against the far wall and waited for the creature to return.
“When that day comes, a cybri needs to be ready to fight tooth and nail for what he loves.”
Claws soon scraped against the wood again.
“A small chance we all live is always worth more than a large chance I survive the rest of my life without my mate.”
A damp paw found its way into the window.
So Mother struck!
She exploded from the wall with a leap that left an afterimage in Tirak's eyes. Her punch landed with a blaze of light and tore the wagon door clean from its hinges.
She rode it out into the open air, landing with a distinct squish onto the hard packed ground.
Tirak stared wide eyed as she slid to a stop thirty legs away. The beast didn't try to get up again from beneath her, but she hadn't stopped to check anyway. The whole line of brush beyond the open path was churning, boiling. Packs of the creatures belched forward from the vine-crusted ferns.
The wagon rolled Tirak to a gradual stop a few moments later. More clashes rattled the roof above him. There must have been more that circled around from behind and were now attacking Dad. One of them shrieked as the tip of a blade pierced down through the ceiling.
Mother was weaponless, but she held her own just as easily. She always preferred her bare fists to one of Father's weapons. As Tirak watched, she spun sideways through the air and brought her toes down on a skull. It caved in as the rest of the beast collapsed to the ground.
A claw swiped across her leg! Her yell jolted Tirak; he had never seen her face like that before. As he watched the purple-black blood trickle down, it dawned on him that his parents might actually be in danger. They had never faced a challenge they couldn't overcome, but Tirak began to wonder if this was something new.
“A cybri must always be ready to defend those he loves.” Her voice echoed in his ears.
He reached into an overturned chest and gripped one of Father's smaller blades. More and more of the things were gathering from the woods. His parents wouldn't be able to fend them all off alone. It was his duty to help them. He leapt out of the wagon with a warcry, bringing the sword down on a smaller beast as he landed. It stumbled, and he had just enough time to bring the weapon back around into a clumsy version of his father's favorite finishing strike.
The next few… moments, or maybe hours, were a blur of snapping orange jaws and flashing steel. Tirak barely noticed that the pack was thinning until it had vanished entirely. His parents shared an uneasy, exhausted look.
“Why did they stop? Did we scare them off?” Mother asked.
Father's hands were already flying, gathering sticks and random materials around him.
“Hellhounds don't get scared. Both of you, get back in the wagon and we'll try to hold them off from inside. Ironically, they don't like fire. Especially fire they can't conduct themselves.”
“But what good is that going to do us, m'love? We can't hold them off forever.”
“Dawn is only three hours away. Maybe four. If we last that long, they'll leave us alone.”
Tirak thought Mother looked unconvinced, but she pulled him into the wagon's cargo area anyways. She began digging materials out of crates and reinforcing weak-looking windows or gaps in the otherwise sturdy walls. They had it looking like a wheeled fortress in only minutes. Mother kept working, but Tirak soon found himself idle, biting his lip.
“Tir, go help your father build that fire. He can't stack wood and light it at the same time.”
He obeyed. In no time at all, they had an impressive line of fires encircling the western half of the clearing. As it spread, the islands of red light became an unbroken wall against the night itself. Father's hand ignited to kindle the next pile of sticks, but stopped short. His head was angled high into the air, his ear a soft triangle above his head instead of its usual flat disk shape.
“W-what's wrong Dad?”
“I don't know. It feels… darker than usual,” Then he gasped, “The stars! They're gone!”
A low rumble vibrated the domes of Tirak's ears from behind. As he watched the glow of the fires waned, then disappeared entirely. He could still feel their intense heat, but somehow he couldn't see them anymore. He couldn't think what could possibly cause such a thing to happen. Father took one step toward where the wagon might have been.
The rumble grew to an earsplitting rush of wind, and suddenly Tirak was on his side. His shoulder had dug a trench in the dirt almost as deep as his hand. Wind howled against his ear domes, sounding high pitched and screechlike through the trees. Like a mournful wail. Tirak could imagine it belonging to one of the magical banshee creatures from Maker's fairytales.
And even quicker than they had gone, the lights returned. Tirak's stomach churned. Father was just stumbling back to his feet, and beyond him lay… what was left of the wagon. The front cabin area was flattened and shattered. Its animals lay in a twisted heap, off on their own. Whatever was left lay on its side. A singular intact wheel spun idly in the air.
Father groaned and fell onto his side again. Tirak rushed over to him, begging to help. Dad pushed him away and pointed at the wagon.
“Tirak! Listen to me. Go find your mother in there and make sure she's OK!”
Tirak knew that look in his eyes, and knew better than to disobey him at such a moment. He reached the safety of its walls just before the howls returned.
“Mom? Are you in here? Do you need help? Where—?”
A hundred bodies began to slam into the walls. Tirak felt his footing shift as the whole wagon began to tilt again.
Mood: Bauske Media — Alone in the Night
He woke up to the sound of a struggle. His head felt foggy. He tried to push himself out of the mud, but something heavy held him down. Even more worrying, he couldn't feel his leg at all! His thigh throbbed worse than the dark itself, but… but he felt nothing beyond it.
No, that wasn't true. He wiggled his right two toes and sighed in relief. Then the implications set in. That had worked… so why couldn't he wiggle anything on his left leg?
Wood scraped on wood, and a sharp edge suddenly dug into his neck. His remaining breath was squeezed out by a cry of pain. It took him a long, agonizing minute to press a gap into the mud and let himself breathe again. He froze as he heard a snuffling somewhere not too far away.
“No! Leave him alone you brutes! Fight me instead!”
A heavy rock cracked against the splintered floor of the wagon, right in front of his face. An un-cybri-like voice screeched and fell silent under the bite of a sword. The clashes became more and more frantic. Soon, the air was filled an indistinct clamor of growls and snaps.
~~~~~
A rod whistled through the air and cracked loudly against the yellow plates in his cheek. The blow made him stumble against the uneven footing of large, foot-polished cobbles. Stupid foot. If he had been knocked to the right he could've recovered just fine. Tirak braced for more jeers from the training boys along the courtyard's wall. Except no, today it was just the two of them.
“Keep your defense up, boy. Don't get distracted. A warrior of the Guard never gets surprised.”
He wiped his offhand on the stained, coarse tunic that had been white earlier in the day and quickly reset his stance, feeling the smooth cobbles through the armor in his toes. His left had never quite lost all of its numbness since… that—
Red hot fangs snapped in front of his eyes. Growls seemed to fill the air again. Why did his face feel so hot?
He shook his head again, but it just wouldn't clear. Sloppy. He'd been in a weird mood all day, but, that was no excuse. Tirak blamed his new caretaker. The guy wasn't normally so demanding, and Tirak normally wouldn't let a tiny bit of fatigue wear him down so much.
He supposed it was just going to be a weird sort of day.
“Sorry Onok.” Tirak muttered.
He moved the shield back into place and tightened his grip on the training staff. The memories had been plaguing him nonstop. Tirak tried to blink them away and focus on the giant pile of ebony armor he was sparring against. Onok rumbled with his signature chuckle. Like a boulder slipping its way down a stone slope.
“You can just call me 'father', you know.”
Tirak glowered at Onok through broken images of glowing maws dragging away his real dad's body. His head twitched as he imagined hearing that hollow snap of bone again. Curse the stupid mountain, why wouldn't he realize the kinds of thoughts he was digging up? And that stupid toothy grin, too!
“Alright, I won't force you to either,” Onok rumbled with more laughter, “Now, prepare. Left. Top. Jab. Spin. Jab. Reset.”
Tirak movements fell into the steady rhythm of Onok's voice. His annoyance fueled his movements, flaring each empty strike into a spike of raw anger. He repeated the steps of their practiced dance again and again, always ending with a flourishing spin to strike the imaginary opponent that was sneaking up behind.
Their staves clacked and crashed in a mockery of his parents' final stand. Each blow wore him down a little further, made his vision swim a little more. And the closer the tears got, the more frustrated he became.
He couldn't lose control, a warrior was better than that.
“Don't get sloppy, Tirak. Calm. Keep your stance firm, Stay cool.”
“I know, Onok!” He barked through gritted teeth.
Oh, so he was supposed to stay cool, was he? Because he was a fire Cybri? He couldn't help feeling like that joke was at his own expense. He tried harder and harder to keep his attacks and parries in control.
“Slow down, boy. Stay in control.”
“I… am!”
He swung a well aimed blow at Onok's shoulder, just to help the point sink in. The maddening Elder somehow managed to dodge at the last minute. Maker curse him.
“Things will never be quite as easy once your Second Nature finds you, boy. Keep—”
For one instant, the city torches became painfully bright, the high cavern roof perfectly visible. Every sense seemed to blaze to life as if for the first time. The sweat, blade oil, and rusty metal of the training ground. Then, an intense heat filled his chest.
Tirak looked down to find red embers swirling up and down his arms. Before he could think, the flames exploded outward in a bubble that swallowed him and Onok entirely. The blast was over in seconds. To his horror, it left a black cloud of mist where his new father had stood.
Images of a dark forest flashed before his eyes. As cold panic crept into his veins, the cloud began to boom out a hearty laugh. Onok's body coalesced a few hands away from where he had been a moment ago. He stepped closer, and Tirak sobbed a faltering apology as powerful arms wrapped around him.
“Hush, my boy. No harm was done. All is well.”
Tirak looked up at the burn marks across his dad's arms and face.
“B-but, your face!”
Onok smiled back at him and waved a careless hand.
“Ah, These will disappear in a couple hours. You should have seen some of my worse scars.”
He grew a little more serious and gripped Tirak's shoulder with humorless pressure. With his other, he brushed a few flakes of ash from Tirak's shoulders.
“This was important. You needed to see the consequences of your power first hand. You've been out here tempting fate all week by picking fights behind my back. There was a reason I barred you from sparring. Maybe now you'll be a little less brash against the other trainees. Take your lessons a little more seriously, hm?”
Hearing his reprimand stung. Tirak slumped his shoulders and muttered something noncommittal. Onok's grip softened, cupping his neck rather than trying to hold him in place.
“You really are close to being a great warrior, boy. And… I'll admit I may have planned things for today of all days on purpose. I knew what I was getting into and I knew you couldn't hurt me. Good thing I don't have to follow my own city's laws, isn't it?”
He chuckled idly to himself before noticing that Tirak had begun to bounce with newfound energy.
“Alright, I made my point, didn't I? Now run along. I think you have some friends to brag to.”
“Okay. Can you teach me some more about my Nature after that?” Tirak bubbled.
“Ha! You may find you have to discover it for yourself, boy, but I can certainly try.”