Clang
Milky green eyes looming out of the dark,
Clang
Ghost-white flesh in the light of the lone lantern,
Clang
A leathery hand in a vice grip on their ankle,
Wren’s knuckles were white underneath the soot stains from their work today, white from gripping the hammer too tight. They had landed the last strike wrong, putting an extra dent in Katya’s breastplate. Sweat dripped down their back from the heat of the forge, but their breath came in quick gasps for other reasons. Those haunting eyes…
Wren hadn’t slept well in days, not since the fight with the salt beasts. They were still working with a heavily bandaged shoulder, tender and oozing from where the second death bolt had struck. Splintered bone had been reset by Sunny’s deft fingers, but could only heal so quickly. The knitting tissue ached with each movement, but the job needed to be done. Wounds like this one weren’t a surprise for Wren anymore. Part of the job. Get on with life, get back to work, fight on. The hand holding the enchanted hammer shook as they stared into the middle distance.
Something about this time had been different. Not just the fear, the terror of those eyes, those screams, that hand tugging on their ankle, trying to get them into the trees. Wren had taken death bolts before. They bragged about how many they’d survived. But this time… They had crumpled to the ground, overcome by the pain of the bolt to their shield shoulder, and they’d been aware of one of the Blood Bath Corps straddling their body for a while to keep the salt beasts away, then the calloused hands of the farmer trying to hold in the blood and spreading necrosis. There was shouting, calls for bandages and help, and all the usual sounds of battle. But it all seemed distant to Wren, lying there in the center of it all, staring up at the stars. As if their soul had already wandered away in search of the next world.
The breastplate had cooled too slowly, warping out of shape. Wren stared at it, glassy-eyed. Get on with life. Get back to work. The coals in the forge popped. The beast had its hand wrapped around Wren’s ankle, tugging, tugging, their hair caught on branches, leaves slapping them in the face, the farmer screaming, Wren screaming–
The hammer fell to the floor, slipping out of numb fingers. Wren looked down at its faint violet aura, the sign of its power. They cursed quietly, berating themself for being so careless with one of Bladehome’s most prized possessions. Unacceptable, for them to be acting like this. That breastplate would need serious work now, and if the hammer had broken somehow they’d never forgive themself. They gently laid the hammer on the anvil, set aside the breastplate, and took a shaky breath. Fresh air. That might help.
The stars shone overhead, spread across the sky in a map on the edge of understanding. Wren inhaled deeply, taking in the cooler, cleaner air of the main street of Bladehome. It was nearly one in the morning, judging by the pair of Blood Bath Corps soldiers falling out of the tavern down the road. They were singing as they staggered towards the barracks.
Broken blade, black blood falling
Shadow of the ash
Wren’s shoulder ached.
The farmer’s face loomed in and out of focus over their own, his hands pressing, pressing their wound, his voice ringing through the growing fog. Get away, get off them! Wren closed their eyes, sinking away from the pain. When vision returned, the face swimming overhead was distorted, changing. One second the farmer’s frightened, determined eyes gazed down at them; the next moment, the face of a man long dead, lost to the wars on Faedrun. Their mentor, the man who had shaped them as a fighter, as a mercenary, as a person. Sargeant Landon Faulken, who had marched off with the army and never come back. Stay back! Let them go. Wren had no strength left to speak, couldn’t lift their arm, couldn’t reach out to him. Their lips moved silently, trying in vain to call to him, call for help as that leathery hand gained its grip on their ankle again. The pressure released on their wounded shoulder and Farmer/Faulken rose, battle axe in hand, and clove the arm of the salt beast again and again, till it was forced to release its prize. Wren sank into darkness for a moment, then found themself hauled to their feet, supported by two Nightriver warriors, being dragged back to the town they had defended. Back to Sunny’s healer mat and admonishments. The stars wheeled overhead.
Through rubble, rock and stone
The ashes are our home
The drunken singing faded as the door to the barracks slammed. The voice and hand of Faulken echoed in its final strain.