Chapter 81: Grounding Dominance

  He stared at it. Only seeing a statue of the creature earlier that day. He wasn’t entirely sure what it was. There was no recollection of the beast. No legend of such thing around the fire. Adventurers never spoke of them. They didn’t look metallic—but there was a tang on the air that reminded him of the forge, perhaps it was the static still crackling from somewhere. Sid swallowed and stood.

  The lead bull lifted its head, stamping its hoof. Scales—thousands of them, the size of almonds—along its back catching the moonlight. Each shimmering a deep green, like liquid jade. A hot fog of breath curled from the odd nose, like a geyser releasing steam—stamping again as Sid took another step forward.

  Xantrilexa stood—cautiously slow—chirping with a soft voice. “Sid, wait. Not much is known about them.”

  Abram was behind Sid. Mortar and pestle in hand. Shivering with anticipation—Abram may be the only one, other than the Siblings who know about these beasts.

  Fenrir was a clever boy and lay by the fire. He had no curiosity tugging. No suspicion pulling—well he did lift his head and smell the air, but he would not be snooping around all five of them—like Sid was.

  He approached with his hand out—turning his head glancing over his shoulder. “What are they?”

  It happened quick. Sid barely got the question out. Abram had no time to formulate a thought. Xantrilexa hardly seen it from the fire. And Fenrir anticipated such a reaction—partially the reason he stayed with Xantrilexa. She seemed smart too.

  The lead bull swiped at Sid. A strong flex of its neck—liquid jade flashing in the moonlight like silent lightning. Its tusk caught his reaching hand. Ripping from the soft ball of his palm. Tearing through the small web of thumb and finger—or well where a finger would have been.

  Sid screamed—a primeval cry layered with pain and challenge. that rippled the treetops. Yanking his hand to his chest. Clutching it while blood melted the scales of his jacket. Grass wilted underneath him with each drop.

  Xantrilexa’s stomach dropped at the guttural yell—skin chilling for reasons she couldn’t explain. She swallowed hard waiting for what would happen next—she would most certainly be watching this man be gored.

  Abram grinned a salty grin—that yell. He would love to see Sid shift. He hadn’t seen a proper shifting in decades—and a full grown Rot-Claw, he would lay every one of these creatures to rest.

  Sid’s hand felt red—the rot was hot. Not only that but there was an internal pulse. A primal shift of mind. Deep down an ancient force was begging to be uncaged. His mouth salivate with a foul heat. His pupil slowly dilated. His breath slowed. Looking up—pupil blown— he met the eyes of the creature.

  Sid’s breathing was ragged and shallow—he was fighting it the best he can. However, the whispers in his head were becoming louder.

  “Show your wrath—the Bear-King bows to none—open them—make examples of your might—bring me their scales—shift—do it—NOW!”

  He clench his jaw until vision blurred—then he clench harder, his brows furrowed. He never blinked. Never broke stare. The mustache lifted revealing teeth that started to grow. Jaw cracked, wanting to expand—pleading to be released. Internal roar intensified . Rising with each beat of his surging heart. He coughed. Wet hot spit-up—not like baby burps either, unless that baby was burping up black flesh rotting acid.

  Sid fell to a knee. Coughing up that dark bile substance—no, not now, he can’t, he won’t let them see the monster. He spit. The grass hiss and wilt with each black splash. Head now pounding like the iron he would work. When his vision straightened he glanced to the animals again.

  The creature stood regal before it slowly bent one leg then the other—it was now kneeling. Front legs buckled, head dipped—single root-horn touching the ground—as were the four behind it.

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  Behind the creatures was a buggy-wagon. Looking to be made of bone and antler.

  He swallowed. Taming the snarl within. He then looked at his hand. It was still bleeding. But where the split started it was healing already—sections of skin reaching as a bubbly scar sealed over. He then looked to Abram—standing just a reach behind.

  “Sid,” he said conspiratorially. “Get me one of those shards.”

  He looked to where Abram was pointing—the scales?

  Xantrilexa slowly approached—Fenrir at her side. “Let me see your hand, Sid,” She went to reach for him. “That looked bad.”

  As a Crusader it was part of her sworn oath to help others—unfortunately for the true hearted ones like her, none of it was regulated or rewarded by the Gods. It was just something the churches lie about—if a Crusader helps one, and if said helped one decides to switch faith because of such heroism then that’s representation in its own. Honorable Crusaders shouldn’t want anything more.

  Before she could grab his hand Abram barked at her—remembering his own hand, and how Arieos ear had melted when Sid bit him.

  “Don’t be touching him.”

  She flinched and turned to Abram—glaring like he hit her with a rock—A Bruising-Rock. “Why not, Abram? He’s injured.”

  “He be fine,” He glanced down at her—she looked cold in her linens. Dark hair catching the silver sheen of the moon. “Have ye not pieced it together dearie. Look at him.” He perked his head to Sid—his chest was heaving. “Ye gots to have some sort of ideas. Me knew who ye was just by yer shield.”

  Xantrilexa studied Sid as Abram spoke—the big man was so suspicious, the way the grass around him had yellowed and died. The black acidic liquid he spit up. The way the Stallitusk’s all bow to him. Sid was indeed a suspicious fellow—and the Seven slay the suspicious.

  Her stomach iced over. Body tensed as she looked at Sid. Then down at Fenrir—the knot of wisp tied around its neck. Then back to Abram. Her hands were trembling—fingers numb.

  “Me gives yas a clue,” he said—she did not like the way he was smiling. “Somes would call me the Collector.” He hit her with a wink that rattled her bones.

  “No, no, no,” she started—cold blue eyes darting between the three. “No. No! No!” her songbird voice was catching the sharp cry of a panicked wren. She was placing it all together—a mental puzzle she had struggled with since her teen cycles.

  Sid turned to see what the young Crusader was crying for—Abram was encouraging her to recite something.

  “Go on dearie. Say it. Me wants to hear that pretty voice of yers sing it. Me so sick of reading it over and overs.” It was a desperate reach full of anticipation and desire from every flame.

  She knew exactly what he was speaking of—the riddle from her quest. A passage she had received all that time ago—how did he know about it though—she had memorized it from start to finish. Every word. Every line. Studying it for cycles. Never did it make sense until now.

  Sid’s eye narrowed—same did the stone in his eyepatch. He lipped the words as Xantrilexa spoke each one. Speaking with such precision—muscle memory he didn’t know he had. Words hovering just under hers.

  “Bored with watching a world benign. The Seven play, to pass their time.

  A sport with no champions in the game of deceit. Just mournful winners, trophied with grief.

  The first game thrown, the Lord of Greed. Causing new gifts, The Mystic’s heed.

  So again they play, but Lord Briareos. Engrained a new blade, for swallowing the cosmos.

  The Seven agree, again their game is at stake. Continue to play, only if the relics awake.

  Sleeping lost items, for The Collector to seek. Earning Faith for Seven with each item he reap.

  Charting the way a young master of maps. The Navigator is responsible for directing the paths.

  A Howling-Shadow, bound through wispy knot. Is allegiant to The Arbiter, marked as The King of Rot.

  The scale of balance, the crown of beasts. He will be the one, to assure the fall of Lief.”

  Abram smiled, reciting the final line with Xantrilexa.

  She stared at him with a twisted expression. Her cold blues leaked as the realization slowly washed over. How did he know the final line of the Crusaders Quest.

  “How do you know my Quest-line?” she asked.

  Abram looked to be vibrating with excitement, his smile was so wide it was unsettling, and his sea washed irises, swirled with a flash, like an early squall.

  “Your Quest-line dearie, is that to The Collectors Quest, just worded slightly different, but all the same.”

  “It’s a nursery rhyme, a bed time tale for children.” Sid chipped in—he wasn’t sure how he knew the rhyme, but it was mentally encrypted. A song he didn’t remember learning but knew all along. He just needed to be reminded of the words.

  “Whose nursery rhyme be that, Sid?” Abram chuckled—looking at the big guy still kneeling on the ground.

  “I’m not sure,” Sid started—rubbing his temples trying to recall such a memory. “But I’ve heard it before. It was sung softly. Almost dream-like,” he looked up at Abram. “The warm bead of fury is not the burden of wrath but is that of Redemption.”

  Abrams eyes narrowed. He then looked at the Stallitusk’s—all five still kneeling, head down. “Sid, we needs to learns ya to read,” he looked down at him, then to Xantrilexa. “And we needs to be doing it fastly.”