Nathan hangs up from telling Martin where to pick up Seren then turns back and sighs. This took more time than he expected and now his blintz is cold, Sarah is off somewhere and Gwahin is looking at him with the same face reserved for people who just suggested their boss or drill sergeant shove a rocket propeller up their asses and see where that gets them.

“Human you… You are going to lead Varogs to us? To ME? This wasn’t part of our deals! I agreed to defend you not to act as your troop to call upon when you please!"

"They’re going after us anyway wouldn’t it be better if it were on our term?"

"That’s not the point at all! Our arrangement is others attack, I defend, not you bait and I kill! This is not! Our! Contract!”

Nathan is about to lose his temper but reins it in, he still needs Gwahin to help him craft an infused weapon, and besides, she is not wrong. If this is about intent as she so often repeats, then he intends to bring danger to her and she is right, this is not the spirit of what they agreed on. He feels that he could press the issue but there is surely no need to antagonize a three-century-old nature spirit who happens to be willing to teach him magic.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to."

"And you… I don’t?"

"Yeah. I was not including you in the plan to start with. And with the guns we have, the infused weapon and Seren I think we can handle two eaters, especially since I will be able to tell where they are. Just, you know, defend me if they attack before we are set up."

"That is… acceptable Mordred Nathan Turner. We should head to my glade now and get you armed. I will head first.”

Gwahin is gone, her usual gait replaced by tense strides. She’s fast too. As usual, Nathan doesn’t hear the noise of the door opening and closing which makes him wonder if she just slips under it. As he starts to follow her he realizes why she left him behind.

Sarah is in the living room nestled in one of his biggest sofas, tapping nervously on her phone. From here she looks vulnerable with her tiny feet peeking out of her oversized wool sweater. Nathan takes in the rare sight. From here he can only see from her face a pair of chocolate eyes peeking under a mass of dark curls. Sensing him, she stands up and stretches.

“Hey Nat, I’m asking my Mom to take care of Isaac tomorrow as well."

"Hum, you’re not fighting."

"I know I’m not stupid, but I need to know… How it goes."

"If you show up and we lose, you die. That sounds like an awful idea to me."

"What’s not to say I’m not next anyway. What if those eaters want to finish me off because I’m a witness or something?"

"You don’t know that…"

"And you don’t know it’s not true. And you don’t know that they will not come after me first because I’m super delicious."

"I’m just staying you are putting yourself at risk for no reason. We could have you in protective custody."

"Listen, Nathan. It’s not your decision.”

Nathan suspects he could win her over using the Isaac argument: if you die for no reason your son will grow up without a mother, yet a few things stop him. One, it would be a complete dick move. Two, this is Sarah, she could pretend to agree then sneak in from the back at a critical moment. And three, everyone who will be here tomorrow will be here by their own choice, facing something that they could all run from. It’s not like Nathan couldn’t hop on a plane to Key West and use his company vacation time eating lime pie until someone else deals with the problem. Sarah has earned the right to decide to stay. As far as he knows there should be two Varogs and they will face off against four people, of whom two are weavers and two have combat training, a tired Sylvan, possibly a tired Yol, an infused weapon and enough modern armament and explosives to satisfy a doomsday prepper, she should be fine. It will be up to him to make sure that she will be fine.

“Fine but you stay near the phone and if things go south you call the cops then run. Gwahin will protect you."

"That was my plan. And, huh, can I stay the night?”

The magic words hang in the air and Nathan is suddenly really, really aware of how close she is, and how she is anxiously biting her lovely lips and ooooh must not think about that. Of course, he should refuse it’s not prof…

“Oh yeah of course. Hum. It’s probably better that way in case the eaters arrive earlier than expected."

"Yeah that’s what I was thinking about too. Hm. I mean, that was my plan. Hm. You should go get that thing of yours.”

Nathan walks on the now familiar path and visualizes the proverbial little angel and demon who give bits of advice. The devil says “sweet we getting laid”. The Angel takes a pompous tone and adds “Do you know that famous sportsmen have sex before a match because it increases their testosterone levels?”

Nathan shakes his head and dismisses the images. He needs to focus on getting an infused weapon and not the possibility that he can break all corporate and friendship rules by going back to Sarah and kiss her while moving his fingers through her lush hair and then grab her…

And just like that Nathan has to stop because his pants have grown uncomfortably tight. At least if he hasn’t managed to take his mind off the gutter by the time he reaches Gwahin’s glade, there is still the option to take a dip in her frozen pond.

All thoughts leave his mind when he reaches the clearing.

“The time is almost upon us. You need to prepare”

It is now late afternoon and Gwahin’s voice reaches across the clearing from her tree. The quiescent of winter has been replaced with quiet tension, and the flow is waxing slowly, but surely.

Roughly in the middle is a grey circle, roughly five feet across. Nathan walks to it and the grey resolves into a light dusting of ash on dead ground. Gwahin is sitting on her heel in front of her tree, her back to him.

“Ash? I thought you didn’t not like fire."

"I do not, but humans do and this comes from your fireplace. Hear me, Nathan Mordred Turner. In the short time we have spent together I have learned to know you just well enough to attempt this. You have proven to me that adults of your species can work alongside Yol without having to dominate, or even understand them, yet you clearly see the dangers posed by true monsters like the Varog. This is why I am giving you a live weapon: a Makka, a Yol secret. I trust you and I extend this favor to you, with the hope that you do not turn it against me but against the things that threaten us all. Please, do not disappoint me."

"Gwahin…"

"You will not speak. Now. At the edge of the circle, there is an obsidian knife and a piece of aspen. Remove your gloves, shoes, and socks and take them. Good. Now enter the circle. Close your eyes and focus.”

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The air inside of the circle makes Nathan shiver through his heavy coat. It’s not just chilly, there is something ominous about it and the black knife in his hand does nothing to alleviate his fear because he has a good idea who he is going to use it on.

“Feel the wood, its grain and its shape and call to it”

Nathan falls into a familiar trance, feeling energy pool around him. The usual flow surges, bolstered by the forest’s entire aura. The aspen is hot in his hand, linked through affinity to a forest far away. The deeper he goes, the more he realizes the stick is bound to a whole copse, all their trees different yet the same. They share their root network like a single organism. The copse is asleep at this time of the year and its answer is sluggish. The usual feeling of life he gets is merged with that of death and renewal, yet this death is neither violent nor horrible, it is just a fact. A part of the whole. Slowly, Nathan calls to it and feels life push back from everywhere to what he holds in his hand. The wood starts pulsating and the heat increases until it answers the beat of his own heart. In his mind images and feelings gather, forming a question.

Purpose?

The flow waxes and wanes in echo to his heartbeat with an intensity that is almost painful. The obsidian and firewood of his aura mirror the ash below his feet and the knife in his hand.

Purpose?

What is the purpose of a weapon but to kill? No, this is an abstract concept. Nathan needs to think in term of emotions, of intent.

Nathan stands in front of the warehouse’s door, holding Gwahin’s spear in a death grip. Sarah is inside and needs help. He opens the door and goes in. Nathan throws himself at the Stalker while Seren recoils. He is hit. There is pain in his shoulder but it does not matter, he will jump again, he will jump until he wins. Seren charges back into the fray with grim resolve.

Stand.

He is at the shooting range, he pulls the trigger, recoil makes his hand move backward and a hole appears in the target’s center. Seren’s stabbing wound liquefies the Stalker’ flesh. The acorns blow up, the death flowers spread before his eyes and the sound deafens him. He is eight, the sword his mother made in his hand. He hits the wooden post before she can come back and scold him. He stares in fascination as the sharp blade cuts wood and ropes clean.

Fight.

The Stalker falls on the thorn grenade, the blast shredding his body. Pieces of him are falling in a grisly rain. Seren stabs the Varog in the head, a ruined husk that already stinks. He grips the car’s wheel and averts his eyes from the flattened road kill. His dog is in her dog bed, eyes open yet unseeing. His dad is….

“No human! You cannot stop!”

His dad is on the ground, his face hidden by the corner of the wall. A black pool of blood circles the top of his body in a grotesque halo.

Kill.

The aspen in his hand is burning him, the pain is excruciating but he cannot move. The flow in the grove is a thunderous storm, threatening to rip him apart in a thousand pieces.

Purpose accepted.

Nathan slashes his hand guided by instinct and the light red of his blood and dark crimson of the twilight sips in the wood. The ritual reaches its zenith. The flow rushes is through his mind to his hand. Nathan holds on to his sanity like a falling man to a hold, desperate and frantic. That’s it he’s going to buy it here and there. The flow rushes in never stopping, never relenting. He has been here an hour, a week, an eternity, his arm is gone, there is just his mind and a nasty looking pike that goes on forever.

The ritual stops.

Nathan collapses on the ground and retches, the pain evaporates almost instantly.

In his hand, steaming, is a Yol spear. His spear. The red twilight casts a strange light on the weapon. It is as tall as a man and not completely straight, with a strange reddish tone. The shaft is smooth save for a sort of handle in the middle. The tip is the most surprising part of the weapon. It is extremely dark, and tendrils twirl around it in a strange pattern, so black they shine. Nathan takes a closer look at the extremity.

It is sharper than anything.

The certainty of it wars with his reason. How can he know this for a fact? He tests it with the fat of his thumb.

He meant to just press it against the tip but fails. There is no resistance as the dark end slices through his flesh. Not only is the weapon sharper that a syringe, it also drinks blood.

Normal sensations return to Nathan and the first and most important one is that his feet and hands are naked and it’s getting really cold.

While he pulls his boots, Gwahin is emptying one of her flasks down her gullet.

“You ok there Gwahin?"

"That was… That was perfectly executed. I am a genius, a natural talent. You! You did well. I am simply the best. I… I created a, a red Makka! For a human. A visionary is what I am. So! You have to… You have to lend me your couch… and I need a drink."

Nathan barely has time to reach her before she collapses. He almost checks for a pulse. Do Yol even have a pulse? Nathan puts his fingers against her (theoretical) jugular then gives up.

Gwahin is snoring.

She will be fine.

Nathan goes through the most basic steps of what Gwahin calls the war dance. The spear is light and warm in his hand and makes him feel relaxed. He could die tomorrow but it all feels distant, as if it did not really matter. Stab, turn, stab, parry, counter, step back and stab. The dance is minimalistic, it has no wasted movement and all steps take the entire body to move in a precise fashion. The movements are relaxing and what is even more relaxing is the silence. Gwahin is asleep, tucked in his couch under a mountain of cover. She woke up just long enough to empty a glass of brandy and a bowl of meat. Parry. Stab. Stab. Move forward then stab. Thankfully this does not require too much strength or Nathan would not perform well. If Gwahin knew that when he was a kid he did not want to be the knight but the fool she would laugh for a solid hour. Swinging sword is beyond him, but he could juggle them. Stab, move back, stab, move left. Stay mobile. In balance. At least he used to be able to. The spear hums and pulses to the rhythm of his heart. He is working up a nice sweat and it feels good. Nathan moves faster, but not too fast. No need to botch it. Swipe, move back, move up and stab. Stay balanced, stay focused, move smoothly.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before he feels eyes on him. Sarah is on the house’s steps dressed in an elegant long coat and sips tea from a steaming cup. She looks amused.

Nathan twirls the spear around in a show off gesture.

“Like what you see?"

"My what a nice spear you have here Nate, can I touch it?”

Nathan will not be outdone is his own damn house. Does Sarah think she knows lewd retorts? Hah!

“Yeah the shaft is really smooth but the tip fells nice too."

"It sure looks like it hasn’t been used in a while.”

Ouch.

“Yeah but as you can see my technique is intact"

"Yeah, you must practice a lot by yourself, how sad.”

Double ouch. Alright, this is not going according to plan, time to be more direct.

“I just need a good partner.”

Nathan would go on but Sarah’s lips are warm on his own. She tastes like tea and berries. Her hair is as full and silky as he had imagined under his caress. Sarah goes straight to the point. Really straight. There is a small voice at the back of his head that insists this is something he should not do, that Sarah is a friend, and that she’s vulnerable. Then her hand grabs his ass, slides forward around his body and the tip of her fingers catch his belt buckle. Ok.

“We should take this inside.”

Much later, Nathan wakes up to the sound of his front door ringing. He considers getting the gun but Varogs would not ring the bell. He quickly dresses and heads down.

Nathan opens his front door and thinks for a second he is getting double vision. There are two Martins at the door. They use the opportunity to take in his disheveled looks and healthy flush and the second Martin gives a knowing smile.

“We interrupting?”

A figure comes out from behind Martin number 2. It takes a few moments for him to recognize Seren. Now that he is not in imminent danger of being eaten alive and that half her face is not covered in dried blood, it is obvious to see that Seren is striking. Her face is sharp and aristocratic and her pale grey eyes make her look cold, the impression is only barely softened by plump lips. She is not conventionally pretty, as she has a kind of cold beauty he associates with statues, but she is attractive. They see each other and she smiles sadly and suddenly it feels as if the sun had risen. Smiling changes her face from arctic to luminous. He cannot help but feel himself mirroring it.

“Hey Seren. You look much better. Come in, come in!”

The first Martin passes him by. He wears a sensible long brown coat and a light white turtleneck over trousers and shoes that can be used for running. He looks all prim and proper, you could present him to your grandma and you saw him on the street, you would know instantly that he carries a badge and will help you if you are lost. The second is the evil twin.

“Oh where are my manners. This is my brother, Michael”

An actual evil twin.

Michael is wearing a leather jacket and cargo pants and a baseball cap barely contains messy red curls. If you saw him in the street you would start wondering how you could get home without a phone or wallet. If Martin is the good cop, this one is the wild dog. Where Martin strides, Michael stalks, where Martin looms, Michael lounges, where Martin assesses you, he judges you, when Michael does he checks you for weapon then switch to something else. Possibly an ambush. He has a perpetual sardonic smile on his lips that never reaches his eyes.

They come in and turn left into his imposing living room. Michael whistles at the weird collection of chairs and questionable design choices while Seren just drops a heavy bag on a couch and crashes in it.

“I have guest rooms ready I’ll show you to them afterward.”

She just nods and rubs her eyes.

Michael jumps in.

“So you are Nathan right? Awesome. Are we killing anything tonight?”

“Uuuuh I hope not?”

“Oh goodie. Then I’ll just unpack a few things and set a basic perimeter.”

“ Uuuuh yeah.”