Chapter Two: Lost Sheep


    High-pitched fearful bleats cut through the air, mixing with the snarls of the oncoming wolves. The sheep were well trained, but no matter how well trained they might be, their fear overpowered it. They pressed against the wooden pen, and while his uncle had used good, strong wood to build the fence, there were more than twenty sheep in that pen, all struggling, pressing, to get out.


    The wood cracked like lightning from the open sky, and the sheep fled, with wolves pursuing gray blurs and flashing fangs. Ash looked on, fingers tightening around his pitchfork; he rushed forward to defend the sheep.


    His heart was attempting to claw its way out of his chest. He struck with the pitchfork, awkwardly catching a snarling wolf on the flank. It yelped, but Ash achieved little with his attack, not even piercing the skin.


    “No!” He yelled as another wolf bit into the heels of a sheep, going for its throat when it stumbled.


    Like a slashed tomato, liquid squirted from the animal’s throat, smearing its white fluff and the dirt beneath it. Ash tried again to attack the wolf, his vision narrowing and throat constricting as he felt everything heighten.


    The wolf dodged the poor excuse for a weapon, its eyes gleaming with unmasked madness, and lashed out at him.


    He tried to dodge, but he tripped, falling on his butt. He skidded back as the wolf went for the kill, bearing down on him. He tried to get the pitchfork between them, but it slipped out of his fingers, so instead, he crossed his arms over his face.


    I’m going to die here; the thought made him cry out as he was unable to contain the fear.


    He felt heat and sharp pain in his arm as the snarling wolf bit into his arm, drops of saliva coating his face. At that moment, all that existed was the blood running from his wound, the growling of the monster wolf trying to kill him, and the pain like a thousand needles plunging into his arm.


    Then, suddenly, it was gone. The wolf was hefted off of him and thrown away. His uncle was there, looking far different than Ash had ever seen him.


    He no longer held a shepherd''s staff but a sword gleaming in the morning light. Uncle Derrick wielded it like a hero from the adventure novels Ash loved to read. His footing was sure, and his bearing was confident. He flowed like river water as the snarling wolf leaped at him, and the razor-sharp blade cut the wolf open from jaw to tail.


    Hot, stinking viscera fell to the ground in a steaming pile, the wolf’s corpse falling to the ground with a thud.


    Ash clutched at his arm, blood coating his fingers.


    “Uncle, watch out!”


    But the warning was unnecessary; Uncle Derrick was already moving, ending the second wolf’s life as easily as the first.


    Ash’s jaw fell in awe as his uncle moved as fast as a free-flowing stream, killing another wolf. That should have sent them running, Ash was sure. Wolves didn’t keep attacking over and over like this. But they normally didn’t attack in the open and in the light of day like this, either.


    Two more attacked his uncle, but it did the predators no good. Uncle Derrick didn’t just move like water; he fully embodied the element, and the wolves could not touch him.


    In his books, Ash had read about adventurers who could control water so precisely that they could use the element like a blade. This wasn’t one of his books, but his Uncle lashed out just like one of those storybook adventurers wielding water like a weapon.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    No matter how many came at him, the wolves didn’t have a chance. When he was surrounded by six dead wolves, steaming piles of blood and guts, Uncle Derrick relaxed his stance.


    He was barely breathing hard.


    His brown eyes swept around, scanning for more threats. When he was satisfied, Uncle Derrick grunted. He turned to Ash, his eyes landing on the bloody gash in his arm.


    “We need to get that looked at. Come on, boy, close your mouth and go see your aunt. Get that wound tended to.”


    Ash gaped for a second or two before slowly closing his mouth and shaking his head.


    “How? What?”


    “No questions now, lad. Go on before you pass out from blood loss.”


    Uncle Derrick looked into the forest, turning his lips downward into a frown, his eyes gaining a troubled shadow.


    “Something’s not right here. Not right at all,” Ash barely caught the muttered words as he stood up.


    “But, Uncle, what about the sheep?”


    Derrick waved a hand,


    “Go. I don’t want you in the forest just now. I’ll be retrieving them. If you really want to help, you can help your aunt around the house after your wound is seen to. Guests will be arriving in a few hours.”


    With that, his Uncle turned, striding into the forest, fingers tightening around the hilt of the sword he held.


    Ash watched him go, still bleeding and still in pain; he went inside to see his aunt.


    _________


    “What happened, dear? Slip and fall?”


    Ash shook his head,


    “No, Auntie. Wolves attacked. The sheep got out of the pen and fled into the forest. Uncle Derrick killed some of the wolves; he had a sword! He used it like a real adventurer! Did you know he could do that?”


    Aunt Dara furrowed her brows,


    “Wolves? Speak plain, dear, start at the beginning.”


    Ash laid out the story, and Aunt Dara tended to his wound as he did. First, she cleaned it, causing him to wince, and then she wrapped it in a clean bandage she pulled from a healing kit she kept in the kitchen above the cooling box.


    When Ash finished recounting his tale, Aunt Dara merely looked troubled, her storm-gray eyes looking out the window. Almost absently, she tugged on her silver-white braid.


    “Wolves don’t attack like that,” she stated.


    Ash shrugged,


    “But they did. Did you miss the part where Uncle Derrick had a sword? Did you know he had a sword, Auntie?”


    She waved a hand before smoothing her brown apron,


    “Never mind the sword, dear. We have a lot to be about. We can start with prepping the food to be cooked. Do you think you can handle a knife without cutting yourself again, hmm?”


    Ash nodded before getting to work.


    “Did Uncle Derrick always have a sword?”


    Aunt Dara paused in peeling a potato.


    “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”


    Even as she asked the question, her eyes held a hint of amusement, her matronly features wry.


    Ash rubbed the back of his neck,


    “Come on, Auntie, please tell me?”


    He gave her a pleading look. The same look he used when he was small.


    Aunt Dara threw her head back, rich laughter pouring from her throat. Ash grinned, knowing he would be getting an explanation out of her now.


    She shook her head before returning to peeling potatoes as she spoke.


    “It’s no great mystery, dear. Your uncle served in the king’s army. All soldiers pick up some swordplay in their service.”


    Ash’s jaw dropped for a second time that morning,


    “How come no one told me?”


    Aunt Dara sighed, laying down the peeler. Her voice hardened just a bit.


    “You need to understand something, Ash, my dear. The world is not one of your fantasy novels. Soldiering is dangerous, and when it’s wartime…” Aunt Dara closed her eyes and breathed.


    “It’s one thing to fight monsters. That’s horrifying, but it’s a whole new level when you’re killing other men. We don’t talk about it because your uncle doesn’t like to remember that time.”


    Ash nodded, but the explanation didn’t quite kill his excitement.


    “Do you think he’d teach me, Uncle, I mean?”


    “You’d have to ask him; I might have said he would be against the idea…but you might need to know how to defend yourself now.”


    Ash lapsed into his work as he allowed his mind to wander, imagining the epic training sessions he would have with his uncle and all the wolves he’d fend off with a shining blade.


    They worked several hours prepping food, cleaning, and decorating the large farmhouse. Furniture was pushed aside, and even with his wounded arm, Ash whistled as he worked.


    “Someone’s excited,” Aunt Dara observed.


    “Well, it’s Remembrance Day!”


    “Mm. Which means the story, of course.”


    “Am I that predictable?”


    Aunt Dara laughed again,


    “Dear, you’re sixteen. Of course, you’re predictable. I think you’d be tired of hearing the story by now. But come now, there’s another reason for your joyful mood, isn’t there? Rosalia will be here. ”


    He was about to reply, his face heating up, when he heard the trotting of horses and voices outside.


    Guests had finally arrived, and Remembrance Day was just about to start.