Thrum
Chapter 05
A Silver Flower
by E.L. Logan
The game was on.
Potential was high, and options demanded consideration. Their hard work had been all but finished, and soon the two brothers would face a new challenge. Anyone of limited means might know the feeling of extra finance itching to be spent. Money was power. Money could be whatever they wanted it to become, so long as it was in stock. Their challenge would be resisting thousands of temptations once those extra nil burnt its holes in their pockets. No one else in the village had managed to bag a tetherhorn ripe for the butcher’s block. Demand was on their side, and with Evrit’s fast tongue and ready confidence, they could haggle for the strongest sell in town.
But first, they had to get their haul back to town… uphill. Part of the peace their remote settlement enjoyed was due to its high situation among the peaks of the region’s mountains.
It also didn’t hurt to have strong ties to the Empire’s military, with young men commonly transporting full wagons of grain, aged mead, and other foods to sweeten the deal of their enlistments. Returning veterans with training beyond an average country bumpkin meant a reputation of being more trouble than they were worth to typical bandit groups. Rich soil and yearly safety meant farmers could put forth bumper crops on a regular basis, meaning poverty was rare, even if most folks never rose above the farmer’s life.
None of this meant much to the boys just now, however. They were too busy fighting nature’s favorite buzzkill, gravity. Radish wheezed and kicked as well as he could in his rickety old age, but the two adolescents pulled most of the weight. They really hadn’t expected a tetherhorn to be so heavy a few hours ago when they hatched this scheme. Thrum had the broader back, so he pulled at the front. Evrit was quick, but not quite as bulky. He ran his rope around his waist and walked backward, pulling with his reliable legs. Training, he told himself. This was training to outmaneuver his opponents someday, and this was money in his pocket even sooner. With images of a glistening blade slick with oil and sunlight in his imagination, he pulled even harder.
They had gutted the bull on the spot, taking choice organs for future use as containers and leaving the rest to the forest. This didn’t seem to lessen the burden much, Thrum thought. Sure, maybe a few links of weight were removed, but the rest felt like it was all on his shoulders. Evron had once told him muscle weighed more than fat, and their prey seemed to be nothing but pure power spread across their little hauling flat. Even deceased, its hulking form was imposing. Nobody had slain one in at least a few months, he thought, and that made sense. They were hard to kill.
To Thrum, their victory had been more by dumb luck than clever planning. He was not overly bothered by this realization. Combined with what they had set aside, the meat of the day would surely bring enough to line each of their pockets. Thrum could have a sword forged, or maybe something nice for Evron and Sif. Then again, it could be a relief to get some components made for his other little projects. The money he didn’t quite own just yet was already burning holes in his pockets, but he wouldn’t have long to wait.
Rounding the final bend of their pathway, they saw the first high peak above become two peaks before stretching out as they continued their approach, revealing the defensible ridge on the Southern side of the town. Raiders coming from this direction would be forced to pass below this final ridge before entering the outlying farmlands. Local archers could flock here, turning a simple ridge into a fountain of arrows. Any phalanx made to thwart them could be assaulted with rolling boulders arranged at the ready.
To bandits, this might be a place where morale collapsed, but for Evrit the familiar ridge was a sight of unquestioned shelter. Thrum never could rest so easy among the townsfolk, but this ridge at least meant he was safe as long as they tolerated him. Home sweet home.
As was typical on a weekend’s late afternoon, the market street held an air of lively small town commerce. Various vendors were selling wares and local crops. Milly the flower girl was presenting a bouquet to every bachelor and married man. Gerson the baker munched a stuffed roll while leaning his chair on two legs against his shop. His son Eddie was taking money from a housewife over a basket of loaves. Morton, the butcher, waved to a couple of patrons as they left him. He had a dull expression, like the day had been somehow less interesting than he’d hoped.
That expression quickly changed when Evrit motioned for him to see them around back of the shop, where larger deliveries could come in without interrupting business. The impressive carcass they pulled with them had caught more than a few surprised gazes already, Morton’s being no exception.
“Evrit! Give ol Luck a kiss boy! Is that your tetherhorn or some other’s?”
“You know it’s mine old man. Actually, Thrum here put both our spears through it himself,” he answered the butcher with a baited tone, as though he’d just won a bet against him in favor of Thrum.
“Oh, him then. I suppose it makes sense in a way. The Wjere are natural born killers, after all. Shame you can’t get him to enlist.” Morton prattled on for a bit more about the joys of travel, war, and enlisted glory, every word draining Thrum’s enthusiasm. “Why, I had a mate who commanded a Wjere in his old squad. He sent it to do things most men would cower from, but the poor devil just kept on fighting. I hear some spoiled meat finally got to him, but don’t let that put a bad taste in your mouth. Go and fight the good fight, son.”
“You know,” Thrum answered, “I think I’ll go fight right now. There’s an urge to vomit that simply must be defeated. Take care of things here, Ferret.”
He was gone behind the corner of the building and making his way to the street before either of them could respond. This was why Evrit was the charming socialite and Thrum was the homebody. He could hardly speak to anyone without common knowledge of his Wjere origins weeding their way into the conversation. Not everyone was as transparent as Morton, with his “go away and die” recruitment speech.
Some would be as polite as they could, too polite, careful to never say "Wjere," but tedious in their nervous demeanor. These types were the worst, their every little cue subtly telling their unanimous thought process of "Don’t say anything rude, don’t anger the Wjere, don’t make yourself his target when the animal awakens... make some small talk or something."
Nearly the only time when he could hold a normal discourse with other human beings was at home, or when a stranger came to town. From these he could hear stories about the road, bigger cities, amazing sights, strange beasts, and where to find them. Seeing a figure adorned in a traveling cloak amble toward Milly’s booth was just the distraction he needed right now, so he approached.
The next thing he observed about this newcomer as he drew closer was his gear. Strange tubes hung from either side of the man’s waist. Each was similar in length to a scabbard, but much too wide in diameter to house a blade of any conventional sort. Besides that, he could see an actual scabbard alongside one of the tubes. Slung across the man’s back were his large pack and an even larger tube, this one longer than the man and rising more than an arm’s length above his head from down by his knees.
Thrum stayed just close enough to eavesdrop until he was ready to make himself known. The stranger was not the only point of interest here, after all. Milly was by far one of Thrum’s favorite people in town, being friendly to everyone as equals. Her warmth and vibrant attitude made for an excellent salesperson, but it wasn’t just a sales tactic. Milly genuinely cared for the happiness of others. She greeted the new arrival with her customary pluckiness.
“Hiya stranger! Have you come all this way for love? See, I just happen to have a discount going today for all romantic investments. If you’ve got someone special in mind, my flowers are grown in constant affection to brighten anyone’s home. If you’ve got nobody just yet, maybe a bit of flora could change that?”
“Shame, that.” His voice was gruff and belied decades of smoking habits, but his tone was pleasant enough. “I’d be a liar to say I have any romantic intentions. Your plants simply caught my interest. This whole booth is a refreshing thing to experience.”
“Thanks a bunch, mister…?”
“I go by Ison.”
“Well, Ison, I’m honored to be part of that refreshing experience. Would you like to keep a piece of it in your travels?”
Ison looked as though the notion had only just crossed his mind. “You’re a persistent one. Grown in constant affection, are they? That wouldn’t just be a cute hook line, would it?”
“No sir, they get lots of love from my folks and me. I don’t know, I just think it helps how they turn out. It seems to work with people, after all.”
“I wish you were right, Milly.” Thrum finally interjected. “More often, at least.”
She looked at Thrum and back to the traveler with a smirk, saying “Case in point. This fellow here, he’s a flower from both love and fear. Grew up strong, but too scared of his own thorns to bloom.”
Ison turned slightly to regard Thrum with the faintest nod before facing Milly again. “Believe me, miss. It helps more than you will ever know. I think I could make a place for that silver lily with the prickly bits. How much?”
“Interesting. My moon-prods don’t sell very often. I suppose if you promise to be good to it, I’ll let one go for eight nil.”
“Good choice, stranger. The petals make a tea that’ll wake you right up in the morning. I’m Thrum, by the way.” Ison offered another little nod and a grunt as he drew a coin from his coat.
“The change is yours if you can part with a few extra petals, Miss Milly. I’d like to try that tea without hurting my new companion.”
Feeling like his opening was made, Thrum tried getting more information from the traveler while the purchase was completed. “Those are some unusual tubes you’ve got there, if you’ll pardon a little curiosity.”
“You might say they’re tools of my craft, though I suppose it’s more of a hobby these days.”
The florist was not above a bit of digging, either. “What do you do, Ison?”
For the briefest moment, Thrum saw a ghost of sadness in the older man’s eyes. “I make messes.” He quickly brought back a smile, saying “I do a bit of land cleaning sometimes, and sometimes the weather gives me plenty to clean. How has it fared around here?”
Ah, one of those “how’s the weather” types. Thrum supposed it was an inevitable topic for almost anyone on a journey, but it was boring all the same. “Sunny, but we’re late for rain I guess. I hear the roads have been lively. Seen anything interesting?”
Ison stared at him blankly for a moment before answering. “I expect to. This area feels… quirky. Perhaps that’s only my imagination, however. What say you, lad? Have you some tale to tell?”
“Actually, I do, but I barely believe it myself. My brother caught wind of several tetherhorn sightings in the woods today. We were down the way hunting for one, and stumbled upon a full horde of them in the valley nearby. It looked like every tether for a thousand miles gathered right in front of us, headed who-knows-where. We managed to take one, though. I’m coming from the butcher presently.”
Milly looked shocked to hear this, but offered no challenge. Ison crossed his arms in thought. There was a pause before he finally responded. “Some tale indeed. I haven’t known tetherhorns to gather at all. Well, I should be about my way. Thank you both, I’ve gained much today.”
Dropping each hand to rest on a tube at his side, Ison strolled away.
Previous Chapters:
Ch01 Runner
https://steemit.com/writing/@rasgriz311/thrum-a-fantasy-chapter-01
Ch02 The Wjere
https://steemit.com/writing/@rasgriz311/thrum-a-fantasy-chapter-02
Ch03 Tetherhorn
https://steemit.com/writing/@rasgriz311/thrum-a-fantasy-chapter-03
Ch04 Struggle
https://steemit.com/story/@rasgriz311/thrum-a-fantasy-chapter-04
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It's been months since I posted a Thrum chapter, but thanks for being patient. Here are some jams to enjoy as you do your thing!
The Prodigy on an Acoustic Guitar - Luca Stricagnoli
Mike Dawes - One (Metallica) - Solo Guitar
Thrice - "Only Us"
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