The Iron Alchemist

Chapter 35

A few days locked up in a barn full of angry Yurks was enough to drive a man mad.

Hrok shook a canteen, close to empty, the numbwillow nearly run dry. Drink was the only thing that kept him from his boredom, and from noticing the cattle dung that hung in the air. And without it he grew angrier and tireless. E'krek was even worse ... the young Yurk was paling, and mumbling to himself, the voice had returned.

He stood up from his hay bed, pulling straws from his trousers and long coat that collected dirt over the last few days. He settled his tall, black hat on his head then walked to where Jerocobish lay, in the darkest corner of the barn, his face dripping of sweat while strange black marks webbed up his face.

"What's wrong with him?" Hrok asked. "I've never seen a beating do a man in like that."

"It's not from the beating," Froak said, pouring liquid into the mans mouth. "He's fallen to sickness..."

Likely from being in this place, Hrok thought, glancing around the barn where the suns rays hardly warded off the gloom. "Can you heal him?"

The oldest Yurk turned his chestnut eyes onto him. Eyebrows pressed up and together. He shook his head. "I fear the man has little time left ... this is a slain sickness ... he'll be lucky to last a week."

Warfrok spat, hunkered down on a stack of hay, braiding his thick, graying strands. "If we are to recover my son, we must make the exchange at once ... if his son won't come to us, then we shall go to son."

"And why do you think that is?" Hrok's voice boomed. He seemed to grow in the shadows while the older man shrank. "Varko is not giving away our position..."

Warfrok eyes fell and his head followed. "This is true ... my son will not risk the lives of us for the life of his own ... he'd rather be beaten." Hrok could tell it hurt him to say so. "A true Yurk-"

"A fool!" Hrok fist smacked the wood and welcomed the ache that found his knuckles. "If I am to get tickets into the Iron Alchemist Tournament I must kill the one they call Jostice ... And times running out." He glanced down and saw the whites in the old man's eyes. Normally Hrok would be more cautious of such words, but his patience waned, and information was useless to a soon-to-be dead man. He groaned. "I must win!" He said, "The Yurks will be at the tournament cheering ... And when our Kallri falls they will remember me." He chuckled. "They will remember the one who defeated the invaders at their own game - and they will give me claim to the great War Bonnet."

Jerocobish coughed, weezed, and chuckled. "That's why..." He hacked and spat. "You've come all this way? To kill my boy for some tickets?" The man winced and hacked once more. "Hell ... Everybody wants in and I'm the only one who wants out. And I thought it was for the purse; but nobody seems interested in the coin ... only the glory." He chuckled.

E'krek walked over and crouched, his eyes red from withdrawl. "What is this you speak?"

The old man fought to say, "I got me three tickets ... I was coming to compete when y'all took me prisoner."