Thrum: A Fantasy. Chapter 02

Thrum
Chapter 02
The Wjere

“Get off your ass, Weary, and fetch my bow. We’re leaving.”

Awoken by the irksome pet name, two almond-brown eyes slid open and gazed up at the excited youth rushing to saddle the family’s only horse. Leaving? Why? Thrum supposed it made little difference anyway, but curiosity visited him for a moment. Rising, he stretched a bit before going to retrieve Evrit’s weapon from their shared room. His pack hung from the wall near the thatched door. After a quick check to be sure it had his usual load-out ready, he returned to their little stable. “Stable” was a strong word for it, being more of a manger affixed to the side of the small mud-brick house. It was as much a stable as it was a chicken coop and storage space.

“Hey Ferret, catch!” As Evrit turned in annoyance, Thrum tossed the bow slightly high so he’d have to reach to catch it. As the boy’s arms went up and both hands caught the bow, Thrum surged forward and drove a fist into Evrit’s chest, knocking him back.

The victim regained his breath quickly enough to return the attack, but he didn’t. He was clearly furious, but he pointed at the bow instead. “We don’t have time for it now, but you pull that stunt again and I’m giving it back with interest.”

“I told you I’d do it the next time you called me that. I have a name, and I’ll be collecting that interest if you keep it up.” The Wjere didn’t exist as a race exactly, but they were a rare minority. They had no culture, no cities, and when they did gather, it didn’t end well for them. Anybody might belong to the Wjere, but there was only one way to know. The Changing. It was different for different people, but the essential truth was that something caused them to undergo a transformation.

It was nothing so glorious as the Serkin, who briefly traded humanity for a drake’s power in the Southern wars. Those people were respected warriors who willed their change. Most Wjere were somewhat canine or feline when they changed. Others took on aviary forms like eagles or owls. Some even resembled goats, or so he’d heard. The Magim didn’t fully understand the force responsible, but it was somehow connected to the moons and their positioning. Once every few years, an entire region might see a night of such changes. It seldom led to anyone getting hurt, but the one or two brief attacks people tend to hear of could not mix well with the xenophobia found in common folk.

When a young child of no more than six years was seen in the village one dawn with no clothes and long black fur falling from his skin, he was instantly branded in their minds as a threat. It made little difference that nobody nearby had been hurt recently, or that the boy had no recollection of his own origins or potential relatives to care for him. Nobody wanted some wild animal to contend with when that random force next passed through. Besides, who knew if the strange magic on him were contagious?

Sif Wilby and her husband Evron were nobodies, so they wanted him. Evron liked to tell Thrum that he just saw an extra set of hands to put to work, but neither of them believed it. The couple saw an unlucky kid who needed some help. Of course, they asked around nearby towns about missing youngsters, but if the child had anybody there, they denied it. None of their folks could have been Wjere. Absolutely not.

Their own son accepted a new brother, and both thrived by having someone to test each other’s mettle the way boys do. Both brawled like drunkards for little more than the thrill of a good fight. Both tried to outwork the other in the fields. Both longed for a sword, but fancy blades cost fancy money. Evrit excelled at drawing his bow. Thrum was drawn to wield a spear. Evrit had his father’s green thumb. Thrum knew his way around most animals, and Evron taught him to turn wood into whatever they needed.

Now there was word of something strange in the valley. People were seeing tetherhorns everywhere, headed down the hill through the Rollwood, skirting the town, or meandering up through the valley. There had to be a hundred of the big beasts, if what Evrit heard was true. Just one would be a rare treat for the family, lasting a month or more, but two meant he could put some nil in his pouch.

“I’m bringing the hauling flat. If we’re lucky then we’ll get enough meat to sell some that way.”

“If we’re lucky, we’ll get there before they’re all dead of old age the way you move. Let’s GO!”

Thrum didn’t usually care much for rushing when Evrit started getting worked up the way he was, but the idea of putting a little more nil toward his sword spurred him for once. A tetherhorn was not just bigger than most local game; it tasted better. They were about as common as bears so their meat fetched a decent price. He finished hitching the flat to their horse, Radish and grabbed his spear from where he’d been napping.

As they walked to where Evrit suspected the beasts would be, Thrum considered his weapon of choice. Like most of what he kept, he made it himself. It was dark, dense wood, but faintly flexible still. Like Evrit, most of the locals preferred a bow or dagger if things got hairy. Thrum was always drawn to the compromise of melee and reach, seeing his spear as an adaptable middle ground between local favorites. Part of him preferring a spear was an awareness that if the muted hostility of the townsfolk ever became something serious, he would be able to address threats whether they had bows or blades.

In essence, he chose his weapon for the same reason they chose theirs; an advantage over the wild animal they each expected to have to face someday. The only difference really was in the townsfolk never stopping to fear that they might be the animal instead. For Thrum, however, it was a nightly terror that he would become the beast they thought he was.

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When I'm writing, I'm jamming, and I'd like to share that with you as well.
Toots & The Maytals - Flip & Twist - What Kind of Woman

I can relate a bit to this one, leaving home and loved ones as BIG things are going down, but honestly, I just love hearing this guitar dance and wail.
Dan Patlansky - Big Things Going Down

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