Chapter Two: Lost Sheep

  High-pitched fearful bleats cut through the air, mixing with the snarls of the oncoming wolves. The morning sunlight caught on the wolves' fur, turning their sleek forms into ghostly apparitions as they charged across the pasture. The sheep were well trained, but no matter how well trained they might be, their fear overpowered their discipline. They pressed against the wooden pen in a panicked frenzy, their woolly bodies bunching together in terror.

  Ash could feel the vibrations of their hooves through the ground as they scrambled against one another. His uncle had used good, strong wood to build the fence, oak planks nearly three inches thick, but there were more than twenty sheep in that pen, all struggling, pressing, desperate to escape the approaching predators.

  The wood cracked with a sound like lightning splitting the open sky. Splinters flew as the pressure finally broke through. The sheep fled in a wave of dirty white, with wolves pursuing, nothing more than gray blurs with flashing fangs. Ash stood frozen for a heartbeat, his throat suddenly dry as dust.

  Then instinct took over. Fingers tightening around his pitchfork until his knuckles whitened, Ash rushed forward to defend the animals his family depended on. The weight of the pitchfork felt awkward and unbalanced in his hands, not at all like the swords in his adventure books. His heart pounded against his ribs as if trying to claw its way out of his chest.

  "Get away from them!" Ash shouted, his voice cracking.

  He swung the pitchfork in a wild, untrained arc, somehow catching a snarling wolf on its flank. The prongs scraped against the creature's thick fur. It yelped, spinning with startling speed, but Ash had achieved little with his attack, not even piercing the skin. The wolf's yellow eyes locked on him, recognizing a new threat, or perhaps easier prey.

  "No!" he yelled as another wolf bit into the heels of a sheep nearby, dragging it down. The sheep's terrified bleating cut off abruptly as the wolf went for its throat when it stumbled.

  Crimson sprayed from the animal's throat like a slashed tomato, smearing its white fluff and the dirt beneath it. The metallic scent of blood filled the air, turning Ash's stomach. The predator tore at the fallen animal, its muzzle quickly stained red. This wasn't right, wolves normally hunted at night, taking the weak or sick. This was something else entirely.

  Ash tried again to attack the nearest wolf, but his vision had narrowed to a tunnel, his throat constricting as everything seemed to heighten around him. Sounds became sharper, colors more vivid. The wolf's breath steamed in the cool morning air as it dodged his poor excuse for a weapon, its eyes gleaming with an unmasked madness that sent ice through Ash's veins.

  Before he could recover, the wolf lashed out at him, jaws snapping.

  Ash tried to dodge, but his boot caught on a tuft of grass. He tripped, falling hard on his backside with a painful jolt that rattled his teeth. He skidded back through dirt and sheep droppings as the wolf went for the kill, bearing down on him with a snarl that revealed teeth designed for tearing flesh. The stench of its breath, rotten meat and something wilder, more feral, washed over him.

  He tried to get the pitchfork between them, desperately thrusting it forward, but his palms were slick with sweat. The tool slipped from his fingers, landing uselessly beside him. With nothing left to defend himself, he crossed his arms over his face.

  "I'm going to die here," the thought flashed through his mind with startling clarity, making him cry out as he was unable to contain the fear that rose in his throat. This was nothing like the heroic deaths in his books, just terror and the knowledge that no one would reach him in time.

  Heat and sharp pain exploded in his arm as the snarling wolf bit into his flesh. Drops of saliva splattered across his face as the creature's jaws clamped down. 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. The weight of the beast pressed him further into the ground, its claws scrabbling at his chest.

  Then, suddenly, the pressure was gone. The wolf was hefted off of him and thrown away with remarkable force. It hit the ground with a yelp of surprise, rolling twice before scrambling to its feet.

  His uncle stood over him, but the man looked far different than Ash had ever seen him. The familiar shepherd's staff was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Uncle Derrick held a sword that gleamed in the morning light, not a rusty, forgotten weapon, but a well-maintained blade with intricate patterns along its length. Where had he been keeping this? How had Ash never noticed it in sixteen years of living under the same roof?

  More striking than the weapon was the change in his uncle's demeanor. Gone was the quiet, sometimes gruff farmer. Uncle Derrick wielded the sword with the practiced ease of the heroes from the adventure novels Ash loved to read. His footing was sure, his stance balanced and fluid. His weathered face showed not fear but determination.

  The wolf that had attacked Ash recovered and leaped at Uncle Derrick, jaws wide. The older man flowed like river water around the attack, pivoting on one foot. The razor-sharp blade cut through the air with a whisper before slicing the wolf open from jaw to tail in one continuous motion.

  Hot, stinking viscera spilled to the ground in a steaming pile, the wolf's corpse following with a solid thud. Blood pooled in the dirt, steam rising from it in the morning chill. The remaining wolves paused, perhaps sensing that the situation had changed dramatically.

  Ash clutched at his injured arm, blood coating his fingers. The pain throbbed in time with his racing heart, but he couldn't tear his eyes from his uncle, who suddenly seemed like a stranger.

  "Uncle, watch out!" Ash called as another wolf lunged from behind.

  But the warning was unnecessary; Uncle Derrick was already moving, spinning with surprising agility for a man of his size and age. The blade flashed once more, ending the second wolf's life as easily as the first. Blood sprayed across the ground in a crimson arc.

  Ash's jaw fell in awe as his uncle moved as fast as a free-flowing stream, dispatching a third wolf with a thrust that seemed almost casual in its precision. That should have sent the pack running, Ash was sure. From everything he'd read, wolves were intelligent predators that valued survival. They didn't keep attacking over and over like this, throwing themselves at an opponent who was clearly superior. But they normally didn't attack in the open and in the light of day like this, either.

  Two more wolves attacked in tandem, coming at Uncle Derrick from opposite directions. But it did the predators no good. Uncle Derrick didn't just move like water; he fully embodied the element, his body twisting in ways that seemed impossible for a farmer who spent his days tending sheep. The wolves could not touch him, their jaws snapping on empty air where he had been moments before.

  In his books, Ash had read about adventurers who could control water so precisely that they could use the element like a blade. These were legendary figures who harnessed something called "elar" to perform almost magical feats. This wasn't one of his books, this was his ordinary, quiet uncle, but the way Uncle Derrick lashed out at the wolves reminded Ash of those storybook adventurers wielding water like a weapon.

  No matter how many came at him, the wolves didn't have a chance. Uncle Derrick's sword sang through the air, claiming life after life until he was surrounded by six dead wolves. Steaming piles of blood and guts scattered the ground around him, the metallic smell mingling with the earthier scents of the farm.

  Only then did Uncle Derrick relax his stance, lowering the blade to his side. The steel was coated in crimson, but he seemed unconcerned by it. He was barely breathing hard, showing no more exertion than he might after a brisk walk to the barn.

  His brown eyes swept around methodically, scanning for more threats. The remaining wolves had finally gotten the message and slunk back toward the forest line, tails tucked between their legs. When he was satisfied they were gone, Uncle Derrick grunted. He turned to Ash, his eyes landing on the bloody gash in his arm with a clinical assessment that seemed oddly detached.

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  "We need to get that looked at," he said, his voice once again the gruff tone Ash was familiar with. "Come on, boy, close your mouth and go see your aunt. Get that wound tended to."

  Ash gaped for a second or two, a thousand questions bubbling up. He slowly closed his mouth and shook his head, trying to process what he'd just witnessed.

  "How? What?" The words tumbled out clumsily as his mind struggled to reconcile the sheep farmer with the warrior he'd just seen.

  "No questions now, lad." Uncle Derrick's tone brooked no argument. "Go on before you pass out from blood loss."

  Uncle Derrick looked into the forest, the early sunlight casting long shadows from the trees. He turned his lips downward into a frown, his eyes gaining a troubled shadow that Ash had never seen before. His grip on the sword tightened, knuckles whitening.

  "Something's not right here," he muttered, almost to himself. "Not right at all." Ash barely caught the words as he stood up on shaky legs, his injured arm throbbing.

  The shock was beginning to wear off, and with it came the full force of the pain. His arm felt like it was on fire, the bite marks deep and jagged. Blood soaked through his sleeve, turning the fabric a dark, sticky red.

  "But, Uncle, what about the sheep?" Ash asked, glancing toward where the flock had scattered. Some had already been killed, but many more had fled into the forest. They represented his family's livelihood.

  Derrick waved a hand dismissively, though his eyes remained fixed on the treeline.

  "Go," he commanded. "I don't want you in the forest just now. I'll be retrieving them." His voice softened slightly as he added, "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 purposefully into the forest. His fingers tightened around the hilt of the sword he held, and there was something in his bearing that reminded Ash of a soldier marching to battle, not a farmer seeking lost sheep.

  Ash watched him go for a moment longer, blood still trickling down his arm, his mind reeling from what he'd witnessed. Then, the pain fully registered, and with a wince, he turned and limped back to the farmhouse to see his aunt.

  The wolf attack had been strange enough, but his uncle's transformation was something else entirely. What other secrets might his family be keeping?

  "What happened, dear? Slip and fall?" Aunt Dara asked as Ash entered the kitchen, cradling his injured arm. Sunlight streamed through the windows, catching dust motes that danced in the air. The kitchen smelled of fresh bread and herbs hanging from the ceiling beams.

  Ash shook his head, still trying to process what he'd seen. The kitchen's familiar warmth and the comforting scents felt bizarrely normal after the violence outside.

  "No, Auntie. Wolves attacked," he said, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. "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, her knife pausing above the potato she'd been peeling. Her storm-gray eyes studied him with a mixture of concern and something else, was it wariness?

  "Wolves?" she asked, her voice carefully controlled. "Speak plain, dear, start at the beginning."

  Ash sat at the worn wooden table while Aunt Dara retrieved her healing kit from above the cooling box. The box itself hummed softly, another of those mysterious conveniences they had on the farm that worked by power sources Ash didn't understand. His aunt moved with practiced efficiency, laying out bandages, salves, and a small bottle of clear liquid.

  As she worked on cleaning his wound, causing him to wince as the liquid stung fiercely, Ash laid out the story from the beginning. The breaking of the pen, the mad attack of the wolves, his failed attempt to fight them off, and then his uncle's surprising transformation from simple farmer to warrior. With each detail he shared, Aunt Dara's expression grew more troubled, though she continued her ministrations without pause.

  "Hold still now," she murmured, wrapping his arm in a clean bandage. Her fingers were gentle but firm, winding the cloth with practiced ease. "This isn't too deep, but we'll need to keep it clean. Wolf bites can fester if not properly tended."

  When Ash finished recounting his tale, Aunt Dara merely looked troubled, her storm-gray eyes looking out the window toward the forest where her husband had disappeared. Almost absently, she tugged on her silver-white braid that hung over one shoulder, a habit she fell into when deep in thought.

  "Wolves don't attack like that," she stated flatly, her voice quiet but firm. There was certainty in her tone, the kind that came from knowledge rather than opinion.

  Ash shrugged, wincing as the movement pulled at his bandaged arm.

  "But they did," he insisted. "Did you miss the part where Uncle Derrick had a sword? Did you know he had a sword, Auntie?" The question felt almost trivial compared to the skill his uncle had shown, but it was the most tangible detail to cling to.

  She waved a hand dismissively before smoothing her brown apron over her dress, turning back to the vegetables on the cutting board.

  "Never mind the sword, dear," she said, her tone shifting to something deliberately lighter. "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?" The attempt at humor fell flat, but Ash appreciated the effort.

  He nodded before getting to work, picking up a knife to help with the vegetables. The familiar task gave his hands something to do while his mind raced with questions. The kitchen filled with the sounds of chopping and the occasional scrape of a pot or pan.

  "Did Uncle Derrick always have a sword?" he asked, trying to sound casual as he sliced carrots into neat rounds. The vegetables were from their own garden, harvested just days ago.

  Aunt Dara paused in peeling a potato, her hands going still. The silence stretched between them for several heartbeats.

  "You're not going to let this go, are you?" she asked finally, turning to look at him.

  Even as she asked the question, her eyes held a hint of amusement, her matronly features softening into a wry expression. Sunlight caught the silver strands in her otherwise white hair, making them shine like polished metal.

  Ash rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture he'd picked up from his uncle years ago.

  "Come on, Auntie, please tell me?" He gave her his best pleading look, widening his eyes slightly and tilting his head. The same look he used when he was small and wanted an extra sweet before dinner.

  Aunt Dara threw her head back, rich laughter pouring from her throat. The sound filled the kitchen, chasing away some of the tension that had built up. Ash grinned, knowing he would be getting an explanation out of her now. Some tactics never failed, even as he grew older.

  She shook her head before returning to peeling potatoes as she spoke, her hands moving deftly despite her age.

  "It's no great mystery, dear," she said, though something in her tone suggested otherwise. "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, his knife clattering onto the cutting board.

  "How come no one told me?" he asked, unable to keep the accusation from his voice. Sixteen years, and somehow this crucial detail about his uncle's life had never come up?

  Aunt Dara sighed, laying down the peeler. Her voice hardened just a bit, taking on an edge he rarely heard.

  "You need to understand something, Ash, my dear," she said, turning to face him fully. "The world is not one of your fantasy novels. Soldiering is dangerous, and when it's wartime..." Aunt Dara closed her eyes and breathed deeply, as if gathering herself.

  When she opened her eyes again, they held shadows of old pain. "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 slowly, feeling chastened. He hadn't considered that there might be painful memories behind his uncle's silence. Still, the explanation didn't quite kill his excitement at this new revelation.

  "Do you think he'd teach me?" he asked, unable to help himself. "Uncle, I mean, do you think he'd teach me to use a sword?"

  "You'd have to ask him," Aunt Dara said, turning back to her work. Then, after a moment of consideration, she added, "I might have said he would be against the idea...but you might need to know how to defend yourself now."

  The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Ash wanted to press further, to ask what she meant exactly, but something in her demeanor told him the conversation was over for now.

  He lapsed into silence, working alongside his aunt as he allowed his mind to wander. Despite the pain in his arm, he couldn't help imagining the epic training sessions he would have with his uncle and all the wolves he'd fend off with a shining blade of his own. Maybe Uncle Derrick would tell him stories of battles and adventures, filling in the gaps of a life Ash had never suspected.

  They worked for several hours, prepping food, cleaning, and decorating the large farmhouse for the coming celebration. Furniture was pushed aside to make room for guests, and white flowers were placed in vases throughout the house. Even with his wounded arm throbbing beneath its bandage, Ash whistled as he worked, the tune a popular folk melody that travelers often brought to their remote farm.

  "Someone's excited," Aunt Dara observed with a knowing smile as she arranged white candles on the mantelpiece.

  "Well, it's Remembrance Day!" Ash replied, his enthusiasm genuine despite the morning's events. Remembrance Day had always been his favorite celebration, with its stories of light and darkness, heroes and sacrifice.

  "Mm. Which means the story, of course," Aunt Dara nodded, striking a match to light the candles. The small flames flickered, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

  "Am I that predictable?" Ash asked, feeling a flush creep up his neck.

  Aunt Dara laughed again, the sound warm and affectionate.

  "Dear, you're sixteen," she said with a gentle pat to his uninjured arm. "Of course, you're predictable. I think you'd be tired of hearing the story by now, having heard it every year of your life. But come now," her eyes twinkled mischievously, "there's another reason for your joyful mood, isn't there? Rosalia will be here."

  He was about to reply, his face heating up at the mention of the elven girl's name, when the sound of trotting horses and voices drifted in from outside. The guests were arriving earlier than expected.

  Ash straightened his shirt and ran a hand through his hair, suddenly conscious of his appearance despite the bandage on his arm that would surely prompt questions.

  Guests had finally arrived, and Remembrance Day was just about to start. Whatever strangeness had occurred with the wolves and his uncle's hidden talents would have to wait. But Ash knew one thing for certain, after today, he wouldn't look at his uncle the same way again.