One Moo'r Plow - Book 2: Chapter 18: Iron Is the hand VI.

“I was scared, you know.” Ishila slumped against the wall next to my much larger form, quiet and subdued. Tehalis fretted over Le’rish inside, her knowledge of medicine far superior to mine. She had made the request that everyone leave the lodge in order to examine Le’rish more privately, and we had obliged.

“Angry. Confused. Constantly sad.” The lass continued. Pain lurked in her tone, and I truly did empathize with her. “I thought she’d left because of me.”

“Ran away because she killed that dwarf?” I guessed.

“No.” She sighed in frustration. “I dunno. I knew it wasn’t the real reason, but part of me always said it was because I wasn’t good enough. Or something. Gods Above I feel so stupid now. There’d be nights when I was just angry at her, at myself, at whatever.”

A gentle hand on her shoulder brought her gaze upwards, towards mine.

“You’re young, likely in love for the first time and not quite sure about it all.”

That came out as a statement, rather than the understanding comfort I had meant it as.

“Everyone seems to feel like that, one time or another. Even in the most stable relationships. I’d wager your parents went through something similar, at one time or another. It’s alright now.”

It took the words a few moments to reach her. She sniffed, a tired but angry look on her face.

“I’m angry, Garek. Well an’ truly enraged.”

“If your anger is directed on those that did this to her, then it is fruitless. They have one and all been put back into the dirt.”

Gol lurked next to Ishila, head in her lap as he attempted to comfort her. I could not say that everything was alright, but this, at least, had been fixed. Le’rish was found and in relative safety. If I had known that she was held in captivity, this matter of dealing with the druids would have taken much higher priority.

But I had not.

Realistically, how could I have known? It was the huntress’s loner nature that made her disappearing for extended periods believable. Despite being so close to Ishila in age, their difference of but a few years was exacerbated by their personalities and actions. If Ishila had been the one to vanish, there would have been far greater concern and immediate searches.

It would be foul of me to say, even imply that Le’rish own personality helped bring this about.

So I didn’t. She hadn’t asked to be controlled against her will by a group of fanatics and starved, kept as a caged beast to attack those the druids wanted gone. No one deserved to take actions against their will, in my eyes.

Her harshness and quiet, distant personality artificially added years to her age, made her seem older than she truly was, but it was not to fault for this. Nothing and nobody was, save for the perpetrators. And they were one and all dead.

There was little conversation as we sat and exchanged brief thoughts. An empty sky above, stars blanketed by hidden clouds and choked moonlight struggling to shine through. The wind, thankfully, had died off and left a stillness in its wake.

Le’rish would survive. That much was certain. Would she be alright, however? The answer to that eluded me. Tehalis attended to her now, and my plan was to send for the Red Cleric once dawn had broken. For now, we had little to do and much to worry about.

What had the druids done while they were in this area? How long had they lurked unnoticed, influencing the wildlife and monsters alike? Were there more? All questions I could not answer, but bothered me still. Ishila proved too upset and worried for idle conversation. The lass alternated between slumped against the wall and striding back and forth in front of Gol’s lethargic gaze.

With little to do and far too many thoughts to be trapped with, my hands found a block of chopped wood and a suitable knife. It occurred to me that despite now having been in this world for several months, I had yet to develop anything resembling a hobby. My life, as far as I could remember, had been work, combat and sleep. Often in that exact order.

Time to discover if I retained any of the skills I had honed before my untimely death.

Small chips of wood fell to the ground as I slowly, patiently began to shave the block. First came to rough shape I needed it to be in. A single jerk of my hand and the blade gouged too deep, a canyon left in the surface. With a grunt, I discarded this and started anew.

Ishila mumbled to herself as I worked, her words just barely inaudible. Frustration and anger coated her scent, but even this was smothered by worry. And underneath it all, just a hint of relief and the beginning of happiness.

Chip by chip, shave after shave, I shaved down this new block. I went both on memory and recent experience. The head shape was easy enough, and the shoulders served as the piece’s base. Now for the harder part.

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It was too my own frustration that I discovered myself skill coated in the proverbial rust. Unmaintained, and within a body unused to the motions and small, tight mechanical movements, I struggled. Small, light scratches turns into longer cuts. Garek’s body was simply too big, his muscles too explosive and unused to small, controlled motions.

This would have to change.

“What if the cleric finds out?’ Ishila suddenly demanded.

“What, exactly?”

“That Le’rish is an Apex. That she can be controlled by druid magic. Anything and everything else.”

I had not thought of that. My tiredness wasn’t an excuse for sloppiness.

“Your mother is certain that her care is necessary?”

“Yes.” Tehalis spoke as she emerged from the lodge. “The remnants of magic must be expelled from her system.”

“Magic is not a natural thing. The body has no way to dispel it on its own. Those with innate arcane potential might develop resistance to it. Or those whose race is in frequent contact with the energies associated with it. But in any other case, it is a foreign entity that the body does not know how to respond against.”

“And so, it sits and lingers inside the fleshen shell.”

“Making the next spell easier.” I guessed.

“And other effects.” She shrugged. “I have seen those who fight on battlefields with mages die horribly without having been so much as touched by a spell. The arcane poisoning ensured their demise simply by proximity.”

This I had not known, and admitted as much.

“Anyone can attempt to become a mage, really. Find the proper paths laid out by the System and the Gods Above. Few do. Fewer still survive. Only a fraction of those who set out make it into their later years. For most, it is suicide as their magical potential is negligible and not enough to combat aether poisoning. The more arcana one takes on, the greater the consequences.”

That did explain that why, in a world bursting with so much potential and power, I had only encountered a handful of mages.

“So the cleric is necessary.” I concluded.

“You could chance not involving her. But then I would advise you to prepare for a funeral as opposed to a celebration.”

“I’ll go get her in the morning.” Ishila spoke.

“Your father can get it done faster than you.” Tehalis countered. “You will stay with your friend or whatever you two see yourselves as.”

I heard just a hint of disappointment in Tehalis’s tone. She did not fully approve, it seemed.

“I will go and inform Velton of this. In the meantime, refrain from anything foolish.”

As abruptly as she came, the orc left, her form swallowed by the darkness soon after.

“Go.” I gestured to Ishila, nodding my head towards the doorway. She entered, and I returned to my carving. What I whittled away was far from perfect, but it helped with the growing sense of frustration that simmered inside me. I stewed on this anger and sifted through it.

My hopes and dreams of a peaceful life had been quite forcibly derailed, unlikely to ever be achievable. The Gods Above themselves had taken interest, and now I could see the strings of how this all played it. The druids had not been an issue until the system had declared me of interest. Only then had they overwhelmed Le’rish and begun to target me.

Foreign nobility trespassed on my land and, if I could trust what had happened in Castle Ironmoor, tried to stir up trouble against me for their own bruised honor. The baron, while a vengeful and unforgiving man, had held off out of pragmatism and outside trouble.

My own growth did not go unnoticed. I had reckoned it would be such, but it spread much faster than anticipated. I needed help. Assurances from people of importance that they would not work against me.

With the druids dead, I could return to Ironmoor and cement my position. He himself might be unsteady in Valencia’s absence. While I had not wished to follow his request and eliminate the druids, fate had forcibly turned me in that direction.

Was that very act the meddling of some higher power? I refused to believe it to be mere coincidence. There was no such thing, in my eyes.

It was not even paranoia for me to suspect that events were being manipulated in certain ways. What I had heard of the Gods Above almost certainly confirmed it. Those they took notice in, while blessed and given strength beyond others, existed for their entertainment.

The dungeon would draw those seeking power themselves, and I was a cherry atop that pile. I had already encountered people who killed merely for the sake of more levels, slaughtered for a chance to gain the attention of patron deities. Now that I was named, I would almost certainly draw more.

And through it all, the farm must survive. This was my home. My anchor. I would see it grow and blossom against every odd this world threw against me. In defiance of every new disaster, fueled by every little setback.

This was not negotiable.

Folk said minotaurs were strong-headed, stubborn creatures. I refused to prove them wrong. My hands carved faster, twitched with controlled violence as I made incisions and attempted to work from memory. It was a fairly complicated statue, one of two different individuals. Not the simplest thing to brush off the dust with, but I had spent a considerable amount of time learning this is in my previous life.

Satisfied was I then that that knowledge remained fresh and accessible after a little practice.

Gol growled up at me, the great beast having flopped onto his belly. Artyom’s absence gave him little to be excited for, I found. Dark eyes regarded me out of boredom rather than curiosity as I whittled away and awaited either the morning to Ishila’s emergence from inside my lodge.

The sun broke first.

It was a testament to this body’s endurance that my arms were not even sore from hours of careful carving. It was not perfect, riddled with small gashes and nicks. But then again, neither of the people depicted by it were. Woodchips and shaving surrounded me as I pulled the smaller knife I had switched to away and laid it carefully down.

A happier time was etched in wood, two people shoulder to shoulder. Imperfect though it was, it portrayed what I intended. Ishila’s head rested on Le’rish’s shoulder as the lass’s wooden facsimile gave a wide smile, in direct contrast to the small quirk upwards on Le’rish’s wooden lips.

Something I hoped they would both appreciate.