The Seed – Part 4
by KM Scott

To BC – Happy Birthday and many more!

It was a feeling that had become almost foreign to him, waking in a bed with a down mattress and welcoming comforter, no protruding rocks or clumps of dirt digging into his back. The words "… kick a man in his place" were still on his lips as Gerald stirred to waking, warm in the embrace of Helga's bed. His soldier's conditioning urged him to get up and take to the road, but Helga's sleeping spell had done its job – the sun was already up. His pre-dawn traditions of exercise before a light breakfast would've been skipped anyway. He had to get out to Redstump. Ah, well.

The light tingling around various parts of his body reminded him of the gentleness which he had to treat the poultices which Helga had applied the night before, to the wounds on his forehead, his chest, his arms, his …. his inner thigh. He grinned a sly grin after a quick inspection proved that, yes, in fact, she had attended to it also. Well, well.

A gentlemen should not ruminate on such things, he rebuked himself.

There was little time to do so, anyway. The road ahead of him was long, if he was going to make it to Redstump before nightfall, and he had to get started. He quickly dressed and left the room, walking right into possibly the most glorious smell he'd ever encountered.

The kitchen of Helga's little cottage was a mess, littered with pots, pans, spices and the detritus of chopped vegetables and fruits. The mix in the air was of honey and salt, eggs and cakes. At the kitchen table sat Helga and Arnold, contentedly munching away at the virtual buffet Helga had laid out: a delectable collection of scrambled things, fruit plates, and an absolutely unavoidable meat stew.

Gerald worked some quick calculations in his head. He would not make Redstump by nightfall.

A warm pair of eyes met his, and Arnold's soft features brightened when his friend entered. "Gerald," he said, his voice a chuckle. Gerald sauntered over and grabbed his friend in a bear hug, and an enthusiastic gasp escaped his friend's mouth.

"Didn't know if I'd see you again, boy," said Gerald.

"If you wish me to charge you extra for a new set of stitches, then by all means, squeeze the boy harder," said Helga as she sipped some steaming tea. "I've long been thinking of adding another room to this cottage."

Gerald reflexively drew his arm away from Arnold's sides. "It's alright, old horse," said Arnold. "I'm fine. She did amazing work."

"As always," Helga shrugged. Gerald grabbed a nearby plate and began to fill it, taking a seat at the table. "Oh, and please, make yourself to home. No need to wait for invitation. Just eat my food. Please."

"I shall grant your wish, witch woman," said Gerald, half a roll already stuffed in his mouth. "This feast of yours will serve as a proper apology for making me late." He searched for a fork. As if on its own volition, one floated over by his hand, only to dart out of the way when he reached for it. He glanced at Helga, who cocked her brow at him.

"What? What do you want?" she said, feigning innocence.

Gerald smirked, grabbing handfuls of food and pressing it in his mouth. "Nuffim."

Arnold wiped his fork on a cloth napkin and handed it to his friend. "She made you late? Late to what?"

"Sir Tall Hair here seems to think that he can up and ride all the way to Redstump with a leg wound that just about tore his thigh open and threatened his future generations," Helga said. Arnold glanced at Gerald's breeches in curiosity. "I don't see anything."

"I did," said Helga, sipping another sip of tea.

Gerald wiped his grin. "You're welcome, my dear."

Arnold looked confused. "Uh …. What does that mea-"

"The point is," Gerald continued, "that leg wound or no, I have to get to Redstump . They need to know what's happening. I don't recall any messengers being dispatched, and if they were, there's no way of knowing they've made it. Arnold and I are the only ones to make it this far, otherwise someone would have joined us by now." He solemnly poured himself a cup of juice. "The people of Redstump should at least have the chance to evacuate."

Helga eyed him. "What about the whole militia thing you were talking about last night? Don't tell me I talked some sense into you."

Gerald shook his head. "You're good, Witch Woman, but not that good. I was tired last night. That's all. After what I'd seen at …" his voice left him. Gerald settled his hands at the table, suddenly disinterested in the meal.

Arnold meekly spoke up, his voice still tired from the insanity of the last few days. "Did … did anyone make it out? Anybody? Lanza, Nadine, Harold? Anyone?"

The evacuating crowds were at the city walls when some of the bigger monsters had brought the structure down on top of them. Arnold could barely see anyone from his perspective in the blacksmith shop, fighting the irg-wraiths – but he never had any doubt about their survival. That part of the town was their past, their childhood. Now it was all red dust.

Gerald thought for a second about how to break the truth of the bloody ordeal to his dear friend.

"Nadine was alright," he lied. He'd heard from someone who heard from someone who heard from Syd, the thieving pottery-maker, that Nadine might have not been killed. This was after he borrowed her horse, so he had no idea.

Arnold's face fell. He shook his head slowly as he closed his eyes.

"Arnold?" said Helga.

"This is all …" he sobbed, then started again, "Is this all because of me? Did I do this?"

Gerald's eyes focused on his friend. "No, Arnold. Not at all."

"This is all because of me and that awful sword," he moaned. Gerald leaned forward, but Helga had already moved to his side, gripping his hand in support.

"Arnold, we talked about this. This is not your fault. You had nothing to do with this. This is all some silly mistake. You can't blame yourself for this." She handed him another cloth as tears started streaming down his face.

"They got Eugene," he whispered. His voice caught as he tried to choke back the pain as he spoke. "H-he was the sweetest, kindest man in the whole town. Everybody loved him. Then those things … th-they bit him, and he …."

At a temporary loss for her reservations, Helga held him, gently running her hands over the hair of his oddly-shaped, endearing head. Gerald rested his chin on his folded hands, looking at nothing. Eugene. If it hadn't been for Eugene, the smithy's son, Gerald wouldn't have known where to find Arnold. He risked everything to get into the shop and call for Arnold in the morass, and in return, he was mauled by the bastard creatures. Despite the danger, Gerald couldn't help pulling the poor soul into a secluded corner.

"Don't worry, I'm okay," Eugene had said. And as his eyes began to glaze, as he began to cough up blood, Gerald heard the hideous shriek of the irg-wraiths coming nearer. He had to go. He had to leave a childhood friend to die.

Gerald may have been the last to see Eugene alive.

The knight cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "We have to figure out what to do with Arnold."

By now, Arnold had gotten his sniffling under control. "Beg pardon?"

Gerald steepled his fingers on the table, laying out an invisible argument. "The Seed is after you. Helga's right, it is not your fault, but what does that matter in light of the fact that you're being chased by a legion of monsters led by a madman?"

"Were you going to take him?" Helga asked, taking her seat again.

"I don't know," said Gerald. "I had thought about dropping him at Windermeer. I have family out there. My sister, you remember her."

Arnold nodded. "Yeah, Timberly. But we can't go out there. I mean, I can't. That would draw the Seed to your family. I can't do that, Gerald."

"My family is a family of soldiers and protectors," said Gerald. "They're prepared to fight to the death for you."

"Then they have prepared well," said Helga. "Think of it, Yovahnsenn. If our capital fell to the Seed, how well would the people of Windermeer handle an onslaught from those things? I mean, come on, Windermeer? The City on the Plains? Population 700?"

"We wouldn't have to keep him in the city itself. There are places to outside on the outskirts," Gerald quickly said.

"They'd find him," Helga intoned with finality.

"I'm not going anyway. I'm not endangering anyone else," said Arnold. Not as definitively as Helga, perhaps, but it was inarguable.

"Alright," said Gerald. "That leaves Redstump. But I would not be able to keep an eye on him. I would need help with that."

Helga's eyes narrowed, a look that Gerald had thought he'd be able to avoid with his clever act. Apparently his concept of the depth of his cleverness needed to be reevaluated.

"So," Helga began, "you rode from Balmoral to here, so affixed to the task of getting Arnold to my home that, for almost two straight days, you never considered what may happen to him once he was healed?"

Gerald shrugged his shoulders, less to appear innocent than to shake off the increasing weight of the inefficacy of his cheap ruse. "I honestly didn't know if he was going to survive. You saw him."

Helga's eyes flared. "I did. And I saw your face last night when you brought him. And I know that you wouldn't have brought him to me if you thought he wouldn't make it. Do you think me a fool, Gerald?"

Arnold had already put his hands up in a futile gesture of peace. "Hey, hey, let's not get carried away here. What am I missing? What's wrong?"

"What's wrong," responded Helga, not taking her eyes off of Gerald, "is that this selfish ingrate came to me to not merely heal you, but to babysit you in Redstump."

"Babysit …" said Arnold, nonplussed.

"Helga …" Gerald began.

But she would have none of it. "Just how much of my life do you seek to disrupt, Yovahnsenn? Do you pretend not to know how difficult this is for me? For Arnold? Or don't you care?"

"Obviously I care," Gerald defended, "that's why I brought him here. Honestly, Helga, I didn't know who else to turn to. That is the absolute truth."

"And when were you going to tell me that you wanted me to nursemaid him?" she growled. She quickly picked up her dishes and began to toss them into a wash tub. Gerald stood.

"Helga …"

"All you had to do was ask me, Gerald."

He crossed his arms. "And if I'd asked, what would you have said?"

"No," she replied without hesitation. "I would've said no, Gerald. But at least, when you left my house, you would've done so without feeling like you tried to take advantage of a friend. If that matters anything to you."

Gerald opened his mouth to say something, but Arnold was suddenly up, getting in between the two. "All right, enough, both of you!" His voice, thought scratchy and week, somehow had found a commanding anger. He hobbled to Helga and put his hands on her shoulders.

"Helga, Gerald didn't-" he held her firmly as she tried to pull away. She sighed and stopped. "Gerald didn't mean to hurt you. He was just doing his best to protect me. He's just too crafty for his own good, is all. He came to the person he thought would take care of me best, and that was you. He cared too much for me to risk you saying no, right? And he thought too much of you to bring me to anyone else. See?" He turned to Gerald. "Right, Gerald?"

Gerald, having barely comprehended the meaning of Arnold's quick flurry of words, said "Yes, of course."

Helga's head fell. "Almond-head … it isn't you …" she pulled out of his grasp, albeit gently. "I just can't do this right now."

Arnold took her hand, another grip which she slowly pulled out of. "Of course not. I understand. It's all alright."

He turned away from her, a look of pleading in his face as he regarded Gerald. It was all the knight could do to keep from sighing.

"I'm sorry, Helga." The sorceress's back was turned as she slowly cleaned her dishes. She said nothing.

"Helga …" said Gerald, after a pause. "You have a beautiful house."

The clanking of dishes stopped as she craned her neck to try and see Gerald's point.

"You have a fine house here, and amazing powers, and a wonderful life. And I rode right into it and brought you trouble without thinking. Now, Arnold is one hundred per cent correct: I came to you because you are the absolute best there is in sorcery," he approached her back. "But I should have asked about tending to Arnold at Redstump. I was wrong. I am sorry."

Helga was quiet. She wiped something off her cheek and then turned to him. "How sorry?"

Gerald raised eyebrows. "… very sorry?"

"I can't go with you, Gerald."

"We know, and it's alright," Arnold stepped in.

"Forgive me?" Gerald asked, his hands raised in front of him in a sign of contrition. Helga was silent, but her look softened. She moved her head back and forth, as if weighing something in her mind. "Let's see. Dishes. There are some old jars that desperately need cleaning. Oh, the firewood, of course. Those can all wait until after the firewood …"

"What," Gerald started, "what are you talking about?"

"Chores, boy, chores! You come here, keep me from a good sleep, mess up my home, you can't get away with that. Almond-head here will start on the dishes while you chop some firewood." She casually slapped a dish towel onto Arnold's shoulder. "Normally, I'd say either one of you could do either job, but with Arnold being in his weakened state, well …" she patted Gerald's cheek, "you understand."

"And where are you going?" Gerald asked, as Helga purposefully shimmied to her bedroom.

"To get some sleep. You jesters kept me up half the night. Wake me when you're done. But don't be done for an hour, at least. Otherwise-" Bright sparks shot out of her eyes. A sudden wind blew in from nowhere as the door to her room ripped open. Helga, a vision out of a nightmare, hovered into her room, never once looking backward, never looking away from the two men in the kitchen. The door slammed shut, and Arnold and Gerald were alone. An ominous rumbling passed through the house, and then, there was silence.

The knight and the blacksmith's son shared a smile. "She's been pulling that trick ever since she was nine," Arnold giggled.

"She never did say 'otherwise' what," Gerald chuckled in return. Then, with absolutely no prompt from Arnold whatsoever, the dish towel he was holding inexplicably jumped into the air, spun itself into a thin, wet whip, and SLAPPED Gerald on his bottom. He yelped as Arnold looked on in shock.

"That's what. Now go chop some damn firewood," came Helga's door-muffled reply.

CHOCK!

The smell of fresh-split wood and a coming rain did little to lift Gerald's mood, but it did combat the unpleasant scent of the country air somewhat. It was an overcast morning, and the foreboding black cloud in the distance held the promise of even more punishing rain, perhaps an encore performance from the night before.

He readied the next log and swung again. The axe was surprisingly sharp, but, then, how often would a sorceress like Helga have to chop wood? She probably had a chopping spell, or something, that would do the work for her. The piece split evenly, and not for the first time since he started the chore, he expertly spun the axe in his grasp. Position 1, at the ready, Position 2, an upswing, meant to throw an enemy off guard (that is, if he was using Kester's maneuver. Purshii's Opening would have been a thrust), Position 3, guard … heh. Well, the simple tree-chopper in his hands was far from a battleaxe, but he'd supposed he could make do, were it to come to that.

He positioned yet another log on its end on the chopping block, and swung away. In a way, there was a therapy in this, a sort of meditative quality to something that, though repetitive and violent, was beneficial. It provided for needs after all – cooking, heat, blocking the stink from the country air and such – which meant he was doing a good thing, right? Of course it did.

Or so he allowed himself to think so. Gerald was still stinging from the argument earlier with Helga. There were a lot of things you could say about this young man. Call him handsome, a naïve, a scoundrel …

Scoundrel? I like the sound of that.

But if there was one descriptor that Gerald absolutely balked at, it was selfish. And, granted, though that word hadn't been explicitly used in their set-to, it was nevertheless implied, as far as he was concerned.

Gerald was a knight of the realm, instructed in the ways of the Chi-Varin by his town elders, squired at the age of 10, and commander of his own platoon by the age of 20. He may not have been the youngest to reach that position, but he was one of the most respected. There were countless adventures he had gone on, straight into the path of danger in order to save a small town or tribe that the crown or any of it's toadying "nobles" couldn't care less about. He wasn't even strict about the use of his title. As far as he saw it, only those in his command need call him 'Sir'.

Sure, he could be a bit brash. He knew this. His personality was that of one who knew the value of life, having seen so much death. As a result, he saw such things like ceremonies and pomp as a waste of precious time.

And then, there were the women. Yes, yes, fine, maybe there were those who would call him a heartbreaker, a user, what-have-you. But each of his conquests knew who he was. They knew about his title and his money, his mansion that he never requested, and thus rarely visited, let alone lived in. They came after his money and his name, and were in just as much danger as being abandoned as the men they had abandoned for him.

So he was not selfish. He was not. No matter what anyone said.

No matter what she said –

CHOCK!

He quickly split another piece before her face could pop into his head. The woman who had first called him selfish. The woman who, despite her many powers and vast intelligence, was able to take a simple, two syllable word and smash his soul with it. Combined with the few tears she had let loose and the obvious hurt in her voice, it burned to that very day.

Any time, every time someone became cross with him, accused him of manipulating or huckstering in order to get his way, the memory of that painful day would flood back into his mind's eye, the day she turned away from him and walked out of his life.

Phoebe ….

He huffed and chopped into the chopping block. Hadn't he suffered enough? Why was he doing this to himself? And wasn't there enough wood chopped already? He needed to get on the road, get away from his thoughts, and try and escape that miserable smell!

Gerald was raised in the country, and knew what to expect when in farm territory. But Helga didn't have any livestock, and the nearest farm was miles away. He figured maybe wood-rot was the cause, but a quick glance at the uncut pile in front of him found nothing that would make such a strong stink. Of course, Helga had an outhouse, but he'd been in there, and she kept it rather clean –

Something just on the outside of his senses caught his attention – he was not alone. He spun around, axe in hand, to see a creature no bigger than two feet tall standing casually in front of him. It was a collection of mottled, black skin that was framed incongruously with severe, green scales. It looked at him with two red eyes that managed to look baleful and apathetic at the same time. Its V-shaped mouth chewed absently on a piece of bloody meat as bits of skin and slime dripped from the corners.

It was an eregilt. It was one of the smaller servants of the Seed.

A leaf fell from a nearby tree. By the time the axe-head had cleaved the lizard-like creature into two gore-drenched halves, the leaf hadn't yet lit upon the ground.

When Gerald rose again, he was in position. The jocular adventurer was gone, replaced by a collection of taught and lethal disciplines determined to hunt and destroy his prey. Ereglits were scavengers, preying on the weak and defenseless – he'd seen the horror visited upon children, the elderly, the sick. These things hunted in packs. More would be nearby.

His eyes darted back and forth, looking for more of the creatures, and was about to yell out in warning to Arnold and Helga, when he noticed the trail of blood that lead away from the splattered ereglit. Of course, it'd been eating something. An animal of some sort. A gopher, squirrel perhaps? He followed the trail, which wound in a strange way away from the house, when he heard the noises. Chewing, grunting. Something … some things were feasting on nearby.

The trail neared the outhouse, which he ducked behind in case his prey was close at hand. Following the telltale crimson with his eyes, he carefully craned his head around the corner of the wooden booth to see what may be on the other side -

And then his stomach dropped, threatening to force his breakfast through his mouth. No less that five ereglits hovered over a twisted mass of blood, dark flesh and sinew as they devoured some poor creature, something large and muscular, and unrecognizable.

Or, it would have been unrecognizable, if not for the saddle that lay tossed aside nearby. It was the roan. The roan that Gerald had ridden so hard to save Arnold's life.

Nadine's roan.

The last entrail of the last ereglit landed yards away before Gerald's enraged bellow stopped ringing off the hills beyond. The ereglits themselves barely had time to realize someone was attacking them before it was all over, and Gerald himself had taken such a quick leave of his senses upon comprehending the fate of his dear friend's roan, that he would not later be able to recall what (if anything) he was thinking when he sailed into the group. All he was truly able to understand at that point was that he simply had to kill kill kill the hellspawn that did this, as well as the two or three others that, seemingly from nowhere, scurried over to help their compatriots, or at least steal their meal.

From whence they came, Gerald was unconcerned. With each and every one he saw, he struck, hacked, swung and bludgeoned each one, slinging them back to the screaming hell that belched them out. They circled and snapped at him, darting about his legs and coming close to slashing his wound.

One of the creatures, a bigger one, posed to strike at him with its hook-like fingers, dagger-edged appendages that could rip out chunks of flesh and sinew in one swipe, tumbled into a bloody, harmless mass as Gerald swung his axe through the creature's shoulder.

He chopped, crushed, swept and stomped the monsters, liberated of any disciplines or care as his rage took over, directed his actions, turned him into a living death machine. His conscious mind shrank back in fear as his relentless lust for vengeance and blood carried him from one vicious move to the next. He was dead to all wisdom, all logic, any instinct other than destruction.

And then, a breath – a pause for the barest necessity of oxygen to keep his death dance going. And in that moment, the blood-rage faded, the pain and anger and despair for all that was lost in Balmoral, all the lives gone because of this alien madness – all was quiet, almost obediently, allowing the tiny voice of logic and military training to finally speak to his mind:

The house. You're too far from the house.

Surrounded by the scavengers, he was well aware that he couldn't turn around to look. But he didn't have to. He could see Helga's cottage from the corner of his eye. His stomach sank. He was at least 10 yards away from the house. If he had kept calm, maintained his senses, he may have noticed his movement.

It was in that moment that he also realized why he was here. They led him there.

He tried to clear his mind and continue the fight. These things – they weren't smart. They weren't even instinctually advanced; they had no effective fighting tactics that had been reported. The only real advantage they had was in numbers. But they could be led. Surviving soldiers had reported, on occasion, creatures commanding ereglits and those like them. Not by verbal command, but … well, honestly, no really dependable description of how the chain-of-command within the Seed was structured was ever recorded. Some said that the Seed commanders were human, but that, of course, left something to be -

The little voice would not go away, however. It stuck with him, tacitly refusing to let his desire for carnage share space in his mind. These things were too dumb to have lead him there themselves, so someone had to be doing it. Who? Where?

And why hadn't they overwhelmed him?

The more his mind cleared of rage, the more he began to realize that he had not been facing a small group of ereglits, not a flock, and not a swarm.

Gerald was surrounded by a field of the beasts. More than he could possibly face off against with any hope of survival. He shouted from where he was, "Helga!" and called again, "Arnold!", hoping his voice would carry to the house, without ever taking his eyes away from the hellchildren around him. Could they hear him? Why couldn't they? Helga couldn't have fallen asleep that fast, could she? Certainly Arnold would have heard the shouting and fighting? It was all so surreal -

Gerald …

It was a whisper impossibly carried across the wind. Gerald spun, axe at the ready – but where had the voice come from?

Gerald … it came again, a voice unspoken, inaudible but for the fact that he could hear it clearly. It was coming from nowhere.

"What?" he bellowed to the ereglits, hacking up a gaggle of them when they didn't respond.

No need for all that … came the wind-whisper again. And the creatures parted. Not out of fear of his axe, but to a will outside their own. He could see them virtually bowing and scraping as they moved away – but not to him. They had a path cleared for him, but he did not move- only followed the path with his eyes, the axe ready in his hands.

Up ahead, there were four large, ash-gray creatures. They stood on two legs, and must've weighed 500 lbs each. Their faces were scowling, horrid things out of nightmare, and each finger was a blade bigger and sharper than his axe head.

They did not charge him, however. The approached him at a pace that could almost be described as gentle, even humbled. This certainly would have had something to do with the load they were carrying – a litter, adorned entirely in silver, with sharp, angular decorations jutting from the top. The monsters, large as they were, virtually glided toward him, stopping midway through the path, placing the litter down undisturbed on the grass below.

Gerald was rooted to the spot. Whatever this pageantry was about could unfold itself on its own. It would meet his axe soon enough.

The door to the litter opened – slid out of the way into some unseen recess, revealing darkness beyond, as if opening into a world of night. There was nothing visible beyond the impossible, inky blackness that the mid-morning light seemed to flee from.

Then there was movement. Gerald readied himself for hell as something stirred within the litter. It stepped out of the carriage, stepped into being, really, as a tall, silvery thing. It flowed from the litter with the casual nature of an art lover strolling through a museum, oblivious to the monsters and carnage that surrounded it.

It, in fact, was a woman. Her thick, black tresses flowed behind her in a slow, almost rhythmic undulation, unaffected by the wind. Her blood-red gown was almost luminescent against the strange, silver-gray tone of her skin. The darkness of the inside of the carriage was perfectly reflected in her eyes – had Gerald not been closer, he would have been convinced that her eye sockets were hollow.

These haunting eyes gazed at him now, fixed upon him with a gentle urgency. Something inside his memory stirred. Something sharp and wrong and incongruous, a memory that had nothing to do with the female thing that he saw before him.

And yet, he couldn't stop himself from uttering the name that the memory brought forth: "Rhonda?"

The thin line that made up the creature's mouth melted into a gentle smile.

She said something – and her voice was the same voice that he'd heard earlier. The voice that had stopped the hordes from attacking.

"My dear Gerald," she said. "It's been too long."