Seventeenth Stroke – Deep Stitching
The last stage of the journey to Argen Hill passed through the Red Mountains, a gritty and worn range of peaks that was not difficult to traverse, but was wild and unsettled. The trail they took was poorly maintained, with treacherous footing and many missing bridges. All four ended up soaked at the end of the day, huddling around a crackling fire on a lonely saddle until dry in the evening. They were quiet and spared little extra effort, sparring and training only the most minimally, knowing a few more hard days were to come, but that the journey was hopefully almost over. Being honest with herself Sylvia could hardly look forward to what would come when they reached their destination, but she was truly tired of the long treks through empty country in a way she had not expected to become. Unable to trace a precise cause, she suspected there was simply too much deviation from her long established routine of life.
When dawn came the journey was no longer uninterrupted.
Yoki! Sylvia could feel it as she jerked awake, responding as her instincts and training had made her do. Close! She realized in sudden alarm. Too close! How?
The answer emerged an instant later, when her mind cleared fully and she recognized the direction from whence this disturbance came.
"Above!" Sylvia's voice joined Racquel's in the same moment, running over each other and blurring the word. "Flying yoma!"
They came from the east, five in number, descending in low, using the sun in an attempt to obscure their silhouettes. It was a reasonable maneuver, but useless against silver eyes.
Jessica said nothing, but was already moving ahead of the other two Claymores, her sword held in both hands, wide to her body. She accelerated to speed, then planted her right foot forward and leapt spinning into the air.
Shooting forth as a bolt from some giant's crossbow, Jessica caught the yoma completely by surprise, and her sword, whistling great low warbles in the air as it spun about, sliced two of the winged monsters shear in two as she blasted by.
The yoma screamed, but came on; Sylvia supposed they realized retreating would do little good at this point. Unarmored, but with sword in hand, she advanced to meet them. How will they move?
The three attackers split off, coming about from different angles, using their movement to maximum advantage.
Racquel countered by dashing forward, leaping up onto a tree branch and then through the air, cutting up from below and flipping herself about in midair as she did so. The yoma tried to glide in beneath her blade, by the graceful young warrior's movements guided it to fly directly into that lethal edge.
Sylvia stood forth herself, moving into a position in front of one of the remaining yoma, her sword held forth to intercept. He will try to dodge by my attack and swipe my back in passing, she knew, it was how winged yoma usually behaved. She also knew a simple and effective counter.
The yoma came in screaming; howling wordless outcries of rage, and Sylvia moved to meet it. Wings snapped, catching the air, pulling the yoma to the side, attempting to pull outside Sylvia's swordstroke.
The Claymore moved, but not away, instead she stepped inward, moving toward the yoma, holding her sword forward only slightly, not striking out. The result was that the two slammed into each other.
The slammed to the ground bitterly hard and Sylvia's blade lodged deep in yoma flesh. Blood poured down on her and the monster howled in pain, but it was not yet dead. Still, the second step was already in motion, as the Claymore held fast to her blade and twisted, exerting her half-human half-yoma strength to rip it free, taking a huge chunk of foul flesh with it.
Grunting the yoma twitched and died.
Only then did Sylvia realize they had not handled the fifth.
"Tyrin!" she cried in sudden panic, and looked out through a bloody haze to see the final yoma come in to attack the soldier.
The human woman had responded rapidly to the first cry of yoma, but though she moved quickly she had not the instant readiness of a Claymore. Far more serious, as Sylvia realized with true dread, having been suddenly awakened from sleep, Tyrin was not wearing her armor. Normally a few second exchange with a yoma was something Sylvia would not have hesitated to trust Tyrin with, but without that defensive metal skin, she felt a strange, unfamiliar terror.
Her legs churned to reach the other woman, but Sylvia knew she would not be in time.
It seemed to unfold in slow motion. The yoma streaked in from slightly above, arms outstretched, seeking flesh. Tyrin, holding sword and shield, turned and blocked, sidestepping to deflect the opening attacks. Their force blunted the aerial assault slammed aside. Yet this was not enough to finish the yoma's attack. The creature's left hand jerked out and its clawed fingers burst to many times their length, stabbing at Tyrin.
The attack was weak, having little force. It would never have penetrated plate steel. Human flesh had not that resistance.
Tyrin twisted, moving her body away as best she could, but three barbed fingers still pierced her left arm near the shoulder.
The soldier's cry of pain, bit off quickly, filled the mountain air.
Something deep in Sylvia roiled and twisted; a fearsome, hideous agony she simply did not recognize. In an instant it was there, and then gone, buried beneath a storm of rage. Yoki poured through her, far more than she would commonly release; fifty-percent of her limit perhaps. Her body shifted, stretching and contorting with the surge of power.
It seemed a single step and she was there, before the yoma, the monster having spun about for another pass. Yellow world, filled with blood and a predator focus, captured a look of shock on the creature's face.
The yoma's hand lashed out, trying to scrape at her face. She caught the gnarled wrist with her left hand and jerked, snapping bones. "Die!" she hissed, voice low, almost unrecognizable. Her sword surged forward, slashing through the yoma's other arm as it flailed in desperate attack, and continuing on upwards to find the heart.
As the light left the yoma's eyes Sylvia felt herself deflate, and was left with a horrible hollow feeling. Reacting out of reflex alone she slammed down her emotional vise over her yoki, forcing her body to return to normal immediately. Only then did she turn back to Tyrin.
The woman lay kneeling on the ground, pressing her right hand back over her shoulder, pushing down on a mess of blood there. She was not looking at Sylvia, something the Claymore took a shameful relief in before her swell of concern drowned everything out. "Tyrin!" Sylvia moved to the woman's side. "How serious is it?" Sylvia recognized belatedly that she had very little familiarity with human injuries. It was one thing to recognize wounds in a half-human half-yoma, to know what was lethal, what healed quickly, and what took time, and completely another to deal with a human who lacked their restorative powers. Most of the time there was nothing left of a person attacked by a yoma, so there was little chance to deal with wounded humans.
"I've had worse," the soldier managed, sucking in breaths heavily. "But I can't reach, dammit!" Her eyes turned desperately around to the three long gashes on the backside of her arm and shoulder.
"What?" Sylvia did not understand.
"She can't treat it herself," Jessica's voice came suddenly from Sylvia's left side. The single digit looked down at the human woman. "You have thread. Where?"
"My bag," Tyrin grunted. "Under the biscuits."
Sylvia didn't understand what was meant by this, and looking at Racquel, who had also come up and bore a worried expression, neither did the youthful warrior.
Jessica tore through the small kit Tyrin carried, and emerged with a small, flat packet. She pulled an unburned end of a narrow branch out of the fire and moved over to Tyrin.
The human warrior gave the single digit a somewhat concerned look. "You know what you're doing right?"
"Yes," it was a brisk response. "Bite this," She handed the stick to Tyrin.
The soldier nodded, and shoved the stick between her teeth.
"Sylvia, I want you to sit on her legs, Racquel, hold her left shoulder, the body must be kept steady." Jessica didn't wait for any questions but just moved down behind Tyrin. She pulled a needle from the packet, and quickly tied a slender black thread to it. Finally, Sylvia realized what was going to happen, vaguely recalling at last.
Carefully Jessica cleared away the blood, which was now flowing very slowly. Then she took the needle, and began to sew the wounds shut.
Tyrin gritted her teeth, and closed her eyes, but she did not jerk or scream against those holding her down. It was obvious she had been through this before.
Jessica's hands moved quickly and surely, going faster and without hesitation as she continued on. She did indeed know what she was doing, but Sylvia had no idea where the single digit could possibly have learned such a skill.
Soon the gashes were tied closed and the process was done, the tight, delicate stitches holding together wounded human flesh. It was an odd thing for Sylvia to see, and she realized with some surprise that she had not seen Tyrin take any serious wound in their whole time together previously. The woman's armor usually protected her from glancing blows, and she was skilled enough to avoid most serious attacks, at least in her extremely brief engagements with yoma. It pained and worried her to see the woman take a wound, and she reflected dourly on what might have been had Jessica not been here.
"A few days, and I'll take them out again," Jessica informed Tyrin, though the soldier's expression made it clear she already knew.
"My thanks," Tyrin said, and it was clear she truly meant it.
"Where did you learn to do that?" Racquel asked, unable to hide her curiosity.
"Two years ago, in a two, after a yoma attack, a priest drafted me to help the wounded," Jessica's answer was empty of emotion, as was her habit, and left Sylvia suspecting there was more to the story. Nevertheless, it is her right to say only what she will, she knew.
"Should we get moving?" Tyrin questioned, propping herself upright with a grimace. "I mean, there could be more."
"There is no yoki nearby," Jessica said reflexively. "And if humans were going to join an attack, they've missed their chance."
"I don't think this was our enemy," Sylvia commented. "More likely a random attack, a group of yoma who attack travelers in these mountains. There are few enough people passing through here, but perhaps enough to sustain a group of yoma without attracting notice, especially if they make these aerial attacks."
"So what do we do now?" Racquel asked.
"Stay here today," Jessica decided immediately. "You need rest," she motioned to Tyrin. "We can move on at night, we should switch to that anyway, we are getting close."
"I'm okay to walk," Tyrin insisted, some vehemence behind her words. "It's not a bad wound; really, it'll just make it hard to hold the shield for a few days."
"You can't push yourself though," Sylvia interjected, feeling worried in spite of the soldier's confidence. "We're going to need your strength when we arrive."
"Rest now," Jessica ordered. "A day now should make more difference later. We can find something better than usual for a meal tonight."
Tyrin grumbled slightly, but did not maintain an argument in the face of three pairs of silver eyes. She seemed tired anyway, and soon curled herself back up by the embers of last night's fire and was asleep again.
Sylvia spent some time adding wood to the fire and adjusting it so it would shed heat and burn slowly, as Tyrin had taught her, hoping to ease the woman's rest.
Jessica sent Racquel off to find some game, not an easy task in these rugged mountains, and then sat in silence, looking out toward the sky.
Does she consider this a failure? Sylvia wondered. It did leave a sour taste in her mouth, having been ambushed like this by winged yoma. Yet Sylvia had to consider the very attack a foolish mistake on the part of the yoma. Their foes had clearly not taken the time to look at them carefully, or five yoma would never have ambushed three warriors, that was suicide. The whole thing was simply foul luck. Still, there was some pride to be taken in killing the yoma, though they wouldn't be paid for it, which was always strange.
At length, gathering her resolve, Sylvia approached the silent single digit. "That thing you did to Tyrin, the sewing, I want you to teach me."
"I see," as usual, Jessica's response had many layers. "Very well." She stood and walked back over to Tyrin's kit, where she had kept the thread. "It is not complicated."
Slowly, using the fabric of her own uniform as an example, Jessica explained, using few words and many examples. It was indeed not particularly complicated, Sylvia already knew how to sew, at least the basics, and the difference between flesh and fabric was not so fine, it simply required precision, something no half-human half-yoma lacked. After a while of repeating things over and over, and putting a number of tiny holes in her sleeve, Sylvia believed she had a decent grasp of this skill. I won't know until the time comes to use it though, a time I hope never comes.
"It's very strange, how easily we forget how fragile humans really are," Sylvia observed at one point, thinking she might try to engage Jessica in conversation.
"Don't think I can't tell when people are trying to make me talk," Jessica responded wryly, snapping Sylvia's head around to catch a sly smile on the single digit's face.
"I'm sorry," Sylvia muttered immediately, feeling a surge of shame at trying to probe the other warrior's feelings. "I hope you will forgive my excessive inquisitiveness."
"You are good with words," Jessica replied easily enough, containing her temper. "I'm not. That's all."
Even-handed as it was, Sylvia felt that the short conversation was over, and resigned herself once again to Jessica's silence. Such a shame really, I wish you'd tell me something, anything. She genuinely liked hearing the stories of other warriors, harsh though they usually were. Somehow, it made her feel less isolated, and it enlivened this endless journey. Most others seemed to feel the same way, but on the long march she had long since exhausted Racquel's limited list of experiences, and there was little that needed to be said between her and Tyrin anymore. At least, little that could be said, for there remained a gulf between half-human half-yoma and ordinary human.
The rest of the day passed simply. Racquel returned with a rabbit, much the worse for wear for having been all but split in half when struck with her sword. There followed several unfortunate attempts by Sylvia and the younger Claymore to figure out how to cook the poor animal properly, something they were not used to at all.
"That smells awful," Tyrin muttered sleepily, coming awake slowly to the embarrassment of the three warriors, for even Jessica clearly had no idea how to handle the matter. The soldier turned bleary eyes toward the smoky fire. "What are you trying to do…" then she started laughing lightly, and managed to pull herself upright without a wince.
Sylvia felt coldly embarrassed, and turned away.
"It's alright," Tyrin tugged her back around, smiling slightly, looking happier than she had in days, never mind her injuries. "I appreciate the effort, but I got gashed not stabbed, and I seem to recall that I was the one who agreed to do the cooking on this journey."
Feeling better, but unable to share the soldier's bright mood, Sylvia simply nodded, and shuffled back a bit, allowing Tyrin to bend over the fire. Precisely how she managed to salvage something out of the meal was a mystery to Sylvia, who had long since recognized that appreciation of food was completely wasted on half-human half-yoma who measure a week's meals in mouthfuls, but it seemed to be a success. The human woman looked much better afterwards and seemed surprisingly animated after her long nap. She ended up telling a story, at Racquels' request, of one of the previous time's she'd being wounded, making light of very serious injuries.
Hearing this was hard for Sylvia, who found she truly disliked the idea of Tyrin being hurt. It was strange, because she knew well that she would make little of her own injuries, and there had been some bad ones even by Claymore standards, just as quickly. Yet, it is not the same, she found herself thinking silently. If I die, then I die, and another takes my place. Our lives aren't shortened by more than a handful of years anyway. Tyrin, if you die, so much is lost. Sylvia recognized this with deep sadness, and a cold, frightful thought ran through her that traveling with the soldier was likely to shorten her life substantially. Tyrin was young; she could yet marry, have children, and live to some ripe old age instructing young men in the sword. It would be so much to lose. A half-human half-yoma life seemed like nothing by comparison.
These dark thoughts accompanied Sylvia until night fell, and Jessica ordered them to break camp as the moon rose. The brisk mountain air moved with them as they shuffled along, moving at a slower pace than normal, set by the silent single-digit. It was clear she was being careful of Tyrin's injured state, but no one said anything.
Only once during the march did anyone speak. Tyrin slid over just behind Sylvia on the narrow trail of the pass and whispered a few words. "Thanks for saving me this morning, it looked like it hurt you a lot more than this gash, so I'll remember it."
She said nothing more, but the shock of the words sent Sylvia stumbling for a moment, only instinctively managing to recover her balance before taking a nasty spill. She walked on practically dazed for some breaths after, as the fearful significance of it all sunk into her. She saved me when we met, the Claymore remembered, but I had yet to save her. Tyrin had indeed held her own in all previous encounters they had together, and though Sylvia had protected the soldier as best she could, but she had not done anything that might be described as saving her life. Now that had happened, and Tyrin had made none of the frightful apologies and promises humans always made to half-human half-yoma who saved them. There was none of the stammering, the praying, all those things meant to keep the terrible silver-eyed savior as far away as possible. She does not mind, Sylvia could hardly believe it. She truly does not hate owing me this!
It spun about over and over in the cool moonlight, staining all the barren peaks silver. Casting her eyes to those lonely mountaintops Sylvia wondered. Do I have a friend at last?
She could not find an answer, but sadness and joy fought in her and neither won out.