Chapter Eight: Dreadspawn, Part Three
The sound of steel rang like hard chimes at a spot beside a wide river. A small camp rested near the water's edge over a patch of scraped earth, surrounded by short grass and the occasional foliage. As the campfire blazed and threw about shadows, a sword fell into the dirt before its wielder fell gracelessly to the ground beside it.
Shirou twirled the longsword in his hand. "Not bad," he said. "Your footwork is getting better."
"Th-thank you." Between heavy breaths, Shirley struggled to sit up. The tabard she wore was caked in dust and dirt, as was the braid she tied her hair into.
Shirou smiled softly and offered a hand. Shirley accepted it and stood on wobbling feet.
Her arms hung at her sides. They weighed like lead.
"You're young. Don't expect to match me physically. You can build up your strength over time with hard work." He picked up the scabbard to his sword off the ground and slid his weapon in. "The exercises Harold and others showed you will help with that. They'll also help with your forms. That said, the yoma are exceptionally stronger and faster than grown adults. If you get used to fighting an opponent who is faster and stronger than you, then that will translate to some experience when you do meet a real yoma."
Shirou's effort at dispelling any doubt Shirley might have about herself brought a grateful smile to her lips. He was a merciless instructor, but tried to be gentle when he could.
It helped her to believe that he cared for her.
"Understood." She retrieved her sword from where it landed and wiped the blade clean before sheathing it. She drank deeply from a waterskin at the side of her cot, which lay near the campfire.
The bubbling stew set over the fire grabbed Shirou's attention.
"The food's nearly done. Will you eat now?" he asked.
Shirley fidgeted. The sweat and dust on her skin were hard earned, but not the least bit comfortable. It was unladylike to admit to her uncleanliness to a man, not to mention one like Shirou—but his insistence for her to be truthful about her thoughts made her answer. "N-no. I want to wash first."
"Alright. I'll keep the stew warm. Give a shout if you find yourself in danger."
She nodded and produced a spare set of clothing from her pack. By the fading light, she made her way to the river nearby, where the gentler, shallower currents offered her a convenient spot to bathe. Hidden behind brush and sparse trees, she peeled off her clothing, set them on a folded pile beside a dagger near the river, and began washing herself earnestly. The feeling of cold water against her skin shocked her senses, and yet she welcomed it all the same. Scrubbing rid her of the sand, dirt and grime clinging to her from traveling the western lands of Lautrec.
But water could not wash away exhaustion built from three days of hiking.
Nor could it wash away exhaustion built by the swordplay sessions she participated in under Shirou's tutelage. He held back in both of those sessions, even after opting to instill in her the principals of combat by practice. Even while bathing she could recall the movements of her sword and feet.
She sighed. Shirou had told her that learning how to fight would take time. Now she understood.
Unfortunately, understanding with her mind did not mean understanding with her heart. A part of her soul throbbed with a desperate need to take action, to lash out at the unfairness of the world. It was a need that seemed to grow heavier and deeper each day.
Only the uncertain belief that she could glean strength from Shirou's teachings kept her sane.
When Shirley emerged from the river, she dried herself off as best she could with a towel, clothed herself, and returned to the camp with her belongings. Shirou offered her a simmering bowl of his stew, made from the rabbits he caught that afternoon and seasoned with some herbs he gathered. She never mentioned how her stomach hungered for food beyond her asking for more helpings. Nor did she tell him how, after their meals were finished and she slipped into her cot to sleep, she would dream horrible dreams.
Her parents would visit her in her sleep. They would appear as they did when she would see them in the morning—hands covered in flour, and foreheads beaded with sweat from working the ovens.
It would be like any normal day. She would bring fresh bread to customers that had ordered. She would see Shirou often, and he would do things with her that she dreamed he would. And when the morning turned to night, she would return to the bakery to find it in ruins.
Her parents would crawl out from the wreckage, covered in blood.
Their intestines would spill from their mouths as gigantic yoma would rise from the ground, jaws wet with saliva. And as the yoma would devour her parents live, her mother and father would cry for Shirley to save them. They would do so and she would remain rooted where she stood, unable to scream or run away or help, only staring with a horrid, gut-wrenching fascination. And fear. For when her parents screams silenced in a gurgle of blood, and their futile struggles against their killers ceased, those very yoma would turn their insatiable appetites towards her. And when they began chewing on her limbs and drank her blood, she would awaken, and relish in the relief of being alive.
Even if she would awaken feeling more tired than when she did before falling asleep, Shirley knew there existed some fortune in her being alive.
Though she never told him of those dreams, Shirou seemed to know. He would always be awake when she was, making a breakfast that would invigorate her exhausted self. And after a small break, the both of them would pack up their camp and depart for another day.
It would be another day to save others from becoming like her.
Even the months he had spent fighting in this world were not enough for Shirou to fully grasp the creatures called the yoma.
They came in various shapes and sizes, with featured that ranged from disturbingly human-like to hideous and dangerous. He found it impossible to characterize them all even after slaying nearly one hundred of them. The only common traits they all shared much to his chagrin were their predatory nature and their supernatural stench. The severe lack of information regarding yoma even amongst Rabonian priests and soldiers frustrated him to no end, a problem he intended to rectify by trial and error if necessary.
But whatever he expected to encounter, what he saw at Sandro was not among them.
Sandro was a backwater village that lay a short journey away from the main road that connected the heart of the western lands to Rabona. Wooden houses rose out of hills, and large squares of farmland covered the plains like the squares of an earthen quilt. As he made his way along a path that diverted from the main road towards Sandro, Shirou studied the people he came across.
All of them were dirty in the way a lacking concern for hygiene made a person. Dirt smeared lightly across many faces, and crusted the nails of their hands. Their clothes were significantly more worn, and their bodies thinner.
Rough faces turned his way when he reached the outermost circle of houses that established the village's borders. He stood out like a sore thumb with his red hair and equipment; he noted a few men sitting on crates reaching for their tools as he passed. In response, he subtly gestured to Shirley to keep close to him, which she did so while shooting curious looks at her surroundings.
He didn't stop until he reached the narrow street gave way to a larger space, where the houses circled in layers. There were already a few armed and armored men waiting for him. The man in front, who Shirou assumed to be the leader, had a face set in a permanent scowl, which revealed a missing tooth among a rotting set. Shirou's pace slowed to a halt, and even Shirley sensed tensions rising as a crowd gathered around them. The man with a missing tooth spat to his side before speaking in a gruff manner.
"Whaddya want? We don' take kindly to strangers 'round here."
"I am a swordsman from Rabona," Shirou answered, "offering a service for yoma elimination. Do you have a leader I may privately speak with?"
"Tha's me. And we don' need yer help. Sod it, we can protect ourselves."
The man's subordinates roared in approval.
Shirou merely shook his head. "I was afraid you'd say that."
The heavy smell associated with the presence of yoma was strong in the village. Shirou's eyes surveyed the crowd before returning to the man with a missing tooth. He didn't blink as he drew his sword from its scabbard and cut down the man in a single motion.
A breathless silence overtook the village until the man's body fell against the dirt, the torso nearly bisected by Shirou's sword.
There was a woman's scream.
Shirou's expression remained hard as the corpse lost its shape, turning into a frail creature with sickly grey skin. A commotion broke out among the witnesses; even the armed and armored men whom looked ready to retaliate against Shirou hesitated upon seeing the true identity of their former leader. No one present considered the possibility that a yoma was already hidden amongst them.
"There is another one in your village," Shirou said to the closest of the armed men.
The man swallowed, his eye still wide with shock.
"I may need a few moments to find it. Do you mind keeping everyone in the crowd here?" He received a slow nod in return. "Thank you."
The crowd jumped back when Shirou turned around. It cleared a path for him as he walked to the northeastern quadrant of the village, and followed a distance behind him to observe. He stopped at a small, run-down hut and knocked.
There was a noise from inside before a woman in a dirty apron answered the door.
She barely avoided Shirou's sword by leaping backwards. With an inhuman hiss, she landed on all fours and escaped out the window.
Chaos erupted amongst the onlookers when they saw the yoma shed the appearance of one of their fellow villagers. One of the militiamen took initiative and swung his club at the yoma. The yoma reacted by swinging its bony arm, batting the club away from the man's hands.
Another militiaman darted in behind the yoma and lunged with his sword. It penetrated the yoma's flesh, in which the yoma reacted by twisting its body and clawing its attacker's face. With a cry, the militiaman fell, clutching his bleeding face with both his hands. The yoma could not follow up as the other militiamen closed upon it, and instead chose to escape through the crowd. Screams and shouts escaped the men, women and children that had gathered until the village was thrown into a frenzy.
As the yoma cleared the last circle of houses, it spat a string of curses under its breath. Its voice was no longer that of a woman's, but a guttural growl that would fit an animal.
"The hell was that? That wasn't a witch. How'd he know it was me?"
It ran on all fours, and thus did not see the arrow fly into its neck until it was too late. The arrow punctured the neck, severed it entirely, and left the head rolling down a slope. The rest of its body collapsed the moment the head rolled, falling on its limbs as the momentum of its movement sent to careening over itself down the slope. From a distance away, Shirou lowered his bow before jumping down from the roof of the house he perched on. His bow vanished into motes of soft light as soon as his boots touched the ground.
He found a sea of slack-jawed villagers watching his every movement.
Shirley's eyes glittered with a strange admiration as she returned to his side, having brought over the sword he had dropped when he had drawn his bow. He accepted it with a smile.
He wiped yoma blood from the sword with a cloth and sheathed it.
"Is there a leader I may speak to in regards to the future of your village?" Shirou asked aloud.
A murmur swept through the villagers.
The looks on the faces of the villagers were vastly different now. Gone were the glares and curious stares; in their place were fearful eyes, awe, and growing wariness.
One of the militiamen stepped forward. Shirou recognized him as the man that had gotten wounded from the second yoma, whom Shirou had quickly healed with a projection bearing a recovery property. The fresh pink scars over the man's face encompassed his still-shut right eye. It would fully recover in time.
"I s'ppose I can take the job fuh now," the militiaman said, offering a hand. "Name's Sergio."
Shirou smiled politely and gripped arms. "I apologize about the mess. I believe such a thing had to be done as soon as possible, in case the yoma decided to escape or continue feeding."
"No worries. Didn't think ol' Henry was one of 'em." Sergio frowned. "Or Melina, fer that matter."
"Yoma are dangerous. I don't think you'll disagree. I came here to get rid of the ones here now, but more may come after I'm gone. I can tell you that the Holy City may send soldiers here to help set up something for your protection in the near future."
Sergio nodded. "I see. What'd you say yer name was?"
"Shirou of Rabona."
His grip remained firm on Shirou's arm as a flicker of recognition passed the militiaman's features. "I heard o' you. A trader came by a month back. Talked about a yoma attack on the holy city."
Shirou heard a whisper from the onlookers. "Shirou of Rabona? Isn't he...?"
The murmur that had spread among the villagers earlier returned in force. Shirou hadn't expected the villagers to know who he was, as he had never traveled far from Rabona. However, the villagers seemed to know of him by secondhand tales from gossiping merchants. There was a buzz of excitement in the air when a voice from the crowd shouted a name. "Bethany! Sergio, tell him about Bethany."
Shirou looked confused. "Bethany? Who is Bethany?"
"She is missing," Sergio answered as a gloom settled over his brows. "Since two nights ago. We searched for her. With our hounds. Nothing."
"You want me to look for her."
"Please."
There was no question in his mind. "I understand. I will do my best."
"Thank you."
For a moment he considered asking the villagers to look after Shirley while he searched for the missing villager. As if reading his mind, Shirley responded by firmly gripping his free arm. It would have been a dangerous idea, he considered in retrospect—a yoma could snatch Shirley away without her being sufficiently trained to fight back. He would have to bring Shirley and hope that the missing girl would somehow stay alive until he could find her.
He tried not to consider the chance of the missing girl already being dead.
That was not how a hero thought.
a/n: Hey folks. This update came faster than the last, but that doesn't mean the next will be.
I received a question about how Shirou's "new" UBW functions. The main reason why I haven't extensively explained the functions of UBW in the story or even in the author's notes is for three reasons.
1) This story is supposed to be digestible for readers who are not as familiar with one or either fandoms.
2) I'm trying my best to avoid infodumping.
3) It hasn't been relevant to either myself or the story. I don't have as strong of a grip on Nasuverse thaumaturgy as some Nasuverse writers (hence my lack of presence on sites like Beast's Lair and DLP), so my efforts in constructing a feasible magical system would be a waste of my time. I'm not writing this entirely for the magic, either, so I'm satisfied with a broad reinterpretation of what the "new" UBW can do.
I personally think that miring the story with these mechanics takes away from the experience. However, If you absolutely need to know, feel free to PM me.