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Chapter length: 4,268 words

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Chapter 38

(Tylon POV)

Word is spreading of the Phehan attack at Belburn, and fears of future attacks run amok as King Dyral plans possible retaliation. To the people living in the northernmost reaches of the kingdom patrolling the Northern Wall, it's just another day on the job knowing that only a few feet beyond the barricade is the sworn enemy of the kingdom of Adoran. The people tasked with overseeing the border are called Wardens; they consist of criminals that choose to serve their sentence at the wall and assigned military personnel, but the supermajority of the makeup is a tribe called the Cerths or, more popular to the Adoranians, Farlanders. The land on the wall's southern side between it and Dilmorn Village, expanding along the entire barrier, is the Certh's homeland, but not since the Year 1100 of the 2nd Age. The Adoranians now control the whole strip of land to protect Adoran from the north's untamed wilderness at first. However, the occupation is for the defense against the Phehans currently.

The wall stands 35ft tall out of stone and extends from the Kerithian Sea in the West to the Isthmus of Sennelan and the small nation of Crisea to the East with watchtowers spread evenly. Ballistas make up most of the heavy armaments. However, cannons are slowly replacing them, starting at locations where the top Wardens believe to be strategic and critical to the kingdom's safety.

Animals never dare to stay near the wall, sensing the ever-growing presence of the darkness that looms over Pheha from the Aletlar Dynasty. As a result, the Wardens don't hear a single sound from the nearby woods, not even from nocturnal insects. The Cerths make long expeditions into or away from their native lands for hunting if they want to have a decent meal instead of the slop the military gives them.

In a camp neighboring the city of Meybury, a man begins his day, before the crack of dawn, by aiding a group of Cerths carrying a cannon to succeed a fractured ballista. He is eighteen years old in the middle of puberty and is ungainly with the growth spurt; the rough patches of facial hair show his inexperience with shaving. He wears the traditional fur pelt clothing of the Cerths, but his body features tell that he is not entirely one of them. The Cerths have pale skin with black hair and blue eyes, whereas he has a darker skin tone and brown eyes. The black, long hair is the only Certhian trait he possesses; his skinny figure doesn't help blend in with them. The man unintentionally drops the cannon on a foot from one of the Cerths, fragmenting the bones; the foot swells and turns black and blue immediately from the injury.

"I'm so sorry, Cunegi!" the man apologized.

"Watch what you fucking doing, Tylon!" Cunegi angrily shouted and shook his fist at the man as two men hauled him to the medical station.

"It was an accident!"

"Fucking, cithvn!" Cunegi said through the pain as he descended the stone stairs with assistance.

Tylon resumes his duties doing menial work such as feeding the animals, gathering firewood, and others in his long list of things to do for the day. He dreads one chore that always appears every other week, cleanse the animal stalls of excreta. I'll have to do it sometime today, so I might as well knock it out first.

The stalls accommodate warhorses exclusive to the Adoranian military and livestock such as chickens, goats, a couple of pigs, and a cow. The stench is the very first thing Tylon inhales before he even enters the stalls with a bucket from a well in one hand and a shovel in the other; he holds his breath and prays he doesn't upchuck. With a bit of a struggle, he herds the chickens to an empty pen so he can clean theirs without worrying about them escaping. The goats prove to be just as difficult, if not more, as the chickens when Tylon works on them next. The warhorses obey him without question, but they're the majority of the animals and not enough empty stalls, so the process of relocating them and clean the stalls is tedious.

Trouble arises when Tylon is in the middle of cleaning the cow pen. Two Cerths guard the exit, and three more approach Tylon. He feels a force on his back and lands in cow pies; their laughter is all he needs to know who is behind it.

"Good thing you decided to take this job first. My friends and I almost forgot about it until we saw you in here. Let me help." The band of tormentors' leader picks up the bucket with scat halfway and dumps its contents back on the floor, laughing.

"Leave me alone, Advorix. I don't want to fight you." Tylon gets back on his feet.

"Oh, how scary. A clumsy cithvn thinks he can take me in a fight. My feet are quaking in their boots." He pushes Tylon back into the pile of shit. "I heard you deliberately dropped a cannon on my father."

"It was an accident, I swear," Tylon said on his hands and feet.

Advorix keeps Tylon on the feces-covered ground. "Silence! You'll speak when given the order, cithvn."

"Stop calling me that."

"What suits you better? I've heard that, iiodri, aougvs. Oh, I know…" Advorix snaps his fingers. "Neresii."

Tylon snaps and catches Advorix by surprise as he forces him onto the solid animal waste. Still, the advantage quickly erases as the two cronies aid their leader and overpower him to the wall. Fists fly at him, and legs swing as Tylon is powerless to launch a counteroffensive when the two men who are guarding let out a warning and bolt from the scene.

"What is going on here?" the stranger asked. The stranger is an old man with grey hair, beard, and mustache. He has a slight hunch in his back, an indicator of his old age, and has a monocle. The clothes are a heavy set of robes with a hide from a deer for a cloak, and the markings illustrate he is a Secii or Elder of the Certh. Surprisingly, he can move almost as fast as the youthful members of the tribe and not at a snail's pace.

Advorix is caught by surprise. "Nothing, Secii Ateano. We're just helping our friend, Tylon, out with his chores since we felt sorry that he has to suffer through this alone. He can be a klutz sometimes also."

Ateano is not buying it. "Leave him alone and run around the perimeter of the cap until your legs feel like coming off. Next time I may not be in as good of a mood as I am now. I may order my men to throw you and your friends over the wall without any medical aid in case you break bones and watch you scramble as you find a way to climb back up before the Phehans get their hands on you if I catch you picking on Tylon again. Perhaps Gahxee would savor punishing troublemakers like you."

Advorix and his cronies tremble in their boots from the Phehans and Gaxhee. "We understand, Secii."

"Well then, get running. Your legs still prefer attaching themselves to your body. I may as well follow through with my promise right now."

"Let's get out of here!" Advorix and his friends scram.

"Thank you, Secii." Tylon continues where he left off.

"Ateano is just fine. I secretly loathe the title 'Secii' and go with my actual name. You are excused from this and the rest of your chores for today. I'll order other people to do them in your place. Right now, your one and only order is to go to the nearby creek and clean yourself up. You stink. One of the amibiexes will come by while you bathe and leave fresh clothes and take the old ones back to wash them."

"You got it, Ateano."

"You got until lunch, so that'll leave you with a few hours."

In a prominent, wooden structure away from the wall and close to the perimeter, Ateano goes upstairs. The facility is the designated gathering place for the Cerths, with a dining hall big enough to fit everybody inside and then some. The females are engrossed in getting lunch ready and prepping an elk from a sporadic fruitful hunting trip for dinner when he enters; Ateano doesn't bother them like he usually does when he heads into his office containing copious amounts of books. Not long after Ateano sits in the chair and reads where he left off in the book he's currently reading, someone knocks on the door.

"Who is it?" Ateano asked.

"It's Licnos," the voice from the other side of the door replied.

"Come in."

The man is very similar to Ateano, although he doesn't have a monocle and less grey hair; the clothing implies he is also a Secii, but of a tier less than Ateano's because Ateano has one more marking on him.

"Morning, Licnos. What is it that you want to discuss?"

"Morning, Ateano." Licnos almost adds Secii but catches himself just in time. It wouldn't be much of a difference; however, Ateano is not fond of formalities; he prefers using their personal names whenever possible. "I want to add one more thing to Tylon's list of chores for the day. Adoranian military just dropped big, ponderous sacks of flour off, and they were too lazy to bring over to this building for the amibiexes to use."

"You need to find someone else."

"How come?"

"Tylon had an incident with Advorix and his friends. They covered him in cow-shit, so I ordered him to bathe in the nearby creek. You'll thank me if you smell what I did on him. That reminds me, find Betudaca and tell her to go to the nearby creek and exchange his soiled clothes with a fresh set."

"I'll do that."

"Also, find someone or a group to finish his chores. I've given him the day off."

"Forgive me for saying this, but you made a mistake bringing him into our tribe. I'm just echoing the sentiments of your actual people. He doesn't fit with us, and you being soft on him isn't extinguishing their thoughts."

"What was I supposed to do, leave him out in the wilderness to wither away before his first birthday because somebody didn't want him and left him on the side of the road in a basket with barely anything on him and a note with his name on it?"

"You could've dropped him off in one of the orphanages in Meybury."

"I couldn't do that."

"It would've been better that way. He doesn't fit with us, and the Adoranians won't take him now, so he's in limbo."

"Our people will accept him eventually. It will take just a little more time."

"You've been saying that for the past eighteen years. I'm saying this because I'm a friend, that boy won't replace your grandson. You need to let that go."

"Leave, please." Ateano's eyes tear up.

"I will. One more thing before I go, Sammo is expressing ideas of revolting against the Adoranian military and reclaim our homeland."

"When doesn't he think about that?"

"Well, more people are adopting those thoughts."

"I'll have a chat with him soon. Right now, leave me to gather my thoughts, please."

Tylon arrives in the vicinity of the creek. There hasn't been any precipitation within the past few days, so the stream is low, exposing a rocky shore for him to place his dirty clothes for a female to come by and swap. Treading carefully, he navigates a steep incline to the rocky shore and uses trees with small trunks as support. Further downstream, he observes a bridge that provides crucial access to the city of Meybury, and he has fond memories of fishing off the edge as a child with Ateano. A group of males, an older man, an adult, and three boys, are fishing on the bridge with their backs towards Tylon, but he relocates around the bend to block the line of sight and strips his clothes. With shivers as he dips his feet into the water, he slowly wades into the creek allowing his bare body to acclimate to the cold temperature; Tylon submerges when he enters deeper parts of the stream to speed up the process.

When Tylon breaches up to the surface, he can't help but sense that someone or something is watching him intently; he scans the treeline on the other side of the creek with no luck until he focuses on a fallen log and discerns a human sitting on it looking at him. The man has the features of a Certh, but Tylon has no recollection of ever seeing him anywhere in the camp; he infers the man is from another base and he is taking a break from his trip. Still, he has a lingering feeling in the back of his head that the man is after him. He's probably one of those Cerths that believe I'm a cithvn, an outsider.

A female voice breaks his concentration, "Hey, Tylon!"

"Betudaca!" Betudaca is a female that is a friend since childhood. She's a couple years older than him, and she is a fine young woman. She has the Certh traits of black hair and blue eyes and has freckles on her cheeks. Since she's single and has no children of her own to take care of, Betudaca wears clothing suitable for an amibiex, women responsible for preparing food for the tribe, tidy the buildings, and make and wash clothing. If a woman has kids, she stills does the same duties, but on a much smaller scale, although she can voluntarily stay as an amibiex and juggle both responsibilities. Going through the changes from puberty, Tylon has deep feelings for Betudaca and is smitten by her, but he cannot recognize those feelings and acts awkward around her. His penis, on the other hand, knows what it wants and begins to become erect.

Betudaca slides down the incline to the rocks with his new set of clothes in hand. "I was told to pick up your clothes and wash them. After smelling them, I can see Secii Licnos is right." She adds sarcasm to her next words, "Fellow amibiexes are going to appreciate this so much.

"Blame Advorix."

"Why does that not surprise me." She picks up the shit-smelling apparel and substitutes them with a new set.

"Before you go, I have a question I need to ask."

"What is it?"

"Do you recognize that man sitting on that log over on the other side of the creek?" He finds his eyes transfixed on her tits and fights them to look at her in the face as he says those words; his member is now steadfast and erect beneath the water. Tylon points over to where the man is, and he's gone.

"I don't see him."

"He was there a minute ago. He has Certhian features, but his clothes are a bit different from ours. He has a mustache, and he looked at me like he was after me."

Betudaca chuckles a bit. "That's one of the things I like about you, Tylon. You have quite the imagination."

"He was there, I swear."

"He probably took a small break and is back on his trip. Don't let him spook you," Betudaca said dismissively. Something does seize her attention. "There's a deer over there on the other side of the creek. There's actually two of them."

Upstream, a doe and her fawn are drinking at the edge, undisturbed by Betudaca's and Tylon's presence due to the wind blowing their scent redolent of feces away from them. It's a scarce treat to see deer, or any animal, close to the wall. After satiating their parched mouth, the deer take off back the way they came.

"That was pleasant seeing those deer drinking," Betudaca said.

"We should organize a hunting party and get them," Tylon said.

Betudaca frowns, "How about we let them go? They are less spooked by the malevolent force beyond the wall, so we should leave them be."

"You may be right."

"I need to get back right now, so I'll see you later. Don't forget that lunch is starting soon."

"I won't. I'll stay here for a few minutes to fully make sure the smell is gone."

Betudaca heads back to camp with the filthy clothes, leaving Tylon in the creek alone. The same feeling returns before he puts on any clothing after he vacates the stream; he comes up empty after scouting for the source, but the sensation is still there. With fear fueling his legerity, he dresses himself and bolts from the creek, stumbling a bit up the acclivity, and sprints through the woods to the camp; he exhales with relief when he reaches safety.

The quality of the lunch is the same as most of the past lunches, mediocre military slop. Dinner is always a step up in quality than lunch, and with the addition of the elk, tonight's dinner will be one of the most memorable. Men groan and grimace at their bland-colored plate of dried, salted, and cured meats and vegetables when they can inhale the aroma of the elk slowly cooking away in a room nearby. The lack of empty sections of tables forces Tylon to sit next to a group of men; they ignore his presence.

Tylon spends the rest of his free day sharpening his skills with a crossbow, another antipode thing for him, at a range the Adoranian military operates and is open to anyone. He enjoys the field for its isolation because the soldiers don't use it, except for teaching beginners. The Cerths never use bows, crossbows, or any other range weapons; they consider anyone, men in particular, weak if they attack at a distance instead of up close and personal.

There are six targets on hay bales set fifty yards apart, starting at 100 yards; each target has rings that shrink the closer they get to the center, beginning at five points at the outer ring and ending at ten in the bullseye. The man running the range recognizes Tylon because he is the only person that visits the range, practicing since six years ago. Tylon brings up his crossbow and warms up by firing ten shots at the 100-yard target. Each bolt lands in a tight group in the bullseye, a perfect 100/100. Results are the same at the 150-yard mark, albeit with a less tight group. Instead of going in order, he immediately tries the 350-yard target. In no particular order, one bolt lands short of the target, four-hit outside the five-point circle, two-hit seven points, one hits an eight-point, and one lands dead center, a similar result from his previous attempts.

The man gives Tylon advice for his last shot, "Try to wait for the wind to die down or be in your favor. I've seen some of your shots where the wind clearly took hold of it and put it off course."

"I'll keep that in mind, Nevin," Tylon said as he aimed down sight. When the wind blows in his favor, he pulls the trigger, and the projectile slams dead center again; it would've hit the first bolt if it landed closer.

"You've made significant amelioration in your marksmanship," Nevin felicitated after Tylon shot at all six targets, deciding to end the session when it got dark. "I recall you not hitting a broadside of a barn on your first attempts, and now you're lethal out to 200-250 yards."

"I have an outstanding pedagogue that's been teaching me for six years," Tylon lauded him.

"And he has a neophyte that takes his training seriously," Nevin said, smiling. Out of everyone in the camp, he is one of a bantam handful of individuals who treat Tylon respectfully since coming here approximately six years ago. "Those Cerths don't see it yet, but they will come to appreciate a fine marksman eventually."

"It certainly won't be within my lifetime." Tylon's stomach growls.

"Sounds like you're famished," said Nevin.

"I am. I'll see you as soon as I have free time."

"I'll most likely be here; I'm pretty much stuck here for the rest of my life."

"What for?"

"I was framed for a heinous crime. Now I can't enjoy my family's achievements like one of my cousins getting married."

"Congrats. Sorry about you not celebrating with them."

"Thanks. Go on and get your meal. I'll clean up the mess."

"Goodbye."

Tylon arrives at the dining hall just in time to see people at the tail end of the line get their food, and he gets in line; he's lucky enough to get the last bit of elk. As usual, he sits next to people, and they keep to themselves. It doesn't matter because the meat is so flavorful. Everybody spends most of their time masticating instead of palavering with grunts of approval and eructs being the majority of the sound.

Suddenly, everybody but Tylon takes up arms and is on alert after a guard outside flies in and crashes on the floor. A man walks in immediately after the guard; Tylon remembers him as the man from the creek. One of the more muscular men confronts the stranger.

"You're not welcomed here, ireiidi. You don't deserve to wear the attire either." Tylon can sense from the acrimony in those words and the mood from everyone else that there is animosity between them and the stranger.

The stranger walks around, unfazed by the hostility in the room. "How much things have changed since I last walked these parts; so many memories of me growing up and eating here."

The man raises his voice, "Get out of here, now! You have no right to walk the land our ancestors once did."

"Oh, I won't take much longer, Reginus. I'm looking for someone; in fact, you can help me speed this up, so my presence doesn't offend you any longer. Where's Tylon Andilar? My sources say he should be here."

"Why do you need him?" Reginus questioned him.

"I have a contract, and that is all you need to know."

"We're not going to give him away, Vallo."

Oh, now they care about me, Tylon thought.

"I don't go by that name anymore," Vallo said.

"We have plenty of other names for you. There's ireiidi, amnos, excedii… kinslayer." Tylon can see that "kinslayer" has an effect on Vallo.

"Call me however you wish. I'll still be leaving with my quarry anyway."

More men get up and surround Vallo. "No, you won't. It's time you pay for what you did, kinslayer," Reginus said.

"This is your one and only warning, stand down and let me take Tylon Andilar, and I'll be on my merry way," Vallo warned with a bit of a growl behind it.

"Enough!" Everyone turns and sees Ateano on the staircase.

"Secii Ateano, we were just beginning to make Vallo pay for what he did," Reginus said.

"Vallo? Did he repent for what he has done?"

"No, Secii, he hasn't repented for killing your grandson," some other man said.

"Then end his life."

Before things escalate, Tylon shouts at the top of his lungs, almost breaking his voice, "STOP!!!!" He gets up from the table and walks towards Vallo. "I'm Tylon Andilar. I'm the one you seek."

"How nice of you to show up, Tylon. Had I known back at the creek, I would've grabbed you right then and there and not have to step foot on the premises."

"Tylon, what are you doing?" Ateano asked.

"Preventing a bloodbath, that's what I'm doing."

Reginus grabs hold of Tylon's arms. "You're staying right here. You're not going with the ireiidi."

Tylon shakes his arm loose. "Let me go. I want to go with him."

"What?"

Tylon stands right next to Vallo. "I want to go with him. At least you won't have to deal with an outsider anymore."

"Tylon, if you do this, you'll be considered an ireiidi also."

"I thought that was for a Certh that deserts his or her tribe, and as far as I can tell, I'm a cithvn, an outsider, so that doesn't hold any weight on me if I desert you right now. Not a single one of you accepted me into the tribe when I was growing up. Some even picked on me and still do. Now, when one of your former tribesmen shows up, you start giving a damn about me. Why would I put up with more of this shit? I thought maybe if I can just stick out a little bit longer, you'll accept me, but I see that won't be the case, and if I stay right now, you'll go back to your old ways and traditions and ignore me. Come on, Vallo, get me out of here."

Vallo looks at the group. "Well, you heard the young man, gotta go." He and Tylon both leave without any resistance after Reginus tells him to stand down.

After they leave, Ateano asks Reginus, "Why did you order everyone to stand down?"

"Because Secii, he's changed a lot and grown more dangerous."

"How so?"

"I could tell by looking in his eyes when he made that threat and the growl that he is a Skin Changer."

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