Chapter 10 - Part 9

“Grampy, what’s that noise?” Aril asked.

Ichab turned his head, listening keenly. When he was young, he had been a Warden of the Wood. His eyes suddenly opened as he heard steel on flesh. “Medea, get the children away from the window!” he barked. She started, but did as he asked.

Ichab peered out a window pane. He saw his son-in-law, the father of his grandchildren, make a stand with another two men. They had farm implements and knives, and there were a dozen warforged surrounding them with two-handed swords. They did not last but seconds, and in the meantime another dozen warforged were rushing the house. Two more dozen were marching swiftly down the road to the neighboring farm.

Ichab turned and hissed, silencing the queries. “Warforged!” he told Medea. “You still have that drop cloth over the wine racks in the root cellar?”

“Y-yes,” she said. “We didn’t want the dust getting onto the new polish on the casks.”

“Get the children down there, hide behind it, and do not make a sound!” he ordered. “The ‘forged aren’t very perceptive, they will probably mistake it for a wall. Go now!”

“What about you?” she asked, beginning to cry.

“Go now!” he commanded. “And do not come out, do not make a sound, do not leave, no matter what you hear!”

Medea grabbed the children, and the sound of metal feet could be heard tramping up the walk. “Come on, children!” she said, trying to hold onto her hysteria.

“I wanna stay with Grampy!” Aril insisted.

The feet were close. Ichab hated himself as he slapped little Aril. The child began tearing up immediately, staring at him with shock and betrayal.

“Go now before I beat you more!” Ichab snarled at his beloved grandson.

Medea grabbed him, and darted downstairs.

She’ll explain it to you when you’re older, Aril, Ichab thought sadly.

He said a quick prayer that Aril in fact would get older, much older, enough to see his own grandchildren, and then he shifted. As he ended the prayer, the warforged broke the door down and charged into the living room, smashing the bookcase, the lamp-table, and the painting that Ichab’s wife had made years before.

The old shifter was a battle-hardened veteran, and he had over many years of self-discipline learned to shift more often than most of his kind could. Strength flooded his limbs as his claws grew long. The first warforged to approach had its arm cut off, its sword clattering to the floor. It leaked something as it staggered backwards. The next one swung clumsily and missed, and Ichab tore a deep gash in its torso. But then they became too many.

He fought well, but he died in the end.