The Iyr

The sun rose upon the Iyr, basking it in warmth. It was a typical day in the Iyr for all, though not for Jurot. Jurot was a boy of thirteen, with the typical body of an Iyrman, which was to say, he had nurtured a lean physique with small shreds of fat from not being quite a man yet. Atop his head was a mop of dark hair, and his eyes, though filled with joy, were dark, also typical of an Iyrman. He wore heavy furs of bearskin that he and his father had hunted long ago, and at his side was an axe, at his back a shield. Everyone in the Iyr carried a weapon when they knew how to walk and talk, for that was the way of people in the Iyr.

Word had been sent that his father would be returning any day now, with news of a new task, a task for his kin of the Rot family.

“Relax, Jurot,” Mirot said. Mirot was a tall woman, with dark hair and dark eyes. She was lean as well, and at her side was an axe, and several javelins, as well as a shield against her back. She too wore furs, though they were of the red bears far to the east.

“I can’t, auntie,” Jurot said, “for father will return soon!” His eyes lit up as he said so, as though saying it made it all the more real. “Six months father has gone, I wonder what he’s brought us.”

“Charlette wine, if I know my brother.” Mirot rubbed her forehead. “Though I hope he’s brought some javelins, or I’ll be having some words with him.” That was to say, they would fight.

Jurot looked up to her, a cheeky grin growing on his face. “Even though you have only just had a child?”

“My boy can talk now, it has been long enough that I can fight again. Perhaps I will leave the Iyr soon on my own task.”

“Will you take me with you?”

“If you behave,” Mirot said as she reached down to ruffle his hair.

Jurot smiled. “I’ll behave,” he said.

“I know you won’t, but I’ll see anyway.” Mirot continued to play with Jurot’s hair. “Would you like to sit on the wall so you can welcome him home?”

“Yes,” he said. Mirot stared at him for a long moment, expectantly. “Please.”

With that the pair walked through the Iyr, weaving through the hustle and bustle of the Iyrmen going about their day. They lived in the fifth layer where most Iyrmen lived, partly because it was the largest layer that had been made. They stepped through the temple layer, where a single building of white stone stood tall in the centre, a great many white cubes dotted along the sides, the homes of the various mages of the tribe.

Jurot was not one for magic, he did not understand. The cool grip of the handle of an axe, the cold steel, the warmth blood of a creature that he had struck, these were the things he understood.

Then they walked beyond the third layer, with its long oblong buildings, similar to those in the fifth layer, though not cut in half as large families resided within the buildings of the third layer. Then they arrived to the second layer, where the buildings were offset every row so any invading force would need to zig-zag between the buildings, though of course the sides were clear in order for the Iyrmen to move between the layers, and also to allow the mages a clear path to shoot at the enemies as they invaded.

Then came the first layer, filled with small buildings that were filled with those warriors that had sworn to never step foot out of the Iyr. A great many children played here as well, for hanging around these oathsworn was good luck. Jurot had instinctively slowed, but sped up as Mirot stepped ahead.

Then they came across the wall. Not a wall, but the wall. The wall that had kept he and his people safe for generations. The first brick had been placed by Imrat, and ever since, the Iyr has never suffered the same fate it had almost faced centuries ago.

“A surprise,” came a familiar voice, low and husky. The speaker was a tall man, with long dark hair that fell to his lower back, the sign of a man who held no fear. His shoulders wide broad, as though they carried the entire world upon them, though were covered by the thick furs of brown bears that had been hunted with his son. At one side was an axe, at the other a shield with five blue diamonds at the top and a blue circle in the middle painted upon black, the Shield of Rot.

“Father!” Jurot exclaimed as he sped up to meet his father, though stopped ahead for his father to go through the typical greetings.

Surot first shook Mirot’s forearm, the pair bumping shoulders before Surot turned to his son and pat his head. “You’ve grown,” he said as he brushed Jurot’s mop hair away from the boy’s forehead.

“I have,” Jurot said proudly. “A finger since you last left.” He crossed his arms and puffed out his chest.

“Have you been practising with your axe?” Surot asked, raising his brow.

“Yes, father.”

“And your shield?”

Jurot made a low noise, as though he was about to say yes, but a man of the Iyr did not lie. “Sometimes.”

“I cannot pass this shield to you if you are unable to use it,” Surot warned.

“Enough of that,” Mirot interrupted. “Javelins?”

“Who do you think I am?” Surot said as he turned and whistled to one of his companions, who had brought over a sack. Within it were the spoils of war that had been Surot’s right, for he and his family.

Mirot peered in and then picked up a javelin. “Markish javelins!” she exclaimed, a wide grin on her face. “Yes!” She placed them aside between her axe belt and her waist. Markish javelins were known for their forged heads which were almost like arrows. One threw a Markish javelin to make their enemy suffer a prolonged death.

Jurot looked up expectantly, and his father caught the look. Surot smiled down at his son and then he ruffled the boy’s hair once again.

“Let us speak at home,” Surot said. “I bring the best news.”

Jurot chatted with the various companions, who acquiesced to Jurot and began to speak of their stories. Jurot listened to each story intently, though eventually Surot, who had finished with is greetings and gift giving to the children, placed a hand on Jurot’s shoulder.

“Come,” he said, and with that, Jurot left to follow his father back home.

The Task

“A Vulfaire?” Sonarot said, looking at Surot.

A Vulfaire, sometimes known as a Snow Wolf, though not to be confused with a snow wolf, was a creature born within a pack of snow wolves, but developed beyond through the way of the arcane as they fed on creatures filled with magic. They were powerful creatures that could cross the icy caverns of the north with a single bound.

Jurot looked at his mother, his eyes wide. His eyes glanced between his father, his aunt, and then to his mother. They were sitting within their home, his mother currently cooking with her clay pot. The room was big enough to house the small group, with beds that were stacked one on top of the other due to how each was slightly bigger than the one below it, and a myriad of blankets that were used to hide the various cabinets, weapons, and such.

“I’m planning on leaving in a week,” Surot said. “This is a task gifted to us and our kin. I will speak with the Ret and Rit to see if they wish to come.”

Jurot’s eyes widened. A group of six from the families of Ret, Rit and Rot? It was rare his father ever mentioned bringing the extended family together, it was usually Mirot who did so.

“We will speak and we will see if they are free to join, for a Vulfaire would be a fine story.”

“You have enough stories, don’t you?” Mirot joked. “I know you, brother, from the time when I was suckling on mother’s teet, I know that look in your eye. Speak.”

Surot looked towards his wife, Sonarot, who was currently cutting a carrot, knife in hand, ready to use.

“I think it is time for Jurot to come with us,” he said.

Jurot’s eyes flashed so bright, one would have thought Maryal would have entered his body. Yet they darted towards his mother, who held a glare of daggers towards her husband.

“Jurot is still only thirteen,” she said. “A Vulfaire is a story for the likes of you and sister, not a boy.”

“Jurot is a son of Rot,” Surot said, looking towards his son. “He is strong for his age, barely a boy now. He has grown, and many take their rites at his age.”

“Many, but not we.” Sonarot handed over a carrot to Surot, who bit into it.

“You are crazy, brother.”

“If this was two years by, you too would ask for Nirot to come as well.” Surot chewed on the carrot and raised his brow.

Mirot reached back to rub along her javelin for a moment and then looked to Sonarot. “For once, my brother speaks reason. Jurot is strong, and he will be with us. I would allow no harm to my nephew, for he is a son of mine as well.”

Sonarot sighed. “Jurot is our only child,” she said as she reached over and then brushed her son’s hair. Jurot gave in to his mother, enjoying her touch against his head.

“Well,” Surot said with a small smile, “Mirot and I have discussed finding a White Lily.”

Sonarot threw a look towards her husband, and her husband stared into her eyes. Jurot looked between the pair. He had learnt of the White Lily, though he had long forgotten what it did. Herbs and plants, those were for the shamans of the Iyr. He was a warrior, one who could bend rage to his whims, like his father and his aunt, and his mother.

“Very well, but if anything happens to him, I will speak with Iromin.” Sonarot pulled her son close and then hugged him close to her bosom. Jurot hugged his mother tight as his heart pounded with excitement. He would go, he and his father and his aunt, together.

“Nothing will happen,” Surot said. “For I am Surot of the Steel.”

“If only your mind was so,” Sonarot said, and Mirot smiled.

“We will leave in a week. I will speak with the member of the other families, so they understand the offer before them.”

“My little boy, you’ll have a story before you take your rite.” Sonarot kissed Jurot on his forehead, causing Jurot to grin wide.

“I’ll have the best of stories,” the boy said. “I will slay mighty wyrms, like your mother, and I will slay a mighty Vulfaire myself one day.”

“You will,” Sonarot said. “You will bring a thousand stories yourself, and your children will hear of your stories in the same way you hear your father’s and mine.” Jurot grinned even wider, his eyes narrowing from all the stretching of his cheeks.

“You will need to teach them how to use a shield as well,” Surot said.

Jurot frowned. “What if they wish to use two axes?”

“That is not our way.”

“It’s mother’s way,” Jurot said, his eyes falling to the pair of axes on the wall.

“It’s why I won when we fought,” Surot said. “She had no shield.”

“You are my shield,” Sonarot said with a small smile.

Surot’s eyes resisted Sonarot’s gaze as he sighed quietly. “I am the shield for my family, until the day I die.”

“You can’t die father, you’re too strong.”

“Everyone dies, little one. I would have never expected mother to die, but she did.”

Mirot smiled. “Even now I can hear her, plaguing my dreams with her complaining.”

“Did I ever tell you the time when Mirot and I were caught sneaking out of the Iyr to slay brown bears?” Surot asked.

“Yes,” Jurot said. “When you returned she spanked you until you were red.”

“Red and blue,” Surot said as he looked to Mirot. “That’s why you picked red, isn’t it?”

“Blue for the heir, what other colour could I pick?”

“We all honoured mother in our own way.”

“Now it’s just the two of us,” Mirot said, looking down at Surot’s shield.

“Well, there’s Jurot, Nirot, Turot. They will honour the Rot in their own way when they are of age.”

“Enough,” Sonarot said. “It’s time to eat.”

The Journey Ahead

Jurot was ready and eager at dawn, wearing his dark furs and his sandal boots. At his side was his trusty axe, and upon his back his shield, which he had been practising with alongside his father. His shield hid his backpack, which was stuffed with everything he needed to adventure, or at least that was what his mother had said. He had also received a kiss on his forehead from his mother, the final charm for an adventure, as was known to all boys and girls of the Iyr.

“Come,” Surot said as they stepped ahead of the wall to the path ahead of them.

“To think you actually meant it,” Izirit said. He was a tall and lean Iyrman, with a bald head and a thick beard. He wore the typical furs as expected of him, and at his side were a pair of short-swords. He was eight years older than Jurot, and he had only recently returned from adventuring. He was Izirit of the Bronze. “Your son as our sixth?”

“When have I not meant what I said?” Surot asked as they trekked onward.

“That is true enough,” Izirit replied, chuckling.

“It was a surprise that you had come to us,” Karet said, “bringing us news of such glory.” She was one of the few within the Iyr to not have dark hair, for her hair was as light as the sun, though her eyes were dark. Her father, a man with sun-kissed hair, had been a man born outside the Iyr that an Iyrwoman had brought back. At her side was a staff, for she took the route of body and mind. She did not wear furs, but a long cloak of lionfur, and then the traveller’s clothes of the outsiders.

“I have a great respect for your abilities,” Surot said. “For we all come from the same ancestor.”

“Though you wouldn’t ask us to come with you on your tasks,” Karet said, raising her brows.

“My brother is stuck in his old ways,” Mirot said as she continued to lead the way. “He prefers the company of the leader’s son.”

“He can keep up with my… tactics.”

“You mean he is as light headed as you?”

“Careful sister, your back is open.”

“You would shame yourself to attack my back?”

“Of course,” Surot said, smiling. “You are my sister.”

Mirot shook her head. She continued to lead the party ahead, for she had taken the role of the leader of the group of six. None would complain, for Mirot was as ferocious as Surot, but with the calmest mind of all.

The last member of the group was Arit, a large man with short black hair and a thick beard, like his younger brother. He carried with him a greatsword across his back, and wore the typical fur of the Iyrmen. He was of the Steel as well. Jurot had never heard him speak before, but he had heard of some of the stories. He wondered if Arit really could call the storm’s fury upon his enemies. He hoped he would find out.

The travel north would take a couple of months, and the Iyrmen would walk the entire way. Most of them had already made their way this way before, all but Izirit and Jurot. They would travel for the day when the sun was up, with a few of them foraging as they moved. Each of them moved quicker than most people, partly due to the fact they were unarmoured, but partly due to the fact that they were used to travelling in such a way. They would camp in the night wherever was best, with the four experienced in the north discussing where to camp in the morning and then near the late afternoon.

“Have you chosen which rank you’d like to reach?” Izirit asked over the dinner pot, as he and Jurot were both on dinner duty tonight. They were resting in the middle of a forest, surrounded by greens and browns, though they were dark due to dusk.

“Steel, like my father.”

“What of Silver?”

“I would be away from the Iyr for too long,” Jurot said. This was perhaps the only thing he had ever thought deeply about. “Mother would miss me too much.”

“Ah,” Izirit said. “I understand that.”

“You are marrying soon?” Jurot asked, recalling how he had brought back a woman from outside the Iyr.

“Soon, perhaps after we slay the Vulfaire. I can bring a cloak to my wife, it would match her colours.”

“Why did you pick an outsider?” Jurot asked absentmindedly, not particularly meaning anything by it.

“I adventured with her for a long while, she had been with me since the first quest, and she had been with me during the last. She had once saved my life.”

“I’ve heard the story,” Jurot said. “The chimera?”

“A variant of it, but a chimera either way.”

“Didn’t she kill it?”

“She did,” Izirit said with a small smile on his face. “It was glorious, for Priests know of a skill to summon a blade in the air, and it cut the chimera’s head clean off.”

“Which one?”

“The tiger head.”

Jurot let out a breath of approval. “Nice.”

“What of you? What would be your dream beast to slay?”

“There is only one creature I wish to slay above all else,” Jurot said. “A dragon.”

“Kings of the skies,” Izirit said, whistling. “You are your father’s son.”

Jurot smiled. “I am.”

“Which colour?”

“Whichever dares cross my path first,” Jurot said as he puffed out his chest and crossed his arms.

Izirit chuckled.

Dinner was soon served as the Surot and Arit returned from their scouting, bringing back berries and fruit, as well as a small bird that they managed to find.

They shared their food with one another, the hot food keeping the group warm. Night was beginning to envelope the land, and the group were all chatting with one another. One would take watch, walking around the camp as the other five ate.

“When we reach the next city, we’ll spend a few days there,” Surot said. “We’ll need thick clothing for the north soon as well.”

Jurot just nodded, agreeing with whatever his father was saying. Thick clothes for the north because it was cold? It snowed more in the north, he heard, so it would make sense that one would need thicker clothes.

Mirot whistled, and the Iyrmen readied to attention. Even Jurot, who had sometimes travelled with his father here and there, knew the significance of the whistle. Trouble. The various Iyrmen then moved, readying their weapons. Mirot didn’t, remaining standing as she glanced over her shoulder. Jurot clutched his axe, putting on his shield.

Around them came a number of people, the Iyrmen outnumbered at least two to one by a group of humans with an assortment of gear, but all painted with a mean look on their face.

“Well, well, well, what do we got here?” called an ugly man with a scar across his face. At his waist was a longsword, and he wore a chain shirt over his front. He pushed his shield into the ground ahead of him, leaning over it. “You them boys from the Iyr, aye?”

“We’re Iyrm-” Mirot started.

“Oi, shut up woman, am talking to the men. That big one specially.” The man motioned his head to Arit. “Ah heard you Iyrm-” A javelin pierced through the front of his face. The head of the spear that jutted out behind his head revealed it was Markish in design.

Jurot turned to look at Mirot as he lifted up her axe. “Whose next?” she asked, as polite as an Iyrman.

Duty

Then the forest turned to chaos. Jurot hoisted up his shield and bolted into the fray, ready to crack the head of a bandit. There was roaring behind him as the various Iyrmen raged, Mirot and Surot making the loudest noises, though there was a rumbling of a storm beginning to echo through the forest. He wanted to look back to see if it was Arit, but he was currently engaged in a battle to the death with a bandit.

Jurot caught the blade with his own, and raging like a bear, he hacked and slashed into the man. The man yelped with pain as Jurot cut into him, blade meeting flesh and spraying out hot crimson. The bandit cut at Jurot, but the boy’s skin was tough, and in the hot rage he had welcomed the boy did not feel the strikes. With another strike, he cut into the man’s face before kicking him away.

It was the first time he had killed a man, but he could not stop to think. That was one thing Jurot was good at, not thinking about things.

He turned to face an man in heavy armour, who held a large black axe in both hands. Not quite a great-axe, but it was quite the great axe, as black as death. Jurot snarled, and like a tiger, pounced at the man. The pair went into combat, Jurot hacking into the man’s metal armour with a wild fervor.

Unfortunately for Jurot, this man was not just any man. He wore heavy armour, which protected him from almost all Jurot’s blows, and he was able to use his axe almost as good as any Iyrman. Jurot and he clashed for a few moments longer, though Jurot was slowly growing weak at the knees. Each slash from the black axe had sucked out the life from his bones before Jurot stumbled and then fell onto his back.

“Enough!” exclaimed the man with the black axe, who pressed the freezing metal against Jurot’s neck. Jurot’s heart pound wildly as he grew cold, both due to the axe, but also with fear.

Surot glanced over to see Jurot on the floor, axe ready in hand as he whistled. The other Iyrmen paused in their battles, more than half the bandits dead already, though the Iyrmen were still fresh. The bandits stepped away, trying to gather their wits about them.

“Let’s just chat, huh? I know my boy Dorag was a little rude to the lady. I do apologise for that, he was a bit of a slow oaf.” The man bowed his head.

Surot took a step forward, though the stranger pushed his axe harsher against Jurot’s neck, who swallowed as he remained still. “Whoa, whoa, whoa… let’s take it nice and slow. You don’t want the boy to die, do you.”

“He is a son of Rot,” Surot said. “It would be an honourable death.”

The black-axe man stared at Surot, sweating a little now. Jurot’s heart was pounding, but he revealed his neck. If his father had said this would be an honourable death, then so be it.

“My brother is a foolish man,” Mirot said, “there is no need to listen to him.” Mirot placed her axe into its sheath and took a step aside to reveal herself better. Jurot’s eyes met hers and he relaxed a little, for in those eyes were the eyes of his aunt, who had always taken good care of him.

“If Jurot dies in combat, it would bring honour to our family.” Surot had turned to look at his sister, as though giving no regard for the men ahead.

Mirot turned her back on Balrog and then wacked Surot across his head with the back of her hand. “What kind of man would allow his son to die before him? Do you have no shame?”

Surot threw her a look for a moment, his eyes narrowing in anger, but he paused for a long moment.

“I thought you were a man from the Iyr, but you are just a man.” Mirot then turned to the bandit. “What is your name, stranger?”

“Balrog,” he replied.

“Where did you get that axe?”

“An Iyrman, like you.”

Mirot nodded. “You killed them?”

“I did,” the man said.

“Where?”

“Beyond the river, near the mountain over yonder.” Balrog motioned with his head.

“Let the boy go, and we will leave you in peace. We won’t hunt you down for the axe.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth.”

Mirot laughed, and even Surot chuckled. Jurot cracked a smile too. What a stupid man this Balrog was.

“There are thousands of stories of the Iyrmen, even our Rot family has hundreds.” Mirot extended an arm out casually. “Name one, a single story where an Iyrman has lied.”

Balrog remained there, axe on Jurot’s neck, the boy’s heart thundering.

“So I let the boy go and you let me and mine leave?”

“As my name is Mirot,” she said, nodding her head.

“Alright,” Balrog said, motioning a hand and his men began to step away. Balrog pulled his axe aside and then nodded towards the Iyrman. “Pleasure meeting you, but let’s make this our last.” With that, he stepped backwards and disappeared into the forest.

Mirot’s eyes followed the unseen shape for some time before she finally whistled and the Iyrmen moved, checking their surroundings to catch any remaining stragglers.

Surot approached Jurot and helped him up. He brushed the boy’s shoulders and then ruffled his hair. “You did well,” Surot said.

Jurot smiled, the cold fear seeping out of him. Surot then embraced his son, pulling him into a tight hug for a long moment. Those large fingers continued to ruffle the mop hair of his son. After much time, he pulled back.

“The Vulfaire will have to wait,” Mirot said as the Iyrmen made sure those that had fallen would stay dead, with Izirit and Arit dragging them away and began the process of taking the spoils.

“We must retrieve Arigar’s body and return it to the Iyr,” Surot said.

“We must return?” Jurot asked. “What of the Vulfaire?” They had been travelling for some time, it would have been quite the waste to return now.

“There are things more important than slaying a Vulfaire,” Surot said. “We must return Arigar’s body to the Iyr, back home, so he may be at peace with his family.”

“This is what it means to be a man or a woman of the Iyr,” Arit said.

Jurot’s eyes snapped to the mountain of a man. If it was important enough for the silent man to say, then Jurot would have to concede.

“Let us bring Arigar home,” Mirot said, “and hope that Oshgar is well.”

“If I had died, would you have returned to the Iyr right away?” Jurot asked his father, quietly, but in the whisper of an Iyrman, which was quite loud.

“He wouldn’t have, but I would have brought you back.” Mirot ruffled Jurot’s hair.

“I would return,” Surot said. “There is no place on this earth that would allow me to hide from your mother. Besides, he wouldn’t have died, I would have cut the bandit down before he could have moved.”

“You’re a fool of a man,” Mirot said, punching her brother’s shoulder. “We’ll head out in the morning, and if Balrog was lying, we will head towards the Vulfaire.”

So the Iyrmen, most still eager for more fighting, began the process of preparing to rest. They had moved the bodies further away, and Arit handled the sack of loot.

“Usually we allow the leader and the cook to watch for a hour,” Mirot said, “but seeing you are injured, you may watch with me.”

Jurot nodded his head as they pulled out their blankets as they huddled near the flames, which lit up the nearby forest.

“Stories are stories,” Surot said. “You can always slay a Vulfaire in the future, but the Iyr comes first.”

Jurot nodded once again. “So if I died far away, would you come to get me?” Jurot asked.

“I would.”

Jurot stared up at the stars, so different to those in the Iyr.

“If I were to die, would you come for me?” Surot asked.

“I would try.”

“You either do it, or you don’t.”

“I would do it.”

“Only if you’re of the Silver,” Surot said. “If something has killed me, then you would have no chance against it.” He pinched the boy’s cheek and Jurot pulled away, though smiled.

“I’ll come when I’m of the Silver,” Jurot said. “I’ll bring you home, back to the Iyr.” Jurot stared up at the stars again. “Back to mother.”

“If I die, you will need to look after her.” Surot reached over and gently punched Jurot’s arm. “Your mother is strong, but she’ll need you for a while. Make sure you stay with her for a few months, okay?”

Jurot wanted to scoff at such a joke. His father, dying? Yet, his father had told him that everyone died, so one day, hopefully far in the future when he had become of the Silver, married, with many children, his father would die the greatest death.

“I will,” Jurot said.

“We’ll return with Arigar, and we’ll sing for them to return.” Surot stared up at the stars. “And then we’ll head to face the Vulfaire.”

“Okay,” Jurot said, smiling.

“I wouldn’t have let you die,” Surot said. He turned to look at Jurot. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I would have died, for the honour of the family.”

“I know, but you wouldn’t have. We’re a family of the old ways, and my sister doesn’t quite agree to that, but… I’m sure that she would kill me and then had brought us both back.”

“Would she kill you?”

Surot shrugged his shoulders and then pulled out a coin. “Go ahead, flip it.”

Jurot flipped a coin and then looked up at his father. “Letters,” he said.

“She would.”