Jerocobish spat, wiping his chin. "And to think...I thought you were on the brink of death." He shifted looking at the Yurk closely. "Before you knocked me near senseless, I had a few more words to say."
Hrok shook his head, "And I've got enough energy to swing once more."
"I'm sure you do." Jerocobish pushed off the dried dirt, placing back against the tree, grunting. "You are the solution to my problem…"
The Yurk raised an eyebrow hardly believing the old man's words. "I must've knocked you harder than I thought—"
"Jostice...As I said, he betrayed me back when I ran the Brotherhood of the Bastyouns." The old man sighed. "I didn't have the heart to do it — put him down like a feral dog — even after what he did."
"And what'd he do?"
Jerocobish face sunk and eyes trailed, he started off recalling the past. "Killed one of our own...Killed a man much better than himself."
"And what is your proposition?"
"You set me free, you'll get your man back and you'll get Jostice...That's why you're here, right? You want him dead."
Hrok laughed and winced, watching the men work the healing spell. "If you can deliver, I can promise your release."
Jerocobish smirked, "then it looks like we've got ourselves a deal."
Froak walked over, hunched and wide-eyes, hardly able to see through his wrinkles. He whisked the ingredients in the clay bowl until they'd become a thick, blackish paste. He knelt down besides the Yurk and unwrapped the bloodied rags.
"Hold still," he griped, spooning out the paste and plopping it on the mans arm. He spread it over the wound then wrapped it once more.
Hrok sighed, "much better…"
Once the sun found it's falling arch they mounted their bisons and set westward where the orange sands met the stony shores and the blues of the westward ocean.
Their pace quickened; the bison hammered the ground with their hooves, crushing small bushes and head butting cacti that stood in their path.
A few hours later the skies were painted in bright pinks and oranges that bled together like sand against rhodonite stones. A sign appeared, vaulted ten feet high, with decrepit white lettering on the face.
"O'donovans Ranch?" Jerocobish mumbled. "Who the hell is O'donovan?"
They rode under a sign and beyond a fence that extended around the ranch for as far as the eye could see. It was a quiet piece of land where the crickets and the cattle hardly made a racket. Their were no birds, nor trees for that matter, only dirt and patches of dried grass that the herd ate willingly.
Hrok pulled the reins right leading his bison towards
an old white ranch house; a one story structure with many rooms and a porch that extend around the house that'd looked as worn down as the sign had. On the porch a pair of rocking chairs held two youngins, a boy and a girl, rocking and watching them on approach. The boy holding a rifle on his lap, wiping the barrel until it shined.
Hrok slowed his bison then raised a hand; the tribe of Yurks came to stop behind him. The Yurk leader climbed down from his perch.
"You're late," the boy said in an uninviting tone.
"I'm looking for Quincy and—"
"Olivica O'donovan," the girl said; "but you can call me Olive."
Hrok lifted his chin and let out a slow, mocking laugh.
"You're just a couple of kids."
Quincy pulled out a pipe and puffed. "And you and your gang aren't much older…"
Hrok looked between the two youngins; nearly identical, with hair dark as the stones that pebbled their lands and eyes a shade of green found in the trees of Lone Creek.
Hrok extinguished his breath forcefully, "we are a tribe…" He pulled a leather purse tied to his hip, tossing it to the boy. Quincy shook the purse close to ear. "There is extra in there; we may need to stay a few more days."
The youngin looked at one another then back at the Yurk leader. "That wasn't our agreement — a night, that's it. There are probably search parties looking for you now."
"We rode east then double-back west...The sand storm hid our trail."
"We don't care...One night and you're on your way."
Hrok crossed his arms, tilting chin down, looking up through his eyebrows. He reached towards the gun on his hips. "I could kill the both of you…"
Olive glanced at the boy and whispered. He nodded.
"You could, but it wouldn't serve your purpose none; our contact won't give you your tickets into the Iron Alchemist Tournament if you dispose of us."
"We need more time…"
"More time is going to cost you," he shook the purse; "tripple what's in the pouch."
"Fine...Soon as we get our man you'll be paid in full."
The youngins whispered back and fourth.
Olivica nodded, "Deal."
"Who's the old man?" Quincy pointed. The two grimaced at one another. "We don't have room for one more—"
"We lost a man and he took his place...That's all you need to know."
"Fair enough."
Hrok turned towards his tribesman, waving hand. "Men. Hitch the bison and come inside." The Yurk took a step forward, placing a foot on the step—
A rifle cocked the barrel drawn on Hrok's head.
His men whipped their guns from their belts, extending their arms; barrels aimed at the boy.
"Can't you read…" Quincy said, pointing the end of his rifle above Hroks head.
The Yurk leader leaned back, looking upon a sign written in letters he was unable to pronounce.
Jerocobish heckled from his horse. "I like how these two work…"
Hrok snarled, "what's it say?"
Olivica answered slowly, "No indigenous…"
Quincy pointed towards a large, brown building that was bent, hardly standing upright. "The lot of you will sleep in the barn."
"The barn?" Warfrok slammed a hand against his chest. "How dare you insult our Kallri!"
"If it pleases your Kallri," the boy puffed, eyeing Jerocobish; "the old man can sleep inside."
Jerocobish beamed. "I'll take that offer—"
"The old man will sleep in the barn with the rest of us…" Hrok said.
"But My Kallri." Warfork gasped. "You cannot allow such behavior."
"We are men of the land," Hrok said. "I'd rather sleep beneath the familiar stars then underneath unknown walls."
He looks at the barn, grabs the reins, and guides his bison and his men towards it.
The barn was large and filled with enough hay to make beds to keep from the cold; It was a two story structure with ladders leading to platforms above, and windows that allowed the moonlight to pour inside, giving the building enough light for the men to see.
They were in a ruckus, passing around numb willow and chanting songs that were old as the lands; songs of spirits that watched over them and warriors that bled for the earth they stood upon.
Hrok took a swig of numbwillow, no longer feeling the ache in his arm. He looked to the dark corner where Jerocobish starred through narrow eyes, unamused by their banter.
He stumbled over, "Old One…" Holding out the flask. "How about a drink?"
Jerocobish chuckled and shook his head, "rather keep my wits about me...besides, if y'all get too drunk it'll make it easier to escape from the binds." He lifted his hands pulled together by torn rope.
Hrok bellowed with laughter, walking closer towards the man. "Wishful thinking, Old One." He pointed to the older Yurk sitting on a barrel. "Warfrok is watching...you won't get far." He laughed once more. "And I thought we had a deal…"
"We do."
Hrok licked the taste of numbwillow from his lips, frowning. "Let me teach you something about Yurks." He waved two fingers above his head.
The Yurks gathered around them.
"Warfrok!" Hrok hiccuped. "Bring the Old One to his feet."
"I can stand on my own," Jerocobish said; tilting and grunting as he pushed back against the wall, rising to his feet. "What is this you can teach me about Yurks?"
"Warfrok…Show him."
The older Yruk rose from the barrel and walked over; he stood for a moment gazing into the Old Ones eyes, chanting beneath his breath. He shut his own eyes and drew breath.
Suddenly his eyes opened; Yurk twisted at his hips, reeling back his arm. His knuckles flew forward; Jerocobish's jaw cracked and he hit the ground. The old man had not time to catch his breath; Warfork brought him to his feet, clutching his collar while his right limb swung with no control. Jerocobish head whipped back one. Two. Three times. He hit the floor, a pool of blood around him.
The Yurks lifted their chins and bellowed with laughter.
Hrok kneeled towards the ground, head tilted, watching the old man choke on his blood.
"I thought...we had," Jerocobish coughed; "a deal…"
Hrok shook his head, "that's what I wanted to teach you...Never trust a Yurk, they're betrayers." He looked upwarded at Warfrok who breathed heavy, hands dripping blood. The leader nodded.
Warfork kneeled down and brought Jerocobish to his feet, throwing him into the wall where smacked and found the floor once more.