A few days locked up in a barn full of angry Yurks was enough to drive a man mad.
Hrok shook a canteen, close to empty, the numbwillow nearly run dry. Drink was the only thing that kept him from his boredom, and from noticing the cattle dung that hung in the air. And without it he grew angrier and tireless. E'krek was even worse ... the young Yurk was paling, and mumbling to himself, the voice had returned.
He stood up from his hay bed, pulling straws from his trousers and long coat that collected dirt over the last few days. He settled his tall, black hat on his head then walked to where Jerocobish lay, in the darkest corner of the barn, his face dripping of sweat while strange black marks webbed up his face.
"What's wrong with him?" Hrok asked. "I've never seen a beating do a man in like that."
"It's not from the beating," Froak said, pouring liquid into the mans mouth. "He's fallen to sickness..."
Likely from being in this place, Hrok thought, glancing around the barn where the suns rays hardly warded off the gloom. "Can you heal him?"
The oldest Yurk turned his chestnut eyes onto him. Eyebrows pressed up and together. He shook his head. "I fear the man has little time left ... this is a slain sickness ... he'll be lucky to last a week."
Warfrok spat, hunkered down on a stack of hay, braiding his thick, graying strands. "If we are to recover my son, we must make the exchange at once ... if his son won't come to us, then we shall go to son."
"And why do you think that is?" Hrok's voice boomed. He seemed to grow in the shadows while the older man shrank. "Varko is not giving away our position..."
Warfrok eyes fell and his head followed. "This is true ... my son will not risk the lives of us for the life of his own ... he'd rather be beaten." Hrok could tell it hurt him to say so. "A true Yurk-"
"A fool!" Hrok fist smacked the wood and welcomed the ache that found his knuckles. "If I am to get tickets into the Iron Alchemist Tournament I must kill the one they call Jostice ... And times running out." He glanced down and saw the whites in the old man's eyes. Normally Hrok would be more cautious of such words, but his patience waned, and information was useless to a soon-to-be dead man. He groaned. "I must win!" He said, "The Yurks will be at the tournament cheering ... And when our Kallri falls they will remember me." He chuckled. "They will remember the one who defeated the invaders at their own game - and they will give me claim to the great War Bonnet."
Jerocobish coughed, weezed, and chuckled. "That's why..." He hacked and spat. "You've come all this way? To kill my boy for some tickets?" The man winced and hacked once more. "Hell ... Everybody wants in and I'm the only one who wants out. And I thought it was for the purse; but nobody seems interested in the coin ... only the glory." He chuckled.
E'krek walked over and crouched, his eyes red from withdrawl. "What is this you speak?"
The old man fought to say, "I got me three tickets ... I was coming to compete when y'all took me prisoner."
Hrok waved a hand, "I do not want to hear anymore of your lies -"
"I'm a dead man!" He hacked, trembling as he rose, pushing from his elbows of his bed. "I can't compete in my condition. And you think my boy, and grandson will want to after they see what's become of me? We'll make the exchange, your man for my life - and you spare my boy and I'll give you the tickets. Everybody wins." He fell back into the hay bed. "It's the best deal you're gonna get ..."
Hrok rubbed his chin. The offer made sense, but how many words were true, and how many were the lies of a desperate man wanting to see his Kin one last time.
"No!" He saw the outrage in his mens face; they did not agree with him. "The one who offered for Jostice life, made an offer for twenty tickets ... And I need my men in the Tournament if I am to succeed."
"Then you are a fool ..." Jerecobish shut his eyes. "Unless it was the Mayor, them tickets are near impossible to come by. Nobody is holding twenty tickets. Did you see them at least?"
The mans words weakened Hroks heart; he stood tall, arms crossed hoping to gain back some dignity. "If the one lied he will pay with his life."
"Unless he takes yours first ... any man promising twenty tickets to a dimwit such as yourself must have many sleeves on his coat ... and if he has many sleeves than he has many tricks."
Hrok raised his fist, swollen white and hard as a rock. If he struck once the may may not recover, he knew, but the urge pulsed throughout his veins. He raised his head and groaned. "Shut him up!" He looked to his men, nose wrinkled, and teeth baring. "There must be another way."
Froak massaged his chin, worried to answer. "The children ... They offered a room for the man."
Hrok's eyes narrowed. "And?"
"If we make the man more comfortable he may live to see a few extra days." Jerocobish smiled at the thought. Froak then said, "it'll give the man more time."
The thought threw Hork into a fit of rage. He kicked the wall until the wood opened and light beamed across the hay-riddled ground. He groaned again raising his arms, swinging and connecting fist the jaw of the tallest Yurk standing near.
Prock fell to the ground and winced, and a moment later, Quam, the largest of the bunch helped him back to his feet. This was mistake ... to attack one of his own. And the sharp eyes of his men, staring upon him, brows furrowed, nose wrinkled, told him just that.
Hrok shouted, "I will talk to the children." And stormed out the barn.