Chapter 7: Reaping the Harvest

The giant bats he witnessed flying overhead were attacking some man who appeared to be an actor for the downtown theater. The man had even brought one of the swords that seemed to match his Lord of the Rings attire. This, however, was not a show. The blond man knelt on one knee, trying to hold himself steady with a hand on the brick wall. His other hand held the sword he used to keep the creatures at bay.

The ground and buildings were splattered with blood. The man’s costume hung on him like tattered rags, and bloody gashes covered his flesh. The creatures, whatever they were, determined to make hamburger meat out of their victim. Off to the side, lay the remains of a wolf the size of a bear with a silver coat of fur drenched in its own blood. There was no doubt the animal was dead, chunks of its body ripped out and dripping from the yellow fangs of the beasts clutching the sides of buildings.

With the sword, the man sliced at one of the talons of the leathery beasts. As he did, another flew down and ripped at the man’s unprotected head, claws raking across his right cheek and eye. His scream erupted Rhychard’s frozen terror and spurred him into the fray. There was no time to think, only to act.

Holding the tire iron like a club, he swung at the creature that had sliced into the man’s head, hitting its right shoulder and spinning it into the brick wall. Before he could think, he stabbed the creature in the chest with the iron. The beast screamed and then exploded into a cloud of ash.

Rhychard just stared at the now empty spot, dumbfounded. The creature had just—poofed—into nothing. No body. No blood. Just…ash.

He heard a screech behind him and ducked as sharp claws grazed his shoulder. Pain blinded him as he fell against the wall. Turning, he saw the other man slice one of the creatures in half while still down on one knee before turning and running another one through. How he was even still alive, Rhychard had no idea.

Another piercing screech sounded above him, and Rhychard thrust the point of the tire iron straight up, trying to protect his head. A shrill cry shattered above just before ash rained down on him. Another of the dark gray creatures flew in on the other man’s blind spot. Rhychard hurled the tire iron like a javelin at the bat-like thing. It speared the creature’s bulbous head, and ash filled the air. The tire iron clanged to the pavement below.

The remaining two beasts flew away, shrieking their displeasure across the night sky. Rhychard rushed to the other man’s side as he slumped to the ground, bloodied and battered. He was ripped open in dozens of places and what wasn’t gashed wide had been beaten black and blue. “Hold still. It’ll be all right,” Rhychard said, but he knew it wouldn’t be. It couldn’t be. There were too many holes in the man’s body. Too much blood soaking his clothes and the cobblestones of the alley.

The man glanced up, and the right side of his face was a mass of blood, one eye missing. It was all Rhychard could do to keep from vomiting. The man’s lone eye was a deep ocean blue and shaped like a cat’s eye, the pupil a narrow slit. He looked into Rhychard’s face, his own a mask of confusion. “You’re human?”

Rhychard nodded. Obviously, the man was so far gone his brain had locked him into character. “Yeah, I’m human. Now, we have to get you to a hospital.”

The man reached out and gripped Rhychard’s wrist, his shaking hand still strong. “No, my friend. Your places of healing are not for the Seelie.” The man coughed hard, blood spattering from his mouth. As the fit jerked him, his head fell forward, his hair shifted, exposing the thin points of his ears. “The Guardian has called a human to take my place. These are changing times.”

Rhychard stared at the bloody tips of the man’s ears, not sure any longer that it was a man in front of him. He fell back into a sitting position, gawking. Now he knew why his being human surprised the other man. He expected someone—something—else. “What are you?” He barely heard his own question.

The wounded creature had another coughing fit, blood pooling around his body, streaming down into the dirty alley. When he finished, he said, “I am an elf of the Seelie, a Sidhe Warrior of the Way.” He had to take a few deep breaths before continuing. “My name is Jamairlo.”

“An elf? But,” Rhychard took a deep breath, “But there aren’t such things as elves.”

“No time…to explain.” Jamairlo gripped the sword he had fought with and handed it to Rhychard. The weapon glowed a deep blue, and he felt warmth in the bronze blade. “The gargoyles are coming back. You must protect the sword. You must save John Relco.” The elf laid his head back against the brick wall. “It is now your destiny, Warrior. Wait for the Warrior Master. He will explain all.”

“Wait a minute. I’m not a warrior. You have me confused with someone else.” Rhychard shook the elf, but he was already dead. The sword grew warmer in his hand as a screech split the silence around him. Looking up, he saw several of the leathery creatures darting through the trees, intent on the dead elf. Rhychard gripped the sword as he sprinted for his truck. He had no foolish notion that they would not do to him what they did to Jamairlo.