“A sharp spear beats a heavy hammer.”

  Davy to the gathered greys

  As they turned down by the river, there were flowers spread across the valley floor. He reached out to pick one he’d never seen before; yellow, like cotton candy but with petals that curled inward like a scream held too long.

  Rebecca shouted, “No!” and slapped his hand away. She then picked the flower deep down the stalk, near its roots, careful not to touch the bloom or its jaundiced leaves.

  “Yellow is a warning. A sign of poison. This could kill you.” She tucked it into the bag at her waist.

  Davy tipped his hat and rubbed at his hand. “Thank you.”

  She only shrugged, the quiet of her gesture louder than any words.

  “Reckon that’s one more lesson for the pile.” He mulled it over, “The now don’t care if you’re looking. Miss it, ignore it and it’ll kill ya just the same.”

  Rebecca didn’t speak, but her ears twitched slightly; listening for something perhaps only she could hear.

  As they left the meadow, motes shimmered, barely visible in the heat. Hidden amongst the grass. They rose and gathered around the yellow flowers. Drawn to the poison, the same poison that had compelled Davy. That’s what had driven him to try and pick one.

  The poison wasn’t in the flowers or the valley. It was in the thread, he felt it now, the pull and he was at its centre.

  Far above, a lone bird circled. He walked with the group but was in his own world, trying to make sense of it all. The bird cried out and was then gone, leaving him with the web of choices silently thrashing in his brain.

  As they continued, he shared with Rebecca what he’d seen in the cave, every detail. He shared the inner turmoil but could tell she was only half listening, as if she already knew. The others listened intently, especially an old grey, careful not to intrude.

  Davy’s inability to settle on what had happened was clear and she knew it. Had experienced it for herself.

  When they were almost home, she spoke quietly to him, softly so only he could hear.

  “I have been where you are now. It is a confusing place.”

  Then she raised her voice, and as she spoke the mob echoed her words. “While many pasts have been written, our futures offer us choices that can re-write what has passed. Choose wisely.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Her practiced words were cryptic, open to interpretation. He’d seen two pasts very clearly and died in both.

  Which was his? Maybe neither, because here he was. Did that mean he was writing a new future? Or a new past? The thought lingered, heavy, a paradox unanswered.

  He muttered it like a prayer, “And balance must endure.”

  “What did you say?” asked Rebecca, her look suddenly intense, and more focused.

  “And balance must endure.”

  “Interesting,” was all she said.

  When they arrived at his cave it was just the two of them, the rest of the mob had drifted away. Davy turned to Rebecca, “I’m busted up and bone-weary,” then walked into the cave.

  “Before you go,” Rebecca said. “Can you teach us how to fight like you? Please. Be our Tuoran. Tuor mayu,” she said making Diri.

  “What does that mean, the decoder didn’t translate it?”

  “They are old words, it holds them true, unchanged.” She continued, “Tuor is to teach and Tuoran is a teacher.” Davy hesitated but Rebecca was insistent, “Please. Be our teacher. Be my teacher, Tuor maya. Teach me, Davy.” She made Diri again, her eyes pleading.

  “It won’t be easy. Ain’t your people’s way, not by a long shot.”

  He left her with a sardonic smile and walked towards the cave.

  Then, calling back, “We’ll start tomorrow, come sundown. Tell the others.”

  “Do you think they can do it?”

  Davy’s answer came quickly, feral, like the savage grin that spread across his face,

  “Ain’t for me to say. That place where the killin’s done? It’s rough country. But if they fall, it won’t be ‘cause they didn’t try.”

  And with that he entered his cave and crossed to his bed, wondering how he kept arriving at this point. He’d been here before, leading the doomed, fighting the impossible. Only this time, there was no Alamo, no flag to die under. Just them, Rebecca and the greys, looking to him for something more. Hope? Or possibly something darker.

  He carefully felt inside his shirt pocket. The mote was still there, its faint green pulses the only light in the cave. He tore a strip off some sturdy material he had, tied the mote in it with a simple knot and then made it into a necklace. It was safer there, around his neck.

  He then laid back and fell into a deep sleep.

  The following evening the clearing was alive with murmurs as greys and some flyers gathered, their forms silhouetted against the dim light of a campfire. Davy stood at the centre, holding one of his carved spears. The mob looked sceptical, some exchanging doubtful glances. They were used to technology solving their problems, not raw muscle and pointy sticks.

  “All right, listen up,” Davy called, his voice cutting through the chatter. “I know some of y’all figure this is foolishness. That them shields and shiny pistols’ll win the day. But when the reds come close and you’re nose to nose, all that tech won’t save your hide. It’ll be your hands, your wits, and your guts that keep you breathin’.”

  A ripple of unease spread through the group. One grey raised a hand hesitantly. “Why fight like this? We have Birds and beams.”

  Davy smirked. “Sure, and what’re you gonna do when the reds jam your beams? When your shields fizzle and pop? You’ll need more than ringtail magic,” he paused for a second before adding, “or science. You’ll need to know how to fight, plain and simple.”

  He raised the spear and shifted into a balanced stance. “Let’s start with somethin’ easy, like how to hold this. Not too tight, not too loose. Keep your body grounded, feet apart.” He demonstrated, planting his boots firmly on the ground.

  The mob began mimicking him. Some fumbled with their footing, and others held the sticks awkwardly. Davy moved among them, adjusting their grips, and correcting their stance.

  “Good. Now, let’s talk strikes.” He showed them an overhead swing, the spear whistling through the air before stopping abruptly. “Aim for weak spots; throats, bellies, knees. Don’t waste energy swingin’ wild. Every strike must have a purpose.”

  The greys practiced, their initial clumsiness giving way to determination.

  Hours later, sweat glistened their faces and the clearing was filled with the steady thunk of wood against wood as the greys sparred with each other.

  Davy watched, arms crossed, a smile tugging at his lips. “They’re gettin’ better.”

  A wiry young flyer feinted left, then twisted her stick in a blur, sending her opponent’s weapon spinning away. She grinned as the mob erupted in cheers.

  “Not bad,” Davy said with a nod. “But don’t go puffin’ up. Reds won’t clap when you knock one of ‘em down. The next’ll just come back madder and twice as rough.”

  They were beginning to get tired; he didn’t want them to start injuring each other so he called the mob together, his face hardening.

  “All right, folks. We’re just warmin’ up. That’ll do for now. Tomorrow morning, we go again.”