Warrior of the Way

Chapter 8: Reaping the Harvest

Rhychard jumped into the truck, dropped the sword on the seat beside him, and jerked the vehicle into drive. The railroad guards were up. The night was silent except for the shrieks of the gargoyles as they dissected the body of the elf. The cab of the truck glowed a cold blue as the sword still warned of danger. Rhychard hit Washington Street and headed for home.

“Okay, this is not what I had planned for tonight." He could hear the quake in his voice and stopped talking. He had somehow stepped inside a fantasy novel and needed to change his boxers. Elves were real. Swords glowed. Gargoyles were more than a Disney cartoon. He kept squeezing and rubbing the steering wheel. This was a nightmare come alive, and he would have thought it a dream except for the blood that covered him.

Blood. s**t! Rhychard hit the brakes and slowed the truck down to normal speeds. He didn't need a speeding ticket now. There was no way he could explain a sword dripping blood or the blood that smeared his clothes and hands. He needed to get to Renny, but not like he was. He would scare the hell out of her if he showed up like some horror movie. No, he needed a shower. Clean clothes. He should call the police. No. What would he tell them? Gargoyles attacked an elf? No, that was definitely out.

Think, Rhychard. Jamairlo said someone would come for the sword. Rhychard was just to wait. He didn't want to wait. He didn't want someone visiting him. He wanted to toss the sword into the river and be done with it. That's it. He'd throw the sword into the Indian River and rid himself of the whole business.

But what if they came for the sword and it wasn't there? The image of the elf's mutilated body flashed in his mind. That could happen to him. Or worse. No, nothing could be worse. Could it?

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. I'll keep the sword with me and go home. Then, once whoever comes for it shows up, they can take it and it'll be over. What if whoever came for the sword blamed Rhychard for the elf's death? He hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand as he let out a growl. Frustration pumped through his adrenaline-filled body along with indecision.

What are you going to do, Rhychard?

He wanted to call someone, but who would believe him? Renny would think he was nuts, Pastor Adrian would believe him possessed, and his parents would think he was drunk. There was no way he could get inside his apartment the way he looked. Someone was always poking their eye in a peephole searching for fresh gossip. They would see the sword and the blood, and soon cops would arrive and beat his door down. No, home was out.

The flower shop! He would go to his mom's flower shop and clean up. He kept some extra clothes there for emergencies whenever he helped her out. With the time of night it was, the place should be closed so no one would see him.

Hopefully. It wasn't like the night had been typical so far.

Rhychard parked behind Blooming Petals and took several deep breaths. The crescent moon hung high in the silent sky. The air was still and sticky like the blood that clung to his memory. He locked the truck and held the sword downward, tight against his thigh. Within seconds, he was off the street and inside. He thought of calling Renny. He should, he knew, but what would he tell her? He had lived it, and he didn't even believe what had happened.

He found some rags in the back of the shop and wiped the now normal-looking sword clean. Clean of blood. Clean of his fingerprints. He wasn't sure when the blue glow had disappeared. He had been too intent on the skies and the chance of those gargoyles finding him.

Once the sword was clean, he stripped down to his boxers and scrubbed hard at the blood that stained his skin. It had dried in the time it took him to get to the florist shop and refused to come completely off no matter how raw he scrubbed. He dropped his stained clothes into the can of cut stems and broken petals and tied it closed. He found the clean clothes and quickly dressed.

By the time he was put back together, his hands were a mere tremble compared to the shakes he had earlier. He stared at the sword on the plywood worktable. What was he to do with it? Hell, what was he to do with anything that happened to him that night? He thought back to everything Jamairlo had said. He was to guard the sword until someone came for it. Someone would come for it. He also said the blade of the sword would warn him that those creatures were back. A quick glance showed the sword was a normal cold metal.

He was safe for now.

At least, he was if the elf told him the truth. For all Rhychard knew the elf wasn't really an elf, and everything had all been one elaborate prank at his expense. He could be on one of those hidden camera shows.

Except, no one jumped out and screamed, “Surprise! You're on Candid Camera." Rhychard swiped a hand over his face. Did all this really happen?

He dug around in one of his mother's storage closets and found a small tarp she used to cover her flowers while in transit. He wrapped the sword and tied it with twine. He didn't need people seeing him carrying a sword around. He picked up the blue velvet box and stared at it. A tear filled his left eye but refused to fall. So much for tonight going as he planned. He stuffed the ring into his pants pocket, tucked the wrapped sword under his arm, and left out the back door.