He backed Shaemus into the wall, pinning the boy's chest beneath the massive spread of his clawed fingers.
"Give me one bletchny reason I shouldn't gut you like a grass guzzler, shepherd?"
"You have to listen—" Shaemus pleaded. The drake's paw sat upon his lungs with all the cruelty of poured concrete. And the steel bracelet that adorned Mason's wrist only added to its gravity.
"Let him speak, Mason!"
"Mind your business, Osamu!" He snarled, cracking his tail at Peter sharply. "Come now. All we want is a little taste of fresh lamb. You've got some to spare, now don't ya?"
"I can't--" Shaemus rasped, still struggling to relieve the pressure of Mason's paw. "I'm pescetarian, I don't raise lambs for food--not for myself or anyone."
"Wot's e-pesky terrier-ian, Crim?" Brass whispered to Crimson.
"Dunno, Brass. Might be some human disease ye catch from the ground water..."
Mason glared at the morsels frolicking across the yard in their pen.
"All the better. They don't serve no purpose, then there should be nothin to squall about."
"They do serve a purpose," Shaemus protested with a mixture of fear and indigence. "They're companions."
"Pets!"
"More than that—"
"What more could they possibly be?"
"It doesn't matter what they are to him!" Peter broke in. "Touch those lambs and you're going to regret it!"
"And what will you do without a sword?" Mason taunted. Peter bit his tongue. Crimson had immobilized him on the ground and restrained his arms behind him. There were no words on earth to describe the feeling of being so helpless. Four and a half years ago, his mother had warned him that one day he would experience the full burden of his disability. That there would be some battles that neither the sharpest sword, the strongest will, nor the purest heart could win. By this she was referring to the battle for another's life. A mortal wound to the ones he loved most. He would be forced to watch them die knowing the ability to heal them existed right beneath his fingertips. The Azurite blood in his veins was futile. And it was destined to agonize his mind.
But in this moment, with his sword now too withheld from him, the feeling of futility had reached a new depth. Shaemus scanned the pickings of his yard.
"If you insist—perhaps there's something else I can offer you." Mason narrowed his eyes.
"Go on little mutton boy," he replied with curled lips. "Enlighten us. But if we don't like what we hear, we'll be happy to enlighten...you." He chuckled darkly, while Brass flexed a throat-full of orange flames for emphasis.
"In my ice box, I have a large assortment of S-grade fish. Some of them are imports from the East."
Crimson's ears pricked. He liked fish very much. Mason did not.
"If that satisfies the tastes of my brothers, so be it." Crimson nodded curtly, trying to hide his enthusiasm. Brass was indifferent. Everything tasted good to him.
"However...I have a craving. And it won't be satisfied unless its cured with a fat roasted lamb!" Peter had never seen the crueler side of Ironsnout Mason. He had heard of the great delinquentism they had rained upon the town from the average frazzled, defenseless citizen. But because he thwarted their plans so easily, he had never considered the band as a true threat. Perhaps this was the rare instance where they revealed a driving motive. And what a ridiculous one it is, he thought angrily. Mason leaned into Shaemus’ face with a grin.
"What's one lost sheep to a shepherd?"
"Everything!" Shaemus cried with a faltering voice. The drake scoffed.
"Then you can pay up 'everything' now, and sob about it later." He motioned for Brass to approach the small pen where the three lambs were resting for the afternoon. When they saw the orange drake growing larger in their view with each approaching step, they began to bleat in terror. The anxious cries of the older sheep soon followed until the chorus of cornered prey bellowed through the hillsides.
Peter bristled beneath Crimson's hold.
"Brass! Touch that lamb and I swear I'll collect your bounty before the night is done!" Brass paused. He turned to glare at Peter and then back at the lambs.
"Don't listen to the boy!" spat Mason.
"Once he has Catalyst back—" Brass hesitated, "maybe this once we should let it go."
"Son of a cur! Have the two of you gone soft as salamanders? Just because we gave Osamu a pass doesn't mean it extends to every bletchny one of his little friends!" A guttural growl crackled from his scaled throat, as he turned his head to leer at the sheep boy. "Why if we were to go soft as bloody salamanders on every one of Osamu’s little friends then we'd be doing favors to the whole damned town!" Shaemus yelped as Mason gave him an extra crushing squeeze at that last word. Lifting Peter's sword, he examined the blade's luster in his free hand while Shaemus choked beneath the other. "Is this really all that makes you stronger than me?" He muttered under his breath. The great iron-clad drake stood awhile staring at his reflection in the polished steel.
"Pah! Of all the bleeding bletchny things..."
Shaemus suddenly fell to the ground as Mason finally removed his bastion of a paw from off of his chest. Begrudgingly, Crimson followed suit and released Peter as well.
"Are you alright?" Peter said gently, lifting Shaemus to his feet.
"Yeah. I'll be fine." The herbalist put a hand over his heart as though to make sure it was still beating.
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