Eòin lowered his glaive, the rain washing away the mud and blood that clung to its edge. He looked downstream, where the river now wound peacefully through the valley, its surface a mirror to the darkening sky. The water’s roar had softened to a gentle murmur, as if the spirit of the River‑Wyrm had been pacified, its rage turned into reverence.
The River‑Wyrm, confronted with fire and courage, let out a keening sound, a lament that echoed across the glen. Its shape dissolved, the water returning to its natural, chaotic flow but now subdued. The torrent’s height began to recede, the floodwaters pulling back as the storm moved on, leaving behind a river that sang a softer, gentler song.
Eòin’s heart hammered against his ribs. He knew the bridge was the only way for the villagers to escape the flood’s wrath. If it fell, the whole hamlet would be trapped, the torrent sweeping them into the cold, black maw of the river. He took a step forward, then another, and felt the icy spray soaking his cloak. The water surged beneath his boots, clawing at his ankles, trying to pull him into its depth. He lifted his glaive, the metal glinting briefly before the rain obscured it. highlander torrent
“Rannoch, Rannoch, ancient vein, Born of tears that fell like rain, Hear my heart, hear my plea, Guide us safe, set us free.”
The Wyrm hissed, a sound like water over stone, and a wave of force slammed against the bridge, threatening to sweep him away. Eòin lifted his glaive high, its tip pointing to the sky, and shouted a cry that blended with his song, a battle chant that rang like a warhorn: Eòin lowered his glaive, the rain washing away
“Stand fast, lad!” a voice shouted from the far side of the bridge. It was Seumas, the village blacksmith, his massive frame already drenched, his eyes fierce. He held a length of iron chain, the ends rusted but still strong. “We’ll brace the arch together. If the stone gives, we’ll throw the chain across and use it as a lifeline!”
The wind howled, and a sudden gust sent a spray of cold water slapping his face. The river’s roar rose to a deafening crescendo as a massive slab of stone—once part of the riverbank—tumbled down, crashing into the water with a splash that sent a wave lashing the bridge. The ancient stones shivered, and a crack appeared along the central arch. The River‑Wyrm, confronted with fire and courage, let
Eòin had not come to the river that morning for the sake of the view. He had come because a messenger, breathless and drenched, had ridden in from the village, eyes wild with fear. “The torrent’s a spirit,” the messenger had whispered, “the River‑Wyrm awoken. If we do not bind it, the whole glen will be drowned.” The old stories spoken by the firelight warned of a water spirit that rose when the land was wronged, a creature that demanded a sacrifice—blood, or else the flood would never cease.