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 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. highlander torrent
Seumas, with a mighty grunt, hurled the chain across the broken gap, securing it to the far post. Together they pulled the broken stones into place, using their bodies as a human brace. Eòin’s glaive became a lever, his weight a counterbalance. The bridge, though battered, held. The Wyrm hissed, a sound like water over