The pyre burned high into the night, its flames clawing at the star-strewn sky. The fallen Krags whose name he didn't know and Ova, whose name was now carried on in memory of those that knew him well, lay arranged atop the stacked wood, their weapons beside them like silent sentinels, guarding their passage into whatever lay beyond in this strange world.
The fire consumed them cleanly, fiercely bright, its amber glow painting the snow-dusted ground in flickering hues of gold and copper. Thick coils of smoke spiraled upward, carrying with them the scent of burnt flesh and charred leather, mingling with the crisp, icy air.
The surviving Krags stood in a loose semicircle around the pyre, their faces carved into grim masks by the firelight. They hummed a low, mournful hymn, a melody that seemed to rise from the earth itself, older than words, older than the stones beneath their feet. The sound wove through the crackling roar of the flames, a thread of sorrow binding them all together in that moment.
Truly unpleasant.
Femi sat apart, his back pressed against a snow-crusted boulder, watching the flames twist and writhe. His wounds had been bandaged, crudely, but well enough, and the warmth radiating from the pyre almost dulled the persistent ache in his bones.
Almost.
Varga stood beside the pyre, her silhouette stark against the firelight, her posture rigid as if carved from the same stone as the mountains looming in the distance. She hadn't spoken since they'd dragged the Eri's grotesque carcass away, since they'd gathered the dead and prepared them for the flames. She just… stared, her eyes reflecting the dance of fire and shadow.
Femi had seen that look before.
He wasn't sure from were he saw it, but he recognized it well.
Heaving himself up with a grunt, he limped toward her, his clawed feet crunching through the brittle snow. She didn't turn, didn't acknowledge his approach, but he knew she was aware of him.
"You knew him well," Femi said, his voice softer than he'd intended.
Varga's jaw tightened, the firelight catching the faint cuts that ran along its edge. For a long moment, he thought she wouldn't answer. Then...
"Ova and I..." Her voice was low, rough. "We weren't really that close." A pause. The fire popped, sending a shower of embers spiraling into the dark. "We met when we were young, and I really didn't like him."
Femi said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them, filled only by the crackling of the pyre, the humming of the Krags and the distant whisper of the wind through the trees.
"We were near the age for our coming-of-age rites when human raiders came," she continued, her fingers digging into her folded arms as if bracing against an old pain. "The chief was away. They rode in on their monstrous mounts, slaughtering half the tribe before we could even raise a defense." A muscle twitched in her jaw. "They took his sister. He chased after them, alone. Foolish."
A hollow laugh escaped her.
"I followed him. Even more foolish."
Femi nodded, the firelight carving deep shadows across his face. "Sense seems in short supply around here."
She shot him a sharp look, but there was no real heat in it. Instead, she exhaled slowly, her breath curling into the frigid air. "We tracked them for three days. Found their camp at dusk, two whelps against six grown men clad in steel." Her thumb absently traced a scar along her wrist, a pale green, knotted line on her green skin. Femi hadn't noticed until now. The firelight made it gleamed. "We killed them all."
The words hung in the air, heavier than the pyre's smoke.
Femi whistled. "Damn."
"After that, our tribe pledged itself to Grimvar's horde. They forged us into warriors, as all Krags are meant to be." She exhaled again. "We swore an oath. To die together on the same field. Back-to-back."
The fire crackled, underscoring the silence that followed.
But she didn't die with him.
Femi was lost on what to do. He wasn't good at this, comfort, grief, whatever the hell this was. But he tried.
"He died fighting," Femi said. "That's something."
Varga's arms locked tighter around herself. "I have to tell his sister of his death."
The fire popped, sending a shower of embers skyward.
Femi sighed, rubbing his furry neck. "Yeah, that part go pain person."
A beat.Then Varga let out a sharp, unexpected snort. "You're terrible at this."
"Never said I wasn't." He scratched his snout. "But you're still here and still standing. Bet that burns the your village People who wanted you dead today."
Varga looked at him, confusion flickering across her face. "Who are these 'Village People' you keep ranting about?"
Femi said, in a tone far too serious for the absurdity of his words, "The cause of all misfortune, in this world, or at least that's what my people believe."
Varga shook her head, but something in her stance loosened, the tension bleeding out of her shoulders. "You're a fool."
"And yet," Femi said, grinning, "you're still talking to me."
Silence again, but the tension was gone, replaced by something quieter, something almost comfortable. The pyre burned lower now, the bodies within reduced to ash and memory, the flames dwindling into embers that pulsed as if like dying hearts of an old goat.
"What now?" Femi asked.
Varga watched the flames, her face unreadable. "Now, I complete the mission given to me by the war chief."
"Is that all?"
"I will take his axe back to his sister and tell her how he fell."
"And after?"
She turned to him, her emerald eyes reflecting the dying fire, the depths of them unreadable. "After? I keep fighting."
Femi nodded. "Okay. As for me, I plan to avoid dying anytime soon."
They stood side by side as the pyre's glow faded to embers, the last of its warmth clinging to their skin and fur respectively like a reluctant farewell. Around them, the Krags' low hymn wound to its end, the last notes blending with the sigh of the wind. A cold night breeze curled around Femi, carrying the scent of smoke.
For once, he felt no dread of unseen eyes. He had successfully dodged his Village People lurking in the shadows. Tonight, he'd escaped them again.
And for now...that was enough.
-------
Femi didn't get much sleep that night. His eyes remained fixed on the shadow-laced woods, scanning for any flicker of movement, another Eri, perhaps, or something worse. But exhaustion eventually dragged him under, his fear dulled by the weight of fatigue. The cold ground beneath him a poor substitute for a proper bed.
His dreams were a fevered jumble.
A twirling figure draped in smoke, its limbs too long, its movements too fluid to be human. Goats with jagged, grinning maws circled beneath him in eerie, ritualistic steps, their hooves clicking against stone in a rhythm that made his skull ache. Their laughter wasn't sound but a vibration in his bones, a wrongness that clung even as he jerked awake at dawn, his fur matted with sweat despite the chill. The details blurred instantly, leaving only a sour dread in his throat. He was glad to let the fragments fade.
The Krags had already stirred by the time he rose. The rites for the fallen were done, the pyre ashes gathered into a clay urn. A single scout had been dispatched to carry them back to the main force, along with word of the Eri's attack. Of the original thirty-five, only fifteen remained, their numbers halved.
Femi rubbed his arms, the morning chill biting but not as vicious as before. The air had shifted, still cold, but more like the cold you get after heavy rain, damp and lingering, but not sharp enough to steal your breath. It was a small mercy. The injured were lashed to makeshift sleds woven from bark and rope, their groans a constant murmur beneath the crunch of boots on frosted earth.
By noon on the second day, they reached the destination, a clearing along the crumbling remains of an old road. Femi's stomach dropped.
This was it?
Just a stretch of snow covered meadow, hemmed in by skeletal trees, their branches bare and rattling in the wind. No fortifications, barely any accommodations worth the blood spilled to get here. Only a sagging house, its roof caved in, the door a rotten plank on the ground. The place looked like it had been abandoned for decades, maybe longer.
The only good thing was that the meadow was much larger than the one they'd camped in before, and the entire place seemed warmer, as if the earth itself held onto some lingering heat. Those were the only real differences Femi could see.
The wooden building had clearly degraded over the years, its timbers warped and splintered, its walls leaning precariously as if one strong gust would send them tumbling. Femi stood off to the side of Varga, who stood ahead, Ova's axe strapped to her back below her bow, its blade glinting dully in the weak sunlight. Femi edged closer, catching her low murmur to the others.
"When i was young my father told me this was humans land once," she said, voice rough. "Before the northern tribes drove them behind their walls."
"The humans are having a tough time right now. Heard from the spoils that their chiefs have been clawing at each other's throats for ten winters," an older Krag said, his voice gravelly with age.
"Makes 'em easy prey," one of the others replied before spitting onto the ground, the glob of saliva sinking into the frost-rimed earth.
"Easy?" Varga's snorted disdainfully in response. "Be wary of humans as you should be of monsters, mutants and any other abominations, Underestimate them, and you'll end up as ashes in a pot."
The Krag scoffed. "We survived an Eri. What's a few starved and traped humans?"
Varga's face darkened, a vein pulsing at her temple.
"You already know what our tribe plans to undertake and yet, it was this lack of fear and disregard for the dangers of the white wilds that brought us to the brink of annihilation by the Eri," Varga said, her voice suddenly hot, her face flushing with barely contained anger.
Femi almost took a step back from her in alarm. From what he has observed from her, she wasn't the type to quickly get angry, especially, not like this. She was usually in control. It must be due to her childhood friend's death, he realized. That grief was still raw, still twisting inside her like a knife.
Make I shift back small before she use anger flog my face by mistake. Femi thought while slightly stepping away from her.
"Calm down, Varga. You weren't the only one who lost a friend. But right now, we still have Krags who need shelter and proper care," the older Krag replied carefully, watching her.
Varga sighed, her anger fading into resignation. "You're right," she said.
The other Krag just grunted in response, and they both stared at the falling apart house in front of them for a while. Femi joined them, wondering whether this building would contain all of them, including the ones still behind.
After a few minutes, they rejoined the other Krags and set to work. Their group had much to do to prepare the new campsite before the others arrived.
First, they needed to repair the existing structures and clear the land. The tall grass and overgrown plants in the clearing had to be cut down and left to dry, some would be used for thatching the roofs, while the rest would make space for the camp.
The task reminded Femi of his school days, back when students were sent out to cut grass because the students looked like free labor.
They also cut down nearby trees, stockpiling the wood and branches for fuel and construction. After the fight, Femi had shown the Krags the trees he'd taken resin from, they called it tree blood and hadn't realized it could accelerate fires.
He also noticed their attitude toward him shifting, wary frowns were replaced with silent nods when he passed by. Their words, too, carried a new warmth, conversations were now laced with an ease that hadn't been there before.
It made him feel… good.
Varga had even started using his actual name more often instead of just calling him Ratling. He'd even managed to get a shirt and cloak, though not the designer wear he'd hoped for. The rough-textured brown fabric was plain and utilitarian, a far cry from the style he would've preferred. But what could a rat do? Beggars couldn't be choosers.
As they worked and waited for Areius and the wagons, varga sent Krags out to watch the road. Varga wanted to maintain contact with Areius, ensuring they stayed informed and avoided further ambushes.
Even after completing most of the initial tasks, Femi remained busy assisting the Krags with smaller chores, chopping wood, gathering herbs for the wounded, and hunting with Varga in the mornings before tending to afternoon duties.
Days passed since the Eri incident, and slowly, life settled back into a rhythm. Exploring the woods with Varga began to ease his nerves. The forest canopy no longer felt so oppressive, as long as he stayed near her and avoided the deeper shadows, he could almost call it peaceful.
Daily chores taught him more than he'd expected. The first skill he mastered was skinning rabbits, a messy affair, though not so different from butchering a chicken for holiday supper.
Next came fire-making. Not his resin-fueled shortcuts, but the proper way by arranging tinder, striking flint against steel, or laboriously rubbing sticks together until his palms burned. Varga guided him through each method, her patience as steady as the flames they coaxed to life. It was grueling at first, but necessity sharpens even the dullest skills.
Another great proof of his progress came in the form of a new knife, its handle carved with the proud curve of a mountain goat, it blade made of sharpened stone. This new knife meant more than just a tool, it showed that he was becoming better with the skills he had learnt and if he wants to survive this devil's playground of a world, that was very existential.
Varga had informed him that he'd be learning to trap rabbits on his own tomorrow and for some inexplicable reason, the idea felt familiar. Perhaps he'd done it before in one of those strange, half-remembered dreams.
After carefully cleaning his new knife, the goat-carved handle already fitting comfortably in his belt, he packed up for the night and settled onto his new sleeping mat.
"I am truly living the dream now, he thought wryly, staring at the stars, close to the house. And in some twisted way, he was.