The battle outside did not so much end as it unraveled. The disciplined, melodic calls of the Elven commanders were gradually drowned out by the cacophonous, mindless roar of the Goblin horde. The Frost-Tribe, huddled in their cave, listened to the war's grim symphony change its tune. The sharp ping of blade on blade was replaced by the wet, meaty thuds of clubs and the sickening cracks of breaking bone. The elegant, flowing movements of the Elves were being overwhelmed by the sheer, swarming mass of the Goblins.
Then, as suddenly as it had intensified, the noise began to recede. It was a slow ebbing, like a tide pulling back from a bloody shore. The guttural shouts and shrieks grew fainter, moving down the slope, back towards the tree line. A final, defiant blast of emerald magic lit up the entrance, followed by a unified Goblin roar of triumph, and then… silence.
A heavy, profound silence fell over the mountain. It was more unnerving than the clamor of battle. It was the silence of a field after the crows have finished their work.
No one in the cave moved for a long time. They waited, ears straining, hearts pounding, for the sound of returning footsteps. Would the victorious Goblins, their bloodlust still high, remember the little morsels hiding in the rock? Or the defeated Elves, in their retreat, decide to take one final, spiteful vengeance?
But the silence held.
Slowly, cautiously, Gron crept to the cave mouth. The scene that met his eyes was one of utter desolation. The newly-formed slope was littered with the dead. Slender Elven forms lay twisted and broken amidst the brutish, green-skinned Goblin bodies. The pristine snow was churned into a red and silver mud. Weapons, both elegant and crude, lay discarded. It was a painting of mutual annihilation.
"They're gone," Gron announced, his voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly might summon the carnage back to life. "Both sides. They've left their dead."
A collective, shuddering sigh of relief passed through the tribe. The immediate, sharp-toothed threat was over. But a new, more insidious danger was already seeping into the cave to take its place.
It was the stench. The coppery smell of human blood from their own wounded was now mingled with the cloying, sweet-sour odor of decaying Elf and the foul, musky reek of Goblin. It was a smell that promised sickness. It clung to the back of the throat, a greasy, invisible fog.
And with it came the flies. First just a few, a lazy, buzzing drone. Then more, drawn from leagues away by the feast of death. They formed a black, shimmering cloud at the cave entrance, a living curtain of filth.
"We cannot stay here," Kala said, her voice firm despite the weariness etched on her face. She gestured to the wounded. "Bor's leg, Fen's head… this air will poison their wounds. It will poison us all."
Gron knew she was right. The cave, their fortress, their home, had been contaminated. It was no longer a sanctuary; it was a tomb in the making. But the thought of leaving, of venturing out into that charnel house and down into a valley now ruled by warring ancient races, was terrifying.
"The Voice," a weak voice croaked from the shadows. It was Fen, struggling to prop himself up on an elbow. His eyes were still unfocused, but his will was clear. "Karuk… he found a way. He has the Voice."
All eyes turned to Gron. Karuk. His son, who had descended into the abyss and returned as a prophet, a bringer of fire and slings. Who had somehow summoned a walking mountain to their aid. Where was he now?
As if in answer, a faint, familiar call echoed from across the chasm. It was the sound of the sling, the sharp whirr and thwack they had all grown accustomed to. Then, a small, dark shape tumbled from the sky and landed with a soft thud just outside the cave mouth. It was a plump tree-sleeper, freshly killed.
A moment later, another followed. And another. A steady, rhythmic delivery of food from the unseen brother across the void.
Karuk was still there. He was watching. He was providing.
The sight of the food, and the proof of Karuk's survival, acted like a spark on dry tinder. It was a message, clearer than any shout: I am here. There is a way. Follow me.
"We leave," Gron declared, his decision solidifying. "At first light. We take what we can carry. We follow the path Karuk found."
The tribe stirred, a flicker of purpose returning to their exhausted faces. But the cost of the day was not yet fully paid.
As the long, tense afternoon wore on, a fever took hold of Bor. His leg, which had been merely painful, began to swell and turn an angry red. His skin grew hot to the touch, and he drifted in and out of consciousness, muttering about mammoths and forgotten hunts. Kala and the other women did what they could, applying cool compresses and the last of their healing poultices, but a deep-seated fear settled in the cave. A warrior could survive a blade, but no one could survive the rot-spirit that invaded a wound.
And Fen… Fen's confusion worsened. He no longer recognized his own wife. He called Gron by his father's name and asked for water from a river that had dried up before he was born. He was a man physically present but whose spirit was wandering in a lost country of memory.
The emotional high of their survival had crashed into the grim, grinding reality of their situation. They were alive, but they were wounded, sick, and trapped in a stinking cave with their dead and dying. The silence outside was no longer a relief; it was a void, filled with the buzz of flies and the ragged, fevered breathing of their friends.
As dusk began to paint the sky, Gron stood at the cave mouth, looking across at the distant ledge where he knew his son was waiting. The gulf between them felt immense, more than just a physical chasm. Karuk lived in a new world, a world of Voices and earth-fire and titans. Gron's world was here, in this cave of suffering, bound by the ancient, crushing duties of a chief to his people.
He had led them through a day of fire and blood. Now, he had to lead them through a night of sickness and grief, and towards a dawn that promised only more unknown terror. The path forward was dark, and the only guide was the echo of a sling from a son he was no longer sure he knew.