The group let out a collective sigh. Although the fool had been pathetic, he had still once been part of the village. With his death, one less survivor remained.
"We must move," Valen said, a tinge of worry seeping through his calm exterior.
He knew the creatures hunted by smell, thanks to his uncle's ingenuity. And so the group was now covered in varying layers of rendling filth, betting on the fact the beasts would grow nose-blind to their own stench.
Each survivor had a thin cloth wrapped around their face, something the elderly nun had insisted upon. She had muttered something about sickness and disease, though Valen had not quite understood.
Among them were two carts, each pulled by four individuals. The group was twenty-five strong: nine guards, fifteen villagers, and one Valen. Though, in truth, the elderly nun and his uncle were worth more than several guards each.
Valen had never traveled this far from his village. Already they were a few hours away, though their pace left much to be desired. It could not be helped. Dragging two carts up steep hills while accompanied by three children was no easy task.
The land between Ashford and the next village rolled in wide, uneven hills, their grassy slopes long since trampled into rough paths.
Argon led the way. His work as a builder had taken him to nearby settlements many times before. Earlier he had drawn a crude map onto a piece of cloth, using crushed berries as ink. The red stains had smeared in places, but it was still better than nothing.
Between Ashford and their destination lay two other villages. Both had been smaller than Ashford and had received no support from the military or the church.
It couldn't be helped.
Here on the fringes of humanity, life was dangerous.
Finding an accomplished builder in these lands was like finding a needle in a haystack.
They would have to cross two large hills before reaching a stretch of open plains. Beyond the plains lay an offshoot of the great forest. And somewhere along its edge stood the settlement they were heading toward.
According to Argon, it was hardly a village at all.
More of a watchtower.
A tall stone tower surrounded by a handful of small huts.
The nun chimed in that the military had built it years ago. When the frontline moved deeper into the Thornveil Forest, the post had been abandoned.
"Ah, but some wandering migrants made it their home," Argon said, stepping over small piles of hardened dung. "Lovely people. Said they wanted to find their inner peace or something. So they moved away from civilization."
"A shame," the old woman murmured. "The brown-spotted cow used to graze on these hills."
The hills surrounding Ashford had once been full of life. But when the war swept through the region, most of the animals fled. And those that hadn't were hunted down for food.
"They still do," Argon chuckled. "Just few and far between. Give it a few more years and they might run out of babies."
Valen had little idea what the elders were talking about. Neither did Lyra.
"What war?" Valen asked. "And what's a cow?"
Argon slowed his pace slightly, glancing back.
"I suppose it's too late to keep secrets from you now. The war between the human kingdom of Valedryn and the orc kingdom of Kragnar."
A few heads nodded along. The adults had all heard stories of the orcs.
Larger than men. Brutish. Violent.
Creatures that reveled in bloodshed.
They fed on whatever raw flesh they could find, and some were even said to keep monsters as pets.
"Ah… it must have been those brutes that sent the beasts," someone muttered.
"The cows sent those beasts?" Valen asked, brow furrowing as he tried to follow his uncle's explanation.
"What? No, no," Argon laughed. "Cows are animals. Big ones. Bigger than those beasts we fought earlier."
He spread his hands wide as he walked.
"Their heads tipped in horns. Their hooves shaped more like a horse's. And their bodies…" he grinned.
"They were delicious."
Valen's mind raced, silently promising revenge against the cruel orcs. He turned back, staring into the distance. By now, the village he had known his entire life was little more than a hazy silhouette. The only structure he could still make out was the church.
As if responding to his gaze, a flock of birds suddenly burst into the sky. They rose from the direction of the village, their dark shapes scattering across the clouds before sweeping overhead.
"We must hurry," urged Lyra, her eyes darting between the distant village and the birds overhead.
Valen had begun to trust Lyra's uncanny intuition. And so had many others in the group. Extra caution never hurt anyone.
Soon the travelling survivors pressed onward. The children sat atop the carts while the adults — Valen included — pulled.
The wheels groaned as the carts rolled over the uneven hillside. Loose stones shifted beneath tired boots, occasionally tumbling down the slope with a faint clatter. A cold breeze swept across the open hill, carrying with it the lingering stench of rendling filth that clung stubbornly to their clothes.
"Only a little more, and we will be done with this hellish climb for a moment," Valen encouraged. His body was still weak, though it was recovering quickly. Ignoring his mother's worried gaze, he pressed on, marching with the rope pulled taut in his hands. The rough fibers bit into his palms with every strained step.
"If I remember correctly, those cows were excellent at pulling carts like these," the nun remarked. "One cow could outpull half of us with ease… at least now that I'm old."
Her weary, aged eyes scanned the horizon. One more hill, and they'd be back on flat ground. The next rise was shorter, the gradient shallow, and the climb far easier than the last.
Soon, the survivors stood before a wall of trees. A narrow path wound through the thick forest, its edges tangled with brambles and moss-covered roots.
"This path should take us straight through to our destination. We are close!" Argon mused, his voice carrying a hint of pride. He knew it was only the first stop in a far longer journey.
The forest air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in pale, fractured beams, painting shifting patterns on the undergrowth. From deep within the trees came a faint rumble, steady and unyielding—the roar of a river that never slept.
"That river takes you to the basin," Argon explained, gesturing with his trusty hammer "Not that you should ever go there. It's wide, dangerous, and… unsettling. Been there. Done that."
"The basin is in the great forest?"
"No," Argon corrected. "Rather, it's beneath it. No one really knows how it formed—or if it's even natural. But below Thornveil Forest lies the basin. Rumor has it, an ancient blue dragon once called it home."
The survivors exchanged uneasy glances. From their vantage, the river's distant roar seemed to whisper of untold depths, of shadows moving beneath the surface, and of things better left unseen.