The pyre burned high into the night, its flames clawing at the star-strewn sky. The fallen Krags he'd never known, and Ova, lay arranged atop the stacked wood, their weapons beside them like silent sentinels. They burned clean, fiercely bright, smoke coiling upward in thick, amber-lit spirals.
The surviving Krags hummed a low, mournful hymn as the fire consumed what remained. The melody wove through the crackling roar, a sound older than words.
Femi sat apart, his back pressed to a snow-crusted boulder, watching the flames twist and writhe. His wounds had been bandaged, crudely but well enough, and the fire's heat almost dulled the cold gnawing at his bones.
Almost.
Varga stood beside the pyre, her silhouette stark against the firelight. She hadn't spoken since they'd dragged the Eri's carcass away, since they'd gathered the dead. She just… stared.
Femi had seen that look before.
Heaving himself up with a grunt, he limped toward her. The snow crunched underfoot, but she didn't turn.
"You knew him well," Femi asked.
Varga's jaw tightened. For a long moment, he thought she wouldn't answer. Then...
"Ova and I...." Her voice was low, rough. " aren't really that close ." A pause. "We met when we were young and I really didn't like him."
Femi said nothing as the fire crackled between them.
"We were near the age for our coming-of-age rites when human raiders came," she continued, fingers digging into her folded arms. "The chief was away. They rode in on their mounts, slaughtering half the tribe." 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 shadows across his face. "Sense seems in short supply around here."
She shot him a sharp look but continued. "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, knotted line Femi hadn't noticed until now. "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, her breath curling into the frigid air. "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 chewed his lip. 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 snourt. "But you're still here and still standing. Bet that burns the your village People who wanted you dead today."
Varga looked at him, with confusion, "Who are these 'Village People' you keep ranting about?"
Femi said, in a serious tone "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. "You're a fool."
"And yet," Femi said, grinning, "you're still talking to me."
Silence again, but the tension was gone. The pyre burned lower, the bodies within reduced to ash and memory.
"What now?" Femi asked.
Varga watched the flames. "Now, l 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, eyes reflecting the dying fire. "After? I keep fighting."
Femi nodded. "Okay. As for me, I plan to avoid dieing anytime soon."
They stood side by side as the pyre's glow faded to embers. 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 and pine.
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.
His dreams were a fevered jumble: a twirling figure draped in smoke, goats with jagged, grinning maws circling beneath him in eerie, ritualistic steps. Their laughter wasn't sound but a vibration in his bones, a wrongness that clung even as he jerked awake at dawn. 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. 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 overgrown meadow, hemmed in by skeletal trees. No fortifications, barely any accomodations worth the blood spilled to get here. Only a sagging house, its roof caved in, the door a rotten plank on the ground.
The only good thing was that the meadow was much larger than the one they had been camped in before at least and the entire place seemed to be a lot warmer. Those were the only real good differences femi could see.
The wooden building had clearly degraded over the years since it had been abandoned. Looking like it would collapse at any time. Femi stood off to the side of Varga, who stood ahead, Ova's axe strapped to her back below her bow. 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
"Makes 'em easy prey." one of the other krag replied before spitting onto the ground.
"Easy?" Varga's snorted disdainfully in response. "Be wary of humans as you should be of monsters, mutants and even an Eri, 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. She had never showed her anger before ! She was usually so in control. It must probably due to her childhood friend death, that's still troubling her.
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 ruins in front of them for a while. Femi joined them, wondering whether this building will 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 pine water 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.