Strange Tidings
Life on the open road seemed to agree with the Hatchling, though after weeks of effort pushing the sled being stuck immobile in hiding left him with an irritating excess of energy he knew not what to do with. The boredom of his enforced secrecy it began to worry at him like a stubborn splinter trapped beneath a scale, gnawing always at the borders of his awareness. His best efforts to ignore it seemed only to intensify the sensation until his tail thrashed and limbs twitched, and Cynwise wondered aloud if he was succumbing to a freeze-madness. Mental games with Thrymja took the edge off his irritation at first, but if the wolf lacked anything it was a well developed wit; her mind knew only the ways of the wilds and winds, and had little interest in the warping of words and wisdom. Quickly she would lose interest and wander off. Boredom only enhanced the irritation.
"Stupid, bloody stupid I say."
"You always say that Roff, have I led you astray?"
"Yes!"
Such was the flavour of conversation to be had. After a surprisingly restful night sheltered beneath their goods, the Huntress and her entourage set out into the cold once again, leaving behind the smoke-stained settlement and its noisy caverns with a few less pelts and three new casks of supplies. Unfortunately, they were not alone. Roff was loud and frequent in his complaints and did not seem inclined to grow word weary as the day progressed. Worse still, Roff occupied all of Cynwise's attention, giving the young dragon no chance to ask the questions about their discussion that buzzed in his mind and cast dark glances at him whenever he surfaced from his furry confinement. In a foul temper the Hatchling had taken to curling up deep beneath the pile and growled if anyone disturbed him.
Though, the Hatchling was forced to grudgingly admit, the man did seem to have his uses. Before midday horsemen bearing the white feathers of Westgard had demanded to search their sled for contraband, and only relented when Roff browbeat their leader into submission. Clearly he held some influence in these parts, or at perhaps it was his imposing figure that gave him an edge.
"Influence? In a way." Cynwise said when the Hatchling probed her wisdom as Roff wandered a short way off to urinate noisily on the leaf litter. "He was the leader of a mercenary cadre that patrolled the Ash Wastes and kept the monsters at bay. On the scheme of things there's not much to show for it; the company disbanded many years ago after it went bankrupt, but he still commands some respect and renown. Guarding the wastes is a dangerous task most men shun to spare their own hides." She chuckled. "That's how he got the limp."
"Fighting in the Wastes?"
"Yes... in a way," She said evasively. "There are Trow and Gagori living in the mountains, and they like to use the ash storms as cover. Normally they fall well short of any settled lands, but some years they're worse than others. Whole towns are engulfed and never heard from again." She watched Thrymja hurtle through the undergrowth after a hare. "That's what we did. The mercenaries took the fight to the Gagori and culled them off before they could attack us. It's a bloody, awful business killing women and young, but they'd do exactly the same to us if they had the chance. That much I know all too well."
"What do they look like?"
"Lizardy things; not much like the Sandrunners though. Walk and talk like men, but that's about it. They might even be distant cousins of yours, though I'm no scholar to tell you for certain. They're bloody vicious if you back 'em into a corner, and damn hard to kill if you can't get their heads off right away." She frowned as Roff pulled up his pants and stumped back over to the sled. "Anyways, less of that. Where you're going there won't be a Gagori for a thousand leagues."
He grumbled at the reminder of his impending departure. She had described in detail the vast open savannahs and wide rivers of the south, and though he couldn't deny the change of scenery appealed to him he had no wish to be separated from either her or Thrymja. She sniffed, seeing he was chagrined with her blatant change of subject. "You're getting better with the language. Before you could hardly speak, and now you've got a Northman's accent. Imagine that, a dragon with a Bálheim tongue!" She shook her head. "After you're gone I'm going to make a mint telling this tale."
As the week progressed he took to sleeping whenever he could. It was certainly the easier option; that was he didn't have to jealously watch Cynwise and Roff's easy companionship and it cut down on the fighting. He found himself harbouring an irrational dislike for the man, an impulse not helped by the knowledge that the feeling was very much mutual. There seemed to be a connection between the two humans that he utterly failed to grasp; Roff was loud and clearly more given to the comforts of a warm hearth and full mug, and Cynwise thrived in the wilderness and open air, seeming almost nervous when they passed the occasional trade caravan. They argued and bantered constantly, and he began to fear the noise was in danger of driving him mad.
Still, no matter how abrasive they were to each other their arguments never descended past an almost congenial bickering. At least until Roff's opinion on the Hatchling was consulted, or more likely, offered without invitation. It was the only time the Hatchling saw genuine anger in her eyes, and he wondered that she did not strike him. He guessed it was something to do with the time they had once spent fighting together. Even Thrymja sensed it and glanced nervously between the two, looking as though she wanted to bite someone. The shy wolf liked Roff even less than the Hatchling; his loud, smelly, boisterous presence was completely at odds with what she had ever experienced of humans, save for her accompanying the Huntress into the settlement. He'd questioned the wolf intimately on what she had seen within that strange underground man-warren and took in every word as she described pigs rotating over a naked flame, straw strewn floors and a strange drink that smelled like rotten fruit and honey. He was most interested in the music though; he'd found himself longing for the entrancing, wavering tunes that echoed through the tunnels and lulled him so easily to sleep. It saddened him greatly that he'd never hear those sounds again.
As the days passed the air grew warmer, and the snow turned to sleet. The dampness gave the world a musty scent that hung in the air and around the leaf litter, though refreshingly so. The new warmth added vigour to the Hatchling, and his confinement within the sled became unbearable, especially when subjected to Roff's constant complaints against him.
No matter how much he begged, the Huntress forbade him to hop out and trot alongside as Thrymja was want to do. No amount of protesting or thrashing of tail could dissuade her, and she threatened to gag him if he didn't stop his complaints. That night, driven by frustration, insomnia and no small amount of bloody-mindedness he slipped away in the darkness and returned soon after sunrise with a fat turkey clenched firmly in his jaws. For his disobedience he earned himself a thrashing with a thick rope, but the Huntress grudgingly allowed that he could hunt with Thrymja, but only after dark.
The relief was much needed. By the dark shroud of night he could traverse the tangled roots and stalk flighty owls that flitted between the trees like pale ghosts on silent wings. The watchful birds were a welcome challenge, giving him the mental and physical stimulation that he so desperately craved and testing the limits of his stealth and endurance. Whilst he slithered in the branches, Thrymja would pace and snuffle in the undergrowth seeking for sheltering rats and mice, and once uncovering a hedgehog from its haven beneath a mat of leaves. The two puzzled over the spiky creature for hours before abandoning it, finding its spines too tough to chew through and too painful to play with.
Perhaps their most interesting, and most dangerous discovery on their nightly romps amidst the boughs was a camp of men.
They had dragged their caravan a distance into the woods for protection and shelter, and lay close to a fire beneath branches lashed together into crude canopies. Unlike the Huntress' meek affair these man led a long string of carts, towed by powerful oxen that slumbered tied to their burdens. The scent of cooking and fresh and bloody meat hung around them like an aura and set the two animal's stomachs aquiver. Thrymja led the two downwind through the thickest of the trees, showing the Hatchling how she could creep along on her belly to simply blend in with the rest of the shadows, and urged them to a stop just outside the penumbra of firelight.
"Lotsa men means lotsa waste, good pickings hey?" The wolf chortled. "In and out quick-quick and we'll have ourselves a bellyful 'o fresh meat, not that horrible dry stuff."
After some nosing around the edge of camp and being careful not to disturb the sleeping oxen, they pinpointed the traveller's supplies to a sack hung from the high limb of a tree. The kill must have been fresh, for blood seeped from the sack and spattered the ground at its base. It was the work of seconds to locate and nibble through the rope that tied it off, the Hatchling starting as the suddenly unrestrained rope hissed over the rough surface of the bark, catching it just in time to lower the heavy sack silently to the ground. With a silent darting motion Thrymja snapped it up into her jaws and pranced off into the trees to eat her share whilst the Hatchling amused himself by rummaging through the goods in the caravan, nosing open containers of beads and shaped ceramics. Ever since her fight with Roff the Huntress had been withdrawn and unusually quiet; paying more attention to the trees surrounding the road and calls of birds in the air. For the last week they had travelled in a near silence so pervasive that the Hatchling had been able to share a scant few civil words with even Roff, and he wondered if a gift might lift her spirits. Sniggering, they stole back through the night to present their spoils to the humans, dropping them at their feet where they might be discovered in the morning.
One afternoon he was jerked from his slumber by the clash of blades, and distaste sent him from the fur pile like a cat treading on a hot coal. Before he could master himself he was coiled around Roff's leg like a constricting snake and his teeth were sunk into the man's thigh. For that incident he gained a bloodied snout, but the memory of the fat man hopping around and yelling like a fool as he tried ineffectually to pry apart the dragon's jaws warmed his temper to no end. Cynwise laughed so hard that she had to lean on her spear before cajoling Roff into stillness long enough to unpick her charge's fangs. Impressed by his determination and growing tired of the pent up aggression she invited him to join in their future sparring sessions. Her eyes carried a malevolent gleam, knowing that his instinctual thirst for action would drive him to accept the offer even as she promised to be a harsh teacher, and enthusiastically described in intimate detail all manner of evils one could inflict on another with a blade.
Miffed by her effort at manipulation he subdued his initial impulse, but before he could utter a word Roff all but exploded with indignancy, calling her a cloud headed fool and urging her to drop the idea. The moment the man shut up the Hatchling eagerly accepted her tuition.
His boredom was relieved somewhat by the exercise, though the necessity of secrecy meant dragging the sled away from the road which was an onerous task now that the snow drifts had melted to ice. He was wary at first to be so close to unsheathed weapons, especially given the less than savoury temperament of the big Northman. His feeling of trepidation only intensified as Cynwise squared up to demonstrate her spear technique.
"The really dangerous part of a spear," She said, twirling it like a staff. "Is the tip. There are other ways to use it, but for now that's all you need to be worried about. If you can get inside the spearman's reach they're vulnerable, damn nigh defenceless if you're fast and agile. Let's see you try."
When he regained his senses, the coppery tang of blood in his mouth, they reviewed what he did wrong.
"A little too low on the leap, I think." She said, slapping him back to full consciousness. "You go for a cow's ankles like that and you'll hamstring them, but try it with a trained soldier and you get kicked in the face."
"Owww..."
"Quit whining, if you think that's bad you should sign up for the regiments."
When the world had stopped spinning enough that he could stand once again, she corrected his stance and pointed out the mistakes in his strike. She showed him how to duck away from the initial thrust, and weave around the shaft to pounce at the wielder; how humans were heavier at the top than the bottom, so it was better to hit them high up to knock them off their feet. He watched as Cynwise and Roff exchanged a furious flurry of blows, showing the versatility of their weapons; how a sword could weave to strike at a vulnerable spot and a spear's reach could keep a foe at a distance. Occasionally she stopped the sparring long enough to correct an error in his stance or offer advice. Her eyes held a fierce, determined light as she fought; the same expression her face had held moments after he broke his shell, or when he had led her to Thrymja; it was the look of a fox stalking a vole, or an eagle diving upon a rabbit just before the kill.
When it was finally time to move on again he was covered in dust and bruises, and much to his annoyance hadn't succeeded in landing a single blow.
"Not bad, not bad at all." Cynwise said, taking a swig from her waterskin and pouring some on the ground for him to lap up. "You're damn fast, I'll tell you that much. Not very coordinated though. You think about things too much and that hesitation gives away when and where you're going to strike. With a bit of practice I could make a fine soldier out of you."
"Or a rug, or a pair of boots." muttered Roff. Cynwise swiped his backside with the butt of her spear.
"Don't listen to that sour-grape, you're still young. I should like to see you match up to him when you've a score of years behind you." She said venomously then paused, cocking her head. Thrymja had stopped too, her ears flicking this way and that as she took in some distant sound.
"What is it?" Roff said, hurrying over to the Huntress with his sword unsheathed.
"Horses, carrying men and steel." Growled Thrymja unheeded by the humans, her hackles rising.
"Hoof-beats, about twenty and heavy laden. They're moving towards us pretty fast." Cynwise said, turning to the Hatchling. "You. Sled. Now."
He did as told rather than risk her foot on his backside again, slithering beneath the mass of furs. No sooner had he got settled than a host of riders rounded the grove of trees, their shaggy mounts pushing aside the branches and darting into the clearing. The men wore chainmail and helms of leather that obscured their faces, and carried long handled axes with a purposeful air. The Hatchling recognised their scent as the watch-riders who patrolled the roads, chancing a peek from beneath the covers once the men had spread out around the clearing, arranging themselves in such a way to make any surprise ambush from the trees extremely difficult.
"What goes here? Why do riders of Westgard waylay a trade caravan?" Roff called in the Common tongue, his rough baritone carrying a hint of anger that made the horses closest to him whinny nervously. The men of Westgard spoke amongst themselves in their own language and the Huntress laid a hand upon Thrymja's head, silently urging the wolf to stay calm.
"Merchants on the road said they heard fighting from the trees, I trust there is no problem?" Their leader replied in the Bálheim language. He was a tall man, markedly thinner and darker of skin than either of the former mercenaries and spoke with a haughty and aristocratic, if bored air. Clearly he thought he had better things to do than chase up on merchant's stories. He lounged in the saddle, plucking at the richly embroidered white scarf and similar sash he wore around his waist. The Hatchling watched Roff's eyes follow the subtle motion and the fat man's sudden transformation from proud irate northerner to genuflecting simpleton.
"Oh we's just keeping in practice is all my lord it is. Can't be too careful on the roads now my lord, no sir! Thems' mountains are a dangerous place for th' likes of us!" He said, punctuating each sentence with a low bow.
"Shut up." The lead horseman said pleasantly. "You two are aware that Ashkar have been spotted skulking near the Eastern pass?"
"The Eastern pass?" Cynwise interjected, overruling Roff's next bout of semi-sarcastic bootlicking. "We'd heard they were lurking around the Aren Highlands little more than a week ago."
"Guess again." The proud man said, fiddling with his moustache. "Our patrols found a full warband outside of Falkholm early yesterday. We're to warn all travellers away from the pass until they're dealt with. If I were you, I'd find a waystation and settle in for the time being."
"They sent a Knight of the Star to warn mere merchants?" Cynwise asked innocently, but it was a question with a hook on the end.
"Hah!" The rider laughed, startling everyone and causing snow to drop from the branches. "No such thing. We're here to check if they've infiltrated the pass or not. If you thought they were fifty leagues away then your guess was the same as ours; to find them so close and so soon is a mystery." He harrumphed. "Most likely they were already on the march here even before the Cimerians routed them." He leaned forward in the saddle, apparently examining them, his eyes taking in Roff's naked and notched blade and the Huntress' calm, poised stance. "If you two are merchants then I'm a peasant. Strange tidings..."
Without further ado he wheeled his mount and set off back the way he's come at a fast trot, followed closely by his men. Only when the sound of hooves had finally died away did they sheathe their weapons.
"Strange tidings indeed." Muttered Cynwise, exhaling the breath she'd been holding.
"Well that bloody cooks it." Roff groused, after the thunder had died down. "Might as well head back. If we're lucky we might make it before the rains start."
"And what about him?" Cynwise said, gesturing to the cart. "It'll take them weeks to hunt 'em all down. In that time he's bound to be discovered if we go back to the trade post." She pointed a warning finger at him before he'd even finished opening his mouth. "And if you suggest leaving him I'll shove your head up your arse."
"Cyn..."
"Shut it. I ain't leaving 'im."
"What's your obsession with the bloody thing? It's a dragon; they're monsters through and through!" He raged, his already ruddy face flushed hot despite the cold. "You're so addled with the damn thing you'll risk Ashkar!" He stamped his feet. "You're a soldier Cyn, and you've fought 'em before; they can track a fart through a parson's arsehole. If you go they'll find ye, and we both know what that means."
"Aye, and you're not me bloody husband!" She shot back. "It's a risk I'm willing to take. If we take it slow then we should hit the plains just as the rain starts. That'll mask out scent."
"And if they find you anyways?" He glared, challenging her. She turned her back on him and moved off to load up the sled, but he followed, grabbing her by the shoulder and spinning her around viciously.
"If that's where you're heading, then I won't be coming. I'm not helping you get yourself killed." He said, his voice flat and emotionless. The Hatchling sensed again the connection between them, and was surprised to see the proud Huntress relent, her shoulders slumping.
"Too many Roff," She said, shaking her head sadly. "I watched too many lads who had no business being away from home get themselves killed. Couldn't do a damn thing about it then." She said, and the Hatchling was surprised to see that she was crying. "But this time I have a choice. And I'm not going to let the little one get torn apart by wolves or spitted on some horseman's lance. I'm seeing 'im safe through, and after that... That's up to him. I'll have done my bit. Go back if you want to, but I'm staying." And with that she shouldered her spear and took up the sled once again, dragging it through the crisp snow and out onto the seemingly endless road.
The Hatching watched from the back of the sled as Roff stood stationary, apparently regarding the retreating cart with a jaundiced eye, his eyes seeming to bore into the Hatchling's own. For the longest moment it looked that he would turn back and rid himself of their company, but just as it seemed he was turning to walk away, the man gave a loud curse and trudged on in their wake.
It was only on their third night after their encounter with the horsemen that he noticed all the caravans were headed in the opposite direction.
The few they met on the wayside were blue-lipped and haggard, their eyes either panicked and wary or empty of all emotion. Along with the traders came others; those without carts or feathers who walked carrying bundles on their backs and dirty-faced babies in their arms; men, women and children who moved as swiftly and silently as their legs could carry them, leaving only the scent of desperate fear and relief in their wake. Some were wounded. A few were dead; their hastily dug graves littered the wayside like the work of some obscene mole.
With that all thoughts of levity vanished. The warmth that had given him vigour and vitality now seemed cloying. The breeze, once refreshing was now reviled, and carried on it the distant stink of smoke. They kept off the roads where they could, moving as silently as shadows only by day. By night Thrymja and the Hatchling secreted themselves among the trees and kept a hidden lookout without needing to be asked; their newfound freedom and joy in raiding curtailed by caution. The Hatchling began to understand Roff's outburst, and Cynwise fared little better; her fear was palpable and every snap of a twig or loud call of a bird sent her hand flying to the sword, which she now wore at her hip day and night. Often she would hold them up and listen to the breeze, every bit as still and tensed as a spooked deer. Even the rambunctious bustle of spring had all but ground to a halt, as though it feared to move.
The Huntress continued to show him how to fight, but now her teaching had taken on a more urgent air. Her patience was short and his mistakes many, and her promise to be a harsh teacher held true; she pushed him relentlessly, giving him a nick if he made a mistake or let his concentration wander for the barest of seconds. They moved from dodging spear thrusts to swordplay, and from that to finding the weak spots in armour. He learned somewhat painfully that a dragon's scales were not completely proof against crushing, and wouldn't withstand a direct blow from anything with a hardened edge. As the tally of his injuries built he learned nearly by accident that moving with the blows would let them slide off his hide without cutting.
No wonder there were so few dragons.
It was all too easy to imagine others of his kind making the self same arrogant assumptions perpetuated by generations of ignorance and falling prey to their own prey. Humans weren't some joke of the celestial powers made manifest as their odd appearance and eccentric habits would suggest. Their weapons and ingenuity made up for what they lacked in physical presence; their awkward, almost comical two legged gait let them turn faster and react quicker, and if he tried the same attack more than once he invariably picked up a fresh wound. He saw that over time an experienced human could learn to anticipate an attack and move to deflect it before the blow was even thrown, and had to constantly re-invent his method of fighting to keep his opponent unsure. In a few short days of mock fighting he was forced to re-evaluate everything he thought he knew; the inherited memories that had served so well teaching him to survive couldn't have been more wrong with regards to the hominids. Far from a joke, they were downright dangerous.
As the days went by the mountains shrank to hills, and hills became plains deeply scarred by floods of glacial melt. The deep forests were replaced with rolling swathes of tall grasses and thick, thorny bush that sprouted tiny red flowers. In the flat, snowless land the sled was of little use and the Huntress took turns with Roff dragging it along the uneven and rutted road. When they passed the final waystation- a lonely wooden outpost atop an otherwise barren hill- the Huntress departed with the sled, ordered the Hatchling and Thrymja to lie low in a thorny thicket, and returning later in the day with a rickety cart similar to those they had been raiding. The contraption was drawn by a pair of wilful horses, which snorted and stamped even though the humans kept them blinkered and led them downwind of the waiting animals. The horses wouldn't budge until Cynwise uprooted a sizable patch of mint and dumped it into their nosebags, after which they were more willing to comply with some encouragement from a riding crop. The creatures dwarfed the Hatchling, and he was loath to approach the powerful iron shod hooves until Cynwise lost patience and picked him up bodily, slinging him into the baggage.
From then on the journey became a miserable one. Deciding to press onwards, Cynwise took the cart away from the road and into the rain-washed clefts between the hills, where watchful eyes would be less likely to spot it. The sharp scent of crushed mint leaves overpowered everything; even the stink of Roff's sweat and Thrymja's matted fur. Despite this it seemed to do little to quell the horse's temper, and they were all forced to constantly watch their footing lest the brutes lash out with a kick or sidestep onto an unwary foot. With danger in the air he couldn't wander far, and the Huntress and Roff were all but silent; forever listening to the bird calls and scanning the horizon. The grass and bush was unfamiliar to both he and Thrymja and their few hunts turned up nothing of interest, so little that they were reduced to sniffing out carrion in the irregular crags that scarred the landscape. Amidst it all the one boon was their isolation. In a week they'd passed no other travellers, and so the Huntress didn't bother to order him into hiding among the furs.
That was probably the only reason he detected the attack coming before it struck.
Possibly only a dragon's eyes could have picked out the flutter amidst the undergrowth. Thrymja and the horses saw only monochrome, and though the Humans had a predator's eyes they worked by distinguishing colour, nor movement. The tartan dress and dappled pelts of the Ashkar hid them well amidst the thick gorse, and it was only when the first drew back its axe to cut a deadly arc that their position was revealed. His warning shriek burst the air and sent the birds terrified from their lofty haunts, but it also had the effect of sending Roff and Cynwise to the ground. Which was why when the thrown axe struck home it did so into the flank of the lead horse and not Roff's skull.
The humans were on their feet in a flash, years of hard experience and preparation telling in every move. Cynwise met the first creature with the tip of her spear as it broke cover, driving the stone-tipped weapon deep into its guts and slashing out its throat with her dagger as it staggered back in agony. Three more burst from the undergrowth, huge and deadly fast; their features contorted with rage and terrible bloodlust. The Hatchling dived from the sled, away from the plunging hooves of the wounded horse, his heart pounding fit to burst. He saw Thrymja dart away into the grass and Roff surge towards the charging monsters like a man possessed, ducking another wildly thrown axe and cutting its wielder from shoulder to hip with his notched blade. With a clash the fight was joined in a whirlwind of deadly steel and fierce growls and shouts, the young dragon rooted to the spot in terror and torn terribly between fight and flight. The Ashkar were quick and powerful but had lost the element of surprise, and in their battle lust fought with strength over skill. Cynwise dropped her dagger and unsheathed her sword, fighting with a weapon in both hands as she jabbed and parried, trying to keep her two opponents at a distance; Roff with his back to the maddened horse dodged sword strokes with an agility his limp and girth belied. He saw the big man duck through hooves to swipe away one of the Ashkar's legs, amputating its offhand as it fell. He was bowled over by a second monster before he could finish the first, grabbing it by the belt and dragging it to the ground with him, abandoning his sword for his fists.
Cynwise fared little better, trying to keep her opponent from outflanking with an outstretched spear. The weapon was grabbed and twisted from her hand, the culprit's laughter turning to a gurgle as the flighty human knocked aside its guard and opened the beast's stomach with a spray of blood and viscera. She span just in time to meet the second as it leapt, intent on smashing her head in with its mace, parrying the blow and delivering a sharp riposte with the sword's pommel. The creature kicked her in the groin, retreating a little way to breathe and wipe the blood from its streaming snout as she staggered, regaining her footing to stab the disembowelled thing through the head, silencing its screams.
With a roar that shook the ground the bloodied monster ran forwards, its mace cutting the air with a hideous whistle. Growling, the Huntress ducked aside and the blow crushed into the wounded horse's skull with a noise like two rocks being smashed together- the brute toppled nervelessly even as the Ashkar tried to scramble away, only to be pinned beneath its falling weight. It let out a final cut-off howl as Cynwise's bitter sword descended once again and returned bloody.
Roff had managed to wrestle his foe to the ground with his weight and savage punches; long scimitar-like teeth littered the bloody ground, but the Ashkar's strength was starting to tell. Hands gouged, punched and throttled at anything in reach. Cynwise circled the flailing, swearing melee, her sword drawn poised, looking for a stabbing point but the two were so entwined it was impossible to find one without hitting her comrade. Spurred on by the scent of blood and blind terror, the Hatchling dove into the mess and scrambled over the stinking tattered kilt of the Ashkar; his claws finding its face and tore deeply into flesh, the thing shaking, rolling and trying to dislodge him or at least keep him away from its eyes. With an ear shattering howl the Ashkar threw Roff off long enough to roll and tear a dagger from its belt, its lips curled back in a vicious snarl and victory in its poisonous yellow eyes.
Thrymja was there in a flash. Growling like a mad thing, the wolf's powerful jaws closed around its thickly furred wrist and twisted, dragging it and its weapon back to the ground. Inspired by terror the Hatchling wrapped his jaws around its throat and bit down, ignoring the desperate scrabble of the claws of its free hand against his hide. He felt his teeth punch through its flesh and coppery blood spurt into his mouth, the thing wheezing for breath that would not come.
He held on long after its struggles stopped to be sure, only relaxing when Cynwise tore him from the corpse, and slapped him when he reflexively tried to bite her. As the red tint faded from his vision he could take in the devastation; Roff was bloodied and broke-nosed and Cynwise was limping and sported a long cut on her upper arm. Both he and Thrymja had numerous small injuries, but it mattered little. Five Ashkar lay dead where they had fallen and another whimpered by the dead horse, bleeding profusely and clutching its severed arm close to its chest.
"Not bad." Cynwise panted, trying to wipe the blood from her sleeve, but only managing to smear it around more thickly. She gave up. "I count three, how many did you get Roff?"
"Two." The big man said thickly, picking up a fallen axe. He strode over to the wounded Ashkar and beheaded it without a second's hesitation, spitting as the spray of arterial blood spurted into his face. Thrymja fussed over the Hatchling's few small cuts, licking at him with her flat tongue until he was forced to shoo her off or risk stinking of canid spittle for the rest of his life.
"And one to our daring duo here, eh?" Cynwise choked out with a laugh. "Very fucking lucky. Not bad eh? Not bad at all for a first melee. If you'd had any sense you'd have gone to ground and waited for us to deal with them." She intoned, but there was too much pride in her voice to be truly angry. In the fierce light of the blazing sun she stood tall and terrible; like a blood-spattered Valkyrie; her foes dead at her feet and a grin like the rictus of a reaper spread across her face.
The Hatchling knew the emotion, because his whole body was shaking with it; elation, and terrible, enervating relief that they had survived. And more than that. From the darkest recesses of his soul, where the bloody wilds howled and the deathly night hunted there was joy.
He'd survived.
He returned her grin as best as his reptilian features would allow, feeling weak and ill to the pit of his stomach. She laughed, delivering him a ringing slap on the back that sent him sprawling in the dirt. Turning, she retrieved the smallest of the casks from the cart and uncorked it, pouring a generous measure down his throat before he recognised the sickly-sweet-bitter taste of alcohol and choked at the sudden burning in his throat.
"It's always worst the first time, killin'. Ye just need practice is all." She said with a grin, wiping the mead from his muzzle with the bloody cloth she'd used on her sword. "Drink, it helps. Trust me on that."
As the two humans set about the grim work of policing the bodies, he sat in the back of the cart and quietly got drunk.
He watched dispassionately as they unshipped the dead horse from its yolk, carving it up and dragging the remains away from the surviving beast, which had panicked at the battle and smell of blood and looked set to drop. Cynwise retrieved her dagger from where it had been trampled into the dirt as Roff strung the bodies upside-down from a tree, cursing all the while, and together they began to skin the corpses. Thrymja jumped into the cart and joined him, never straying far even as it was loaded uncomfortably with the weapons and valuables of the fallen. The wolf fussed over him all apologetic and concerned; she had fled the fight in terror and watched from the long grass, only leaping into the fray when she spied his danger and would accept no assurances until she had inspected every inch of his hide for injury. Through the warm haze of alcohol and emotional exhaustion he realised with surprise that the wolf had come to see him as a part of her pack.
He was able to get his first good look at their assailants as they were methodically flayed. The Ashkar were almost like men, though furred, taller and more heavily muscled than any example he had yet seen. They had the legs and head of a wolf and even short vestigial looking tails, as though a dog had mated with a human and the union had born fruit. The stink of the creatures was quite astounding; Cynwise explained as she cut that the dogmen lived by raiding, and had a habit of washing their pelts with gore from their kills, working the fur into stiff spikes like a hedgehog. He jumped down and clambered across to the tree on unsteady legs as his own kill was hoisted up; its throat crushed and punctured, leaking blood into the already sodden ground. The thing was taller than the rest, and patches of its fur were bleached white with some sharp smelling chemical into swirls and jagged symbols, looking much like the tangled thorns of a briar patch. He felt detached as Cynwise peeled the hide away and dumped it into a sack of salt to dry, as though he should be angry or sorrowful or even happy that his foes were dead. Certainly his instincts held no room for compassion at a time like this, but instead there was... nothing. Nothing except a hollow emptiness and sickening twist in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with mead. He made a show of swallowing the bits of torn Ashkar flesh that Cynwise dangled to him, then quietly slipped beneath a bush and retched it back up.
When the work was done Cynwise wrestled the mead from the Hatchling, leading the cart and its traumatised horse away from the tree with the bloody bodies still hung from its branches like some gory totem. The sky was thick with crows waiting to descend on the gory feast, and everything stank of blood. The hides would fetch a bounty-price at the market, Roff said, seemingly congenial for once despite his bloody nose and torn face. Thrymja curled up with him as the two humans talked merrily amongst themselves about the profit they would make from the loot, and boasting about their exploits until it seemed they had each singlehandedly fought off an army.
The Hatchling watched the retreating crows feast from the mangled cart, his head spinning with honey wine, and wondered if there was a point to the slaughter he'd just witnessed.