Mark helped the guards finish off the few monsters left at the East gate. Some still posed a challenge, but it seemed that the wolves bolstered their bloodlust, and without them, they sagged as if they had an energy crash.
The wolves were gone. The monsters were either dead at his feet or fleeing out into the scrub, snapping at each other in confused panic.
The shouting from the wall shifted tone. Less terror, more orders. Less dying, more swearing.
Mark dragged in a breath that tasted like blood and burned fur, then turned back toward the gate.
"Open up," he called, planting the butt of his spear in the churned dirt. "It is clear in front. If anything runs at you now, it is just a stray."
There was a brief pause, then the damaged gate creaked open enough for him to slip through. The guards who had braced it were drenched in sweat and grime. One of them looked Mark over and went a little pale at the sight of all the drying blood on his armor.
"Is any of that yours?" the man asked.
"A bit," Mark said. "Not enough to matter. Get a crew on the bodies before they draw more things in. And send a runner to the other gates. I am going to circle as Rover and make sure no one else is about to be eaten."
The guard flinched at the casual way he said it, then nodded quickly.
"Yes, Rover."
The title was still strange on his ears, but it meant the guards did not argue much when he moved. An addition to the guard's structure to incorporate Mark as a part of the guard when it was necessary, due to the increased rate of the Growths.
He did not waste time.
The shaking underfoot had already started to fade from a constant, stomach-twisting rhythm to occasional, uneven shudders. That meant whatever the Growth was doing down in the chasm was winding down. The main danger now was not the earth opening up but monsters riding the last waves of their frenzy.
Mark jogged along the inner road, cutting across side paths where he could. The village looked half deserted. Most people were still huddled in the safer core nearer the elder tree or down in the chasm camp, away from falling debris and charging beasts.
At the North Gate, he found tired guards, a bloody smear along the wall, and a pile of monster corpses stacked just outside. The air stank, but the men on duty were upright, bows half drawn more from habit than immediate need.
"Status?" Mark called as he approached.
"Managed," their sergeant grunted. His left arm was in a makeshift sling, blood soaking through the cloth, but his eyes were sharp. "Had a hard push about fifteen minutes ago. Hunters from the West came over to help. No fresh waves since."
"Anyone need a medic to keep breathing?" Mark asked.
The sergeant shook his head once.
"Nothing that will not wait. We are rotating the worst of them back toward the tree. Next wave comes, we handle it."
Mark studied the ground beyond the wall. Scattered monsters, not a solid tide. No wolves pacing behind, no unsettling lights gathering out there.
"Good. Keep your eyes open. If you see anything that looks like a giant grey wolf, do not let it line up a shot."
The sergeant blinked.
"A what?"
"Long story," Mark said. "Tell your men that if the air starts feeling like a storm and their hair stands up, they hug the stone and stop being tall for a bit."
That, at least, the man understood. He barked the order without argument.
Mark left them to it and cut across town toward the West and South Gates in turn.
He found much the same pattern at each. Blood, bodies, exhausted guards. Hunter parties whose armor was slick with gore, but whose eyes were still clear. The Growth's pressure had been worst at the East gate. Here, it had felt more like lesser waves bouncing off the same surge, ugly but survivable.
By the time he finished the circuit, the shaking underfoot had become a memory that only returned as an occasional low rumble. The sky was still hazy with dust and smoke, but it was not getting worse.
The village was not fine.
But it was, stubbornly, still standing.
The chasm pulled at his thoughts then.
When a Growth hit, the chasm camp was as close to safe as the village ever got.
Not because anyone understood what caused the quakes or the monsters, but because that was where the rock was solid. The ground there was old and stubborn, cut straight into the bones of the hill. It did not slide or shear the way the packed soil and fill under the houses sometimes did.
If anything had shifted there, the rest of the village would be worse.
He turned his steps that way.
The path out toward the chasm felt wrong. Too open. Too quiet. The usual clusters of guards and hunter parties that should have been posted along the approaches were gone. Just a few standing markers and some half toppled barricades where people had clearly left in a hurry.
Right. He had told them himself to strip everything they could spare and throw it to the gates when the monsters hit.
Knowing that did not make the emptiness feel any better.
Nothing came at him on the way in. No stray beasts, no panicked livestock, no wild dogs gone bold. Just the wind and the distant noise from the walls.
The camp itself was still there.
Some of the tents had collapsed when the ground shook, and one equipment rack had gone over and scattered tools in the dirt, but the main structures were intact. The reinforced frames that anchored the lifts into the stone held. The platforms that went down into the shelter caverns hung steady, ropes creaking in a normal way instead of in the way that made people start praying.
For a place built on the edge of a very deep hole, it looked almost peaceful.
Too peaceful.
The builders who usually stalked around measuring supports and shouting at apprentices were not in sight. The guards who should have been at the lift winches were missing. The hunters who usually pulled escort duty for ore runs and evac drills were nowhere nearby.
All of them had been pulled to the walls.
Mark stayed.
He picked a spot where he could see most of the camp and the cut edge of the chasm without standing close enough to fall in if the ground decided to shrug again and waited.
It did not take long.
Runners started coming in from the gates, breathless and pale. One from the East Gate, two from the South, then another pair from the West. They converged around the rough table that usually held chasm notes and shift charts, turning it into an improvised command post.
Mark drifted closer and listened.
"East reports… twenty-seven dead," one of the men got out. His hand shook as he held out a stained scrap of tally parchment. "More wounded. Dozens. We stopped counting once the medics ran out of clean bandages and started running out of hands."
"West lost nine guards and a full hunter party," another said, voice tight. "The Black Stag group. They held the breach at the outer palisade until it went down, then tried to fight their way back to the inner gate. None of them made it."
"South is missing two patrols," a third added. "They were outside when the first wave hit. No bodies were brought in, but they could be hiding somewhere. Could be dead as well, though. We do not know yet."
The numbers stacked up.
Over forty guards.
Three whole hunting parties.
These were not green kids. These were people who knew the land and how to fight, the ones who usually brought everyone else home when things went wrong.
Mark listened, jaw clenched until it ached.
Without him at the East Gate, those tallies would have been worse.
And the village might already be picking through its own ruins.
The thought did not sit like pride. It settled in his chest like a lump of metal, feeling heavy and cold. Refusing to move.
More hunters arrived as the news spread. The ones who were still standing did not get to rest. Groups started forming up again almost as soon as they had finished catching their breath.
"Take two parties north. Make sure nothing is holed up between here and the river."
"Send a fast group out past the old quarry. If anything big is limping around out there, I want it dead before dark."
"Someone check the farms along the south road. The cattle spook easily when the ground moves. If they broke fences, I do not want them wandering into the woods tonight."
The lump inside Mark warmed with every order, not in a pleasant way. Just heat added to the weight.
These people knew what they were doing. They would do it, because that was what kept the village alive. But the cost of the day had already been carved in.
He stayed until the first stretchers started coming in from the gates.
They laid the bodies out in rows on the flattest ground near the chasm edge, where there was room for lines of wood and mourners both. Some were covered completely with cloth. Others had their faces left bare so that the family could find them.
The smell of blood and smoke thickened again.
Mark took one look down the rows, picked out more than one familiar face, then turned away.
He had someone he needed to reach before a rumor or a half-heard number did.
He headed home.
By the time he reached the small house near the elder tree, the harsh light of midday had slid into the slanting brightness that made everything look tired. The shaking had stopped. Dust still hung in the distance over the walls, but no fresh plumes were rising.
The house was standing. No new cracks. No broken windows. The elder tree loomed behind it, in the distance, leaves whispering in a breeze that barely touched his sweat-dry skin.
Up in its branches, there was no sign of any stupid, lopsided bird. It seemed to be back in its elusive hiding spot. Not that it would be hard to hide in such a tree with such thick leaves and branches.
He stepped up to the door and knocked.
He heard quick footsteps inside, then the latch lifted.
Annabel opened the door.
Her hair was tied back, though several strands had stuck to her cheeks. Her eyes flicked to his face, then dropped to the mess on his armor.
All that dried blood made her freeze.
"Mark," she breathed, one hand flying to her mouth.
"I am fine," he said at once. "Most of this is not mine."
That was not actually comforting, but it was the truth he had.
She hit him anyway, arms wrapping around his middle and squeezing so hard some of the bruises woke up and complained. He leaned the spear against the wall and hugged her back, closing his eyes for a moment as the smell of her hair cut through the stink of the day.
"You idiot," she muttered into his chest. "You said you would be careful."
"I was," he said. "Apparently, this is what careful looks like now."
She pulled back just enough to scan him again, checking for actual holes.
"You are sure you are not hurt?"
"Nothing serious . . . just a couple of scratches and some bruising. I'll be sore but I am still breathing . . . that's really all that matters at this point."
She swallowed once, then asked the question he had been expecting.
"Is my family alright? Is Phill alright?"
He let some of the air out of his lungs.
"Your parents should still be at the chasm camp. The supports and platforms are fine. I checked. The place was standing and quiet. As for Phill…" He shook his head. "I have not seen him yet. I have not heard his name on any of the death lists either. That is all I know."
Her fingers tightened on his sleeve.
"I want to see them," she said. "Now."
"Good," Mark said. "I was about to go back anyway."