The thick black branch shifted as Fang shouldered it aside, scattering a dusting of crystalline snow, and the krag's efforts were rewarded by the sight of his destination. Up ahead, through several paces of deep, snow-choked forest, stood the marker: a humble pole wrought of black iron, with a long strip of sun-bleached cloth tied thereto, bearing the familiar sign of the claimed, flapping in the wind like a tattered banner.
It was a crude declaration, yet it served its purpose well. They were not the only band moving through the wilderness in those days.
Beside the marker lay the hidden path they had discovered after being sent forth, its entrance leading to a place of which they had no knowledge. He could still recall it as though it had been yesterday, though in truth three weeks had passed since that finding.
While out surveying the small, fortified cities that clung to the edges of the wilds, he and his group—together with his new partner, the insufferable whelp whom Arieus had unceremoniously dumped upon him—had stumbled across a new path in the forest. After a brief council with his veteran scouts, they had deemed a short expedition necessary to scout it out.
But that must needs wait until they had completed the mission Arieus had given them. And now that he had...
"Stop standing there and blocking the way, you whelp!" Fang's voice rang out. "There are people behind you, and they do not wish to stand in the midst of the cold woods all day, merely so you can take in the scenery and dream of glory." Fang scowled at the young krag at the forefront of the company.
Talon growled in annoyance, but he reluctantly began walking forward once more, his fur boots crunching loudly in the snow, until he had stepped out from beneath the dense forest canopy and into the light of the twin suns. He turned and watched as the rest of the group emerged from the trees, blinking against the sudden glare.
"Why did you not take the lead, if you are in such haste? Are you afraid, Blood Fang?" he shot back at the older spear-wielder.
"Because if someone was to walk into an ambush set by a dire wolf, or blunder into an Erin's den, it should be the arrogant whelp who seems so desperately eager to die upon my spear tip," Blood Fang replied, his lips peeling back into a savage grin.
Talon growled again, stifling his building fury. He had been forcibly partnered with Fang—one of the four claws of Arieus—to scout the cities along the wilds' edges, a two-week trek from their base. It was a clear move to be rid of him for a while, for he had made it abundantly clear that he wished to challenge for Arieus's position.
"I have scouted this path already. There are no wolf tracks of any kind, fresh or old," Talon scoffed, gesturing vaguely at the pristine snow. "And one does not simply walk into Erins. They are not some common forest pest." He grinned back, his tusk flashing. "And even if you did see one, it would probably attack the weakest target first. Are you perhaps worried that you are the weakest here?"
"Hear that, Ogaga?" Fang remarked, his grin widening as he turned to the lanky krag. "The whelp thinks he is the strongest here. Does that lofty assessment make you the second strongest, then?"
"Ha ha, so funny," Ogaga replied in a flat, distracted manner. The slim, tall, light-green krag was not paying full attention; his keen ember eyes continued to scan the nearby snow-covered bushes and the shadows between the trees, his body tense with awareness.
"No wonder the boss sent him with you, Fang. This one is a real piece of work," a female krag's voice added, rich with amusement, as she walked out of the woods and into the clearing.
Soon all had gathered in the clearing, which was but a circle of trampled snow dominated by strange-looking plants that choked the entrance of the unknown path. The flora looked like a strange mingling of mushroom and sunflower: fleshy, closed petals the colour of old bone sat atop thick, spongy stalks, swaying in the faint breeze.
There were two dozen krags in their company—a mix of seasoned warriors and eager youngbloods—and five human porters, who huddled together for warmth and reassurance. Fang watched as all began to settle, unpacking gear as they made ready to enter.
Most were handpicked by Fang himself from the band. That meant they were all sharp, skilled, and ruthlessly competent in what they did best, their continued survival a testament to their abilities.
Namaisa, the female krag who had spoken, was acting as their guide and held the rear of the company. She was of normal size for a female krag, with sharp, elegant features, a well-shaped and powerfully built body, and a cascade of long black hair intricately tied back in a series of tight, practical braids. She was a skilled scout and huntress, second only to the likes of Varga and Dana. So having her sharp eyes and sharper instincts near had added a layer of reassurance to him against the ever-present dangers, even if it was unlikely this close to human civilization.
But one must never test the white wilds of the North; its hospitality was a lie, and its patience was finite.
"We will set up here," Fang gave his command, as he began unpacking his own heavy leather bag, the buckles clinking softly.
The company spent the next hour setting up their camp. When they were done, a small, defensible perimeter had been established, and Fang called a meeting near the path's eerie entrance to decide who would venture into the unknown to see where it led.
"I will be going with you, then," Namaisa told them, checking the edge of a curved knife at her belt. "I have nothing better to do, and the dark holds fewer secrets from me than from most."
"I will be going too, of course," exclaimed Talon, his arms folded tightly across his chest, his posture radiating impatience and pride.
"I will be staying here," Ogaga replied, his gaze still roaming the tree line. "Someone must keep watch."
Talon looked as though he wished to speak, but Fang cut him off, his voice leaving no room for argument.
"It is a good idea to have someone patrolling the woods. Just make certain nothing dangerous wanders into camp while we are gone."
Ogaga gave a nod. Talon scowled, but Fang ignored him. There was no point in speaking to a whelp who did not understand that everyone had their uses, that strength was not always about who swung the hardest axe. Ogaga was the best trap-master the band had—a genius with snares, deadfalls, and poison triggers. The way he commanded the environment was a sight to behold.
Of course, Fang had to have him in his group; his cunning was a weapon as potent as any spear.
Torches were brought forth from their packs. These torches were different from those they usually used, which were but simple cloths smeared in the humans' foul-smelling black water they called oil. These were thicker, sturdier, made from a new and experimental mixture of rendered beast fat and distilled wood-water that burned with a cleaner, brighter, and far steadier flame. He had heard the new torches were inspired by some contraption of Varga's new pet.
The thought made him chuckle inwardly. A ratling with ideas; it was too funny.
The krags approached the path. Its entrance was like the maw of darkness, as if it led into one of those old, cursed paths of the North where ancient monsters rested in frozen slumber. It was his task in this mission to ensure that all paths the band would take in this part of the edges were secure, so he must needs extinguish all doubt, and this unknown entrance was doubt.
"The first thing we must do is make a proper perimeter around the entrance," Namaisa remarked, her hands upon her hips as she stared critically at the snowy clearing, already planning its defence.
"We can dig a shallow trench around the entrance and cut down some of the smaller, dead trees for a rough fence," Ogaga responded, his mind already working through the logistics. "We do not know how long we are to stay here, nor what might be drawn to this place."
"Then let us get it done." Fang gave out the orders, and the company moved to carry them out with disciplined speed.
They made quick work of it, the sounds of chopping and digging breaking the forest's solemn hush, and by the time the twin suns reached their peak in the bleached sky, casting weak, elongated shadows, they were done and ready to march.
Fang nodded to the volunteers and gave final orders to the rest to wait, and to keep their wits about them. Then he and eight others—six krags including Talon and the watchful Namaisa, and two of the steadier-nerved human porters—marched into the dark entrance, which was framed by hard, dark branches that seemed unnaturally woven together, as if grown for this very purpose.
Talon, predictably, went to the front again. Fang found it amusing how the whelp so badly wished to prove—to everyone and to no one—that he was brave.
It is expected of all krag warriors to be brave; it is the bare minimum. But those who actually survive long enough to become truly strong must also possess a deep well of cunning and the sense to know when it is best to hold back, to watch, and to weigh danger ere leaping. This is probably why Arieus sent this whelp to me.
Fang chuckled to himself at the thought of what bloody, intricate plans the war-chieftain had simmering for him.
The first thing he noticed as they stepped into the entrance was the immediate absence of the twin suns' light. It was severed, vanishing as if a curtain had fallen behind them, and everything grew profoundly dark, the air becoming still and heavy. They lit their torches, the new flames sputtering to life with a confident hiss, and one by one they were swallowed by the gloom.
All he could see was the flickering, dancing circle of light cast by his own torch, and the fleeting, phantom flashes from those ahead of him, illuminating glimpses of the black, iron-hard trees that flanked their sides. They rose like the walls of a narrow canyon, pressing in upon the company from both sides, their bark seeming to drink the light.
The second thing he noticed, with a jolt of unease, was that the place was warmer. Not warm, but distinctly less frigid than the killing cold outside. Which was strange, for they were then in the beginning of the cold season, when the white wild was at its most merciless. Even here, closer to its more temperate edges, the air should have been as it was outside—bone-chilling. This was unsettlingly wrong.
As they moved deeper, Fang's eyes slowly adapted to the dark, and he was greeted by the sight of a twisting, serpentine path that coiled away into the blackness. There was no sound save the crunch of their own footsteps upon the strange, gritty soil and the soft sound of their breathing. The rest of the party was strung out behind him in a line as Talon, who was in front, held his torch high, the solitary flame challenging the oppressive dark, lighting the way a few paces at a time.
The company kept moving forward at a slow, measured pace. Fang felt a thrum of excitement for what might lie ahead—the thrill of the unknown that called to every krag's spirit. But he also felt the heavy weight of responsibility; he did not wish to risk the company to any danger without good reason. To move quickly in unknown terrain, in this swallowing darkness, was a surefire way to get oneself and one's men killed.
Fang watched as the whelp, probably feeling impatient and constrained by the slow pace, moved further ahead, his silhouette becoming hazy in the gloom, until he stopped suddenly, his body tensing, and began scanning the shadows to his left. Fang grunted in annoyance and concern, and walked up to Talon to discover what was amiss. Talon addressed Fang without turning back.
"I think there is something behind that branch," he said, gesturing with his torch towards a particularly thick, twisted limb that jutted from the wall-like tree.
Immediately Fang's arm blurred as he tossed his spear. The weapon soared through the air, flying true to where Talon pointed. It struck something hiding behind one of the branches, and there was a piercing, chittering shriek as something heavy and multi-limbed fell to the ground with a wet thud.
Talon quickly pointed his torch towards the wriggling, spasming form impaled upon the spear's tip. Eight thin, jointed legs, covered in coarse hair, waved madly through the air as the thing flopped about uselessly for a few seconds, its movements growing ever weaker, until at last it went limp. The creature was the size of a large dog, its body a bloated sphere covered in a glistening, frost-made capsule that was now shattered. It looked like a large, horribly malformed spider.
"Frost strider," Fang remarked, his voice flat, as he planted a foot upon the carcass and removed his spear from its limp body with a wet crunch.
"It is just a small one; barely an adult, see," Namaisa responded as she came up to inspect the creature, poking it with her knife. "The adults are twice this size, and their venom can paralyze an armoured bear."
"They like the dark, damp places such as this. Best to be careful and keep your eyes up as well as upon the path," Fang added, looking around, his gaze probing the high, unseen branches above them.
"No need to worry—they prefer human flesh anyway," Namaisa added with a savage grin, her eyes glinting in the torchlight as she stared pointedly at the two human porters, who had gone pale. "Softer to chew, they say."
"Do not scare the porters, Namaisa. If they panic and run off into the dark, you will be the one to carry all our gear," Fang added with a low growl, giving a warning glance at the huntress before looking at the trembling humans. "Do not worry; it is dead. It is just meat now."
The human porters did not look convinced. They began squirming, their eyes wide with terror as they gave the frost strider's corpse nervous looks, clutching their packs tighter.
"Cowards," Talon snorted in disgust as he kicked the corpse, sending it skittering in their direction just to watch them flinch. "It is just a frost strider. It is only truly dangerous if it drops upon your head from above and bites you, injecting its venom which will but paralyze you for a few hours," Talon told them, his tone dismissive. "I have seen much worse things in the deep wilds."
"You are right," Fang said, his voice low and serious, brokering an end to their idle banter. "There are much worse things than this. So let us not let one dead pest distract us from other, greater threats. We must stay focused. Eyes sharp."
COKOOCOOKO!
The sound was a strange clicking call that echoed through the tunnel, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Instantly, as if a switch had been thrown, all went dead silent, their breaths held. Every head turned, slowly, looking back the way the sound had come. Fang slowly raised his torch higher, pushing back the darkness.
And in the newly revealed circle of light, a host of red, glowing eyes stared back at them from the shadows—unmoving, patient, and hungry.
"Kraggroth's Beard," Fang cursed under his breath.