Chương 66: Chapter 41: The Last Survivor

The moment the last of the adrenaline leaves my body, every injury demands to be acknowledged at once. My shoulder throbs with every heartbeat. The cuts across my back burn where torn cloth rubs against them. My ribs protest each breath while my right thigh threatens to give way every time I place weight upon it. I lean more heavily upon the staff than I care to admit. The battle is over. That does not mean the work is finished.

I retrieve my sword from where it rests beside the fallen leader before wiping the blade clean upon the coarse hide of its cloak. The familiar ritual steadies my thoughts. Steel slides back into its sheath with a quiet click. Only then do I turn toward the nest. The hollow looks strangely different now. The crude paths connecting the burrows stand empty, abandoned almost too quickly for the eye to accept. Cooking fires still smolder quietly beneath blackened pots where half-prepared meals remain untouched.

Bone tools lie scattered across the ground beside unfinished hides while bundles of gathered firewood rest exactly where they had been dropped when the whistles called every Rask to battle. An entire colony, gone in a single afternoon. I step carefully into the hollow. Every instinct tells me to expect another attack. Wounded creatures are often more dangerous than healthy ones. My hand never strays far from the sword. The nearest shelter proves empty.

A rough lean-to woven from saplings and stitched hides shelters little more than a bed of dried moss, several cracked clay bowls and a pile of animal bones stripped almost clean. The next offers much the same. Crude tools fashioned from antler and flint. Leather straps, bundles of coarse grey hair gathered into simple cord. Nothing living. I continue deeper. Every few steps I stop to listen. Nothing, only the quiet crackle of dying fires.

The leader's den stands near the center of the hollow beneath the sprawling roots of an enormous oak. It is noticeably larger than the others, its entrance framed by heavy timbers scavenged from somewhere beyond the forest. Deep claw marks score the wood while old scars upon the surrounding roots suggest the den has occupied this place for many seasons. I duck inside. The air smells of damp earth, old blood and smoke. Sunlight reaches only a short distance beyond the entrance before surrendering to shadow.

I wait for my eyes to adjust, allowing the silence to settle once more around me. A low sleeping platform occupies one side of the chamber, built from layered hides far thicker than those found elsewhere within the nest. Stone axes of noticeably finer craftsmanship rest neatly against the wall beside several bundles of carefully preserved spears. Unlike the disorder outside, everything here has been arranged with deliberate care. Interesting. The leader valued order.

Against the rear wall rests a collection of objects gathered over what must have been many years. A brass cooking pot; several iron knives; a carpenter's hammer; lengths of chain; lanterns; broken shields. Most bear the unmistakable marks of human workmanship. Some belonged to farmers, others definitely to adventurers though I find no bodies. Only what they left behind. The contract had not exaggerated the danger, it understated it. I leave the den behind and continue searching. One burrow after another.

All empty, nothing remotely living in them anymore. I begin to wonder whether the colony truly had committed every living Rask to the final assault. Then I hear scratching. I stop immediately. The sound is faint. So, faint that for a heartbeat I wonder whether exhaustion has begun playing tricks upon my ears. It comes again. Not from outside but below. I lower myself into a crouch, holding my breath and find the source of the noise.

A narrow tunnel disappears beneath the intertwined roots behind the leader's den, almost completely concealed by hanging vines and several discarded bundles of hide. It is smaller than the other burrows, scarcely large enough for an adult Rask to crawl through comfortably. Another scratch echoes, followed by the softest of whines. Not in the whistling or growling voice of a Rask, it is something else entirely. I ease the vines aside with the end of my staff before stooping to enter.

The passage descends only a short distance before widening unexpectedly into a cramped chamber lit by a single shaft of afternoon sunlight filtering through a crack high above. Dust dances lazily within the narrow beam, illuminating a crude wooden cage tucked against the far wall. For a heartbeat I simply stare. It isn't empty. A small creature lies curled tightly within the corner, its tawny fur dulled by dirt and neglect.

Dark markings run across its back in broken stripes while oversized paws twitch restlessly beneath its body. Rounded ears lift at the sound of my footsteps before two pale golden eyes open slowly to meet mine. A Hollowmane cub, no older than a few months. It doesn't growl. It doesn't bare its teeth. Instead, it watches me with quiet, uncertain curiosity, as though trying to decide whether I belong among the monsters that kept it here or whether I am something entirely different.

Its gaze drifts toward the broken cuts across my arm. Then to the blood covering my clothes. Finally, it looks back toward the tunnel through which I entered. The battle, it had heard all of it. Slowly, I lower myself onto one knee outside the cage.

"It's over." My voice sounds rough even to my own ears.

"You don't need to be afraid anymore." The cub studies me for another long moment. Then, with surprising care, it rises unsteadily onto oversized paws and pads toward the front of the cage. The crude bars separate us by scarcely the length of my hand. It stretches its neck forward. Sniffs cautiously at my bloodstained fingers. Then without the slightest hesitation. It presses the top of its head gently against them. The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

The cub doesn't pull away. Its small nose continues brushing cautiously against my fingers, drawing in my scent with slow, uncertain breaths. Up close, I can see just how poor its condition truly is. Its tawny coat hangs dull beneath layers of dirt and dried mud, while the fur along its flanks has thinned enough for several ribs to show beneath the skin.

One ear bears an old bite mark that has long since healed, and a crude leather collar circles its neck, fastened to the rear of the cage by a length of rusted chain. Not a pet. A prisoner. I let my hand remain where it is.

"No one should spend their first days like this." The cub tilts its head slightly, as though listening more to my voice than the words themselves. I glance toward the chain. The lock is little more than a bent piece of iron forced through two loops of hammered metal. I slide my knife beneath it and twist. The rusted pin snaps almost immediately. The chain falls away with a dull clink. Only the cage remains.

The bars are nothing more than young saplings bent together and reinforced with strips of bone and scavenged iron. Strong enough to contain a frightened cub. Not strong enough to withstand seasoned ash. I wedge the end of my staff between two of the bars and lean my weight against it. My ribs protest, my shoulder burns. The wood groans before finally giving way with a sharp crack. Another push widens the opening enough for the cub to squeeze through. I step back. It doesn't move.

Freedom is a strange thing when you've never known it. For several quiet moments, the cub simply watches the opening. Then one oversized paw stretches cautiously through the gap. It creeps forward one uncertain step at a time until all four paws stand upon the earthen floor outside the cage. It freezes. The chamber has suddenly become far larger than it was only moments before. The cub looks back toward the broken cage. Then toward me.

Then, to my complete surprise, it pads directly across the chamber and presses itself gently against my injured leg. I wince despite myself.

"Easy..." A soft rumbling vibration rises from somewhere deep within its chest. Not quite a purr but contentment. The realization brings an unexpected smile to my face.

"I suppose you've already decided." The cub answers by nudging my hand again. Small tongue, warm and rough. It begins licking the blood from my knuckles with complete determination. I can't help the quiet laugh that escapes me.

"You're worrying about the wrong patient." The sound echoes strangely through the little chamber. I hadn't realized how long it had been since I laughed. Carefully, I run my fingers through the thick fur behind its rounded ears. The cub immediately leans into the touch with such wholehearted trust that my chest tightens unexpectedly. It has no reason to trust me. Yet somehow it already does. Perhaps because every creature recognizes the difference between the hand that cages and the hand that opens the door.

"Come on." I push myself upright with considerably more effort than I would like to admit.

"We're leaving." The cub falls into step almost immediately behind me. Every few strides it pauses to sniff some unfamiliar scent before hurrying to catch up again, never allowing more than a few paces to separate us. We emerge from the tunnel into the afternoon light once more. The nest lies exactly as I left it, empty. I spend nearly another hour searching every remaining burrow, shelter and storage pit despite my growing exhaustion. Several hidden tunnels lead nowhere beyond collapsed chambers.

One contains little more than stolen grain gathered from nearby farms. Another store salted meat and bundles of dried herbs. No survivors, no wounded adults, no hidden juveniles, only silence. The contract is complete. I gather the scattered lantern oil stored within the leader's den before carrying it carefully from structure to structure, pouring only enough to ensure the crude shelters themselves will burn. I leave the surrounding trees untouched. Northwood has suffered enough today.

The first torch catches easily. Dry hides blacken almost immediately before flames begin climbing slowly through woven branches and old timber. I move steadily through the hollow, setting each shelter alight before returning to the edge of the clearing. The cub sits beside me, watching the fire with curious eyes. The flames spread exactly as expected. The nest burns but the forest does not.

Several times I use what little strength remains to coax damp roots across patches of dry grass where stray embers threaten to escape, while loose earth smothers sparks drifting toward nearby pines. Progress is slower than usual. My mana answers reluctantly now. Little more than fading embers within an exhausted hearth. Still, it is enough. By the time the last roof collapses inward, the fire has consumed every trace of the colony while leaving the surrounding woodland untouched. Only blackened earth remains.

I incline my head quietly toward the smoking ruins. Whatever else the Rask had become, they fought to protect their own. As would I. Then I turn away. The journey back to Highcrest proves considerably longer than the one that brought me here. Every step reminds me of the leader's axe. The cub notices long before I say anything. Whenever I slow, it stops as well. Whenever I pause to catch my breath, it sits patiently beside my boots without wandering more than a few yards away.

The afternoon gradually surrenders to evening by the time the first pasture fences appear beyond the trees, Highcrest Farm. Harold is repairing a gate when he notices movement along the woodland's edge. He waves automatically, then freezes. The hammer slips from his hand.

"By the Mother..." I must look considerably worse than I feel. Blood has dried across my sleeves and cloak while fresh bandages remain little more than hopeful suggestions beneath torn leather. My right leg drags slightly with every step despite my best efforts to hide it. Harold reaches me in only a few strides.

"What happened?"

"I completed the contract." He blinks.

"Completed..." His eyes drift toward the forest behind me.

"You killed all of the creatures?" I nod once.

"I found a nest. It is gone." For several seconds he simply stares, not at me. At the Hollowmane cub now sitting quietly beside my leg. The cub returns the stare without the slightest concern. Harold looks from one of us to the other. Then back again.

"I think..." He says slowly.

"... you'd better come inside."

"I was hoping you'd say that." For the first time since entering Northwood, I allow myself to believe the worst is finally behind me.