The Åströms' Chronicles: Trapped, Part 3

The night slowly gave up as the rays of light grew thicker and brighter, with the sun slowly yet inevitably rising above the horizon.

Varg lay in the glade, looking at the trees above his head, their leaves swaying in the light breeze, his clothes soaking with dew.

Varg was glad he was where he was – in the glade where Fiske would teach him swordfighting every single day before he passed away.

Varg always knew that Fiske was going to leave him, as it was the natural course of things.

Little did Varg know that the glade he was lying in after the roughest fight he had was going to be gone as well.

Varg was listening to Brenda’s slowing breathing. Just to think, they might've become not just occasional allies but good friends, especially after surviving such a battle together.

The problem was, they weren't going to survive it.

***

The eagle anxiously shifted her weight between her talons.

The ducking human didn't do freaking anything to keep his clumsy body alive, and there was no way the elders would make it here in time—the eagle had waited for too long.

In other words, the eagle was ducked unless this useless piece of feces did something other than die.

***

Lying with his eyes closed, Varg smiled, feeling the cold that had spread from his wound gradually turning into waves of comforting warmth, slowly swaying him away…

"Freaking moron..." A silent grunting chimed from the left of Varg. "A little tiny scuffle and you're packing for the last path... Ducking humans..."

The warm feeling kept spreading around Varg's body, and he realized that it was... moist.

A second later, a repulsive odor hit his nostrils, and he opened his eyes wide.

Shit, he'd better die.

Brenda, constantly wincing in pain, stood above Varg, her fur stained with dark-red, dense blood.

The same blood she poured onto Varg's wound, squeezing one of the Fryktelig Uhyreis' arms she had obviously just severed from the body.

Varg jumped up and looked at Brenda, horrified.

"What the heck are you doing?!" he yelled, fighting the urge to throw up.

"Juice, human. I'm making a freaking delicious juice," Brenda rolled her eyes and looked attentively at Varg's chest. "Well, I guess that's enough. Don't you dare wash it off until the afternoon."

Varg lowered his gaze to his chest, where a Fryktelig Uhyreis had left a two-fist-wide hole about an hour ago.

His chest was covered with a thick layer of the beast's blood, but still, it was obvious that the hole wasn't there anymore.

***

The eagle sighed so hard she almost fell off the bench she was perched on.

She had always known the venn were the smart ones. Pity they didn't ally with anyone.

It was almost as if they enjoyed the irony, given how their species was called.

The last time the eagle felt such relief was when a male chosen by her family to mate with her disappeared under strange circumstances.

Such a pity. Took a hell of an effort to convince everyone that she mourned such a loss, broken into pieces.

The eagle smirked, remembering how easy it was to scare this poor asshole to death so he agreed to migrate and never come back.

The eagle prepared to take off when a thin, sharp needle of a distant, barely heard cry pierced her whole body.

The eagle looked down, her gaze quickly shifting from one creature to another.

It was a matter of seconds before the venn would feel it, and then...

Things were going to turn ugly.

***

"Well, human, how do you feel?" Brenda took a step back and gave Varg an assessing look, pursing her lips.

Her own wound on the back looked like at least a month had passed—covered with fresh pink scar tissue that itched immensely, making Brenda's whiskers twitch.

Varg touched his chest, covered with the same tissue, barely trusting his eyes.

That was… impressive.

"Varg," he picked up his sword and started examining the blade under the rays of the rising sun. "We had a deal, remember?"

"That doesn't sound like 'thank you'...," Brenda snorted. "Varg."

"Thank you," Varg finished checking his perfectly fine blade and looked around the glade—at the bodies of the giant humanoid spiders, then back at his chest, covered with their blood.

Brenda smirked.

"No, you can't store it," she pointed at the rising sun. "The first sunrise after a Fryktelig Uhyreis dies, their blood turns useless. We're lucky I managed to treat both of us in time."

"You say luck, I say I took the worst hit, keeping you relatively intact," Varg winked at Brenda.

"You're mocking me after I saved your life, hum... Varg?" she retorted, her meowing accent gaining a hissing direction.

"Yes, I do. That's what friends do right before they drink to celebrate." Varg grinned, sheathed his sword, and sat on the ground, leaning against a thick oak that he had been about to die under just minutes ago.

"We're no friends and we'll never see each other again." Brenda turned around and headed to the exit from the clearing. "There's a reason you never knew we existed, and it must–"

Suddenly, Brenda froze, her fur stood on end, and she leant to the ground, all ears.

Varg frowned and slowly stood up, feeling cold, thick, weakening fear creeping along his spine as he heard a distant cry, full of a desperation Varg had felt only when Fiske passed away.

Brenda silently hissed, her claws unsheathing and fangs going from beyond her lips, turning an adorable cat-like creature into a beast no less frightening than Fryktelig Uhyreis.

"What was that?" Varg took a step toward Brenda.

Without answering, Brenda wore skunda undir, her fur turning glowing and translucent, and with one long jump—

She fell to the ground, hissing furiously.

"Freaking bastard cut deeper than I thought," she growled, trying to wear skunda undir again but fruitlessly.

"Stop trying that, you'll kill yourself." Varg approached Brenda and sat next to her, looking directly into her eyes. "What was that?"

"Nothing that concerns a human," Brenda hissed once again, but Varg didn't waver. "I'll manage."

"The only thing you'll manage is dying," Varg stood up and looked in the direction he heard the cry. "Tell me what's happening and I'll help you. I owe you."

"If I tell you, I'll condemn my kind," Brenda breathed hard, the scar tissue started leaking blood. "People destroy anyone they find out about."

Varg opened his mouth to argue but then stopped, remembering Syvell and his retarded sycophants who hunted for fun, using skunda undir to fight animals.

Brenda was right.

Varg hesitated for a second, then sighed and tossed Brenda a small object she caught on the fly.

An old rusty arrowhead stained in blood.

"What the heck is this piece of shit?" Brenda looked at the arrowhead from different sides.

"That was the only thing I carried when my stepfather saved me, drifting in the ocean."

Brenda looked at the arrowhead, her eyes widening, then back at Varg.

"How touching, Varg. I'll carry it with me till the last day these claws scratch this sinful earth." She showed Varg her paw, with the middle claw extended. "But could you explain why the heck you are delaying me with such pointless crap NOW?”

Varg sighed tiredly.

No shit this little asshole had no backup.

“Suggest a fight.” Varg stepped back from Brenda, showing his empty hands.

Brenda raised her eyebrows.

“Is it some kind of sick tradition humans love so much?”

“Actually, yes,” Varg nodded. “Trust me. One more time.”

“If you duck the freak off, alright. Let’s freaking fight.” Brenda unsheathed all the claws on her right paw, pointing at Varg with them.

“I refuse.” Varg nodded and pointed at the arrowhead. “Now, if you give it to anyone in my village and say that I refused a fight after challenging you—by giving you this—I’ll be executed by my own people.”

“You say your kind will believe me—even if you deny my words?”

“Oh, my kind’s waited for any tiny reason to get rid of me for decades,” Varg smiled wryly.

Brenda raised her eyebrows but quickly turned thoughtful, knocking with her claw on her chin, looking at Varg.

After a long pause, Brenda sighed, tucked the arrowhead somewhere under her fur, and nodded.

“That sounds like complete bullshit, but knowing your sick breed, it might as well be the truth,” she winced and slowly stood up. “We need to hurry.”

Brenda turned around and headed away from the clearing without looking back.

“What exactly happened?” Varg asked, catching up with her.

“My den,” Brenda’s voice had run out of any mockery or sarcasm. “Somebody found and attacked my den, and I’m afraid to even think of what they've done.”

Brenda raised her gaze to Varg, and he shuddered at the cold, dead fusion of sorrow and fury that looked at him from her vertical pupils.

“It was a cub screaming,” Brenda finished and kept going.

Varg looked back at the glade he had spent most of his childhood in and suddenly felt sorrow, as if he were looking at a friend who was going to die.

He shook it off and followed Brenda, convinced that it was just his immense tiredness.

In one hour, forty-three minutes, and twenty-two seconds, a flock of eagles arrived and, using magic no human had ever witnessed, destroyed the glade — wiping it off the face of the Earth, for reasons only they understood, but for the good of Varg and all the inhabitants of the planet.

Meanwhile, Varg followed Brenda and was prepared to kill anyone who dared to touch her den.

If only he knew how much more complicated it was going to become.