Chapter 51 - 50

Chapter 51: Chapter 50 The village had been deathly quiet after the last howl faded into the woods. In one of the houses, a group of goblins and kobolds huddled together—civilians, too old or too young to fight, hands clenched around whatever they could find: tools, sticks, even cooking pots. Mothers clutched their children, ears still ringing from the clash outside the walls. Jen sat close to the hearth, her arms tightly wrapped around her knees, trying to stay calm. Old Man Dan sat beside her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. "Brother will be okay... right?" she asked in a trembling voice, looking up at her grandfather. Old Man Dan didn’t answer at first. His gaze was fixed on the closed door, as if waiting for someone—or something—to barge through. "He’s strong," he finally said. "Too stubborn to fall. But still..." His voice trailed off, and he gently pulled Jen closer. "Let’s pray the sun rises without more sorrow." A tense silence passed. Then, slowly, the sound of rushing footsteps began to fade. The howls stopped. The growls died out. And at last... the air stilled. From the lookout tower above, a scout called out, "The wolves are retreating!" A murmur of disbelief swept through the village. Jen gasped and clutched Old Man Dan’s hand tightly. "They’re gone?" "For now," he said, his shoulders finally sagging. "They’re gone." Relief washed over the hut like a breaking wave—soft sobs of tension released, quiet murmurs of thanks to the captains and their Lord. Some of the goblins began to peek out from the doorways, looking toward the walls. They didn’t yet know how many had been lost to win this fragile silence. ..... "My Lord, are you okay?" Skitz asked, his tone tight with concern. "I’m fine," Lumberling replied, steadying his breath. "The pain is bearable. It’ll heal once I absorb more essences." They returned to oversee the village. The battle had ended—but the cost was heavy. "My Lord..." Skitz’s voice lowered. "Out of 211 soldiers, 73 were killed. More than half of the survivors are injured." Lumberling’s mood darkened. He nodded silently. Despite all their planning and precautions, too many had still fallen. They had slain over 500 wolves that night, leaving roughly 200 survivors scattered in the forest. It was a victory by the numbers—but it didn’t feel like one. That night, while the village whispered with cautious relief, Lumberling didn’t rest. Inside the tent—a hastily converted barracks hall—dozens of wounded soldiers lay on straw mats, groaning through clenched jaws. The air smelled of blood, ash, and bitter herbs. Lumberling moved between them with quiet precision. His hands were steady as he cleaned wounds, stitched gashes, splinted broken bones, and forced bitter medicine between cracked lips. "You’re doing great," he murmured to a kobold soldier trembling as he tightened a bandage. "You’ll be back on your feet in no time." He checked pulses. Adjusted wrappings. Whispered instructions to the few goblin aides brave enough to assist him. To them, he wasn’t just a lord tonight—he was their doctor, their lifeline, the one who always came through when death stood at the door. By dawn, he was exhausted. His arms ached, and his clothes were stained red and black. But he stood tall as Skitz approached. "The injured are stable," Lumberling said hoarsely. "Let the others rest." They didn’t speak of the dead yet—not until the morning bell was rung. ..... At sunrise, the village gathered in the clearing where the pyres had been prepared. A low wind stirred the grass, and the sky, still tinted with smoke, seemed to mourn with them. The fallen—wrapped in cloth and tied with forest branches—lay side by side. Not as monsters or soldiers. Just lives. Names. Sacrifices. Lumberling stood at the front, spear planted beside him like a grave marker. Skitz, silent as ever, flanked him. His usual sly grin was gone—his jaw tight, hands clenched behind his back. He bowed his head, not blinking, as if the only way to honor the dead was to witness every second of their final journey. Jen stood at the back of the crowd, half-hiding behind Old Man Dan. Her hands were balled into fists, eyes wide and wet. She didn’t cry, but her voice trembled when she whispered, "Why didn’t they come back?" Old Man Dan knelt beside her, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. "Because they believed in something... and someone." Captain Vakk stood among his men, his normally stoic face etched with weariness. He didn’t say a word, but every now and then, he would glance toward an empty space in formation—one of his own missing. Lumberling spoke, voice low and steady. "We burn them not to forget... but to remember. They stood when others would flee. They gave us this morning." One by one, the captains stepped forward, lighting the pyres. The flames rose slowly, then all at once, as if the fire itself mourned with them. The smoke curled upward, trailing into the clouds above the trees. Skitz whispered just loud enough for Lumberling to hear, "This... this is the cost of building a future." Lumberling didn’t answer. He just watched. To the fire. To the silence. To the peace his people had earned. ..... Skitz and the captains led the clean-up, organizing squads to retrieve arrows, weapons, and armor. Others processed the wolf corpses for meat and materials. Later, Captain Skarn approached. "My Lord, we captured one pregnant wolf. She was injured and couldn’t escape. The soldiers dragged her into a holding cage." "Take me to her." Skarn guided him to the prisoner cells—twenty-one wolves in total, including the maimed Alpha Dire Wolf. That one still glared at Lumberling with a hatred undimmed, despite its missing limbs. He didn’t stop. The cell at the far end held the wounded female dire wolf. Her belly was swollen, her breathing ragged, one hind leg clearly broken. She growled as he approached, baring her teeth. "I don’t intend to kill you," Lumberling said calmly—in goblin tongue, just in case. She snarled but didn’t understand. He knelt and slowly reached toward her. The wolf lunged weakly. Lumberling caught her snout in a firm grip, holding it shut with ease. She thrashed, but he didn’t let go. "Stay still. I won’t hurt you." After a while, her strength gave out, and she slumped to the ground. Lumberling stood and called to Skarn. "Bring me herbs, clean water, wine, and thread." Skarn returned minutes later. As the dire wolf lay before him—limbs trembling, sides heaving with shallow breath—Lumberling reached into the satchel of herbs with steady fingers. The beast growled, even in its weakened state, defiant and proud. He didn’t flinch. ’Why am I even doing this?’ ’I could just take its essence and be done with it.’ His fingers hesitated above the wound. Then, gently, he began to clean the gash with warm water and wine. ’Because power like this shouldn’t be wasted.’ ’These wolves... they’re intelligent. Coordinated. The Alphas used strategy. They flanked, they baited, they sacrificed. That’s not just instinct. That’s command.’ ’And if even one of them can be turned, raised from cubhood, trained to obey like a soldier...’ He looked at the beast’s heavy-lidded eyes. They were bloodshot, but not stupid. It was watching him now—still full of hate, but tempered by a flicker of confusion. ’...Then they could be something more. Guardians. Scouts. Shock troops. Maybe even companions.’ ’This one may not trust me. But her cubs... they might. And if I raise them, train them to live alongside goblins, kobolds, even humans...’ He dabbed crushed herbs across the wound, his touch sure but careful. ’We might gain a force strong enough to match a Knight’s war hounds—or maybe exceed them.’ The wolf flinched under his touch but didn’t growl this time. He tightened the last bandage, wiped his hands on a cloth, and stood. "If you survive," he murmured, looking the wolf in the eye, "you’ll serve a greater purpose. Your cubs might help change the future of this place." He turned away, signaling Skarn to close the cell. "And if not..." His voice dropped low, calm. "...I’ll make sure your essence is put to good use."