Chapter 3 – Red Goats

  The moon was plenty bright, so we moved without torches. The forest breathed around us—damp earth underfoot, moss hanging heavy, and that faint metallic stink of old blood that stuck to our skin no matter how far we walked.

  Dagon stayed a step ahead, blade loose in his hand, the three heads at his belt knocking softly against each other like dull bells with every stride.

  For a while neither of us said a word.

  Finally I broke the quiet, keeping my voice low. “You never mentioned your warband. Which one are you with?”

  “Red Goats,” he said without turning.

  I nodded to myself. I’d heard of them—versatile bunch, supposed to be good on steep ground.

  “Who leads you?”

  “Gorvan.”

  The name rang a bell, but I couldn’t put a face to it. I’d only answered the call to war a short while ago.

  “He make it?”

  A short pause. “Far as I know.”

  “Far as you know,” I echoed. “So you got separated?”

  He let out a breath through his nose. “We chased the Mire down the ravine after they scattered. I went with five.”

  “And?”

  “Two dropped to blades. One caught a spear in the throat.” His tone stayed flat. “The last one bolted when the roar started.”

  “So you lost them.”

  “No. I lost sight of them,” he corrected.

  We climbed a small rise, roots snaking under the dirt like exposed ribs.

  “How’d it go for you?” he asked after a beat.

  I let out a slow breath and ran through it.

  “They hit us hard early. Came down the left ridge—arrows already falling before we even spotted them. Ravaan was the first to go down.”

  His grip on the blade tightened just a fraction.

  “They outflanked you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many’d you drop?” I asked, curious despite myself.

  He glanced back this time, eyes catching pale silver in the moonlight.

  “Many.”

  I looked down at the heads swinging from his belt—hair matted with drying blood, mouths slack, eyes empty. A quiet taunt.

  “And here I thought one was decent,” I muttered.

  “At least you took one,” he said.

  “Two short of you,” I shot back, half-competitive.

  A faint grunt—maybe approval.

  “They fought different tonight,” I went on. “More organized. Ravaan looked shocked when the first arrows hit him.”

  “Bastards must’ve wanted something,” I added.

  “Territory?”

  “Maybe.” I thought back. “Or maybe they were after our heads.”

  He didn’t answer.

  The forest groaned overhead, branches rubbing together.

  “Did you see the creature?” I asked. A rough flash of the thing crossed my mind.

  “No.”

  “Only heard it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I still can’t believe it followed me through the water,” I said. “I only caught a glimpse of its shadow. Fast as hell.”

  “That means it chose you,” he said, casual.

  “Why me?”

  “How should I know? Maybe it saw easy prey.” He shrugged it off.

  “It hunts warriors?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “But what even was—”

  He stopped dead.

  I nearly walked into his back.

  He turned slowly, face hard in the moonlight, jaw set.

  “Enough.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “You ask like someone who’s never seen blood before.” His voice stayed low, but there was an edge now. “Which warband. Who leads. How many kills. What’s the roar. Why it hunts.”

  “You asked me—”

  He cut me off. “We could still have Mire on our trail. And something else is moving in these woods. You saw it yourself. Every word you let out carries farther than you think.”

  The trees seemed to lean in closer, like they were listening.

  He took one step toward me.

  “Save your breath,” he muttered, pointing ahead. “Or you won’t have any left when you need it.”

  Silence stretched.

  Then he turned and started walking again.

  For a few steps I kept quiet.

  The heads at his side swayed, steady and rhythmic. Proof he’d earned the right to say little.

  Someone’s got a stick up their ass, I thought.

  After a while he spoke without looking back.

  “You talk too much.”

  Oops… did he hear that? I almost smiled.

  “You answered.”

  “Not anymore,” he said. “Be quiet.”

  The wind shifted, carrying a distant sound—not quite animal, not quite the trees.

  This time I didn’t ask.

  I just followed him through the thinning trees, two survivors under an indifferent moon—one full of questions, the other carrying three severed answers.

  And for the rest of that stretch of forest, I kept my mouth shut.

  —

  Soon the trees began to thin, the air turning colder as stone replaced soil beneath our boots. A final line of pines broke apart before us, as we stepped out onto a jagged cliff face overlooking a vast forest floor below.

  It was not empty.

  Far ahead, beyond a rolling stretch of dark canopy and broken rock, a bonfire roared against the night like a fallen star. Smoke coiled upward in thick black ribbons, illuminated by sparks that drifted into the sky.

  Even from this distance I could hear it, the cheers, rhythmic chanting, the deep thrum of boots striking earth in unison.

  I exhaled.

  “Look! They’re celebrating already,” I gasped. “We’ve won the battle.”

  Dagon’s arm shot out across my chest, halting me.

  Before I could protest, he stepped forward to the cliff’s edge and gave a sharp whistle, three distinct notes, rising, falling, then cutting short.

  A Verak call.

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  The sound carried far, slicing through the wind and echoing across stone and tree alike. We waited.

  The chants below continued. The distant fire cracked. My pulse drumming in my ears.

  Then it came.

  Two notes.

  Clear. Measured. Returning from somewhere to our right, then again from farther ahead. And again. Multiple patrols. Verak signals relaying confirmation through the forest like a chain of breath.

  Dagon wasted no time.

  He moved forward at once, descending along the narrow stone path that curved down from the cliffside. I followed without question.

  As we neared the lower ground, figures emerged from shadow — Verak patrols stationed along the approach. Spears lowered at first. Eyes sharp.

  Then they saw the red markings on our bodies.

  Saw the heads at our sides.

  A few nodded. One tapped his fist twice against his chest, it was a silent acknowledgment. Another stepped aside without a word.

  We passed through them like returning hunters.

  The closer we drew to the fire, the louder the celebration became.

  Nearly fifty warriors gathered in a rough clearing carved between towering trees. The bonfire at the center was immense, logs stacked high and feeding a blaze that painted every face in flickering amber and black.

  Shadows leapt wildly across bark and armour, distorting shapes into something almost mythic.

  Some warriors danced in a wide circle, stamping their boots in rhythm while chanting battle hymns, deep-throated verses that rose and fell like war drums. Others clashed blades against shields in steady cadence, forging a metallic heartbeat that vibrated in my ribs.

  Several sat on fallen trunks or flat stones, calmly sharpening weapons, oiling leather straps, inspecting cuts along their forearms as if the wounds themselves were badges to be studied and admired.

  And everywhere I looked were spoils.

  Heads hung from belts by braided hair. Some fresh, blood still dark and wet. Others already stiffening. A few warriors had strung them along crude cords like grisly necklaces.

  Mire helmets, cracked shields, broken spears, even torn green-dyed cloaks were piled near the fire as offerings or trophies.

  If Victory had a scent, this was it.

  Smoke. Sweat. Iron.

  Then I saw something. In the corner of my eyes, there he was. A prisoner.

  Just to the right of the clearing, beneath a wide, gnarled tree, a man hung with his wrists bound above his head by thick rope.

  His torso was bare, muscles thick despite the blood that streaked across his chest and down his sides. He looked to be in his forties, older than most gathered here, his beard dark with flecks of gray, his face swollen from blows.

  His head hung low at first.

  Then he lifted it.

  His eyes burned.

  Two warriors stood near him, occasionally shoving him upright so others could see him clearly. They paraded him not with constant cruelty, but with deliberate display — a living spoil.

  A captured veteran.

  Only then did I truly notice it all, nearly every Verak present bore proof of conquest. Heads. Weapons. Pieces of armour stripped from fallen Mire. Even rings torn from fingers.

  This was more than a brutal celebration. This was some sort of accounting. Proof to the gods that blood had been spilled in their name.

  Dagon stepped into the firelight without hesitation.

  A few warriors greeted him with nods once they saw the three heads at his side. One let out a sharp approving laugh.

  I stood just behind him, feeling suddenly aware of the single head at my waist.

  The chants grew louder as more warriors noticed us.

  Dagon crouched and untied the cords binding the three heads at his waist. The leather thongs slipped free with a soft rasp.

  Then he rose.

  In one smooth motion, he lifted the three heads high above his shoulders.

  Firelight struck their lifeless faces, turning drying blood into lacquered black. Hair hung down like torn banners.

  The chanting faltered then surged.

  “I am Dagon, son of Malek!” he bellowed, voice carrying above the crackle of flame. “I return unmarred!”

  A roar answered him. Spears struck shields. Boots hammered earth. Some warriors laughed in approval; others pointed at the heads, counting aloud.

  “Three!”

  “Three Mire!”

  “Red Goats bite deep!”

  Dagon lowered the trophies slowly, tying them back at his side without another word. He did not grin. He did not bask.

  He simply stepped aside.

  The shift in attention after was immediate.

  Dozens of eyes turned toward me.

  Expectation thickened the air.

  I felt the weight of the single head at my belt. For a heartbeat, the memory of my fallen warband brushed against my mind but I crushed it. This was not the moment for ghosts.

  I stepped forward.

  Untied the cord.

  Lifted the head high.

  “I am Alikad!” I shouted, forcing strength into my voice. “Orphan of the Moon! I return unbroken!”

  A ripple of laughter ran through the warriors at the name.

  “Unbroken!”

  “Orphan still stands!”

  “Moon keeps its stray!”

  Approval thundered outward. A few men raised their own spoils in answer.

  And then—

  A sound tore through the clearing.

  “Son!”

  The word cracked like a splitting tree.

  The bound prisoner lurched forward against his restraints, muscles straining so violently the rope groaned. His swollen eyes locked onto the head in my grasp.

  Grief.

  Fury.

  Something far sharper.

  Killing intent rolled off him like heat from a forge.

  It struck me before I understood what it was.

  My breath vanished.

  My knees buckled.

  The world narrowed to his gaze alone — heavy, crushing, suffocating. It felt as though invisible hands pressed against my chest, forcing me down. My vision blurred at the edges. My grip loosened.

  He would have brought me to my knees.

  When a shout detonated across the clearing.

  “Enough!”

  The pressure shattered instantly, like a clay pot struck by a hammer.

  Air rushed back into my lungs.

  I staggered and nearly collided with something solid. A hand gripping my shoulder for stability.

  He was simply there.

  Erduin ‘the Strong’. Headman of the entire war party.

  I had not seen him approach.

  One moment the firelight held only dancing warriors — the next, the hulking veteran stood before me, broad as a gate, unbridled, scars crossing his bare arms and neck like pale rivers.

  His presence bent the air around him. The battle hymns swelled instinctively, as though the men themselves were announcing him.

  He did not look at the prisoner.

  He looked at me.

  Then, to my shock, he seized my forearm and thrust it upward, lifting the severed head high once more.

  His laughter rolled deep and thunderous.

  “Alikad the Unbroken!” he roared. “Warrior of Verak has slain Yani, son of Dohas!”

  He pointed the head sharply at the prisoner, mocking.

  The crowd howled.

  “Verak strikes true!”

  “Blood in the wind!”

  “Enemies fall!”

  The chants erupted in rhythm, stomping, clashing steel, voices merging into a tribal storm. The prisoner writhed against his bonds, teeth gnashing, eyes dark with hatred so potent it seemed almost tangible.

  But he could do nothing.

  Erduin only laughed harder, shaking my raised arm once before releasing it. The fire painted his grin a savage gold.

  The chants slowly ebbed, dissolving back into drumbeat stomps and scattered cheers.

  Erduin’s heavy hand patted my shoulder.

  “Good,” he said, approval rumbling in his chest. His eyes studied me briefly. “Where is Ravaan? The others?”

  For a fraction of a second, I faltered.

  It was enough.

  “I see,” he said before I could answer. “They’ve returned to the sky gods.”

  He smiled.

  There was no sorrow in it.

  Only the calm acceptance of a man who had buried many and would bury many more.

  “You are just in time,” he continued. “We begin the ritual before moon-crest.”

  At the word ritual, a deeper rhythm began near the fire — low drums beaten by the flat of blades against stretched hide.

  Erduin’s gaze shifted past me.

  “Dagon.”

  Dagon stepped forward immediately, fist striking his chest in acknowledgment.

  “You found your way back,” Erduin said.

  “Yes, Headman.”

  “Your goats?”

  “Scattered in pursuit. Some may already be here.”

  Erduin grunted, scanning the gathered warriors until he spotted a cluster of fighters bearing the curved horn insignia carved into their shields — the mark of the Red Goats. They were near the far side of the clearing, gathered around a smaller fire, speaking in tight formation.

  “Take him with you,” Erduin said, jerking his chin toward me. “Red Horse has no riders left. No warrior of Verak stands alone tonight.”

  The words struck deeper than I expected.

  Dagon gave a single nod. “Understood.”

  Erduin’s grip tightened briefly on my shoulder not harsh, not gentle then he released me.

  “You fought,” he said. “You returned. That is enough.”

  He stepped away, already turning his attention to other matters, his presence parting men before him like a prow through water. Laughter followed him. Warriors straightened as he passed.

  The prisoner still watched me from beneath the tree, fury simmering in his eyes, but he was alone in his hatred.

  Dagon jerked his head toward the far side of the clearing. “Come on.”

  We moved through the gathering mass of warriors, past dancers stamping in rising rhythm, past men lifting heads to the fire in crude offering, past others sharpening blades with slow, deliberate strokes.

  The remnants of Red Goats saw Dagon first.

  A broad-shouldered warrior with a split brow who I assumed was ‘Gorvan,’ barked a sharp laugh at him. “You stubborn bastard.”

  Another rose and clasped forearms with Dagon. Relief flashed briefly across hardened faces before it was swallowed by pride.

  “You took three huh” someone chuckled, eyeing his trophies.

  Dagon untied one of the heads and tossed it toward them. “Go admire this one.”

  Rough laughter followed.

  Only then did he gesture toward me.

  “He rides with us now,” Dagon said simply. “Red Horse fell.”

  The laughter quieted.

  A few nods.

  No questions.

  One of them stepped forward and struck his fist lightly against my chest, testing, acknowledging.

  “Then stand,” he said. “Until you earn horns.”

  I nodded once.

  Behind us, the chants rose again near the great fire. The ritual was nearing. Smoke thickened.

  The moon climbing higher.