The War for Eventyr

1 | Fruit of War

Blood doesn't stain crimson fur.

It dripped from the tod's reddened jowls, and he glared down at the white, lifeless pelt of the fox beneath him. Or, that's what the color used to be.

Blood stains silver fur.

He licked his chops, the bitter liquid curling his tongue with a twinge of iron. His father always said the taste of victory was sweet––the flesh of his enemies was like a ripened fruit. Pluck them from the leaves, crush them between your jaws, and let the juice run down your chin.

Colborn couldn't stand the taste of blood.

His hide bore the color of Flame because he was strong. He was fierce. He wouldn't stop until everything in his path was destroyed. The fox beneath the fur had little say otherwise.

"Clear the dens." His voice was gruff and emotionless. He didn't let his mind flicker to what it meant for those inside.

The second-in-command dipped his coal-nosed snout. He was a fox much smaller than Colborn, but his fiery fur bristled all the same. "Yes, Kriger."

A group of foxes fell in behind him, trotting across the rocky outcrop toward the hollows formed in the snowy base of the rocks ahead. Tods and vixens alike formed his army, the latter never more than disposable females.

Colborn's eyes drifted across the battle's gray background. The opposing force had no commander now; he lay dead on the earth. The Shadowborn army littered the ground like ash in the aftermath of a raging fire. A few fading embers stirred between them, battered and bleeding, and their red-furred sides rose and fell slower with each breath. One met his gaze and whined.

His paws stepped past the bodies with little care, their lifeless flesh beneath his toes now as cold as the icy wind nipping his fur. He stopped at the ribcage of a fellow Flameborn soldier. She bore no visible death-sentence, only tattered fur... and a broken leg. Her brown eyes drifted upward, and they glistened with a plea for mercy.

That was what she'd be given.

Colborn stretched down, widening his muzzle so that the chill of the air met his teeth. He felt the vixen's fur bristle against his gums, and the hide gave way beneath his bite. More blood spilled onto his tongue, and he closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch the terror in her face as he yanked his jaws away.

A yip pierced the sky.

He spat the chunk of oozing flesh on the ground, and he stepped away without looking. The warmth in the back of his throat made him sick, but if he had to bring her back home to his father instead, to watch him torture and kill the injured vixen, he would've hurled.

The weak had no reason to live. The weak had to die. And if his army saw him letting a soldier desert, it would be his own windpipe in the dirt.

Turning on his paws, Colborn heard the wails. He kept his back to the mournful cries, remembering the days when he was there in the massacre. His father would be standing here instead, while vivid whimpers dug their claws into Colborn's mind. He could see the face of every kit he ever killed, hardly more than one himself.

Finally, the echo of suffering died, just like each mother and its young.

His second-in-command stopped at his shoulder. A ball of marbled fur hung from the fox's jaws. He stretched out his muzzle, and Colborn took it without a second glance.

"The area is clear," Brandr said, his eyes glowing. "You did it. Jarl will be pleased with our victory."

Colborn was sure his father would, but his stomach only churned as he held the dead kit, a hideous symbol of victory. Its eyes hadn't opened, yet its pale fur was spattered with red. He blinked back the tears before anyone could see them.