Further up in the woods lived more fawns, more savage with black fur and heavier horns that the villagers called cursed. A tribe just as frail yet feared for its fame as sorcerers. They had no wall, no fields but houses still at the base of trees.
And cattle aplenty. Packs and herds of tamed animals that made their wealth.
Homes made of stone mixed with those of planks. Past dusk their fires carried smoke through grassy roofs, through mossy ones that looked like dirt mounds when darkness stretched over them to put their hamlet to rest.
Then the screams started and a dance of torches lit the chaos.
What resistance there had been was faltering already and the kobels, swarming over the spread out defenders, marveled at the bounty they could find.
"Honey! It's honey!" One claimed.
His hands were plunging in clay pots to feel the thick syrup. Nearby, packed on the branches of a single tree, buzzed a dozen beehives. He kept fearing that they would descend on him but they were only disturbed by the clamors around.
So he licked all he wanted.
"Eh! Get back to the fight!" Another yelled.
"And leave that for another? In your dreams!"
But then he saw the silhouette of Tunu and, with a sudden fear, abandoned the pots, picked back his spear and returned to the carnage.
The scaled kobel would not have noticed him. He could not. He was walking among the screams and furious flames, guided by scents. With the opposition mostly gone his steps were that of a sleeper.
Blood flowed from his jaws down along the scales on his chest.
He had started to walk into the tiny pond of a tree that dug deep and brought the water back to the surface, akin to a fountain. The cold and wet hardly shook him off.
Rumors did. The battle seemingly over was picking up again. On the kobels' flank, rushing from the woods a pack of hounds charged. Hounds the size of small horses, muscles twisted in knots, they looked hellish for what little the night revealed.
It was the kobels' turn to flee.
But Tunu, to the contrary, walked right toward them, then ran and charged into the lot.
A beast hit him, doing nothing and his claws struck from below, lifting the hound up like a trophy. One shake to silence it definitely.
Another lunged from the side, struck at the lizard's neck but could not break those scales. He pushed it back, fell on it while it thrashed on the ground and, in one swift motion, silenced it in turn.
With that the pack, so far enraged, wavered, then turned and fled. Their leader had fallen. The fawns' last hope was gone.
But he paid it no attention. Tunu was digging with his claws, madly, until he snatched his prize. He held it high, then bit just once to swallow it whole. And with this, only feeling hungrier, he plunged his teeth on the hounds' flesh.
Later, as the last clamors were dying down, the warriors saw him drag the remains back with him. He was searching for more.
This was where the kobels were assembling their captives, trembling fawns, some wounded, that they dragged and threw in the middle of the clearing.
"Those surrendered." They told him.
The scaled kobel took a look at that crowd and that crowd in turn watched that ominous figure, in the dark, the blood on him shimmering under the moonlight.
He grunted and walked past. The remains of the hound dropped in the grass.
"I had killed two." He muttered.
"Here is one!" A warrior answered.
Tunu approached, crouched on the corpse and, after a moment, started to feed. Everyone, the kobels, the fawns, listened at the torn flesh and broken bones. For a moment victors and captives seemed to share the same feelings.
But others were coming back, from all around the hamlet, dragging more prisoners along with the first loot.
"They have hideouts! Make them talk, we must find them!"
They also had herbs, powders, resins, mixes, all kinds of concoctions that the kobels hesitated to touch. It all felt uncanny to them, mysterious arts only their shaman would understand.
But those hideouts, large holes covered, held the biggest treasure. Meat. Salted meat. So much of it. Once the captives talked, they could not believe how much there was.
The warriors were discussing what to do next.
Their chief approached and broke the argument.
"They have seen Tunu, their will is broken. Take hostages and all the meat you can carry. We'll come back later for the rest."
"What if they ambush us next time?"
"Would you try and ambush if your sister was in their hands? And even if you succeed, you would just trigger a stronger force. No, the next time we come they will just bow their head."
Then he looked around and asked the one question they dreaded.
"How many of you have fed?"
They all looked at each other. None of them had. Not yet. The kobels kept pushing it back for later, not when there was so much else to do first.
Nor could their chief admonish them. He too had yet to taste that blood.
Further away, in the dark, they could still hear their champion swallow whole pieces of flesh. It ran shivers down their spine.
"We are not leaving until it's done. You two, follow me. We'll be the first."
They three of them went back among the trees, to that edge of the hamlet where most of the battle had occurred. The others remained behind, mostly silent. They were somehow as tense as before the raid.
They fretted. Tunu had got back up.
Maybe it was the darkness, maybe the stress; they could swear his horns had gotten longer.
He himself stood there, breathing the fresh air. The excitement was dying down in his heart. He was slowly coming back to his senses. His whole torso, his arms, his face, all were sticky and wet, without a trace of fur to be found.
It felt amazing. Terrifying. But amazing.
Two warriors came back, told two others to go. And when Tunu asked where they explained, to feed. So another group, and another, more numerous while the night dragged on. When the chief followed the last of them, not all had followed the path of the wyvern.
There hadn't been enough bodies for that.
They looked sick and appalled. They also felt that stubborn fur still covering them whole from head to tail.
So the warriors gathered what they could and dragged those captives back toward the mountain. There, their tribe had lit dozens of fire, as much a show of force as a sign of conquest. They had claimed that tall hill for themselves.
Sentries saw them approach, announced their return. At the sight of the file of fawns they rejoiced.
"They can help build our own houses!"
"Come and rest, we'll take over!"
And among those that had waited for them were a group of females sit on the rocks, bathing in the bright night. But also, further ahead, the figure of the shaman bent on his staff.
Tunu rushed to the latter. He didn't even get to say a word: the stench alone, his sight next, told all the kobel had stayed awake to learn.
"What?" He impatiently shouted. "Move along, it's not you I seek!"
"Shaman, I..."
"Move I said! Now where is Kreil? Where is that coward..."
The chief was trailing behind, making sure that everyone was still there. In the night, in the woods, it was easy to get lost. So the shaman let the file of tied captives pass him, then the warriors and when it was the chief he held him in place with a hand.
"Tuorka is gone."
"What? When?!" And then: "Let's talk elsewhere."
But the shaman shook his head: "That's all there is to say. Tuorka left. Good night, Kreil."
Up above, surrounded by the females, in spite of the distance Tunu had heard every last word. And that weighed on him just as much as the kobels around him being excited by his dried up blood.