Chapter 13 — Hot Water, Mud, and Other People's Blood

Alex stood by the breach, feeling the heat of the tub slowly but relentlessly searing the skin of his palms through the thin fabric he had wrapped around them instead of gloves. Night descended heavily, like a damp blanket in which every breath echoed with humidity and cold. The torches crackled unevenly, casting trembling patches of light onto the wooden section where they had driven in wedges and stones during the day. A sticky lump of dread wouldn't leave his chest: somewhere beneath his feet, he could already hear the muffled crunch of breaking earth, as if the creatures continued their quiet, persistent work right under the logs, and something stirred in the darkness beyond the light—not eyes yet, just movement that sent shivers down his spine. Low-slung bodies flickered between the trunks, resembling broken forest badgers: wet fur hung in clumps, sickle-shaped claws gripped roots, and maws snapped with rows of needle-like teeth. They didn't advance in a wall—they scattered through the bushes, sniffing out weak spots, crouching to the ground and then raising their heads toward the breach. Only one dull thought looped in his head: if they lunged now, there would be no beautiful battle—he would simply splash everything he was holding into the darkness and buy the others a few seconds. His body reacted on its own: the muscles in his legs trembled from standing for so long, sweat turned cold on his back under the woolen shirt, and the palms gripping the edges of the tub were already beginning to go numb. His fingers shook slightly—not from the cold, but from the tension that had been building since the morning when he had pointed out the washed-out clay. Now this anticipation stretched on, as if time itself had decided to stretch seconds into minutes. Behind him, he could hear the muffled breathing of the others—Bram shifting from foot to foot, Kael quietly muttering something under his breath while adjusting his grip on the pitchfork. Alex felt sweat trickling down his temples despite the cool air, and the woolen shirt clung to his back, prickling his shoulders. Every sound from the forest—the rustle of leaves, the distant snap of a twig—made his muscles tense, ready to spring. He didn't know how much longer he could stand like this, but he understood: if he failed, there would be no one left to fix it. Their entire defense now rested on wet earth, poor planks, and a tub of hot water—a set, frankly, not meant for legends.

Suddenly, the ground beneath the fence span shuddered. It didn't just settle—it plummeted downward with a wet squelch, as if it had swallowed itself. The lower logs cracked all at once with a sharp, dry snap, and the entire wooden span in that spot sank into the yard, opening a jagged, low breach. Clay sprayed in all directions, mixing with wooden debris and clumps of grass. From the hole, like from a gaping mouth, a large creature lunged—heavy, with a broad chest and wet, matted fur covered in a layer of clay and mud. It didn't jump over the top, but came straight through the collapsed bottom; its paws slid through the sludge, but momentum carried it forward—toward the stable, into the warmth of the straw where Alex had tried to sleep yesterday. Chaos erupted instantly: someone let out a short, sharp scream, torches flickered wildly, casting long, broken shadows. The creature's shadow darted across the yard, knocking over a bucket of water—it clattered across the ground, spilling the liquid into a wide puddle. Arno, who was standing closest, slipped in that very clay Alex had warned about during the day—his legs slid out from under him, and he fell face-down, waving his pitchfork in an attempt to keep his balance. The creature was already turning toward him, its jaws snapping in the air with a wet click. Bram lunged forward, but his path was blocked by a second creature climbing out of the breach behind the first, its claws scraping against the broken logs, tearing out splinters. There was no surprise on Bram's face, only anger: he had expected tunnels, but not for the soaked clay to give way across the entire bottom at once.

Alex didn't think. He screamed—a wild burst of Russian profanity, a torn animal howl, and a desperate "Vedr!"—he yanked the edge of the tub down and splashed the hot water directly into the face of the first, largest creature, which was already looming over the fallen Arno. The water, mixed with ash and grease, lashed out in a wide, scalding wave; steam rose in plumes, searing the fur and triggering a piercing, almost human shriek. The creature jerked aside, its paws sliding through the mud, giving Arno a second to roll away. Alex grabbed a thick piece of wood from the woodpile with both hands—the wood was rough, heavy, with uneven edges—and charged forward. There was no tactics or heroism left in his head: only a dirty count of seconds, where his skin and bones were worth exactly as much as the distance Arno could crawl. This was not a battle of epic strikes, but a pure, dirty scramble: the stick whistled through the air, splinters flew into his face, mixing with hot splashes that burned his cheeks and neck. He struck everything that moved in the breach, feeling his legs sink into the washed-out clay, each step squelching and pulling back. The creatures jostled in the narrow gap; one got stuck in the collapsed logs, another tried to bite the first in the flank—there was no order, only snorting, shrieking, and a deadly crush in the mud. The smell of burnt fur and sour sludge hit his nose, causing nausea, but Alex kept swinging, hearing the stick sink into bodies with a dull thud.

One of the creatures dodged the remains of the hot water and lunged from the side, low, almost against the ground. Alex only had time to turn—teeth clamped onto his forearm, biting through the woolen shirt and skin with a crunch. Pain flared sharply, like a red-hot nail, shooting up his arm to the shoulder. He hissed through his teeth but didn't let go of the stick. The creature jerked its head, trying to tear out a piece, and Alex felt claws slash across his shoulder, ripping the fabric and leaving burning furrows. Fangs sank into his thigh, leaving a jagged, bleeding wound. The fabric tore with a wet rip, and blood immediately soaked the trouser leg, warm and sticky, mixing with mud and remnants of water. His leg buckled, but he swung the stick wildly, aiming for the flank of another creature that was already looming over Arno. The crunch was disgusting—wet, as if raw wood were being broken. The creature went limp, but the one hanging onto his arm wouldn't let go, shaking its head and intensifying the pain. Blood flowed down his forearm in a stream, dripping into the clay and forming dark spots. Alex swung again—this time at the skull, putting his entire body weight into the blow. The strike was weak due to the pain, but the grip released with a squelch. The creature was thrown aside, and in that same instant, Bram drove his pitchfork into its side with a furious roar; the metal entered with a wet slurp. Arno, covered in clay and splashes, rose to his knees and finished it off with a heavy log—once, twice, three times, until the shriek turned into a wheeze and finally fell silent. The bodies twitched in convulsions, paws scraping the ground, leaving furrows.

Alex stepped back, breathing heavily, pressing his wounded arm to his chest. The world swayed slightly—not from blood loss, but from a sudden, painful realization: this wasn't a convention or an anime episode where the hero stands up after every hit. This could have ended here, in the mud and stench, without a beautiful finale. The price of the distraction was simple and crude—his blood for the seconds the others needed to regroup. His arm burned, his shoulder pulsed in time with his heart, his thigh stung with every movement, but he stood, feeling sweat and blood mix on his face. Around him, people were screaming, striking, pouring more hot water from cauldrons—steam rose in plumes, mixing with the smoke of the torches. The creatures retreated into the darkness, their silhouettes flickering in the breach, leaving behind the stench of wet fur and burnt flesh. Dead bodies lay in the mud, twitching, with open maws and lolling tongues.

The adrenaline began to leave him in jolts. The yard filled with bustle: someone dragged buckets of water, splashing them on the breach to knock down the remaining steam and smell; someone kicked the dead carcasses, muttering short phrases and spitting to the side. Alex crouched by the breach, feeling the ground beneath him cold, damp, and soaked with blood. His legs shook finely, disobeying him, his knees buckling. Ilsa pushed through the crowd, her face pale in the uneven light of the torches, her hair disheveled. She fell to her knees beside him, speaking quickly and sharply in her own language, her voice almost breaking into a shriek; Alex didn't understand a word, but he understood the fear in every sound. Ilsa tore her shirt into long strips—the fabric ripped sharply, smelling of smoke and herbs. Her fingers were firm, accustomed to such work: she quickly, almost roughly, tied a tourniquet around his forearm, tightening the knot so that pain flared, then wrapped his shoulder and thigh, pressing the fabric against the wounds. Alex winced, clenching his teeth, but didn't look away from her face—in Ilsa's eyes, there was not pity, but a stubborn "hold on, we need you here." Relief came in a wave, mixed with trembling knees and slight dizziness. Someone even smirked, looking at the torn-up clay, the scalded carcasses, and the spilled water. Alex gave a short grunt in response—the sound was hoarse, almost a moan, but real, breaking through the pain. Bram nodded to him from a distance, wiping his pitchfork on the edge of his shirt.

Holger approached, and his boot creaked habitually in the mud. Alex didn't even flinch—the sound now seemed almost familiar. The village elder looked at the blood soaked into the clay at the base of the collapsed span—dark, mixed with earth, fur, ash, and remnants of hot water. Then he shifted his gaze to Alex, lingering on the torn shirt and fresh bandages. Bram, covered in mud and splashes, sat down nearby, took a clean rag from Ilsa's hands, and silently wiped Alex's face—slowly, thoroughly, removing splashes of mud, blood, and ash from his cheeks and forehead. The gesture was simple, almost fatherly, without unnecessary words. No pats on the shoulder, no speeches. Just a short, heavy nod from Holger, in which there was no trace of yesterday's suspicion—only recognition, quiet and final: the stranger with scars on his clothes had paid with his blood for their wall. Kael nodded from afar, leaning on his pitchfork, his face softening in the light of the fire they were already building in the yard. That meant tomorrow, perhaps, he would be trusted with more than just the dirtiest work. Career growth, if you don't count the holes in his skin.

By the fire, which they had lit right in the yard so as not to disperse until morning, it was unexpectedly hot from the flames licking the logs with crackles and hisses. Sparks flew upward, disappearing into the night. Ilsa brought a pungent green salve and began to change the bandage—her fingers worked quickly, but more carefully than before, applying a thick, cool paste to the wounds. Someone silently handed Alex a mug of hot, tart decoction; he gripped it with the fingers of his healthy hand and only nodded, not trusting his voice. He sat with his arm and leg stretched out, the fire warming his face, but the cold came from within: his fingers shook slightly, the edges of the yard blurred, and other people's voices reached him as if through wet fabric. The pain hadn't gone away—it had become steady, dull, and distant, which only made it scarier. Bram, without saying a word, approached one of the killed creatures, crouched down, and slit its belly with a knife. The blade entered with a wet sound, and the entrails spilled out into a puddle of mud—empty, shriveled, as if the beast hadn't eaten for a long time, leaving only a dry shell and sinewy remains. Bram frowned, poked deeper with the knife, pulled something out, and threw it aside. Nothing edible. He looked up at Alex, then at the forest beyond the wall, and his face became hard, with deep wrinkles around his eyes. Alex shivered, although it was hot by the fire, and gripped the rough edge of the overturned tub lying nearby. If these creatures were merely refugees, frightened by something larger, then what was driving them out of the forest? And how large must this "something" be to displace an entire pack and leave them like this—empty inside, desperate? The forest beyond the wall now seemed not just darkness, but something living and lurking, and Alex felt this new shadow fall over the entire settlement, promising that the night was only the beginning.