Skinwalkers

The realization hit like a sledgehammer to the stomach. They weren't fighting beasts; they were fighting skinwalkers.

Of all the blasted things, why did it have to be skinwalkers?

Skinwalkers were a type of beast tamer who, upon bonding with a beast, stole the beast's physical form as their own, essentially merging into one entity. Many beasts were usually reluctant to form bonds with them because of this. Skinwalkers were typically recognized by a tattoo of an antler on their bodies.

Sigurd took a deep breath to steady his nerves. He then assumed his sword stance, holding his weapon at the ready. His first target was the skinwalker with the missing arm, flailing around like a headless chicken.

With one swing of his sword, he put the creature out of its misery and then set his sights on the other skinwalkers masquerading as Blood Moths. Now that he knew they were human, he could adjust his fighting style accordingly.

SWOOSH!

One of the skinwalkers attacked from behind again, but this time he was ready. Sigurd ducked under the beast and gutted it from below. Using his agility and the trees in the forest as stepping stones, he danced through the treetops, cutting them down one by one.

He leaped from tree to tree, swinging from branches as he disposed of them. He was but a blur in the treetops. Theon watched in awe as the lifeless corpses of the Blood Moths rained from the sky, then reverted to their human forms.

Sigurd continued his assault until he was down to his last prey. The skinwalker, seeing all his tribesmen slain, turned to retreat. Sigurd lunged at him, but then—

SLASH!

The skinwalker was cut in half before Sidurd could get to him. In the aftermath, a single white-haired boy stood.

"Varys?"

Varys turned to look at him. Tension hung in the air as the two brothers stared at each other, swords in hand.

"Varys," Theon stepped in between them again. "I see you've managed to arrive unscathed. Where are the others?"

"Theon, I see you're all alive. I saw the swarm of Blood Moths over here, so I thought I'd check it out." Varys glanced down at the Blood Moth that had now reverted back to human. "I see I was wrong—skinwalkers?"

"It seems so, yes. Are the others okay?"

Sigurd hopped down from the treetop so they were all face to face.

Varys's expression shifted to a solemn look. "Only 17 of us remain. With the four of you, that makes 21. I've lost nearly half of those I was put in charge of. They were supposed to be the hope of our village. The 21 of us will have to make do. We need as many tamers as possible." He turned to look at Sigurd.

"Even you, Sigurd. I know we've had our differences before, but this time you have to at least put in some effort—for our village's sake. If we don't, those foreigners will…"

Varys flinched at the thought.

Sigurd looked at him and shook his head in disappointment. He honestly thought his brothers knew him as well as he knew them. "I'll put in effort so that I don't die."

Varys balled his fist in anger. "You know, when I saw you protecting the others, I thought something must have changed. Why do you keep denying us, your home, your own family?"

The better question is why you expect anything of me in the first place.

"Is the only way to get you to cooperate to put a blade to your throat? You have skill, I'll give you that, but why can't you use it to help us?"

"I wouldn't worry too much about Sigurd if I were you. The bottom line is that he has no choice but to tame a dragon. And once he does, Father will deal with him." Theon answered.

Varys sighed. The last couple of weeks had been tough on him. He was solely in charge of protecting 30 people, and during this journey, he had to watch 13 of those he was responsible for die.

Theon looked at Varys with a sad expression. "Have any of our siblings…"

Theon couldn't finish the question. Though they had all drifted apart, they had once been close. As kids, they used to play together; they were inseparable. Varys and Sigurd used to argue a lot back then too, and he was always the one who had to separate them whenever they got into a tussle.

Varys understood exactly what Theon was asking. He didn't hide from the question; he answered it directly. "Memir died not too long ago."

 Varys's words hit him hard, for a second he felt dizzy then quickly regained his composure. He just barely stopped himself from puking.

Sigurd faintly remembered Memir. If he recalled correctly, Memir had wiped a booger on him when they were kids, and from then on, he had always kept his distance. Memir was a bit overweight and had always followed behind Varys so that meant they weren't close.

"I don't want any more of us to die."

Both Theon and Varys expressed deep sadness on their faces. Theon walked over to Varys and embraced him in a hug. "There's nothing we can do about it now. We're already so close to the Red Tomb. We should gather with the others and make camp for the night—"

"I don't think that's a good idea," Sigurd interrupted. "I don't know of any tribe with only ten members, so there are bound to be more skinwalkers nearby. Plus, we're so close to the Red Tomb; it wouldn't be strange if a dragon or two wondered off and found us."

"What are you suggesting?" Theon asked.

"We should meet up with the others and head for the Red Tomb now."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Varys countered. "We're all tired from walking the whole day. I'm sure you all are too. We should go tomorrow morning when we're rested and able to fight to the fullest of our abilities."

"We can position lookouts so we aren't ambushed while we sleep," Theon chimed in.

Sigurd could feel his anger rising at his brothers' nonsensical ideas. Even now, they didn't understand the gravity of the situation. These two were so brainwashed into being martyrs that they couldn't see the risks they were actually facing.

"We are going up against dragons," Sigurd reminded them.

"This," he lifted his sword, showing it to them, "is useless. It can't even penetrate their scales. If a dragon does wander off, all 21 of us are dead. Most of us are meant to be sacrifices.

The reason they sent 35 of us is so that while ten of us are getting slaughtered, one of us might manage to tame a dragon. Most of us are just bait!"

The girls seemed taken aback by his words. Even if what he was saying was true, the way he said it felt cruel.

"We've already lost 14 of our bait; we can't afford to lose another one."

"Enough!!" Arya shouted, grabbing him by the collar. Tears streamed down her face as she stared up at him with a look of disgust. "How can you call them that? They were our friends! We played together as kids, listened to stories from the seers during lunch, attended festivals together, and slept side by side during the winter. How could you reduce their lives to nothing more than bait?"

Sigurd felt her trembling hand grasping his shirt, and he almost felt pity for her. They were just kids, viewing the world with wide-eyed wonder. They were all dying, while desperately grasping for his ankle as they did so, trying to pull him down with them.

He didn't want to die with them; he didn't want to try to save them either.

"Sigurd is right."

Everyone turned in unison. That unexpected declaration came from Varys himself.

"I knew from the very beginning that we were meant to be sacrifices. But I accepted it—for the village's sake."

That was how the two brothers differed. While one chose to run, the other chose to fight.

"Sigurd is right," Varys continued. "We can't afford to jeopardize our mission. It's best we leave for the Red Tomb now."

No one raised any objections, so he led them to where the others were making camp. Varys informed them that they would be leaving for the Red Tomb immediately.

No one dared to oppose or complain. After all, the reason they were all alive was because of him.

As the sun set, night enveloped them quickly. They didn't have to worry about the darkness, as the Red Tomb glowed brightly. Its ominous red light acted as a beacon for them.

Soon, they arrived.

The nest known as the Red Tomb was enormous. It resembled a giant ant colony made of obsidian, with huge openings that served as entrances. Red magma poured out of some of the entrances, casting the surrounding area in a crimson glow.

ROAR!!!

Echoing roars could be heard from within. The obsidian seemed to amplify the sounds, and Sigurd felt a knot in his stomach as the noises reverberated. He instinctively gripped his sword. He could already image the screams of the others being amplified as they were savagely ripped apart. 

Varys wore a brave front to avoid frightening the others, as they looked to him as their leader, while Theon appeared more in awe than anything else.

GRRRRRAAAAH!

A deafening roar sounded, but this time not from within the Red Tomb, but from above. A huge dragon flew overhead. They couldn't make out its size or color, as only its shadow was visible against the clouds.

"This is it! Everybody, go inside the tomb now!!"