Gnash sat on an inclined stone slab wedged between the chasm walls. Its far end rose to meet the tunnel the colony used to ferry scavenged materials home. The perch suited him. From here he could watch the activity below without being in the way, the basin spread wide beneath him.

  His gaze settled on the growing mound of shredded roughspun fibers. Most of what they found these days was frayed, stiff, or too degraded for proper use, but it still held value. A dedicated team worked the worst scraps into fibers, adding steadily to the pile. Every so often, a forager paused long enough to stuff an armful into a sling bag before climbing toward the bridge and slipping past Gnash on the way back to the colony.

  A sharp chorus of screeches split the air above.

  Gnash’s head snapped up, ears swiveling toward the sound. It wasn’t one he recognized.

  Debris rattled down the crisscrossing stone outcroppings overhead, the clatter deepening into dull, tumbling impacts that closed fast.

  A warning chitter burst from him.

  Rats scattered at once, slipping beneath jutting stone and tucking themselves into the shelter of overhangs as debris rained down.

  Gnash backed into the tunnel mouth and peered out from just inside the entrance.

  The first things to strike the bridge were several heavy, misshapen melons from the fields above. They hit in wet, cracking bursts, each impact scattering pale shards across the slope. A few mostly intact pieces bounced clear and vanished into the basin below. Discarded debris followed in a clattering spill behind them.

  Two larger shapes dropped into view.

  The first body tumbled freely, spinning once before disappearing into the basin.

  The second fell tangled with a broken basket, its handle hooked around the limp arm of a small kobold. The basket took the first blow, crushing flat against the stone and springing them back into a rough, bouncing roll before they slid over the far edge and vanished.

  Leaves, vines, and scraps of plant matter swirled through the air with a thin haze of dust shaken loose from above, settling slowly over the slope.

  Gnash eased his head out, then pulled back as another scatter of stones rattled past and dropped into the basin. He waited, ears flicking at each stray clatter that followed, a few pebbles, a lone shard of fruit, one last skittering chip of stone. Only when the spill finally tapered into stillness did he step out onto the bridge.

  Other rats emerged from cover, necks stretched as they scanned the basin. A few hurried along the stone edges, converging on the same point Gnash was already heading toward.

  The basket made the first body easy to spot. It lay tipped on its side, covering the upper half of the small form.

  Gnash hurried down the incline. The others followed close behind.

  He reached the fallen kobold and pushed the basket aside with both forepaws. The twisted handle slid free, and the trapped arm dropped to the stone at an unnatural angle.

  The body beneath was small. Scrapes marked several places where scales had been torn or sheared away, leaving thin threads of blood weeping between those that remained. Bruises swelled beneath the darker hide, and thin cuts traced along the limbs and sides. The caught arm was badly damaged, swollen and misshapen.

  The chest rose and fell in short, strained breaths.

  As he examined the unconscious body, his scrutiny seemed to draw out some buried detail. A name rose to the front of his thoughts. Duskscale.

  These were Duskscale kobolds.

  Gnash lifted his head and scanned the area for the other body.

  Several rats were already spreading out, noses low as they searched. A sharp squeak rose from near the sorting area by the shredded fiber pile.

  Gnash turned toward the sound, weaving between curious rats as they converged. A few were already digging, pulling aside loose clumps of fiber with urgent motions.

  Together they cleared enough to reveal the second body, smaller than the first. Loose tufts of shredded roughspun fibers had caught along the scales, snagged where the fall had scraped or torn them, half burying the slight frame. As the last of the fibers were pulled away, the scales showed through, pale slate with a faint bluish tint along the neck and chest.

  Gnash glanced at the depth of the pile around the small form. The fibers had softened the fall. This creature had luck on its side.

  Bruises marked the scales, and thin cuts traced along the limbs and sides. Nothing looked obviously broken. The chest lifted in shallow, uneven breaths, a thin trickle of blood running from the corner of the mouth.

  The rats hovered close, curious noses twitching.

  Gnash stepped forward, placing himself at the edge of the loose circle.

  He turned back toward the older juvenile. The rats around that one shifted aside as he approached.

  Gnash lowered himself and began to study the creature up close.

  He started at the head. The skull was broad and slightly flattened, its surface covered in tight, pebbled scales of muted browns and greys. Just behind the raised brows, a low ridge began and curved smoothly toward the back of the skull, firm beneath the dust.

  The eyes were partly open, but the thin inner membranes covered them, giving the surface a dull, clouded sheen. Beneath the translucent layer, he could make out the warm amber brown of the irises and the narrow vertical slits of the pupils, unmoving in unconscious stillness.

  Below them, the snout was short and blunt, the nostrils only narrow slits near the tip. The mouth hung slightly open, revealing small, cone-shaped teeth arranged in even rows.

  His gaze moved down the body. The scales thickened subtly around the jawline, across the brows, and along the elbows, forming small reinforced patches. The limbs were long and narrow, ending in thin fingers tipped with short, curved talons. The hind feet were built much like those of his own kind, though with one fewer digit, three narrow toes splayed forward and a smaller one set behind, all tipped with short claws suited for gripping uneven stone. A short, stiff tail extended behind.

  The body was small, about the size of one of the colony’s scouts, the lean, quick runners who slipped through narrow spaces and carried little weight compared to the heavier-muscled foragers and hunters.

  Gnash’s whiskers twitched. He reached for his sling bag.

  He nosed it open and dug through the familiar jumble of scraps and tools until his paw brushed the dimpled surface of a healing bundle. He hooked it with his claws and drew it free.

  The cap was firm but pliant beneath his teeth. He bit into the edge and peeled back the top, revealing the sticky, nectar-filled center. The sharp, sweet scent rose at once.

  Gnash leaned in and pressed half the torn cap gently to the kobold’s lips, nectar side down. A thin bead of liquid clung to the corner of the mouth.

  He held it there, watching.

  At first, nothing changed. Then the bruised limb began to lighten, the dark swelling easing toward its natural shade. The twisted angle softened as the muscles relaxed. Beneath the skin, the bone shifted with a faint, muffled crackle, drawn slowly back into its proper line as the healing took hold.

  When the limb settled into a more natural position, Gnash backed away and turned toward the smaller juvenile.

  He lowered himself beside the small form and pressed the remaining half of the healing bundle to its lips. The nectar seeped in slowly. For a long moment, nothing happened.

  Then the scrapes along its jaw began to tighten. A thin but deep gash on the cheek drew closed, leaving only a faint line. Breathing steadied, still shallow but less strained.

  Gnash stayed close, watching the rise and fall of both chests. The healing bundles usually worked quickly, but deeper injuries took time to settle. He waited, ears angled toward the two bodies, listening to the faint bone movements beneath their scales as the nectar continued its work.

  The older juvenile’s breathing steadied first, still shallow but no longer ragged. The smaller one’s chest lifted in a smoother rhythm, the faint tremor in the limbs easing.

  Gnash looked around the area. The sodden layers of refuse beneath the larger juvenile were uneven, scattered with plant materials and small puddles of dark liquid. It wasn’t the best place for an injured creature to recover.

  He moved to the shredded fabric pile where the smaller juvenile had landed and began rearranging the fibers with steady, practiced motions. He pressed the loose clumps into shape around and beneath the slight body, packing them down into a firmer cushion that would keep it from the cold stone. Bit by bit he widened the space, clearing and shaping a second hollow beside the first where another body could rest without touching the ground.

  Once the bedding was secure, Gnash turned back to the larger juvenile. He slid his forepaws beneath the shoulders and hips, lifting carefully. The body sagged limply, but breathing held steady. Gnash carried the juvenile across the short stretch of stone and lowered it onto the makeshift nest beside the smaller one, adjusting the limbs so they rested without strain.

  He checked both bodies, nudging the into place where it had shifted.

  Gnash stayed near, giving the healing time to finish its work. The two small bodies lay side by side in the fibers, their breathing slow and steady.

  He stepped back and settled onto all fours, tail tucked close.

  Around him, the other rats kept their distance. A few rose onto their hind legs for a better view; others crouched low, ears forward. The space around the pile remained open, a loose ring of quiet attention.

  A soft sound broke the stillness.

  The larger juvenile’s breath hitched and pushed out in a strained groan. The jaw shifted, small cone-shaped teeth parting slightly. The tongue dragged across them as if testing their shape. A trace of healing nectar clung to the muzzle; the juvenile tasted it without comprehension, mouth working in faint, confused motions.

  The eyelids tightened, then eased. One eye cracked open, unfocused. A slow, heavy blink followed, the inner membrane sliding back only halfway. The gaze drifted across the fibers, then the stone beyond.

  Another breath shuddered through the body. Fingers curled weakly. The tail twitched.

  Movement caught the eye, a shape, then another, then many.

  The amber sharpened. The pupil tightened.

  The juvenile froze.

  The ring of rats came into focus, broad bodies, dark shapes, dozens of eyes fixed on the waking form. A sharp gasp broke from the kobold.

  The body jerked backward. Weak limbs turned the motion into a clumsy shuffle, heels digging into the fibers while the tail dragged uselessly behind. Pain flickered across the face as the newly healed limb protested.

  The rats reacted at once.

  Several stepped back, alarmed squeaks escaping their throats. Others lowered their bodies, ears laying flat as they too backed away. The circle widened, leaving open space around the improvised bed.

  Gnash shifted his weight back and lowered himself further, keeping his head level with the young one’s gaze. He did not advance. He did not reach.

  The juvenile’s breathing stayed fast, but the gaze snapped to the limp form beside it. A brief hesitation, then a turn toward the smaller body.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The movement was uneven. The healed limb faltered, and a sharp breath escaped as pain flared along the ribs. Still, the juvenile dragged itself across the fibers in a slow scrape.

  It reached the smaller one and curled around the slight body, shoulder hunched, tail drawn tight. One trembling arm lifted in a fragile attempt to shield the other, though the effort clearly hurt. The head lowered protectively, eyes fixed on the rats with fear and warning.

  A rasping burst of sound escaped the juvenile’s throat, harsh, broken syllables pushed through pain. More followed, strained and uneven, the cadence sharp and defensive. Gnash recognized the pattern, the rhythm of kobold speech, but none of the meaning. The tone alone carried enough: a warning, a plea, a threat, all tangled together.

  The young one’s body shook with the effort. Another rasping string of sounds tore free, louder this time, directed at the ring of rats.

  Gnash understood the display for what it was. Not aggression. Protection.

  He dipped his head low, muzzle angled toward the ground, and eased a step backward. His tail stayed close to his body, posture small, signaling no challenge, no intent to close the distance.

  Around him, several rats mirrored the gesture, backs lowering, ears angling outward in clear non-threat. The circle held, but no one moved closer.

  The juvenile’s breathing hitched, but the rasping sounds faltered. The eyes stayed locked on Gnash, wide and bright with fear, but the raised arm trembled and sagged slightly as exhaustion pulled at the limbs.

  Gnash held still for a long moment, then turned his head toward the surrounding colony. A low, sharp chitter left his throat, brief and clipped, carrying the tone of instruction rather than alarm.

  The reaction was immediate.

  Several rats dipped their heads in acknowledgment. Others shifted their weight and began to withdraw, paws whispering softly over stone. The loose ring around the fiber pile thinned as bodies peeled away in twos and threes, returning to their earlier tasks with quiet efficiency. A few lingered at the edges, watching, but even they kept a respectful distance.

  The juvenile’s eyes followed the movement, confusion flickering through the fear. The rasping breaths hitched again, but the defensive posture wavered. The raised arm sagged further as the young one tried to make sense of the sudden retreat.

  Gnash dipped his head once more, slower this time, keeping his posture low and unthreatening. He eased another step back, widening the space between himself and the pair.

  The juvenile blinked again, confusion still raw in its eyes. Its arm remained draped over the smaller body, but the rigid set of its shoulders began to loosen, if only slightly.

  Gnash let the stillness stretch. He drew in a small breath and released a soft squeak, brief and questioning. He lifted his head a fraction and glanced toward the chasm above before lowering his gaze back to the young kobold. Another quiet squeak followed, lighter this time, almost tentative.

  The juvenile’s eyes tracked the movement. Its brow tightened, not in threat now, but in uncertainty.

  Gnash looked upward again, holding the angle longer. His ears tilted toward the distant heights where debris had rained down. He shifted his weight against the woven fibers, then returned his gaze to the kobold, keeping it for a steady heartbeat before flicking his attention toward the smaller form tucked beneath the juvenile’s arm.

  The juvenile’s breathing grew shallow. Its gaze followed Gnash’s upward look, then dropped again.

  Something brushed its raised forearm.

  A leaf drifted down from above, one of the broad, pale ones common to the fields overhead. It settled lightly against its scales.

  The juvenile froze.

  Its eyes fixed on the leaf. Slowly, stiffly, its gaze lifted past it, up through the open air toward the ragged edge far overhead.

  A tremor moved through its limbs.

  It looked down at the smaller body beneath its arm. Then to Gnash. Then upward once more. The motions were sharper now, no longer scattered but aligning into something whole.

  As its gaze returned to Gnash, it caught on the broken basket sitting behind him, the same one that had pulled them down. The juvenile stared at it, breath quickening.

  A rasping sound slipped from its throat, softer than before, uneven in cadence. Not a warning.

  A question.

  Gnash answered with a low, steady chirr. He made himself small, head lowered, tail tucked close, though his ears remained forward, attentive. Present.

  The juvenile stared at him, chest rising in quick, shallow pulls. Its gaze moved between Gnash, the woven fibers beneath them, and the open space above. Confusion lingered, but the sharp edge of panic had dulled, worn down by the shape of understanding.

  They had not been attacked.

  They had fallen.

  The juvenile tightened its hold on the smaller body, but the gesture lacked its earlier desperation. Its eyes returned to Gnash and stayed there, searching, waiting, trying to understand what came next.

  The juvenile’s gaze stayed fixed on Gnash, searching, uncertain. Its arm tightened around the smaller body, but the movement lacked the frantic edge from before. The young one shifted, bracing its feet against the fibers, and tried to lift its sibling.

  The effort failed at once.

  Its limbs trembled. One leg buckled, the newly healed one faltering under its weight. A sharp breath escaped it, teeth clenching as pain flared along its ribs. Still, it tried again, dragging its good arm beneath the smaller body, but the motion collapsed into a helpless slump.

  Gnash watched in stillness, whiskers angled forward. When the juvenile sagged over its sibling, chest heaving in shallow pulls, he stepped closer and released a soft, low chirr.

  The kobold looked up, exhausted and wary.

  Gnash turned his head toward the path leading upward, the narrow switchback carved into the stone. He glanced back at the pair, then toward the path again, making the motion slow and deliberate.

  The juvenile followed the gesture, eyes tracing the steep incline. Its shoulders sank. Even uninjured, the climb would have been difficult. In their state, it was impossible.

  Gnash gave a short, decisive chitter.

  Several rats broke from the edges of the basin at once, answering the call. They approached with quick, purposeful steps, their sling bags bouncing lightly against their sides. At Gnash’s gesture, they slipped the bags free and emptied them, scattering scraps and tools onto the stone.

  Gnash nosed through the pile, selecting lengths of rope and the toughest sections of the rough material. The rats gathered around him, paws working with practiced ease as they unknotted straps, pulled fibers straight, and sorted usable lengths from frayed ends.

  For a time, the basin filled with the soft rustle of rope and cloth, the quiet scrape of paws against stone. Gnash worked among them, weaving and looping the pieces together, shaping them into a broad sling with reinforced sides. When the structure held firm, he dragged it closer and tested the weight across his shoulders.

  It settled well enough.

  He shifted, adjusting the straps until the load balanced along his spine. A few steps forward, a few back, a turn, a crouch. The sling held.

  The juvenile watched all of it, eyes wide, confusion slowly giving way to something else—cautious fascination.

  Gnash approached the pair again. He eased himself out of the sling and nudged it forward with one paw, giving a low, encouraging squeak. Then he reached toward the smaller body, paused, and redirected the gesture toward the larger juvenile instead.

  The meaning was simple.

  The juvenile stared at the sling, then at Gnash, then at its sibling. Understanding came slowly, haltingly, but it came. It shifted its weight and slid toward the open sling, moving with care not to jostle the smaller body. The rats stepped in to help, steadying the straps as the young kobold climbed inside.

  Once settled, it reached out with both arms, guiding its sibling into the sling with the rats’ assistance. The smaller body slid into the makeshift sling, limp but secure.

  Gnash stepped forward and eased himself beneath the straps. The weight settled across his back, heavier than anything he usually carried, but manageable. He braced his paws, adjusted his stance, and rose.

  The juvenile clung to its sibling, eyes darting between Gnash and the path ahead.

  Several rats moved into position, two at the front, two behind, and more along the sides. Gnash gave a final, steadying chirr.

  Then he began the slow climb upward, the scouts moving with him, ensuring the pair remained secure on his back.

  Gnash set off at a steady trudge, paws finding the familiar holds along the first incline. The sling’s weight pressed across his shoulders, but the straps held firm. The conscious kobold kept both bodies tucked low within the woven sack, one arm wrapped protectively around the smaller form.

  Rats moved ahead of him in a loose line, clearing the narrow path. They swept aside loose grit with quick strokes of their paws, nudged small stones out of the way, and tugged stray scraps of refuse from the ledges. Their work made the climb easier, and Gnash appreciated it, though not every effort helped.

  One scout, eager and well?meaning, pried a dried mushroom stalk from a crevice to widen the path. The stalk came free with a brittle snap, sending a small shower of grit and dust down onto Gnash’s face.

  He jerked back with a startled snort, shaking his head hard. A sneeze burst out of him, sharp and involuntary.

  The jolt rocked the sling.

  A thin cry of alarm rose from the conscious kobold inside, claws tightening around the limp form it held. Gnash steadied himself at once, planting all four paws and giving a low, apologetic chirr. The kobold’s breathing stayed fast for several moments before settling into a tense, shallow rhythm.

  They continued.

  The climb stretched on in slow, methodical segments. Gnash moved from one outcropping to the next, pausing whenever the strain in his limbs grew too sharp. Each break was brief but necessary. Scouts gathered close during these pauses, checking the kobolds with careful touches and soft squeaks. The smaller one remained limp, breathing steady but shallow. The conscious kobold curled protectively around the other, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched tight as it fought to keep its anxiety contained.

  Higher up, the smell of the heap thinned. The air currents pulled the scent downward and away, leaving only faint traces clinging to the stone. Gnash noticed the change at once. The rats ahead of him did too, though they were long accustomed to the heavy odor below. The shift was subtle but unmistakable.

  The walls narrowed, forcing Gnash to angle his body to keep the sling from scraping the stone. The weight dragged at him more with each incline, but he pressed on, guided by the quiet movements of the rats ahead and the soft, steady encouragements they offered.

  The incline grew steeper, the walls tighter, but a faint glow ahead told him they were nearing the top.

  Not the soft, scattered gleam of cave moss.

  A steadier light. Brighter. Moving.

  Lanterns.

  Bundles of glowing fungus bulbs lashed to the ends of long mushroom stalks, held out over the crevasse by figures silhouetted against their own light. The poles swayed slightly, casting shifting bands of illumination down the stone walls.

  Kobolds.

  Gnash slowed, ears angling forward. The conscious kobold inside the sling stiffened, claws tightening around the limp form it held. A thin rasp escaped it, sharp with fear.

  Above, the kobolds leaned farther out, lanterns dipping as they peered into the depths. Their voices drifted down in quick, excited bursts of their rasping language. Gnash couldn’t understand the words, but the tone carried urgency, relief, hope.

  Then the lantern light reached the rats.

  The voices changed instantly.

  Excitement snapped into alarm. The poles jerked back, lanterns swinging wildly as the kobolds retreated from the edge. Their silhouettes vanished from view, leaving only the glow of the fungus bulbs bobbing behind the lip of the crevasse.

  The upper path fell into shadow again.

  Gnash paused, bracing his paws and adjusting the weight on his back. The scouts ahead of him halted as well, bodies low, ears angled toward the unseen crowd above.

  A few breaths passed.

  Then Gnash resumed the climb.

  The last stretch was narrow, the stone sloping sharply upward. The scouts moved with care, clearing the final ledges and checking the footing. Gnash followed, muscles trembling under the strain but steady.

  At the lip, he stopped.

  Several scouts reached the top first. They hauled themselves over the edge, shook dust from their fur, and immediately moved aside to give Gnash room. Their bodies stayed low, ears angled back, ready to bolt if the kobolds surged forward.

  Gnash followed.

  He pulled himself up over the edge, claws scraping softly against the stone. As his head cleared the lip, he found himself facing a wall of kobolds several paces back. Dozens of them. Lantern poles bobbed in trembling hands, and long spears were held out in a loose, uneven line.

  Two more scouts scrambled up behind him and flanked his other side, forming a small cluster around their leader.

  Gnash looked to them and gave a sharp, quiet chitter, a warning.

  The scouts obeyed at once. They settled onto their haunches, ears folded down, bodies lowered to make themselves appear smaller than they were. Their whiskers twitched, but they held still.

  Gnash mirrored them. He folded his ears flat and eased forward just enough to give himself space to maneuver. The movement drew a burst of alarmed rasping from the kobolds. Spears wavered. Lantern poles jerked upward. Several kobolds stumbled back, unsure whether he meant to charge or flee.

  Gnash stopped immediately.

  He turned sideways, exposing the bundle across his back. With slow, deliberate care, he crouched and slid out of the straps. The patchwork fabric sagged as the weight settled onto the ground. Gnash backed away at once, retreating to sit beside his scouts, posture low and still.

  The kobolds stared at the bundle.

  Spears angled toward it now. Confusion rippled through the group, sharp whispers, uncertain rasping, shifting feet.

  Then the sack moved.

  A ripple passed through the kobolds. Spears jerked higher. Lantern light trembled.

  A hand pushed through the opening.

  A thin arm followed, dragging the covering aside, the sling bunching around its shoulders as the juvenile pulled itself upright. Lantern light spilled across its face—dust?streaked scales, exhaustion carved deep beneath the eyes, one arm wrapped fiercely around the smaller body still cradled in the sack.

  For a heartbeat, no one moved.

  Then a sound broke from the crowd.

  A sharp, strangled cry.

  Two kobolds near the front stumbled forward, lantern poles dropping from their grips to swing wildly against their cords. Their spears clattered forgotten to the stone.

  The conscious juvenile’s head lifted toward the sound.

  The smaller body sagged in its grasp, limp and pale in the lantern glow.

  The two adults surged forward in desperate recognition. They fell to their knees at the edge of the bag, then gathered both children in at once.

  The smaller one was lifted first, cradled against a broad chest. The other adult wrapped both arms around the conscious juvenile, pulling it close, pressing brow to brow. The juvenile’s rigid posture shattered.

  A broken sound tore from its throat.

  Its claws, which had clung so fiercely to its sibling, loosened at last. Its head dropped forward against the adult’s shoulder, body trembling not with fear now, but release.

  The parent holding the unconscious child rocked slightly, murmuring in low, urgent tones. Fingers brushed scales, checked breath, pressed gently along limbs as if to confirm what their eyes insisted upon.

  Alive.

  Around them, the crowd shifted.

  Spears lowered.

  One fell flat to the stone with a soft clatter.

  Lantern poles steadied.

  The sharp edge of fear drained from the gathered kobolds, replaced by something warmer, heavier. Shoulders sagged. Hands rose to cover mouths. A low murmur spread outward through the group, relief rippling from one to the next.

  Some of the kobolds made soft, breathy noises, short expulsions of air that trembled at the edges. Others dragged the backs of their wrists across their faces, smearing moisture from their eyes.

  The conscious juvenile clung to its parent now, no longer shielding, no longer braced for attack. Its arm curled weakly around familiar shoulders instead of guarding its belly and throat.

  The smaller one stirred faintly in its parent’s grasp, breath even, head lolling against a collarbone.

  The adult holding it pressed its muzzle to the child’s brow and released a thin, wavering sound from deep in its chest—not a warning, not a threat.

  Only then did a few kobolds look beyond the reunited family.

  Toward the rats.

  Gnash remained where he had withdrawn, body low, ears flattened, making himself small. His scouts mirrored him, still as stone.

  He did not meet the kobolds’ eyes at first.

  He kept his gaze lowered.

  The air no longer stung of panic. The sharp, acrid scent of fear had dulled, replaced by salt and something warmer.

  One of the adults—the one holding the conscious juvenile—slowly lifted its head.

  Its eyes found Gnash.

  No bared teeth. No forward lean. No tightening of claws.

  They watched.

  Gnash lifted his gaze just enough to meet them.

  For a long moment, neither moved.

  Then the kobold dipped its head.

  Not a flinch. Not recoil.

  Intent.

  Gnash lowered his muzzle toward the stone in answer.

  Around them, the tightness in the air slackened. Muscles uncoiled. Claws eased.

  The young were back within the circle of their own.