Dusk was encroaching upon the farm soon, and the Jaeger had to be prepared before night arrived. Sat up against a tree stump near the farmhouse, with a chunk of hardtack softening from the saliva in her mouth, Pyrik dragged the whetstone along the blunted edge of her long bearded axe. The steel sang from each stroke until its coarse voice smoothed out to a sweeter sound. Evenly sharpened, she took a log from the pile stacked up along the wall and settled it on the stump. It was ringed with many years before it was felled for firewood. The farmer had to have taken quite the sweat and time to chop the tree down. Pyrik held her axe over the log, intending to split it with a single strike. She threw her long black coat onto her pack on the ground, leaving on her brown brigandine vest, and rolled up the sleeves of her white shirt underneath. The swelter was beginning to hound her relentlessly. Her armpits felt damp with sweat. Glare reflecting off from the steel licked her periphery as she brought the axe above her head, and with a decisive swing loaded with the weight of intent, it went straight down the middle of the log and through the stump that it was settled on. It took some effort to get the axe free afterwards, taking several yanks with her leather boot braced against the stump.

The hardtack had sufficiently softened by then. The edge was more than perfectly fine on the axe, and her sword bayonet was already sharpened. Pyrik retreated to the shade under the farmhouse to eat. She watched as the cattle lounged around on the lightly yellowed pasture, mooing every once in a while at the farm girl tending to the herd. The field was flat, ample, and difficult to miss anything approaching from the forest line. As for its quality of grazing, Pyrik could not say. The cattle certainly did not mind nibbling on the grass, though, it looked appetizing compared to the hardtack to Pyrik. It was a chore to constantly chew, then chase the mush down with some water from her canteen.

As Pyrik tore another piece off from her hardtack, a dinner bell sounded from the farmhouse. The farm girl shot up from the ground and started herding the cattle back to the barn. Some complied with a grunt while others needed a shout when they tried to stray. The farmer, a barrel-chested man with a short beard in an off-white shirt and slacks held up by suspenders, came around the corner of the farmhouse. He was bearing a warm fatherly smile, hands stuffed in his pockets. She took the tack out of her mouth, and nuzzled into the collar of her brigandine.

“Come. Have dinner with us,” the farmer said.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Pyrik said softly. “I have this.”

“I don’t know. You can chip a tooth from eating one of those bricks. The trick is to soak ‘em, that’s what me and comrades learned during the war. I’ve got some stew for that. And honey cake to take away the bland taste.”

Pyrik knew the farmer was only trying to be kind. She was likely the same age as his girl, sixteen years old. Too young to be wandering the empire on her own, let alone be a Jaeger. When she looked at the man though, all she saw was the father she ran away from. She shook her head at the offer, returning her attention to the pasture, to the forest line.

“All right,” the farmer said. As he walked away, the farm girl leapt into his arms and after a joyous twirl, they went into the farmhouse.

I should check the blunderbuss one more time. Pyrik stuck the hardtack in her mouth to soften it some more. It would soon be night, and she preferred the gun to be in working order when the rinderpest emerged from the woods. She had seen the remains of its malevolent machinations upon the cattle carcasses: flesh stripped from its bones, skulls bashed in, brains scooped out. Avoidable so long as lead came out of the muzzle of her gun.

“Um, excuse me?”

Pyrik looked up from her blunderbuss and saw the farm girl. She had a bowl and a plate in each hand, served with a timid smile.

She settled the food down. “Here, for when you get hungry later. Or, like... if that tack’s not enough,” she said, retreating a couple of steps afterwards.

Pyrik glanced at the food. The hardtack was making her mouth terribly dry. She could soak it in the stew instead. And the slice of honey cake smelled divinely sweet. She returned her gaze to the empty pasture. “You know I’m going to use your cattle as bait, right? To lure the rinderpest in. I’d be condemning the animal you love so much to be slaughtered.”

The girl nervously grabbed handfuls of her linen dress as she prepared to turn around. “Mhmm. My father told me about the plan. I’ll miss Annie and Tabby, but they don’t produce milk anymore. And they are getting old… Either way it’s the slaughterhouse, I suppose.” She gestured to the honey cake. “It tastes finest when eaten hot.” And then she scurried off.

Hesitantly, as though the food might scuttle away, or the girl would return to take it to their dinner table where it belonged, Pyrik waited for a moment before placing the tack in the stew. As the tack slowly started to sink down the bowl, assured the meal would not leave, she took the honey cake into her hands. It was fluffy, light to the touch. She held it up to her nose, a delight sigh escaped.

Pyrik savoured every bite, and waited for night to come.

***

A low creeping fog crawled along the blood speckled pasture, and moving within the shroud of night was a beast on its belly. It stalked out its long wiry limbs in slow deliberate steps, seeking to fatten its bloated midsection with more livestock. The cattle near the barn were sleeping soundly, unaware of the rinderpest hidden below the rolling fog.

And like the cattle being preyed upon, the beast was unaware as well.

Pyrik, camped near the cattle, watched the rinderpest from underneath a blanket of itchy hay. She scratched at her nape, irritated that her long black coat did not prevent it from prickling her. Ignoring the discomfort though, she fully cocked the hammer on her blunderbuss as the beast drew closer. Threads of drool spilled out from its jaws like an overflowing gorge, and its serrated teeth glistened in the muted light of the full moon. However, until she could make out the glint of its many eyes that were peppered on its head, Pyrik stayed hidden under the hay. The blunderbuss was limited by its short range, which was only tolerated for the wide cone of destruction when the lead balls were spat out.

She had no choice other than to wait, forced to watch as the fog crept up and a long arm grabbed another cattle furthest from the herd. Its body was the same size as the prey it ate, and its limbs looked hardly able to support its heavy bodyweight, yet, as the cattle thrashed around, throat clawed out and bleeding everywhere, its hoof tearing off clots of grass, the rinderpest ripped off the cattle’s head with the ease of popping the top from a dandelion. And then the fog and rinderpest consumed the cattle, totally and completely, in a gruesome show of silhouettes.

The wet tearing and squishing eventually stopped. The rinderpest was on the move once more. As it came closer toward the herd, she was able to examine the magnitude of its grotesque construction. It looked far worse than how the farmer described. The loose skin appeared to be slothing off like mud, and its head was a decomposing bear skull with growth-like eyes akin to barnacles on a ship.

Truly, a wretched sight to behold.

Pyrik wanted to scrape off those shifty eyes, and once she saw them glint in the moonlight, she threw off the hay blanket from her back and fired the blunderbuss. The shot rang throughout the night like a crack of thunder, rousing the cattle from their sleep in a clamour of mooing and hooves. The rinderpest’s head jerked to the side with fragments of skull flying off. The lead balls had found their mark, though the dreaded creature was still standing. It reared its grisly head, the right side of its face was a smashed in lump of bone and flesh, growling at her with its many ranks of teeth. She tossed the gun aside, grabbed the long axe, and pulled out the sword bayonet from her belt, before rising to meet its challenge.

The rinderpest towered over her when it stood upright, looming large even with its shoulders hunched over. Bone cracked like thunder as it backhanded a fleeing cattle, sending it to the pasture as a broken heap. Although it had an imposing presence that could root a person in fear, the training remembered by her body stopped her from freezing in place. When she breathed, it honed her focus like a blade dragged along a whetstone. The blunderbuss and long axe were steady in her hands. A sort of murderous elation took stead in place of the fear. The rinderpest was just another monster, another one to be slain on this journey of hers. She would have its heart in her hands, one way or another.

The herd of cattle were scattered in all directions now, leaving Pyrik and the rinderpest to have their dance under the moon.

A lock of ebony hair had escaped from her braided bun and landed in her field of view. Pyrik blew the lock back as she retreated a step, wanting to get a sense of how it moved while upright. To her surprise, the rinderpest was deceively agile. It lunged at such a shocking speed, she was lucky to have sidestepped its attack with only a slash across the chest for underestimating its capabilities. If not for her brigandine vest, her entrails would have swayed out in the open.

The rinderpest stumbled slightly upon landing on the ground. Pyrik gritted her teeth, hungry for reprisal. Its vision on the right had to be impaired from the blunderbuss blast. Taking advantage of this weakness, she stuck to its blindspot. As she dove in, its claws missed, swiping at only air. An opening revealed itself, a bony leg exposed. She swung her axe at its left ankle. It did not sever the foot, however, the slash nicked bone and the rinderpest bellowed out as it buckled to one knee. Swiftly, she sprung up on its right side and stabbed her bayonet down at its loathsome head when suddenly, it tumbled away.

The rinderpest recovered on all fours, its back arched like a wild animal. An agonized groan seethed from its lips with each step it took. The ankle wound yawned open whenever weight was placed on it. Yet in spite of the obvious torture it caused, the rinderpest barreled forward with a ravenous conviction to cut Pyrik down. She was able to dodge a swipe at her throat, however, when a claw sliced off a lock of hair, forcing her to lose even more ground, it became evident that it had doubled its efforts to cut her down.

A familiar voice started whispering, insisting, rapping at her ribcage to be set free from its chains. The fight could be over within an instant if she simply took a draft from the abyss. Give in to the voice that laid dormant inside.

She resisted the call, and tried to meet the beast move for move. But it fought with animal desperation. The rinderpest did not react when her steel sliced into its flesh, aggression never lessening. It pressed for more ground, probing her guard for the chance to gut her. A devastating cleave down with both clawed-hands forced her to cross both weapons to avoid getting unseamed from neck to navel. A swift move for a temporary moment of reprieve. The rinderpest leveraged its crushing weight, bringing Pyrik down to one knee.

Seeing an opportunity, the voice inside spoke. It offered power, raw and unfiltered, the proofest kind for killing. The temptation was palpable as the pressure increased. The beast opened its jaw, each tooth gleaming red with inevitability. As she lurched toward a draft of the abyss, a sudden memory came to mind. She was in the forest, her home, training with Darius. Her two weapons were crossed with his twin swords. Like the rinderpest, he too was bearing down upon her with his raw strength.

And with the clarity of yesterday, she remembered beating him.

Leveraging the poundage vying down on her, Pyrik shifted the rinderpest’s hands to the side, slamming into the ground as she slipped out from under. She emerged at its right side, the blindspot. Her long axe raised high. Before the rinderpest could lift its head, her steel tasted the flesh on its nape. The beast spasmed in a jolt of nerves. It struggled to get up, like a puppet short of a few strings, though before it had a chance to recover, its head was relieved from the burden of resting on its shoulders. Then the rest of the miserable beast slumped over.

It was only until the blood stopped spurting from its severed neck did Pyrik move. She drank in the cool silent air, quenching the rapid pounding in her chest. Then, in a final act of bloodshed for tonight, she hacked open the rinderpest’s chest.

Who knew something so beautiful could reside in something so hideous. With a firm grip, Pyrik pulled out its calcified heart.

The calcified heart appeared like a spongiform web had ossified around a ruby that was the size of her hand. It even felt like the smooth texture of bone when she caressed it with her thumb. Her gaze was pulled away from the heart when she heard the noisy whine of rusty metal.

The farmer stood in the doorway to the farmhouse, a shocked expression on his face. Judging by the musket in his hand, and that one open window, he probably thought that this girl would be in need of help.

The shock shifted to pride as he strode toward her. “That’s... that was... I’m impressed. I’ve only ever seen one man fight like tha—”

“I’d like my payment now. If you don’t mind,” Pyrik said as she stowed the calcified heart in the leather pouch on her hip.

“Yes, of course. It’s in the farmhouse.” As Pyrik followed the farmer, he continued. “Now that the cattle won’t be harassed by the rinderpest anymore, I’m more than happy to arrange something long term with you. You can stay in the spare bedroom, help out on the farm, maybe deal with the occasional monster should the need arise.” He rested his musket on the doorway. “You can stay here.”

Pyrik turned away from his gaze. “I don’t think farm and cattle work would suit me very well.”

The farmer chuckled, sounding bittersweet. “I suppose we all have a trade.”

As the farmer disappeared inside to retrieve her payment, Pyrik took in the construction of the farmhouse. The coarseness of the wood. The flaking white paint. Memories kept the roof aloof as well as nails and supports. If she had grown up on the farm drinking in the sun from the pasture, laying down some roots, maybe she would call this place home. Maybe.

After a moment, the farmer reappeared with a small purse and a bundle in his arms. “For services rendered, and a little something for the road.”

The purse jangled when Pyrik stored it in her hip pouch, and peeking into the bundle she saw a loaf of honey cake.