Chapter 84: Confluence of Hatred.

The white shapes bounced up and down the treeline at great speed, faster than they should. Talan was on his feet screaming before he could think about what to say. Gesticulating and pointing led to more people looking. Screams erupted among the lines.

“You have to go! You have to hide!” He told the apothecary.

The bald man nodded and collected his things, then lifted a poisoned man with some difficulty. Lines of archers and spearmen were already forming. A sergeant was asking for the war mage. Talan realized that he didn’t have a formation to join so he stayed at the back, helping the wounded move away. At the same time, he was doing his best to inspect one of the flying monsters that were definitely coming their way. The task was almost impossible. He could only catch glimpses before the shapes would disappear back under the canopy.

“Come on, come on, come on.”

He got it. One of the butterflies flew down then up, allowing him to get a visual.

[Pleiada Blaze Drone, extremely dangerous, mobile, volatile…]

Talan gasped as the meaning of ‘volatile’ flooded his synapses, bringing with them the taste of scorched earth. They could not be allowed to come closer. He looked around, found the royal carriage trudging close with Eteia at its top. The war mage was already casting.

“They explode!” he screamed, then a second time. His warning was relayed up. Eteia frowned, traits drawn with concern and the exhaustion of constant vigilance. She raised her hands and called upon power, and it answered.

Red mana flared in a circle above her head, arrayed with exacting precision to bend the world to her will. A fire set the forest aflame on the side of the lake opposite the Enorians, then it spread, and spread, until the view of the butterflies was covered by a roaring inferno. The farthest spearmen groups started to run back to the safety of the wagon line.

Talan could feel the heat from here, like standing in front of an oven.

White shapes emerged from the sides and over. The drones were too spread out. A few archers let out arrows. They might have hit something, Talan would never know.

Eteia screamed and the wall exploded out.

The first of the drones dove on the nearest squad.

The world went white. It also turned upside down. Talan’s ears screamed at him while his body fell to the ground, numbed by a powerful jolting sensation unlike anything he had ever felt before. It took all his strength to breathe in air that tasted like heat and ash. For a minute, he could do nothing but gasp. Then, progressively, his vision returned. The bald apothecary was by his side with a bleeding wound on his scalp, which trailed blood down to his simple robes. The man forced a potion between his teeth. He swallowed it down as much by reflex as anything else. His vision cleared and his mind settled an instant later.

“What the hell happened?” he asked.

But he knew, and he turned his head to take in the carnage.

Where men had been, now there were small craters. Indistinct pieces of flesh seeped red on the darkened ground here and there. Many soldiers still lay on the ground. The waters of the large pond roiled like a sea. Dust and flaming debris rained down upon the apocalyptic landscape, some disappearing behind the thick wall of smoke leading farther into the forest, or what had been a forest. Nothing was left standing in an avenue wide enough for the entire army to camp in.

“Enttiku, mother of mercy. Spare us,” he heard someone whisper.

They had lost the entire vanguard. All forty men who had gone to scout the edge, and it could have been worse. Much worse. Only Eteia and everyone’s quick reaction had prevented the beasts from falling over the whole column. It would have been over in an instant, the entire expedition, swallowed by the Deadshield Woods.

“Talan, I need your help,” the apothecary said.

Right. Help. Help now. The living came first, like they always did. They still had some wounded. Talan followed the man in a daze as they walked to a pile of intact barrels, the kind that used to contain food. Grim-faced nurses and soldiers were filling them with poisoned water. The bald apothecary grabbed jars of glass containing a black powder and emptied one in each barrel.

“I’ll need to make more. Talan, I need you to mix this until your inspect skill returns [activated charcoal water]. Understood?”

The questor was moving a provided ladle before the apothecary was done talking. The dark powder dyed the poisoned liquid with a sinister hue.

“Activated charcoal binds with the poison,” the apothecary explained.

“Even a magical one?” Talan asked, then winced. It was not his place to question, or so he had been taught. The wisdom of this statement was wearing thin in his mind.

“Yes, it’s magical activated charcoal, you see?”

Talan nodded and focused on his task. He ignored the soldiers securing the ravaged clearing for the second time. There was only the next barrel until his thirst could no longer take it.

Even the thought that there were body parts bobbing in the water right now failed to distract him from his pain. He had to drink.

“Allow me,” the apothecary said. He picked a cup and drank his fill from a barrel. Talan stared at him, aghast.

“I always put my mouth where my mouth is,” the apothecary explained with a sad smile.

A minute passed and he failed to throw up his stomach lining.

“I want to take a piss but it’s probably unrelated. It’s safe, I think. Alright, everyone, go.”

Talan gulped down greedily. The poison failed to kill him, so he drank again. Meanwhile, the army settled down with their usual efficiency. Slowly but surely, the Enorians cleaned and organized the open ground until they had an encampment worth the name. Talan left Eteia and the bald man making more charcoal. He found his tent by some miracle and crashed down.

It was late afternoon when he woke up. The men sat around fires, with tents in orderly rows. The pond was dark but clean and a large group of soldiers were repurposing containers to hold water. He saw some of the wounded sitting at the edge of the watery expanse, pinkish scar tissue fully exposed. They didn’t look good but they certainly looked better.

A tall barricade now surrounded the camp, probably set up by the caster siege specialists. Nothing too fancy, but the earthworks masked the view from the forest. First thing first though, Talan found his squad, only to realize that they were relaxing. The men were happy to see him finally awake and shared some vegetable soup with him, made thicker with flour. The simple taste settled his mind and he found himself grateful that there was no meat, for once. He eventually left to clean himself by a large barrel. The pond’s water left dark spots on his skin, which he didn’t mind. It felt great not to smell himself every time he moved his arms.

The mood was calmer, now that the men finally felt safe for the first time in days. He was about to return to the squad when a runner called all leaders to the prince’s carriage, which included him as a questor. He heard the men whispering on his way there. Their voices flitted in the unsteady calm of the fading afternoon. ‘Return’, they said, ‘give up’. ‘Not worth it’. He clenched his fist at their cowardice. They didn’t get it. It was a matter of principle, of reputation. If they failed here against Kazar, Enoria would lose its last legitimate heir. The king was broken. The first prince was maimed and his sister dead. All the important northern rebels had perished in the cavalry charge, cut down as they were trapped. If they failed here, Lancer would lose his legitimacy and, with it, the dream of a reunited Enoria. They could not fail. They could not let the sacrifices that had been made on the trail be in vain. And yet, as he neared the meeting, he found his outrage disappear as quickly as it had come.

The wagon stood immaculate in the center of the base like a bastion of civilization, shining with enchantments. Eteia was not in her spot on top of it right now, probably resting. It comforted Talan to see that order had prevailed, and that the just hierarchy of things still reigned so deep in the Deadshield Woods.

Then he noticed the soldiers in tight ranks facing the closed door and his joy evaporated. It wasn’t fair. A leader… should lead from among his men.

He shook his head to chase the errant thought. This was not his belief. He trusted results, and…

Talan clenched his chest and prayed. The favor of Maranor was still there, deep inside his soul. He could waver but he could not fall and he could not show it. That was the deal. Let his betters do their job and he would do his, until he ascended the ranks through merit — or by replacing someone less fortunate.

Talan joined the group and soon the Prince walked out. His regal appearance silenced the crowd and the light of cooking fires shone on the circlet he wore, lending golden hints to the silvery metal.

“Men, I have heard disturbing rumors from the rank, and I am displeased.”

His frown made Talan feel like cowering. He was not at fault, however, and so he stood straight and without guilt.

“Some of our soldiers talk about leaving, returning to the kingdom with our tails between our legs. Shamed. Chastised. Defeated by pitfalls and tree sap. I am telling you now, in case this wasn’t clear enough. It will not happen. We have not come here to turn back with our duty unfulfilled, even if the path is long and arduous. Our task is more daunting than expected, yes, and I understand the weight on everyone’s shoulders. I really do. However, this weight is the same as we have always carried, for what is at stake is nothing less than the fate of our nation. A nation that has stood since the end of the Old Empire. A nation now on the verge of the abyss!”

The Prince scolded and the mood turned sullen.

“This war will not end by retreating. We are committed now. If we retreat, no one will ever trust any of us again. We will be the laughing stock of Param and a public embarrassment for the crown. More importantly, there are three scores of dead defenders of Enoria whose deaths will have been in vain because our stones withered like old prunes at the first signs of trouble. I will not allow it. We will reach the city and make those separatists sorry they ever thought about defying us.”

Talan could understand the underlying message. Once they reached the town, there would be a reckoning. The prince might even order a hecatomb: one inhabitant in a hundred randomly put to the sword. It was a harsh punishment, but it was within his rights.

Again, a thought wormed itself in his mind. The prince had taken slaves. The prince had broken an agreement. It was… all his fault.

Talan prayed harder.

“You, the officers, are the spine of our army. You will enforce discipline now and until we settle down in Kazar after our ultimate victory. Until the time has come to rest and mourn, you will maintain a steel grip over your charges because I assure you that these woods have swallowed armies before, and they will do so again. That is all. Dismissed!”

The assembly saluted, then dissolved in slow trickles. Few people talked. Talan could not blame them. He felt… empty. The prince’s words had not achieved the results he had hoped for. At the same time, he was a questor. He didn’t need anyone to remember his duties.

He joined Bishop Ereon for an evening prayer. The older man didn’t say anything but he was solid and dependable, and that was enough. Talan had to believe that order would prevail, or it would all have been for nothing. And this couldn’t be allowed to happen.

***

The Yries warchief was maintaining his spear when Viv found him. His large, owl-like eyes remained fixed on his gear. Only the slight twitch of his bristling hair informed Viv that he had perceived her presence. The Yries could feel a lot through their skin. Things like tremors and wind, she’d been told.

Gar-Gar placed the polearm in front of him with religious care, then kneeled back in a position that reminded Viv of Seiza, the Japanese proper seating. He invited her to join with a sweep of his thin arm. She obliged.

“Human warlord. What do you want?”

His Enorian was clipped and heavily accented. Viv realized that she had grown used to his curt sentences. He was not being rude.

“Can I ask you a question?” She started.

“Ask.”

“Why do you fight with us here, in the forest? I know that you could defend your city against most forces now that you have steel and that you have settled. I also know that you don’t like us much. I’m appreciative, make no mistake, I’m just curious.”

The Yries made a strange series of clicks that she had not yet learned to interpret. It was always an experience to maintain eye contact, yet Viv persevered, because the Yries took it as a sign of stability.

They loved their stability.

“Not dislike. ‘Click’. Pity. Fear. Not dislike.”

Gar-Gar gestured at the cavern around them.

“When we live in forest, we live in the trees. When we live in mountain, we live in the caves. You, humans, you dig caves in the forest. You bring wood in the mountains. To make the tunnels larger. Instead of asking the stone.”

He leaned forward. Viv caught a whiff of his musk. It was curiously bird-like.

“You claw the earth to make fields. You cut the forest to make walls. When you run out of space, you find more. You fight and you wage war on the beasts. On us. On yourselves. It is… never enough. You never have enough. You cannot stop. It is beyond you.

“I used to hate it. But it serves no purpose to hate the snow. The cold. They just… are. You just… are. I see it now. When you took Kazar, we sent a young one with you. He witnessed… destruction. He said… that it was glorious. When he pierced the human walls with an Yries tool. I understand now. We cannot live without you… anymore. Not since we arrived in the deadlands. I picked a human. And I will work with this human. You. To keep our city. For vengeance. And for ideas.”

“Ideas?”

“You… are outlander. You see Yries machines and think weapons. We did not think weapons. We do now. And if you turn on us… we still have weapons.”

“I will not turn on you, Gar-Gar,” Viv replied. “I meant what I said. I will not attack people because of what they might do. Only trust will carry us all through the day.”

“You believe now. And maybe you will, later. So long as you do… you have us. Because we want to believe as well. You have our weapons.”

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The Yries smiled, and it was not a pleasant sight.

“They are very good weapons, yes?”

Talan woke up to a noisy crash. He rushed out of his tent with fear, fastening his armor as fast as he could in the darkness of the pre-dawn night. Cries of alarm rang through the camp. Then, he heard the buzz.

When the fire wasps came this time, they came from every direction. There were no trees left for Eteia to burn, though she did manage to destroy some of the insects mid-flight. The rest of the hive warriors crashed on the camp in a swarm of embers, setting tarps and supplies ablaze. Two landed on Talan as he was stomping on a nearby fire. His breastplate stopped the first but the second landed on the elbow. The pain sent him to the ground, screaming for a while. The battle turned into a Helockian farce. He could swear he had extinguished the same drying underwear three times.

It took ten minutes for the last wasp to self-immolate. Eteia ran everywhere, catching flames in her fist as if it were paper to collect. No one died this time. No one managed to sleep again either. Once more, they waited for an attack that never came until dawn found them, tired and sooty. They departed mid-morning despite their exhaustion, with Talan once more in the lead. They were fully in the deepest part of the forest now. Small hills and tall trees played strange tricks with his perspective, and the questor remained vigilant, but they came upon few traps and none that contained sap anymore. It appeared that the Kazarans had run out. Not that it mattered. The damage had been done.

Talan adjusted his bracer for the fifth time. The company didn’t have nearly enough leather to replace the lost straps, so he had to make do with torn tarp. Many others were in the same situation. Between the sap and the wasps, few tents or cloaks remained intact. Even Bishop Ereon had a hole in his tabard. As for the champion, he had caught all the wasps on his gauntlets.

The prince was intact as well. He had stayed inside during the crisis, which was probably for the best since the opportunity was perfect for an assassin’s strike, Talan thought.

Yes, that was for the best.

The day went on, with the landscape changing into more of the same. There were the trees, the occasional bird, and the constant presence of those strange walls of altered earth. Talan had no idea what they were for since nothing had happened. He was relatively sure that they could not contain spells or traps. Perhaps they were an attempt at intimidation, a constant reminder that the witch was out there somewhere, watching. Making ready.

Nothing happened that day besides a monster attack. The beast was quickly dispatched by the champion and Ereon working together, and its carcass was butchered to provide meat for the men that evening. Talan went to bed expecting trouble. He was woken up again, in the darkness, by a horrid whistling sound. Put the armor on. Latch it. Draw sword. Get out. His mind flailed against fatigue when he came out and gathered his exhausted men around him, but this time nothing happened. The noise had come from a hollow ballista bolt. It had only been an elaborate whistle.

“Looks like they ran out of fire wasps as well,” one of the soldiers said.

“Good because we were running out of tents.”

Talan reached a certain sense of detachment the next day as they kept going and the ankle-snappers increased in numbers. There were still a lot of wounded, so many that Ereon had to stay with the moving infirmary. Everyone’s mana was running low, which was dangerous, but like the day before, the champion and Bishop Ereon slew the few monsters attracted by the column. The prince even came out with his sword and participated. They made a great show of exposing the carcass of a furry quadrupedal creature, cleanly beheaded. The prince stood by it, sword bloody. Talan was sure that the men appreciated his efforts but, to him, it felt farcical. Just a charade. If the prince wanted to make himself useful on his off time, he only had to visit the infirmary. Talan was sure that the man had more life mana than the average grunt.

A great emptiness filled his chest at that thought and he calmed himself down. Maranor’s faith required respect for power in the pursuit of power. Either he followed the prince or he deemed him unworthy, and thus a target. The goddess tolerated no middle ground. Now was not the right time to reconsider his obedience. Not in the middle of the woods. He would have time to do so in Kazar.

If they ever reached it.

It was the first time that the possibility of failure entered his mind, and he chased it away. The Kazarans were only delaying the inevitable. Even battered and hurt, the army was still over seven hundred battle-hardened, professional soldiers. They had proven themselves in Regnos and other places. They had trained for years in preparation for the civil war. It wasn’t something that a year of preparation could offset. Never.