Liel Commander Kelnere would not leave the field of battle until the mass of root and branch that had encased the sorcerer was cut down and burned, but the greenwood took time to catch. They found no sign of the sorcerer within, but Kelnere didn't appear surprised by this. As the consuming flames sent a column of smoke into the evening sky, setting their eyes and noses to running, they posted sentries around the battlefield and took stock of their wounded both of vien and vaela. In his company alone, Tirlav had lost one hundred and three dead, and two hundred and forty-three wounded, some severely. More than a few might not survive to the morrow. Efle the plume of Tlorné was among the fallen. His second had raised the plume, but Tirlav had not yet learned his name.

The toll on the vaela had been terrible. The screams of the beasts tormented Tirlav's ears as they put down the wounded animals. Some vien would have to ride double back. Many of the extra vaela they had brought with them from the Embrace had been left at Liel High Commander Sholrodan's grove to be dispersed to other companies of riders.

"More mounts will be sent eventually," Kelnere said. "Do not worry. This was a worthy victory. They feel their losses, too."

"Some will have to remain behind on patrols until remounts arrive."

"Use the vaela of the contingents held in reserve," Kelnere said, shrugging. Tirlav didn't reply, wondering how the vaela were to survive if they were ridden day and night. They stood well away from the irritating flames that struggled to spread to the far side of the pile of cut wood and branches. Night was falling, and Tirlav did not like remaining so close to the eves of the Charth woods. Nearly half their unwounded strength was set to watch, but still. . .

"How long have you been here?" Tirlav asked.

"Seventeen years," Kelnere replied. "But I tell you, we did not see as much fighting in the first fifteen years put together as we have in the past two. This was the largest body of quth we have encountered."

"Why? What has caused the increase?"

"Who knows? The Synod has ordered more aggression, and the Canaen respond in kind." Kelnere spit in the direction of the fire. "The Canaen are vile. I have even heard rumors of half-breeds."

"Half-breeds?" Tirlav asked.

"Half Quth, half Canaen."

Tirlav grimaced. The thought was disgusting.

"Have you ever seen such a one?"

"No, but I wouldn't be surprised. If you ever get a chance to kill a Canaen, take it."

Out of the roughly many hundreds of enemies they had killed that day, twenty-three were Canaen. Kelnere said it was an unusually high number, yet it was hard to believe that killing twenty-three Canaen was worth the deaths of so many vien. Kelnere's losses were as great at Tirlav's. He knew that the quth had to be accounted for as well, but to trade even one vien life for a score of quth felt like a horrid bargain.

When Kelnere was satisfied with the burning, they mounted and rode west again. Here in the open, they had a fine view of the night sky, and the Night Dancers were aloft, visible here and there in breaks of the low clouds. The shimmering colors of the Night Dancers were common in the Aelor heartwood, and Tirlav had often climbed to the upper canopy to watch them pulsate in the sky. Now, he looked away. He did not want reminded of Aelor. Memories were painful.

They kept the two companies together until they neared the western eaves. Two more of Tirlav's wounded died on the ride back, yet no sooner had they settled the wounded in the grove than Tirlav sent out the other contingents on patrol. He aided in the care of the wounded for the rest of the night, until the sun rose red in the eastern sky. To give his winded contingents a rest, he had ordered the patrol to continue through the morning, but at midday he formed the three battered contingents into two temporary forces of those yet hale, and they patrolled again under Tirlav's own command. He was tired, and his eyes still burned from the smoke of the fire. He took no joy in the breeze or sunshine as they rode the fields of waving grasses and fragrant flowers, until at last he returned and allowed himself rest. Ensconced within his hammock beneath the moldy canopy, he fell asleep without even washing his face.

Tirlav roused to a feeling like being hugged. His enclosed hammock was tight, and he felt a heartbeat not his own. At first, he didn't know where he was or what was happening. Something was rooting around at his chest, almost like a vaela nosing for a lime. Whatever it was was huffing. Tirlav tried to rise up in the hammock, but his body was held tight.

"What goes?" he asked, confused and still groggy. Now he tried to wriggle his shoulders, but he couldn't. Nearby, someone screamed, a sound of unbridled horror. The noise woke Tirlav in a panic. He struggled, trying to move. Other voices were calling out, now. Something sharp poked at his chest, and he shouted wordlessly, trying to rock or twist, but the strength which held him was immense, and the huffing grew louder, sharp stabs piercing through his mailed chest. He shouted again, but the pressure increased, and he struggled to breathe.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

There was a high-pitched screech, and the pressure ceased. Tirlav spun out of his hammock and landed on the floor of his canopy platform. He struggled to his feet, feeling dizzy.

"Liel!" someone said. It was Glentel. The vien was standing with drawn blades overtop some massive dark shape that looked as much like a hairy rug as a beast. It was quivering, and Glentel gave it another downward thrust. It shrieked again. All around, there was shouting and shrieking.

"There is a flock of them!" Glentel said breathlessly. "They climb through the netting."

"Come," Tirlav said, trying to catch his breath. He bent and took one of his fallen swords, flicking the wooden scabbard free.

Together, Glentel and Tirlav combed through the trees and nets for any others who might need aided, but thankfully the creatures were already repulsed. The rest of the vien slept with hammocks near each other and were able to come to the aid of those similarly beset. Only Tirlav slept in isolation within his canopy.

"Wrappers, liel," Hanle the remnant plume said as he arrived from the edge of the grove. "Nasty. They can climb through the webbing."

They were back on Tirlav's platform. Glentel slid a foot under one wing of the beast and flipped it onto its back. The narrow body in the center of the muscular wings was featureless to Tirlav's eye, except for a large round orifice surrounded by long yellow spines or teeth.

"They wrap themselves around their prey and suck them dry," the plume said. "It may be best if you appoint someone to remain here with you."

"I will move my hammock just outside the platform," Glentel said. Tirlav nodded. He was still unused to the wounds that marred Glentel's face since the battle. They were mostly closed, now, but his cheek was disfigured, and one of his eyes had a strange white cast to it.

"Thank you," Tirlav said, nodding. His hands still trembled, and he held them behind his back to keep it from showing. It was the spines that had started to poke through the rings in Tirlav's mail, but the wounds were shallow, dribbling blood but not dangerously so.

"Are they poisonous?" Tirlav asked.

"If you dip arrows in their spittle, the wounds will clot poorly," the veteran answered. "But your wounded should be fine."

Tirlav was not alone in having sustained minor punctures. The plume likely did not realize Tirlav was injured at all. After an hour, the dismay had settled somewhat.

Glentel moved his hammock just outside the canopy, and Tirlav laid down again, but he did not sleep, despite his fatigue.

There was no safety in the Mingling by sleep or by waking. This was it—they would ride these fields or defend the grove until at last they all died. It was merely a matter of which charge, which ride, which patrol, or which vile monster of the night. Truly, they were already dead.

***

Over two months passed after that first battle, but they came upon no new incursions into the meadows. A few quth were seen slinking toward the western woods. They ran some down, and others escaped. They knew some made it unseen from tracks left behind at the edge of the Meadow. At night, the quth harassed the sentries, but the only death came from the attack of another mindless beast, one of the monsters that roamed the Mingling. This time, the beast was killed, though not before it had taken its victim, a 78-year veteran archer from the remnants. Tirlav went and looked upon the bodies. The beast was thick and squat, its arms longer than the rest of its body. Its claws and fangs were easily six inches long, and its fur was striped with the strange pigments so common in the Mingling. They threw the beast out into the clearing, and interred the vien in the soil.

Despite constant sounds of life and death from the woods beyond the clearing, a heavy sense of silence hung over the Center Grove, itself. The nights were nearly cacophonous, and yet life there was utterly lonely. There was no comfort for Tirlav in his comrades. They did not sing. Their food and drink tasted strange, and they consumed it for strength with the habitual mastications of necessity. A dullness started to take hold, almost like boredom, if one in constant danger could be considered bored. Patrols were welcome, if only for the sense of activity. Was that why the companies had built so little? There were fortifications, traps, ditches full of sharpened stakes, but no houses or anything else for comfort. Moldy canvas sheltered their food supplies. There was no real attempt at permanence.

Back in the Embrace, the Vien could not leave one timber of their houses uncarved or unadorned. Were these gaunt faces around him of the same people? Tirlav noticed his riders staring motionless as they sat in the trees, as if their minds had fled to some other place, leaving the body to wait for the return of the spirit.

One night a sentry screamed, dropped his weapons, and ran into the clearing, stripping away his armor. He plunged into the forest naked. The other veteran sentries had merely watched him go. Tirlav had gone to investigate the sound, only to be told that the sentry had "stripped."

"Stripped?" Tirlav asked. The veterans on duty looked from one to another. Hanle, the remnant plume, arrived. Hearing in turn that a sentry had stripped, he nodded and asked if Tirlav wanted to go over reports.

"As you say," Tirlav answered, knowing the plume had no reports to give. As they walked together, Hanle spoke in low tones. What he told Tirlav was of no comfort.

Every so often, with little by way of warning, the spirit could break. It was common for the victim to strip naked and run. Even if they could be stopped, they could never fight again; their minds were broken. There was no survival alone in the Mingling, but it was best to let them go, Hanle said. The vien who had stripped that night was a twenty-seven year veteran.

"When I first arrived, there was a seventy-six year veteran," Hanle said. "One year left, and he would have gone home. It was the first time I saw it. We were on sentry duty. He climbed down out of the tree, stripped naked, and walked into the woods. I didn't understand. He didn't even scream. Most scream."

Tirlav shook his head. A few months ago, such a story would have shocked him. What would years bring? Maybe those who had fallen already were the more blessed.

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