(USFB): Twelve: Among the Pines

Chief Defender Biyorn was easily located after their visit to Soweyn. On the first tier, he sat at his post, a shack that partly cut into the cliff face as the temple had. However, through this alcove, it was apparent one could slip lower into the city. A shaft of light erupted from a hole in the earth, and the handles of a ladder were evident along the edges. It likely served to confound the deer further about the functionality of Seras as a village, let alone a strategic point; however, knowing the layout of the fox village, its purpose was plain. Below was the armory and barracks for the volunteer militia that Seras relied upon time from time. Razien had been housed there for a season with the rest of his peers as the foxes required assistance with a bloodspawn.

Biyorn looked as though he were still facing off against one such creature, wearing a harried expression paired with the light scaly armor that had once covered a wild beast. His muzzle had paled since last Razien had met his gaze; perhaps the war, or looming threat thereof, had aged him quicker than seemed proper. Still, as his eyes passed the bucks and set on Razien, there was a semblance of vigor that flared.

Rising from the cot he had stretched out on, the Chief Defender offered a short bow, “May the light bless you, travelers. What brings you to my attention this day?”

“Let the sun’s radiance never fail you,” Razien returned the bow, giving up a bit more for the man’s station, “On behalf of the Baylen Jaium Farsih, we’ve come to collect any reports you have of engagement with invaders from far afield.”

“Report? I could tell you everything we’ve seen, but I fear Sirian’s Tear will fall full from the sky by then. No, let’s be brief. We’ve spotted some lurking strangers about, but no confirmation on if they were these foreign soldiers or just Goredrinker’s brood creeping at the edges. Most place them at the far end, over the cliffs.”

“Have you sent anyone to thoroughly scout the area?”

Biyorn fought a scowl at that, “No. We would send word upriver, but it seemed less than relevant if we couldn’t assure Jaium that it was a threat. I know where your loyalties lie, but to be free with my tongue, the Baylen is not one for speculation and would sooner ignore us than send even a charge as large as you three down to assuage concerns.”

“How many can you spare to accompany us?” Orathone inquired before anyone else could speak.

The fox looked at the buck grimly before again focusing on the wolf, “I’ll rally up a few folk, let’s say five or so, and have them meet you out there,” he studied Razien a moment before whirling about, “Let’s do this right however.”

Biyorn vanished into the floor before a ruckus could be heard echoing from beneath the trio. After another moment, the fox shimmied back into view with a pole. It stood barely taller than the Chief Defender, though it was of a height with Razien. The edge fixed into the staff was like the teeth of a hungry devil, but the satchel of salt tied to it made clear that though blood would be spilled, it was to be put to rest in the same breath. Razien took the weapon with a polite bow, though he hoped there would be no need for any such measure.

The three headed out through the main road and worked their way around the ring of houses on the top tier of Seras. Though the north stretched out into rolling plains, the east flush with the waters of the Camora, and south baring the first budding signs of marshland, the west was fixed well with greenery. A forest spread wide, leading away from the village, serving as a refuge for those creatures who could not sink low enough into the waving meadows to be safe. Such dense foliage could easily conceal myters and shren and any number of lizards, and if that was all that lurked inside, Orathone would count himself lucky. However, the creeping vines and budding flowers whispered to him, their language unfamiliar though the sensation enough to insist something more was at work.

As they approached, an ill silence hung heavy over the green landscape. The calls of songbirds fell away, the shimmying of plate-scaled shren ceased, and the cries of insects and amphibia alike became non-existent. Only a few spans from the thicket, they stood looking about, awaiting the extra contingent of men the Chief Defender had permitted them. However, whether he had them collected or if they were still filling out armor was unclear. What was plain to the trio was that their arrival would be too late.

A bolt tore through shrubs and low-hanging branches, barely catching on either as it erupted into open air. Had it been launched, sent faithful without distraction, the tip would have opened Litheiuss’ throat and left supply enough to form several bloodspawn from his wound. Yet, that first bolt, disrupted by the fauna, would not be the last. A dozen more flew free less than a second after the initial shot. Time enough had passed for Orathone to throw himself into the fray.

The second volley and third were caught in the dense roots of maples and black walnut before they could reach the trio. Any further attacks were captured by the boughs that dipped low and began to sweep wildly. The bolts ceased their flight and were replaced by a plume of smoke that darkened the entrance into the wood. Any clouding was quickly banished as a spray of men leaped out from the thicket and charged headlong at the three.

Litheiuss drew his rapier and dagger, ready to engage with the first of the rabble to make contact. Razien hunched before planting his feet, the blade looking for exposed flesh and thirsting for blood. Orathone, however, reached and found he had not taken his bow from where it lay still in the cabin beside the trunk. Hardly was the buck without tools to dispatch the coming soldiers; however, to be found unprepared was unacceptable. He had known their charge had expected trouble might arise, but for the first time since the Westerners had taken Okyna, Orathone found himself unarmed.

The six scouts had hardly come well-armed, but two were fully prepared, armored, and with the great fans they called swords. They paired off like dancing partners in an overcrowded village, two to each one. The two that met Litheiuss were armed with short swords, hardly longer than the deer’s dagger, and clearly were not accustomed to their lack of reach. Though hardly an expert in the blade, the veteran easily maneuvered the two about, landing glancing blows here and there with the rapier while catching the edge of the other’s blade with the dagger. Though he was no sadist, Litheiuss had played this game before and knew it was a matter of enough successful strikes to finally bleed a man down to nothing.

Razien was more brash, his attacks immediate, their results not a matter of minutes but seconds. The first to charge him, a young tiger, leapt as though the wolf meant to strike low; however, Razien had a better trick in store. He slid the pole back through his paws and rose from his squat to stand, the edge opposite his palm as the teeth dug into the boy’s stomach and tore to his breast. His partner had come along slower, his strike met with the bare shoulder of his peer. Razien forced the bleeding tiger forward and toppled the other with his weight. The teeth quickly danced across the lion’s throat and extinguished life. As though it were as natural as withdrawing the blade, Razien dusted the downed scouts with a pawful of salt.

The two well-armed men, a lion and leopard, had remained at the rear of the charge, likely seeing where they could spring the most effective attack. Had there been only two, they would have found it easy to single out Litheiuss as he danced about slashing away one tiger as a turncoat buck awaited his demise. Had it been in his ability, Litheiuss thought he might spare the coward for means of an informant, but his brash actions and lack of forethought found the young buck run through just as his partner was nearing collapse. As the two in the rear made to retreat, feelers from a low set bramble erupted and snared the lion, the leopard being too quick for the trap.

Orathone continued after the leopard as he attempted to escape, going so far as to toss down another powder bomb that covered the area in pale red smoke. Though the scout could not be seen, Orathone could detect him slinking through the trees and across moss-covered stones. It would be difficult, but as he arrayed roots and limbs, he knew he might still catch this one alive. As the leopard rolled into the hollow beneath an oak, Orathone had him. With ease, he closed the opening in the roots, making a simple prison for the man. Though he still possessed his blade, Orathone knew the man would not easily cut through the healthy veins of the tree at the height of its growth.

As Litheiuss finished with his second foe, and the arms of the bramble were secured as tight as chains around the lion, the three were joined by those intended long before. Five foxes, Biyorn included, capered up to the site of the fray. The elder guardian looked about, his head bobbing, approving and impressed with what he saw. Without much ado, Orathone led the rest into the woods, ensuring everyone was alert and prepared for more hidden soldiers. However, there was nothing to be found among the pines and birch until they reached the oak prison of the leopard.

He was a miserable ball of spotted sand hidden beneath the roots as a shren in its corral. As they came closer, no one could tell if the leopard had been struck and was unconscious or if he faced away to avoid interrogation. Coming only paces away from the cell, the smell became apparent but not fully realized. Just as Orathone was prepared to lift the roots and hope that the numbers would be enough to convince their foe attack was useless, Biyorn called out, “Blood!”

A disfigured mess of oozing red and hardened black, almost like the chiton of a beetle, faced out through the roots. Their enemy’s eyes had taken on the cast, the vile blood swam there and any sense of mortal life was banished. The left arm was gone, and what came in place of it was a writhing serpent of dull crimson that ejected from the cage. It flailed through the air before slapping, wet and hollow, against another mossy trunk. Each member of the party was quick to go for their salt; Razien was nearest, his digits most nimble. As he dosed the snake, a sound arose.

From its cell, the possessed leopard was slashing away the roots. Had it been only his sword, there would be little to say of progress; however, the dark residue along the length of the blade told the story. The Goredrinker had not only taken the man’s flesh but had clearly sewn the promise of freedom once all was tended to. Each strike removed a layer of roots, and with only a few more, the blood-drunk creature would be free and much more challenging to thwart. Orathone had a solution, but it was not in keeping with his usual choices. Yet, as another layer of the cage fell away and those around him stirred, preparing to battle, the buck owned up to his mistake.

It had been his choice to try to take the man alive. He had thought and acted to ensnare him within the oak. It would burden him to no end, but he had to do away with his mistake quickly. With the merest gesture, he felt the ground quake, the roots retract, and the taproot snap like a pathetic, fallen twig in the dead of Winter. The flesh consumed beneath the mighty oak would be nothing compared to the death of one majestic tree. To snuff another finger of the Goredrinker felt a meaningless cause against the sacrifice made of the earth itself. Yet, it was done, and there would be no need to unburden the guilt of so many lives lost through his arrogance. And still, there was the lion wrapped and waiting just before the clearing.