Hesitant at first, the group caught the healer’s rhythm—the rhythm of the forest—and fell into the music. They danced in unison, arms moving through graceful arcs, clapping when their hands met, then they stomped as she raised her voice in a chant. Vantra did not understand the words, but they throbbed through her essence, battering against her core and joining the beat already begun.
The tangle brightened to the rhythm, a subtle green rising from beneath the jumbled exterior. The healer’s voice rose, and the tips untangled from the cluster, a shimmer racing down the pitted surfaces as one after another slid to the ground.
A steady thump issued from the trees, off the beat. Vantra jerked, startled, as rufang bled into view from between the droopy branches on the opposite side of the glade—and only rufang. No evaki or other dweller walked with them. The Wiiv? Likely. They spanned out, the butts of their weapons keeping time. The leaves shuddered, and a few more fell to the earth.
The Wiiv wore sashes with a flap that hung from their waists, bright colors clashing with the dullness of the grove. Bark circled their four legs and protected the tops of their paws, while beads and wooden bangles wrapped around their biceps and their wrists. All held their top feathers high, a dusting of chalky pink on the tips to hide their natural hue. Silver rings ran down the ridges of their beaks, connecting to loops in their hair tied by leather strings.
They had a variety of appearances, from light gold to ashen grey skin, darker tawny to black fur, and a mixture of browns, blacks and greys intermingled with a flare of color for feathers. Some had bright beaks, the yellows and oranges and reds stark against the lifelessness surrounding them. All had the corrupted blessing marks burning a sickly green in their fur and on their skin.
“The tauwe dey,” Ayara whispered. They stood with Katta, hands clasped over their chest, kneading the ground with their paws. “They attempt to interfere with the healing chant.”
“That’s the ritual Hrivasine used to call the Rotting One at the citadel, isn’t it?” Vantra asked. They nodded. “But this feels different.”
“Yes. It does not have the taint of evil ghosts to guide it. Only . . . it is not so sacred a ritual, is it?” Ayara’s gaze flicked around the clearing. “It is an evil ritual from an evil trickster.”
Navosh glared at the new arrivals, soul-consuming hate wrinkling his eyes, his lips gouging an ugly grimace across his face, his nose flared in disgust—Strans the warrior, as the mosaic depicted. Salan growled, deep enough to vibrate her essence, and lowered his head.
Four guards with leather greaves and thicker wraps protecting their barrels and chests, preceded a muscular dweller with a pale gold beak and skin, and ebon fur and feathers. He wore a wooden mask that jutted down his cheeks, twigs dangling from hoops at the ends. The top splayed like a fan, napped stone blades in place of sticks holding the black cloth together, tiny holes drilled into the tips from which strings of beads jangled. A slit down the middle allowed his blue crest to stand properly in place.
He did not bear a single mark, either the corrupted blessing or Strans’ twisted one.
“Who are you, to invade our sanctuary?” he asked. His voice sounded gravelly, as if he shouted too much and too long.
“And who are you, to look at the Bendebares and not see their sickness?” Navosh asked. Rage replaced his normal calm, a fiery hate that caused the Sun shard’s pouch to flare dark crimson in response. Alarmed, Vantra glanced at Katta, but he watched the confrontation, Darkness swirling in the depths of his eyes, unconcerned at the reaction.
“I speak not to you,” the rufang said, raising his spear to point at Zepirz. The weapon, made from one of the twisted roots, resembled the staffs the Wiiv yondaii carried at the citadel; dark, warped, unsalvageable.
“You will speak to me, luster of war,” Navosh said, rage burning brighter.
“They’re surrounding us.” Jare sounded cautious but not overly concerned.
“I’ll shield the heart and the listeners,” Vantra said.
Katta slowly nodded. “You are the bridge between Darkness and Light,” he agreed, his eyes on the leader’s staff. His power filled the clearing. The Light-blessed flared, and so did the pouch with the shard.
Eyeblink fast, shields rose between those performing the ritual and the Wiiv. She created a lattice that would allow the wind to careen through, and the soil to touch their feet and paws—anything related to the rhythm of the forest. All else would burn.
Plink plink. Tssssss. The sizzle and smoke of burning wood distracted her.
“Zepirz, ti-al deida nem!” the leader shrieked. The yondaii flinched, and his crest smoothed down before popping back up; he continued the beat without missing a stomp.
“Esentiz,” Ayara seethed.
Corrupted roots shot from the shadows of the stricken bendebare trees, too many to count. Branches toppled, some catching fire on the Sun shield, some cracking open on the ground, spitting dust and debris into the air. Light shields intercepted the attack, and the roots bounced back, their tips blazing.
Navosh raised his hand, and his arm flared a brilliant rainforest green tinged with silver; vines erupted from his chest and wrapped around his appendage and waist. He swiped, sending a swirl of windy magic at the roots. Brushed by his Touch, they crumbled and fell to the earth, where they burst into tiny puffs of matter.
Esentiz hefted his spear, and a thrill raced through Vantra. Sickly yellow and green infected with dry blood red, crept down the shaft from the tip, where amber beads winked in the napped stone. Once touched, they dulled to a dark red. He pointed at the Sun shield, and the power that formed at the point sunk her confidence and hope.
“Nem yosh e Bendebares jiyadit?” Ayara screamed as Strans aimed his vines at the spear. The corrupted roots intercepted them, piercing them before erupting into a green blaze. The newly made holes turned a musty yellow, and dried blood streaks raced towards the deity’s arm.
“Ayara,” Esentiz said, raw hate wrapped around the name as he whipped the tip around, sending a blast of rot brown at the deity. “Eet werek ti-al deidat nem.”
They moved into a confrontational stance, hands held free at their sides, and clacked their beak. “Zo tira kavi. Nem re-ake ankis.”
The fighters jerked their attention to the healer, clacking their beaks in turn and hissing, their thumping interrupted. Esentiz gave a sharp command and suspended his attack to thump the butt of his spear on the ground; the group could not find the communal rhythm again, a few drifting to the dancer’s tempo as they attempted to regain the off-beat.
Strans raised his arm, and the ends of the vines fell to dust at his feet; even greener ones erupted from the originals.
Esentiz screamed in frustration, his crest trembling, and pointed his spear at the healer. “Dak shen!”
The fighters surged to follow the order; Vantra reinforced the shielding as vibrant green lines, filled with Strans’ power, shot from the central tangle. Beyond the dancers they formed circles where fresh vines erupted from the soil and snaked around the enemy’s hindquarters, hoisting them into the air, their upper torsos and front legs dangling down. Many cried out as they dropped their spears, and all swiped and kicked at air as the vines swung them back and forth.
“Strans ne yonur dayd! Atel, shen lazaw!” Ayara screamed.
“Enedot?” Strans asked, his voice cracking in time with the crisp snaps of tree branches.
“Atel, shen lan gentalo!”
He growled, his words indistinct, his lips pulled into a snarl as the vines shook the rufang.
“Yezanalyondaii, atel,” they said, sobbing the final word, vibrating hands clasped in front of them.
Esentiz whipped his spear tip to the side, then heaved it back before thrusting forwards; blackened, corrupted roots shot from the desiccated foliage, aiming for the ritual performers. The Sun shield blazed where they touched, and the greener roots slowly detangling from one another sped up. A brilliant forest green leaked away from the stomping feet, flowing towards the bendebares surrounding them.
The air darkened, the atmosphere stilled. Wind died, the soil bubbled and thinned, grey stone peeked through at multiple spots. Behind Esentiz, a swirl of dingy brown blotted out the trees. It sped up and sucked nearby debris into the mass.
The bits coalesced into a figure with a threadbare cloak covering a hunched frame, a hood hiding their face. Corrupted roots arched over them like an umbrella as they raised a long, smoke-grey hand with gnarled fingers and yellowing nails, a pattern reminiscent of leaf decay etched across their skin.
The war leader bowed his head, lowered his plumage and bent over as he shuffled backwards. His spear throbbed a sickly yellow, and the figure snagged it; holes appeared in the shaft, and bits rained down from the depressions. They raised the weapon high, and darker roots erupted from the musty dust behind the bendebares.
The Light-blessed, in a blur of bright yellow, met the attack. Roots burst apart and thumped into the earth, lying in heaps across one another, unmoving, while others attempted to retreat. They, too, met their end in Light attacks.
A howl, vicious, feral, tore through the trees. Katta snagged Ayara’s arm and pushed them behind him; Salan leapt to them and stood guard, snarling. Flames of silvery green rose from Strans as he ended his call, his bark skin crackling like embers. He lunged towards the Rotting One, and the vines holding the Wiiv fell from his way, dropping their captives and leaving terrified screams in their wake.
The figure pointed at him, and foul air tinged a putrid brown blew from their hand, sharpening to a point. The tip exploded on the green flames, picking up litter and blowing it away from the glade.
Strans reared back, his fingers curled into claws, and slashed fine lines of green across the cloak. It burst apart, leaving the wavering essence of a half-desiccated skeleton cowering away from the flying bits.
A skeleton? But not a faelareign ghost who had manipulated their essence to appear horrific; Vantra did not have the sense of Talis about them. No, the Evenacht swam in them, but she had a hard time believing them the Beast. Beghestern were giants, and having spent time around the Evengate guards, she had a sense of their magic—and this quailing figure did not have the enormity about them beghestern possessed.
While present, this rotting presence was not the overwhelming power she felt at the citadel.
Corruption rose from the ground and encompassed him again, coating him in the filth he created, and sucked him into the earth.
What? No!
Vines circled Strans, and with a burst of green flame, he followed.
Shadows detached from the forest, howling, raising hands with transparent spears. Rot leaked from them and fouled the air surrounding them; what it touched shriveled and disintegrated into a fine powder. They rushed the dancers, and the Light-blessed intercepted them. One held back and bled into the soil where the twisted one entered the ground.
Dammit!
“Vantra, go!” Katta yelled.
She tore the Sun shard pouch from her, tossed it at Ayara who caught it with a startled squawk, swirled golden shields about herself and dove, focusing on Strans’ brilliant green residue.
