In the distance, at the very edge of the forest, she saw movement and shook her head. She should not have been able to see movement there. They were far enough away that anything she saw should have barely been noticeable.
Without bothering to consider the consequences if she were mistaken, Cullen reached for her horn and sounded the alarm. The note was low and deep, and for a moment it consumed all other sounds.
Deltrea stared at her with a querulous expression: to call everyone to arms was a serious action. Likely the other woman thought she was acting irrationally. That hardly mattered. There were Pra-Moresh in the area, several if her eyes weren’t playing tricks.
Within seven seconds the next horn sounded further into the territory and after that the sound echoed again and again from different stations.
For a moment she wondered if she had made a mistake.
Then the sounds of screams reached her ears from the edge of the forest and Cullen was glad she’d made the call.
Prill was not a coward, but he saw the demons and he ran.
They were nightmares made flesh and there were dozens of them. They came toward Western Point from the edge of the Blasted Lands and the Wellish Steppes, and they came en masse, a wave of fur and claws that cackled and sobbed as it moved forward.
There had been a few noises, enough to make him look in that direction, but when the horn sounded from Old Root, the Pra-Moresh treated it as a summons and came with a vengeance.
Prill was the guard at the edge of the territory and he took one look and thought only of his family in the small town. Merra had to be warned. The children had to be collected and all of them had to make it to the forest proper and the closest Sentinel. Old Root was a distance off, but they could make it if they were fast. The great trees were nearly impervious, surely enough to hold off the claws of even the Pra-Moresh.
Behind him the unholy tides rolled in; great, shambling bodies with teeth and claws and eyes that seemed too large to be real.
Borrogun had been standing next to him and grabbed his spear, prepared to fight the things. Prill ran.
He felt no shame, not even when he heard his fellow guard’s screams. Not even when the growls and laughter swallowed the guard’s desperate cries for help.
Not but a thousand feet to the proper edge of the Western Point. Once past the clearing he would be able to get to safety and help everyone.
Prill’s horn bounced at his hip, as completely forgotten as the spear he’d dropped and the short sword slapping against his other flank.
Perhaps if he had remembered either of them he could have made a difference to the outcome. Instead Prill ran, and in so doing, sealed the fate of all the people he knew in Western Point. No alarm was sounded save the screams of Borrugun, who was too distant for his cries to carry that far.
Prill did not scream. He never had a chance to. The powerful teeth of the Pra-Moresh slammed down on the back of his head and ended his life and any attempt to warn his loved ones.
Some people should not be guards.
The Western Point was called by that name as a formality. There were no proper barriers. The town was small, and served mostly as a guidepost. Travelers coming to Trecharch from the Wellish Steppes would easily get lost in the vast forest if they didn’t know the proper routes. For a few coins a good number of the local youth would work as guides. Naturally there were some in the small town who made a profit in the process. Some of the finest wood carvers in Fellein lived in Western Point. From trinkets to fine and elegant furniture, the locals managed to sell their wares and in a few cases were well sought after for additional work.
Prill would have been the first to admit that the skills in the area dealt more with carving wood than with carving flesh. Still, a proper alarm might have made a difference. Though the predators came fast, and though they made noise, there might have been a chance.
The Pra-Moresh moved into the town and feasted as they seldom had before. There had never been a time when the beasts roamed in so large a pack. There had never been a time when they found so very much to feed on.
The people in Western Point were barely aware that they were being attacked before it was over. The only positive note was that they screamed a great deal and in their deaths they warned the rest of their people.
The Pra-Moresh came into the territory in a rush, pushing through the trees and attacking anything that was on the same level as they were. Livestock died quickly. Cattle and geese and swine all tried to escape the lumbering monsters, but there simply was nowhere for them to go in their pens. The birds that had not been pinioned had already made good their escapes, but the larger animals found themselves the victims of the insatiable hunger of the monsters.
Had there only been one, or even a dozen, it was possible that most of the animals would have been saved, but the numbers were much larger, more than could be counted in the sudden chaos of their attacks.
Cullen stood at her position on the Mother-Vine and readied her bow.
Both she and Deltrea had moved much closer to the ground and both had a large supply of arrows. Should those fail them, there were also short spears. If the spears did not do the job, they were ready with swords.
They were not alone. Their fellows stood at the ready, in different locations and on different trees. The young, the frail and those with babies in their bellies were hidden in the Sentinel trees. Everyone else would fight. That was the way in Trecharch: those that could, did. Those that couldn’t, prayed.
The Mother-Vine provided.
Cullen was only thirty feet off the ground, standing on the Mother-Vine and holding her place. Fear fluttered in her guts, but that was to be expected. It wasn't every day one faced a childhood nightmare.
The first of the Pra-Moresh came into the area, muzzle and arms covered in gore. It giggled like a happy child and screeched like a wounded cat as it moved forward. Her arrow was true and sank into the left eye of the monster all the way to the fletching.
The beast let out a shriek of pain and shook its head before falling backward and smashing into the ground. It shit itself as it died.
She allowed herself half a heartbeat of celebration, but that faded when four more of the things came forward, drawn by the sound.
The demons attacked the trees, shaking them, clawing the thick bark, and in a few cases trying to climb higher. Cullen trembled inside but calmed herself and grabbed more arrows. Her aim was good but not perfect. She fired and missed, fired and struck one of the damned things in its back, and fired again, not bothering to see where the arrow struck before she reached for more.
The Pra-Moresh could not reach as high as her position. Try though they did, the beasts were, ultimately, just large beasts and not very bright. She felt a thrill as her arrows rained down, some wounding and others killing. A second of the monsters fell, and then a third. The fourth proved a better climber; Deltrea stood above it and aimed half a dozen arrows into the beast’s face before it fell back and sought easier food elsewhere. Still more of them came, pushing between the trees and seeking more meat to cram into their mouths. A few fell on their own dead and ripped into the fresh kills with no regard for their fallen brethren. Meat was meat and they were always ravenous.
All around Cullen the archers worked their bows and those without bows grabbed spears and took careful aim. The Pra-Moresh kept coming, some stopping to feast, others moving through the hail of missiles and continuing on, deeper into the Great Green and the center of the Mother-Vine’s domain. More guards were waiting there. She did not let herself worry about the ones that got past her. There were other considerations. There were more nightmares still coming.
Cullen wished she could have climbed higher, could have seen for certain how many of the things were there, because there seemed to be an endless tide of them washing through the forest floor below.
Sometimes it’s best not to know.
The sounds of laughter, of sobbing fear, and wailing sorrow filled the air as the Pr
a-Moresh continued on their odd exodus from the Blasted Lands. She had seen them and sounded the alarm but she had never guessed there could be so many.
Her arms ached and before she knew what was happening the last of her arrows was gone.
She was not the only one. Most of the archers had used up their supplies yet still the damned things came out of the woods and into the area where she lived. The air was heavy with the stench of blood and other bodily fluids. The only blessing they had at that moment was that most of the Pra-Moresh didn’t seem capable of scaling the Sentinels.
She had four spears. Cullen grabbed the first of them and looked down at the gradually dwindling stream of nightmares.
Next to her Deltrea called out, “Save them, Cullen. Tremm says there might be more of them coming. Let these pass and we’ll gather more supplies.”
Tremm was an ass. A little mead in his system and he tried to grope any female within range, but he was also one of the commanders. She might have argued but her arms ached and her belly still felt cold and shaky.
Down below the last of the migrating things lumbered past.
“How in the name of the gods could there be more of these things?”
Something roared in the distance. Not the maddening noises of the Pra-Moresh with their endless mimicry of human sounds, but a full-on sound like a short bark of thunder.
The sound was unsettling by its own right but where it came from was far worse.
Cullen and Deltrea looked toward the sky and the strand of the Mother-Vine made tiny by distance.
“At arms!” Deltrea screamed, her voice breaking harshly. “We are attacked from above!”
The arrow that took her life came from a height that made the archer look tiny. The point jammed through the top of Deltrea’s skull and rammed into the Sentinel behind her with enough force to leave her standing even after her legs failed and she should have fallen to the ground.
Cullen ducked around the side of the tree as quickly as she could when she saw the arrow falling from the sky. The black rain came down and sent several others to their deaths. Those less fortunate lived through the impacts, the missiles hitting with enough force to punch through bone and meat alike.
Not far away, Tremm screamed in pain, his bicep shattered by the impact of the weapon that forced him to drop his horn before he could call another alarm.
Grit rained down from above, and Cullen squinted against it, looking toward the Sentinel above her and gasping as she saw the shape sliding down the vast side of the tree.
Thick claws hooked into the bark and slowed what should have been a high-speed descent. The form was enormous, and worse still there was another shape atop it. With fifteen or so feet to go the shape that was mounted, hanging half free from the dropping mass, let go and fell toward her, with a sound that might have been a scream or possibly a laugh.
She wanted to move, but shock froze her body.
It was a man falling toward her. His weight tapped against the Sentinel and he skidded a bit, his descent not slowed so much as directed.
Landing on her body was what slowed him.
His boots drove into her side as she tried to get away. The pain was a powerful thing and she staggered backward, bouncing against the Sentinel before dropping from the bridge where she’d watched the Pra-Moresh feast and die. As her body had possibly slowed the stranger’s descent, the corpse of a great, stinking predator slowed hers. It would be a lie to say her landing was cushioned.
She’d been raised in the woods of Trecharch. Her father had taught her to climb and how best to fall. She had managed a hundred falls without hurting herself too severely, but this? This was not a fall so much as a hard push at the earth below.
The world flipped around several times before she slammed into the bloodied remains of the beast. A bone snapped loudly. She could not tell if it was hers, or the monster’s. Either way Cullen felt the world fade away in a gray wash that covered her senses completely.
For a moment, perhaps longer, there was blessed silence and then the screams came to her. People, her people, were crying out. Metal sang as it clashed against metal and warmth washed over her, wet and sticky and reeking of blood strongly enough for her to notice it past the stench of the dead thing beneath her.
Pain came back to visit her and Cullen groaned, the noise lost in the sounds of combat. She had never heard combat before, not really. She had heard instructors yelling commands as she and the others practiced their swordsmanship or worked the bows, improving their strength and their accuracy. This was different. This was cacophony, madness and screams and the sounds of people falling to their deaths. Somewhere up above another roar came her way and a man screamed. The sound was cut short, fading into a gurgling cough.
She looked up to see the demon that had slid down the tree running along the Mother-Vine and swatting at people, knocking them through the air to rain down around her, most of them, dead before they hit the ground. Not far away the shadow of a person danced across the Mother-Vine in the opposite direction, sweeping a sword around it in a flurry of activity. Wherever that metal tongue licked flesh it tasted blood.
Both the rider and the mount had eyes that blazed like candle flames.
Cullen tried to sit up and reach for her sword and the gray claimed her a second time, sweeping her into darkness.
The Walking Trees walked.
For over three hundred years the great Sentinels had moved themselves occasionally, but never very far and not as one unit. There had simply been no need. No one had invaded the Trecharch in all that time and the Sentinels had simply stood their ground, never needing to offer a unified front. Now and again for whatever reason a tree might think wise, this or that of the monoliths had cracked the ground and shuffled a few inches or even a foot or two, and then settled again. It was a noise that was unique to Trecharch, a sound impossible to ignore, and one that caused a certain level of panic when it was first encountered by anyone who had ever seen a towering tree fall to the ground. Wood creaked and sighed and moaned as it moved.
Now the Sentinels moved, shifting and sliding through solid ground, breaking stones and well-packed soil alike as they drew closer together and closed the gaps between trees.
Four of the great Pra-Moresh, the very stuff of nightmares for more people than could be easily counted, were crushed in an instant. Bones shattered, bodies pulped and blood fell down to feed the roots of the Sentinels.
Close to the level of the ground the barrier formed by the Sentinels was a dense wall that could not be easily ignored. Squirrels might squeeze between the Walking Trees, but nothing much larger would manage the feat.
Higher in the air was a different tale. The Mother-Vine was set in her ways and while she offered a little yield, she did not easily change her shape.
The Sa’ba Taalor took advantage of that.
Glo’Hosht walked the Mother-Vine with grace, and brought death along for companionship.
How many prayers can be said in the dark? Medba did not know, but he said more of them and tried to find a limit.
Old Root surrounded them and most of the people around him were calm, save a few of the children who were scared and uncertain how to act in the hidden chamber that the Sentinel provided.
When he was younger, he’d asked his father about the chamber, wanting to know how it was that the cavernous area could exist without killing the Walking Tree.
“Mother-Vine feeds the Sentinels and provides,” his father had said. “That is her way.” He’d thought as a young lad that the place was carved into the great tree. It was only later that he learned the hidden places locked away within the trees grew naturally.
The Mother-Vine provides. The words were true all his life but now he feared otherwise.
The sounds from outside the great tree were horrid. There were roars and screams and then, possibly worst of all, there was silence.
He had lived over seventy years in the world, and Medba was not afraid of much, but the silence l
eft his senses stretched, and every noise, every breath of air that moved across his skin was a reason to wonder what would happen next.
The air inside the chamber was heavy. Too many bodies crushed into the area. There was air to breathe, but it grew as humid and hot as the worst part of the summer in the chamber.
Babies and little ones fidgeted and then one started crying, a sputtering, frustrated noise, and others followed suit.
The Mother-Vine provides, but damn, the sounds would surely draw someone to them if they did not abate.
A great rapping struck against the wall behind him and continued on, moving slowly along the edge of the wood, a notice to all inside that someone had found them.
His stomach clenched.
Not far away a boy hollered into the darkness, “We’re here!” His voice was panicked. Like as not he thought whoever heard them was there to save them from the darkness. Somebody slapped the child hard, a loud report that cut off the boy’s screams and replaced them with shocked sobs.
Through the walls of their shelter a voice spoke in a language that made no sense. The voice echoed impossibly.
A moment later the hidden door of the chamber shook violently. Several blows hit the thick wood and then the impossible happened. The wooden barrier, strong as any shield ever made, broke under the repeated impacts.
This time when the boy screamed, several other voices joined in.
Medba rose on shaky legs and held his weight for a moment with his arm as well as his legs while he leaned against the rounded wall. The wood was warm and soft to his touch, nowhere near as harsh as he knew the outer bark of the tree to be. Inside the nurturing shelter. Outside the wall of protection.
And then the outside found its way in. The blow was enough to split the protection of the door completely and flinders of the remains bounced throughout the interior.
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