Commander Narwalla stalked the perimeter of camp, along the outer circle of tents and wagons tucked between trees atop of their little rise in the forest. Hidden as best they could manage. Traps were in place, scouts spread out in a wide net of sentries, every soldier remained in their armor with weapons at hand. They were as ready as they could be.

Command had sent him the location and timing of past ambushes. After plotting them on the map he’d come to a conclusion. There was no way a group as heavily armed as the one they’d just faced could move fast enough to do it all. Which meant there were more.

He wanted nothing more than to be on the road, but they’d be even more exposed and exhausted. Years leading companies on the battlefield and to roads alike had made him overly familiar with this sensation of choosing the best of two bad options. He’d also learned to trust his gut, and right now his gut was telling him something bad was coming.

Earlier, he’d felt the skin crawling gaze of a predator. But it had passed. His gut told him that wasn’t the end of things.

Thump

Thump Thump

Trees at the edge of his hearing snapped and cracked and thudded down, shaking the earth beneath his feet. Something was coming.

“Clouders, ready yourselves!”

Any other time he might have been proud to see how quickly his company got into formation, wordlessly coordinating to form a wall in the direction of the approaching sounds.

A black-red blur flashed through the outer perimeter of sentries, dodging every trap. The commander’s grip tightened around his glaive and his muscles tensed to leap to the aid of his front line of spearmen.

The snarling blur turned just before the wall of spears and dashed off into the trees again. Narwalla didn’t notice the object flying towards him till just before it bounced off his breastplate and hit the ground. A spikey, glowing pear. Spirit fruit.

A new roar rattled his helmet on his head and a much larger beast plunged into view. As tall as a house, with the face of a lizard, a golden mane down its back, muscles that rippled under yellow and green scaled limbs that ended in cat-like claws, it barreled forward through splintering trees.

It plowed through a trigger rope, freeing a suspended tree trunk that swung down with the force of a battering ram. The blow connected, the log shattered, but the creature hardly stumbled.

Narwalla hadn’t frozen in action since he’d been a fresh recruit. Not since the battle of seven nights. He couldn’t freeze now.

“Break formation! Out of the way!”

But he was too late and massive scaled claws sent soldiers flying in pieces that smacked into trees and tents and helms. Their shields might have been scraps of parchment for all they helped.

He activated the script in his pocket and blinding light exploded from the trees behind him. The Aether Beast halted and wailed, as men scattered in every direction. Arrows skittered across its scales, failing to penetrate. A few brave soldiers launched their spears, which fared no better than the arrows had.

The mounted guards of the Golden Fang caravan charged, but a swiping claw cut through the first two, traveling past until the paw smashed into the horse of the next, pushing it into the next rider and the next and the guards and their steeds all crumpled upon one another in a pile of snapping bones, bent metal, and screeching horses. The next wave of riders stopped short, but not fast enough to avoid the claws and jaws of the still blind chimera.

Narwalla pulsed his Qi and launched himself through the air, reinforcing his weapon as it chopped down at the flank of the thrashing beast. His blade cut through scale and into flesh, but his moment of victory ended when a tail–and the spiky orb at its tip–flew toward him. Still airborne, he fueled his muscles with Qi to twist around, bringing his glaive between himself and the incoming blow. It was unstoppable, undeniable, all he could do was push off with his weapon and get as far clear of the tail’s trajectory as possible.

Which was to say, not completely. Instead of a direct blow, a spike clipped his side, screeching through his armor and sending him spinning back the way he’d come, into the ground.

His head reeled but he stood. He would fight till his last breath.

No, that was a soldier’s way of thinking. He was a decorated commander. His mind raced almost as fast as the blood gushing from his side. Narwalla staggered, then burst into action diving to pick up the spirit fruit in a roll and leaping clear of camp only to land in a heap. The beast charged after him–and away from his men.

Shoving his pain down, he pushed off the ground and into a sprint, taking another activation script from his pocket.

He aimed for a specific opening in the trees and tried not to collapse under the presence of the creature as it skidded through a clout of splinters behind him in pursuit. His Qi surged again and his feet launched him clear of snapping jaws. Spinning in the air, he activated the script just as the creature passed over his trap.

An overloaded stone of refined aether-ore hummed from under the earth. Time seemed to slow with both himself and the creature suspended midair. Their eyes met. Fear, rage, pain—and an animal wisdom that he recognized. A Guardian.

Then the world exploded in thrumming waves of multicolored light. The force flowed between and through the trees, not disrupting so much as a leaf, even as it slammed into the commander.

He flew for entirely too long before the ground hit him, denting his armor inward so it was even harder to breathe.

But still he stood. Glaive in one hand, fruit in the other.

The Guardian rose too. Blood seeping from its eyes and ears and mouth and the gash in its side.

Narwalla tossed the fruit toward the beast and bellowed his own bestial cry, brandishing his weapon.

Their eyes met once more for a moment that stretched past the boundaries of time. An understanding passed.

It scooped up the fruit tenderly and ran into the woods in a zigzagging, wrathful charge, shrieking and growling as it went.

Now he was allowed to collapse, and collapse he did.

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*****

Ren and the tracking party steered clear of the blood curdling sounds that traveled away from camp. The forest was a wreck, shattered, splintered, broken. Soon they were vaulting over fallen trees and trying to ignore the giant paw prints in the ground.

Camp was even worse, torn and splattered with blood and hunks of flesh and bone.

They were too late.

Too late? What could they have done?

The trackers joined the effort to care for the wounded and re-secure camp in case of another attack. That had been the commander’s last order before he lost consciousness.

Seventeen dead. Twenty three critically wounded.

Ren helped to reset the traps, and took watch duty for half the night.

Just keep moving. That was all there was. One foot in front of the other and he could start to believe they’d make it. He pushed down his horror and the self doubt an questions that had followed his failure to shoot the bandit. If he had bothered to think—if he hadn’t been so frozen—he could have shot the man in the leg and captured him. Then this might not have happened. Was this his fault. It was, wasn’t it. If he’d just-

No. There would be time for that later. Right now his company needed him alert. With that resolution he kept his mind busy, running bandages to the medics, setting up watch-fires and traps. As long as he stayed busy he didn’t feel anything and he could be useful.

He didn’t even care when Kareem took over as the ranking commissioned officer.

“Clouders, we head out at first light. Raven Company 3 is scheduled to meet us and take over the transport at a caravanserai three days to the north. I want to make it there in two.” His voice was strong and sure, but did nothing to hide the haunted look in his eyes.

For the first time ever, Ren agreed with the man. And he wasn’t the only one. They were all eager the next day to get moving. Their extra wagons saw good use in transporting their wounded and dead. It felt wrong to pile all the corpses together atop each other, but it was better than leaving them behind or placing them with the living wounded.

Exhausted, injured, demoralized, they stopped to rest just after midday. Kareem wanted to power through and get as far away as possible, but it seemed Ren wasn’t alone in his fatigue. For the second time, he agreed with the lieutenant.

The scouts, sent out to form a wide ring of lookouts around the group, got no rest, but they seemed the most composed of anyone. What kind of training could harden a person to such horrors?

“Ren.” It was Forester Hamsa, looking about furtively as he approached. “I found something at the Aether Tree.” He pulled a bundle from inside his vest and handed it over.

Ren unwound the wrapping and found a thick chunk of a broken branch. The wood was glassy black with blue veins. His eyes widened.

“For your knife.”

He couldn’t manage a smile, but he meant it when he said, “Thank you, Hamsa. I don’t know what to say. This is-”

“Just a gift between friends,” interrupted the forester. “I’m not sure what it’ll take to work that kind of wood into a proper handle, but it should be enough material.”

Ren just stared at the wood. His mind told him it was beautiful. Perfect. But all he felt was tired and scared. He wanted to go home. To hold his little brother and sister. To listen to his dad telling stories. He wouldn’t even mind his mother running her hands through his hair.

But there was no home. And he didn’t like his odds of getting out of these woods alive with or without the company.

Corporal Gu approached them. “The lieutenant wants all foresters to meet him at the command tent.”

What kind of leader would waste the effort of putting up the command tent during a rest stop in this situation? Alas, it didn’t matter. He and the other foresters made their way with haste.

Lieutenant Kareem stood with his chest puffed out, hands crossed behind his back. He probably thought he was projecting confidence or authority. Ren saw through him, to the terror. He was sure they all did.

“Several of the scouts failed to report in. I want you to split into teams of two and verify the perimeter. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them were napping on duty. We need to head out soon.”

Free to choose, Ren partnered up with Hamsa and they headed out. His frayed nerves and annoyance built into a simmering anger as he ruminated. Did Kareem have so little respect for the scouts that he’d accuse them of sleeping in a situation like this?

“Bleeding donkey’s ass.” Hamsa’s voice shook him from his thoughts. “Is she really asleep?”

Nadeema was sat leaning against a tree up ahead, facing away from them, her burnt-orange hair ribbons making her easy to identify.

Saints balls, he was tired. Ren didn’t bother following Hamsa to rouse the slumbering Nadeema. He was pissed at her for proving Kareem right anyway. Agitation grew in him, like an itch at the edge of his mind. Every sound of the forest, every movement of a bush, or sway of a branch—it all chipped at his patience. Finally, he had enough,

Ren whipped an arrow into his bow, drawing fast on a rustling bush near his two comrades. A bunny was going to die today. Markens had always told him not to fire his bow with hatred in his heart, but he didn’t care about the hunter’s code right now.

His arrow sailed into the bush and half a breath later a man stumbled out, cursing–bloody sword in his hand and a feathered shaft sticking from his calf.

In the same moment, Hamsa rounded the tree and cursed. “Beast’s blood, She’s dead!”

The man from the bush stumbled toward Hamsa and as he turned to face his limping enemy another man emerged from a bush behind the forester.

Ren drew another arrow, but his fingers wouldn’t release the string. Bloody visions filled his mind as his body strained under the weight of the bow frozen at full draw.

Hamsa drew his long family knife and parried a clumsy blow before gutting the limping man. The one behind him, the one he hadn’t seen drew closer.

Ren’s arms shook violently under the tension, but still he couldn’t move.

No. He wouldn’t fail again. He wouldn’t fail his friend.

He spun his aim and let loose on the bandit behind his friend. The arrow snapped through the air, cutting open a hot line across the man’s face.

Fuck.

Ren was already drawing another arrow when Hamsa spun at the hiss of pain behind him just in time to catch the attacker bursting forward to close the distance. The man’s blade pierced the forester’s gut at the same moment that Hamsa’s knife slashed through his neck. The two separated, careening back, one holding his hands to a gushing throat, the other clutching the blade that had traveled all the way through so wet-red steel was poking from the back of his shirt.

Another sound. This one several paces behind Ren. He whipped around and released. The arrow pushed all the way through a bandit’s shoulder–sent him sprawling.

shit shit shit

fuck fuck fuck

They had to find cover.

Ren ran to Hamsa’s side. His friend wheezed in agony, but his eyes were locked on the direction Ren had come from. Ren followed the bloodshot, tear filled gaze and his eyes caught on Nadeema, a bloody smile carved into her throat.

Hamsa groaned and lifted his trembling hand past their comrade’s corpse.

The man Ren had shot was coming. One arm hung limp at his side. A knife in the other. A feral snarl twisted his face.

Evil in a beast is a terrifying thing. It can freeze a man’s blood in his veins. But evil in a human–pure hatred, rage, violence, hunger for blood–that was not something Ren had ever truly faced, even under the blows of Basher and his goons. He’d thought in the past that, in a way, all humans were just beasts, but he’d never seen it as nakedly as he did now.

His legs were worthless as he tripped over the first attacker’s body, dropped his bow, and scrambled back till his hand landed on a cold metal hilt.

The hateful eyes drew nearer until they were all Ren saw.

But he wasn’t ready to die. He still had things to do. So, futile as it was, his hand closed around the hilt and he pointed the trembling blade at the man.

Then Hamsa screamed and threw himself into the back of the man’s legs, tackling him down and forward, right onto the waiting sword.

Hot blood poured out along with the stink of severed gut and a putrid sigh. A final breath.