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Felling a whitewood was no easy task. Preparation took the rest of the day. Some of the less combat-oriented among the group got to work on a slow chiseling away at the whitewood’s thick base. They worked throughout the night, chiseling a wedge into the tallest whitewood they could find.

Multiple impact points would be for the best, but manpower was at a premium. They worked slowly, ensuring that the tree would fall south and west, towards the keep.

Over on the east a surprise reinforcement of Jean’in regulars left their stormlander allies in a bad position. They’d been pushed back closer to the river’s edge. Any further and they’d be pushed into the river.

Aminia could help in this respect, pulling the Torrent back (by lashing it against the fortress, to little effect) and granting the stormlanders some breathing room. They were still outnumbered, but not literally about to be pushed into the drink.

Crews worked in shifts through the heat of the day, and on into the next night. This mightiest tree was just past the tree line, mostly out of sight of the rampart. The garrison continued to take potshots, infective though they were.

It was just past midnight, when the furthest moon hung directly over the isle, that the splintering sound of a towering whitewood rose over the usual sounds of battle. Indeed, it drowned out the pattering of gunshots from the far shore and even from the ramparts.

The whitewood fell in slow motion at first, plummeting clear between two other whitewoods of towering height and smashing a hole into the fortress perimeter as it landed, diagonally. The tip of its trunk tore a hole out of the keep itself, the one structure standing between the behemoth and the river.

The shock of the blow was like a hammer rendering barkwood armor. The ground shook. Some of their centurion bird ad-hoc “cavalry” panicked and scattered.

The wall was shattered. It collapsed in two great flanks around the mighty whitewood, holes that were now rapidly being filled by Jean’in with wide, interlocking shields.

Other fissures had opened around the entire shore-facing side of the keep. Too many holes to plug all at once.

Michael ordered an advance, but the stormlanders were already charging forward regardless.

The fallen tree sent the garrison’s sharpshooters scrambling from atop the wall. Their path was clear, and this would be the only chance at an offensive they were going to get.

There was one more path into the keep. One that would be wholly unguarded. The whitewood itself was embedded right in the keep. Already, enterprising Secondhomers with something to prove were climbing up the trunk using bark as handholds.

“Bring up some ladders,” Michael said.

With rope ladders running off the back of the downed tree, dozens more could run up this shortcut. Michael was first up the ladders, with Maat right on his tail. Lloyd went too, but later so his injured state did not slow down the vanguard.

The offensive on the ground was stalled by a wall of shields – for a time. The blockade was dispersed by miniature grenades thrown from above. Rita stood on the whitewood, lobbing explosives down into the bailey.

There was little in the way of defenses set out where the tree had hit the keep. Nobody was expecting anyone to infiltrate the keep from the top-down. Though narrow, the war party soon had dozens of warriors rushing down the stairs.

“There’s got to be a central command room, or something,” Michael said. “Keep pressing.”

Indeed, this was the largest fort on the river. The centerpiece of the Jean’in presence on the island. There ought to be a war room, at the very least.

The war party ran downstairs, only meeting resistance once they made it into an interior bailey.

They’d pilfered enough firearms to be near evenly matched in firepower. Their opponents in the keep were some of the more seasoned Jean’in, but the stormlanders themselves had gained quite a bit of combat experience in the past few months.

A door was blown open, and the stormlanders from the ground assault rushed into the bailey, smashing the Jean’in between the two fronts.

“Yard is ours. Push into the fort,” Michael ordered.

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The interior fort was sweltering even without the combined heat of hundreds of club-wielding warriors beating down shield and scattershot-wielding Jean’in. The war party fanned out through multiple corridors, and Ma’at soon lost sight of his father.

“Where’s the Quarterchief?” came a bird herder’s voice from Maat’s left.

“Heading to the central keep,” said an Earthborn. “Keep pressing!”

Just then, a low but tremblingly loud war horn echoed through the halls, even over the din of ongoing battle.

“It’s a retreat on the far shore,” Hector’s voice said.

A runner burst into the hall, narrowly avoiding getting shivved by a Jean’in merc. This messenger countered with a war club of his own.

“It’s the Laval, on both sides of the river!”

Hector swore. “We need to move faster. If we can secure this keep we can at least pile in here for cover.”

Ma’at spied Lloyd, Kur, and Sam stripping some weaponry off a dead Jean’in down a quieter hallway. He rushed to get to them, only to be grabbed by his whitewood shoulder guards by a slender hand with knife-sharp nails.

A tall figure, armor adorned in the hundred crimson tassels of a Laval war chief, picked Maat up by the back of the neck and tossed him into an interior courtyard. It was Joni’Laval, third son of the previous Laval chief.

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“Riverborn,” Joni rasped with an open-mouth grin.

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More Laval warriors streamed into this narrow interior courtyard. A small war party of glory seekers in advance of the main group – common Laval doctrine.

“Go. Into the keep. Kill any others who are not of the clan,” Joni ordered. "If any of ours fight for the other-worlders, take them prisoner. Save them for torture rituals."

Four Laval warriors walked through the door Maat had been yanked through. A fifth disappeared through the threshold… and was promptly sent reeling down to the muddy floor, waylaid by Lloyd.

“Outlanders,” Joni clicked out with scorn.

Kev and Sam ran out beside Lloyd, clubs and knives bloodied. They confronted the war chief, who held Maat hostage by the neck.

“Other-clans,” Joni said. “You’re all going to die here.”

“You Lionli’s brother?” Maat asked.

Anything to keep him talking rather than stabbing or gouging.

“Half-kin. Assumed he was slain upon the highlands. One less loose end for father’s inheritance.” Joni let out a laugh.

So he was yet-unaccounted for…

Maat kicked his captor to no avail. The towering Laval brandished a war club in his free hand, beckoning Kur, Sam, and Lloyd forward.

The trio charged. Joni threw Maat clear through the center of the formation, causing him to impact Lloyd with a thud. This split Kur and Sam apart, and the chief rushed Sam before they could recover. A single blow to the head from the flat end of a Laval war club sent Sam reeling. Then, Joni turned to a cowed Kur with a murderous gleam in grey, condor-like steely eyes.

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“Subaltern.” Joni grabbed his war club with both hands and thrust the jagged end into Kur’s chest cavity. “Clan outcast. These cultureless outlanders have given you the delusion that your lineage is worthy even of wielding a war club.”

Kur only let out a phlegmatic wheeze as the war club tore through his modest bark armor. He tried to keep the club at bay, but Joni’Laval was twice his size and of prodigious strength.

“Unworthy even to adorn my trophy wall,” Joni said triumphantly, then threw a gravely injured Kur to the ground.

Maat was the only person who’d managed to get back on his feet at this point. He lunged at the chief from behind, only to be backhanded down to the floor. Before he could recover, hands grasped at his neck.

“Riverborn,” the chief said again. “Your head will send your father mad with grief. Make for an easy kill.”

“Hey, you.”

Joni did not take the bait, but a piercing gunshot rang through the courtyard anyway. It splintered bark armor around the chief’s shoulder.

Lloyd had managed to get up on one knee and take aim. But he only had one shot, and Joni’Laval was still standing. Joni closed the gap with a single leap, having swapped his club for an obsidian knife. Lloyd’s neck was saved, only because he’d blocked and let the knife tear clear through his right hand.

Maat fell to his knees. They were out of weapons, and Lloyd’s screams were growing louder as Joni began to yank the knife out of his palm.

Just then, a sixth figure leapt down from the fortress walls. It was a tall, lanky silhouette, any features beyond that were obscured by the glare of the moons.

More Laval, Maat thought. The main war party has breached the keep. We’re all dead.

But instead of the jagged end of a war club bearing down upon him, Maat found a hand offering him a lift to his feet. The figure wore no tassels and wielded only a standard war club in his off hand.

“Up, Riverborn. Hurry!”

It was Lionli’Laval.

Joni’Laval tossed Lloyd aside, having retrieved his jagged dagger from out of the half-kin’s hand.

“Brother,” the chief said.

“Kin killer,” Lionli clicked out the Laval equivalent of a swear.

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Maat got to his feet, brandished his war bat with both hands.

“You killed our father,” Lionli said simply. “And our elder brothers too.”

“As most overchiefs have done before,” Joni said. “Including father.”

Lionli pointed his war club accusatorially. “Aligned the entire clan with Jean’in from off-island.”

The trio circled around a central point, eyeing each other, looking for openings.

“Jeanin who bring weapons. Foreigners tire and leave eventually. But the bird herders, the delta clans – ancient enemies. With the foreigner’s fyrearms and paddle-craft, Laval will strangle the last bird herders in their swaddling clothes. Enslave any who remain useful as subaltern. Then the whole isle will be Laval.”

Maat heard Lionli grinding his teeth, over the sounds of battle both within the keep and beyond the wall.

“The camps,” Lionli managed after a time. “Sent subaltern. Children – even warrior lineages from other branches of the clan -- to the camps. Sacrificed thousands for the benefit of some Jean’in ritual.”

“Tens of thousands.”

Lionli bared his incisors. His ears twitched.

“Why.”

“The Laval way has always had little use for subalterns. Those who can’t seek glory, can’t vanquish other clans and form new mottes upon their bones, are useful only to toil under those who can. Why do you only balk now, brother? You helped transport many of our weaker kin to the camps, did you not? It’s just another conquest. This is the way of the Laval.”

“Then our ways are wrong!” Lionli belted out with a bellowing tenor that left Maat feeling cowed. He brandished his club, preparing for battle. “If it brought us here. And for what? To be a lap-bird for some frayed-eared outlander?”

Joni merely laughed.

“The frayed-eared one wishes only to go back to whatever strange outland isle he hails from. If the bird herders would just voluntarily walk into the sea so easily, it would save us the effort of annihilating them. And the outlander brings us tools, and a way to dispose of our weak chaff and excess mouths to feed. Maybe one day we shall use our new territory and these foreign tools to raid the Jean’in isles as well.”

Lionli was drooling out of anger at this point.

“Prepare yourself,” he told Maat.

“What, you want to fight him yourself? A duel for control of the clan?” Maat asked.

“No! Help me slay this mad beast.” Lionli raised his war club high.

“Your head shall sit by our father’s on my war table,” Joni said with a toothy, wide-mouthed smirk. "And the riverborn's ears shall be nailed to my war armor. Come, future trophies. Die fighting bravely enough, and you may yet be high-quality slaves for me in the afterlife."

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Stormlanders moved fast for their size. Maat could hardly even follow the brothers as their war clubs shattered against each other. Then the pair moved to fisticuffs, pummeling each other with fists covered in whitewood bark gauntlets.

If they were talking during their battle, it was in a clicking Laval dialect Maat couldn’t properly decipher. The sole human standing looked for an opening, then swung his own war-bat true. It impacted Joni’Laval, sundering the armor around his neck guards.

Again, the chief bellowed out something in Lavalese. He uppercut Lionli, then turned and sent Maat flying with a sweeping kick. Before the riverborn could recover, Joni was atop him, hands at his throat.

Maat could feel the pressure begin to encroach on his windpipe. Bile was already backing up. All while the chief looked down on him like a condor zeroing in on its prey.

At the last moment, tunnel vision forming in Maat’s eyes, the hands fell away from his throat. Lionli had a broken half-war bat wedged down near Joni’Laval’s throat. He pressed it up, forcing Joni to take his hands back to try and clear his own windpipe.

There was a click as the jagged ends of the war-club found purchase. Then, with Lionli’s muscles tensing, the elder brother’s head went one direction while his body, tasseled war ribbons and all, went another.

Lionli let out a mighty cry as he held his brother’s decapitated head in one hand and the broken war club in another. He punctuated it by spiking the head into the mud, triumphant.

“Everyone. Ah.” Maat caught his breath. “Is everyone okay?”

“Hand won’t be holding a club any time soon,” Lloyd said. “But I’ll live.”

Sam had taken a blunt blow to the head but appeared merely concussed. Kur was worse for wear, having taken a jagged chest injury.

“Find Aminia,” Maat said. “He can heal you all.”

Lionli looked for a fresh war bat amidst the refuse of battle.

“What will you do?” Maat asked.

Out past the wall, another Laval war horn blared, closing in.

“Go, Riverborn. Joni’s head will prove to all that I am the new chief.” Lionli stared down at Maat intently. “Go! Find your Quarterchief and defeat your own rival for clan chiefdom.”

“I… don’t know if that’s what you’d call Richard.” Maat admitted. He held his hand out. “But… thanks.”

Lionli looked down at the hand, more confused than anything.

“It’s a handshake. An outworlder custom.”

With an understanding nod, Lionli clasped Maat’s hand with his own bloody glove. Maat handed Lionli his war bat as well.

“Here. It’s… modeled after an ancestral keepsake. You’ll need a weapon.” Maat smiled.

“Okay, you two have had your moment,” Lloyd said. “Run off and save the day, already. Swear you're as bad as the 'chief and that river god sometimes.”

Lionli’Laval scaled the wall to claim leadership of the Laval war parties. Maat rushed into the keep again, where the tides of battle had now passed this hallway by. The din of splintering war clubs came from further into the central keep, now. Closer to the Jean’in command room.