“I don’t like deception,” Mason said, watching the old elf with renewed suspicion. She nodded and locked her hands in front of her like a naughty child who’d been caught.

“I’m sorry, druid. But you must understand-we elves cannot trust easily. I had to see who you and your tribe were. I meant no harm, I was only protecting myself, and my people.”

Mason nodded because he did understand. It would have been better if she’d just explained herself at the start, but he knew why she hadn’t.

“So, your people are close to a Great Tree? We can Wyrdwalk to them?”

Dariya smiled as if she were speaking to a child.

“The old paths lead many places. You humans can only hear the mighty voices of the ‘great trees’, as you call them. We elves can hear the whisper of a blade of grass.”

‘I’ don’t call them that, Mason wanted to counter, rather petulantly, the robot who created you calls them that. But he just nodded.

“Can you teach me how?”

Dariya’s smile faltered. “With time, perhaps. But for now, I will lead you.” She held out her hand. “Are you ready?”

Mason fought the paranoia, he really did. Even so the idea of wandering through that dangerous place with only this stranger guiding him wasn’t doing great things to his brain. He convinced himself he could always go his own way, follow the ‘great tree songs’, and do what he needed to do.

He took the old woman’s hand, about to ask if they could enter the ‘Wyrd’ here or if they needed...

And everything vanished.

Again the ‘wyrd’ became his world-light and shadow flickering so strangely in thick forest filled with narrow ‘roads’. Dariya kept a hold on his hand, leading him away from the great tree songs on smaller and smaller paths. Then she stopped and put a hand to her face. She turned and spoke, and her voice echoed strangely, and with considerable urgency.

“My people are already fighting and running for their lives. They’ve split up and tried to cross the a plain towards the forest. I’m too late…”

Mason frowned. He didn’t know how she was seeing anything because all he saw were trees and a small stream. As he looked at it he heard the water trickling, then louder, and louder. He heard voices and felt them pulling him forward, his attention hard to turn away…

“Druid!”

Mason blinked and looked into the elf’s eyes. She’d clearly tried to get his attention more than once.

“Don’t listen to the voices.” She shook her head. “We need more warriors. But we should not risk the Wyrd again so soon. You must decide-do we return, or will you try on your own?”

Mason almost snorted. Firstly it felt vaguely contrived, like the forced choice of some video game. Second, the idea he wouldn’t be willing to risk some difficult task on his own was somewhat amusing.

“You said it’s a plain? Grassland? Open space?”

The elf nodded, and Mason smiled. He took the craftsmen’s bow from his shoulder and imagined himself racing across open field with endless arrows, endless endurance. The ancient horse archers of man would be proud.

“Send me.”

Dariya clenched her teeth, whispering her strange words as she slowly released Mason’s hand.

“I will follow soon,” she promised. “But I must find our leaders and protect them.”

Mason hardly heard her, his eyes filling with tall grass and blue sky. He heard the sounds of battle, saw men and horses, arrows and spears. His pulse quickened in his ears, and he told himself to try not to enjoy this too much.

* * *

Hagamash, Cloud Warrior of the Open Sky tribe held his net and spear, and followed his prey. In all his years, and in all the stories of his kin, he had never heard of such a prize.

Wood Elves had come to the plains of Zarma. Not one or two or three, but a cluttered field full of fools, running for their pitiful lives.

“Where are your trees?” Hagamash shouted the challenge to encourage his kin. “Where will you hide from the spears of the Open Sky?”

All around him the colts and braves of his tribe raised their voices in unity and joy.

“Kill their men!” Hagamash shouted. “But capture their women!”

The others hooted and whooped as they charged down the sloping hill. The elves had seen them and begun a desperate sprint for the nearby forest. But they were far, far too slow.

Hagamash had barely believed his scouts when they’d told him. But here they were. He had brought half the warriors of his tribe, and now he would be rewarded. Tonight they would feast on elven flesh in every sense of the word.

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Hagamash charged with his kin and sworn spears, glorying in the cool wind rushing through his hair, the hard earth beneath his hooves.

They crossed half the distance to their quarry in less than a minute, their strength and speed unmatched by any tribe or beast across the plains. They would not tire, they would not stop, until every elf in Zarma was dragging behind their raid.

But Hagamash squinted as he charged. One of the elves was not running.

A single warrior had stood his ground and watched the charging tribe with a small bow in his hands.

“Take him, Denga, he is yours!” Hagamash shouted to one of his bonded and most loyal spears.

The veteran raider swerved and dodged an arrow, blocked a second with his vambrace, then embraced his Gift of the Wind to protect him from two more. Hagamash was impressed with the speed and accuracy of his enemy’s shots, making even a great warrior like Denga use his Gift so quickly. But it mattered little.

The Open Sky tribe was feared for their invincibility in ranged combat. Hagamash did not know how many arrows his enemy carried, but he would need them all. Or at least he would have-if he’d had the time to use them.

Denga was on his enemy in moments. He screamed a war cry and lowered his spear, and Hagamash all but stopped paying attention, turning his attention to the other fleeing elves.

Until he saw Denga trip and fall. Hagamash called to the others and slowed, blinking in angry confusion until he saw his sworn spear had lost a foreleg and fallen brutally. The elven warrior had somehow evaded the charge and caught the centaur low with an impossible strike that even cut bone.

Now that they were closer, Hagamash stared at the warrior and saw he was no ‘elf’ at all, but a muscled human warrior with bright, green eyes.

“These elves are under my protection,” the man said with a tone that sounded almost…eager. “For every one of them you kill, I’ll kill three of you. And I’m going to kill anything that gets too close. Starting now. So run. That way.” He gestured towards the open plain.

Hagamash could hardly believe his eyes and ears. He had heard rumors of powerful new human warriors in the endless forest. But he had never truly concerned himself with matters beyond the plains. And powerful or not, this arrogance was astounding!

The Open Sky raider chief felt the eyes of the other warriors upon him and knew he had no real choice. He could not call them off now, nor return to the elders and witches with his tail lowered in shame.

“Take him alive!” he called to the others. “Tonight he sleeps in the boiling cauldron of the hag!”

Hagamash threw a clump of dirt and grass with his hooves, propelling himself forward to meet his enemy. They would deal with this human and get back to their prize, and it would be the most successful raid in the history of the tribes.

But little hairs rose on his neck. The human who was surely doomed and against dozens of warriors alone did not look afraid. In fact, he was smiling.

* * *

Mason’s entrance had the desired effect-the centaurs were focusing entirely on him. He only wished Streak were there. He could only imagine how the giant wolf would love to hunt half-horse creatures. Hell, he’d probably bring his whole pack. It would be like a family outing.

So Mason would just have to enjoy the battle enough for all of them.

In their honor, and maybe just out of curiosity, he decided it was time to actually Shapeshift and use it in combat. At least, when he had a second…

The creatures seemed to want to fight him in close combat. That was unexpected, and not very wise. He tossed his new bow hopefully safely behind a big rock and obliged, camouflaging himself with his Sleeves just to confuse his enemy as he raced through the tall grass.

He watched them coming in with his Hunter’s Mark active, seeing their anatomy was pretty much exactly what you’d expect. He’d fought these ‘centaurs’ before back in a corrupted great tree-half man, half horse, with big, strong, easy to hit organs.

They were fast, he’d give them that. But a fast charge made it hard to aim, hard to adjust. Mason’s senses and reflexes were so enhanced now the deadly spear points seemed to come at him in frames. Like some action flick director was shooting one of those ridiculous scenes where the hero seemed to know just where to dodge.

Mason let the first spear pass within inches of his face. He stepped toward his charger, closing the distance for his shorter reach, longer Claw slashing across the creature’s torso where horse met man. He knew the blow was mortal without looking.

He deflected the next spear with a Sleeve, ducking to hack off the centaur’s foreleg, then spinning to meet another attacker. It was closer than expected, and Mason felt his enemy’s surprise in the same moment a giant horse body connected with his shoulder.

It knocked him tumbling to the ground, but he used the momentum to roll back to his feet, Claws out and ready for the next. A javelin sailed straight at his side but he slapped it down.

With the opening charge over the centaurs fell back, whooping and calling as they spread out and started some kind of tactical turn.

Mostly what they did was give Mason a second. He activated Shapeshift, feeling his body contort as his feet ripped through his system shoes, his hands extending with his now natural Claws.

When he rose up with a satisfied snarl, he saw the centaur had formed what seemed to be two swirling, opposing circles around his position. Between the noise and the spinning visual it was hard to tell what the hell was what.

Then the first few arrows and javelins came flying.

Mason dodged or deflected most but still took an arrow to the chest. It didn’t pierce his new, already slightly Shapeshift-ripped leather armor, but the centaur cheered like they’d basically killed him. He was impressed by their maneuvering and skill, but then it wasn’t like they had horses to train or control.

“OK,” he muttered, growling voice lost in all the volume. “Let’s see how fast you really are.”

He could sprint faster as a half-wolf in the short term, and he also activated his enhanced Aspect of the Cheetah, charging one side of the formation. The circle expanded and twisted away, but not nearly fast enough.

Even so, just to make chaos, Mason turned and lunged at a different target than his first, leaping at the last moment to claw lines of blood across one of the creature’s faces.

It fell as he landed, then he was in the ranks, running with them like the predator he was. The centaur were obviously shocked at his speed, and for several long moments he ran along them matching their pace, raking at flanks and legs until they broke apart and scattered.

He ran back to his bow. It was a bit harder with his claws and slowed his rate of fire, but he wanted to stay on the move. He chased the centaur and loosed arrows as he led them away from the elves.

The same creature that had shouted was yelling at his warriors to ‘leave the human, we can claim our prize and escape!’. He was trying to turn most away, or at least gain some distance.

But Mason could see their blood was up. These centaur were obviously proud warriors and Mason had not just killed their kin but surprised, embarrassed, and enraged them. He ran straight away from the elves loosing arrows, often intentionally not deflecting their shots, or moving to let the centaur strike him back.

Some of the arrows had pierced his armor, or missed his sleeve. He had bloody gashes on his legs and one across his forehead. But Transformation was already doing its work, and Mason began to direct it towards the most frightening, alien-like carapace he could imagine.

When this was finished, he wanted them to remember what it was like to be hunted. To be afraid.

Let them think they’re chasing me, he thought.

Because sooner or later he was going to stop running. And if they hadn’t learned-the elves, and maybe the plains, would be a little safer by evening.