The landscape was green, with a patchwork of red. The odd trees sprouted from almost every body – and there were bodies thinly scattered everywhere. Some more like the fleshy doglike things, the carnaath. Some almost human. The real humans, he was slowly realizing, were those that the trees did not sprout forth from – and it was something between relief and terror how few of those there were. What had seemed a vast wilderness had become a mass skirmish, between fleeing parties of people, and pursuing bands of monstrous things.

They found two fights ongoing – the first ending before they arrived, leaving them only to clean up the monstrous things that had prevailed. The second, they arrived in time to intervene, and the woman leading the small band of survivors, who he mistook for a heart-pounding second for Anne before he realized she was too old – thanked them only shortly, before proceeding towards Anchor after discovering that Thomas and Arias would not be joining them.

They found several other fights – Thomas plowed straight into them, smashing, crushing, kicking, Arias alternating between her bow and her blade. He gained two ascensions – two levels, he mentally corrected himself. He did not pause to take them in. Night fell. They ran. The sun rose. They ran. The saplings grew.

A voice intruded on his thoughts, as he moved, but he paid it no heed. There was only the drum of his legs, and three names – three more people who had helped him.

And then they reached the farms of Grimhaven.

He slowed, taking in the withered bushes that he had, some eon previous, struggled to help protect. A tree grew from a nest of spiders, legs still twitching, partially enveloped by the pale wood. The pale trees were scattered, but everywhere, branches reaching into the bleeding skies, the vivid red of the leaves overshadowing everything. He slowed further, and began checking bodies, Arias keeping a watchful eye out, arrow nocked in her bow. The first face he recognized was like a punch to the gut – he didn't know the woman's name, just another face among the farmers. She was nearly bisected, intestines sticking to the grass when he rolled her over.

He moved more quickly – and halted again, freezing, at another face. Emma. Oh. Emma. He had … he had forgotten about her. And here she lay, still, sightless. His gaze rose, looking at the … Arias got his attention, then, because – she was running. He started in surprise, taking a halting step towards her. What? She wouldn't just leave him … a spout of dirt erupted from the ground behind her, and he found himself frozen once more, stunned. It erupted again, moving in chase – and then another, near the crest of one of the hills enclosing the valley of crops he stood in – and something pale and chitinous moved, underneath the ground, grass breaking apart around it as it, too, joined the pursuit of the running girl.

And then Arias – stopped, to turn and wave at him, her mouth parted in an oversized rictus grin. It took him a long second to parse the gesture – she was telling him to wait here. And then she was off again, running, each stride taking an absurd amount of ground. And slowed again. He wanted to follow, but forced himself to think, to pay attention. She was slowing down to let these … things, whatever they were, keep up. She was leading them away. His gaze swept around the valley – and Thomas let out a breath, and forced himself to wait, until he could see her no longer. And he waited.

He walked, then, trying vainly to think quiet thoughts, down the valley, towards the village. Arias would be fine. She could lead them away, and outrun them, and catch back up with him later. An enormous centipede corpse lay in the middle of a small crater; he looked, barely processing the way it had been pulled underneath, struggling against the mental image of Arias, in such a crater. She would be fine.

There had been a fight in Grimhaven, bodies piled up around the interior ring of homes. Trees sprouted from some; but there were trees everywhere, here. A woman, then a man, then a blank-faced spider thing, walked beside him; he paid it no mind, and it was uncharacteristically silent. The healer's hut was mostly intact; he opened the door of pale wood, and peered inside. It wasn't dark, as it should have been; ash drifted slowly down from the burned remnants of the thatch roof, sunlight illuminating the interior.

It was empty. Empty like his relief. He began going through the bodies outside. He found Anise, and a name was silenced. He kept looking. He did not find Cenpre, nor Leisa. The sun set, and Arias did not return; he kept searching. Some faces familiar. None too familiar.

In the darkness, the thing finally spoke.

“They aren't here, you know. They left for Anchor. You might catch up if you move quickly.” It made sense. He didn't respond. He kept searching through the bodies, and at length, the voice rose again, more masculine in tone. “You should leave.”

“Arias will return here.”

“If she can, if she thinks you would remain here. The sensible thing for you to do would be to go, and meet her on the road.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“What do you care?”

“You are my champion. I need you alive.”

“You have enough champions. Go, bother them.” There was a pause. He looked to the figure standing nearby; pale skin in the moonlight, overlarge eyes. Not exactly male or female, at the moment, but with aspects of both.

“I am made distinct, in my association with you. I am made specific. If you die, determined as you are not to be mine – I will not cease, exactly. I am many. But I – I will cease.” Thomas grunted, pulling a pile of inhuman bodies apart. He blinked, at the black silky robes underneath, and paused only a moment, before throwing the bodies away, pulling the figure – the warden – out. Thomas looked around at the bodies surrounding him. He had died hard.

It was a man, underneath the robes. Pale, and expressionless. The man was missing a leg, ending in a jagged, bloody stump. Thomas hesitated, and then – began stripping the body, looking for anything. There was nothing, only the robe. Thomas had nothing to put it in, and hesitated, before, with a shrug, tying it around his waist; as large as he was, it barely fit. He wasn't even aware of his nakedness, anymore, but he thought maybe the strange material might … maybe the black wardens, whoever they were, would want it back. He didn't know. One of theirs had died here.

The sun shifted overhead, and he straightened, looking around, searching. That was … that was it. No body lay undisturbed. The last few hours drifted hazily through his mind. He rose, looking to the sky. The wind blew around him; he was sticky with coagulated blood and things less pleasant still, arms and legs coated. The creature of his dreams stood nearby, watching him, silent once more. He had never needed sleep so badly, and thought perhaps he dreamed even now. But it was a waking dream, a nightmare. Arias had not returned. Thomas focused on the apparition.

“Which direction to Anchor?”

It pointed. He paused, trying to work out his mental map. It seemed correct. He started to run. The landscape passed around him. He found the scene of another battle. Only one human, another farmer he barely recognized. He kept moving. The next conflict had seen three dead, none known to him. The next, none, only the mishapen bodies of the brood. Trees were everywhere, now, and their foliage began to touch, as he ran on through the night. When the sun rose, it was through a canopy of crimson, wet red dripping slowly from the leaves; in the forest of blood, it became increasingly difficult to see any distance at all, and the hills offered less and less to see by.

When the first carnaath stepped in front of him, Thomas hesitated, in his run, then, looking around in dismay, the mental chanting of names coming to a stuttering stop. It had been background detail for his mind, but now, as he stared around, he felt a rising shock, as he realized how the world had changed around him. And then, as his gaze traveled around, Thomas finally noticed that the air itself was rich, with a metallic-scented haze of crimson mist.

The carnaath died, when it charged him, and he absent-mindedly flung goo and blood off of his hand. Thinking. He pulled his statistics up, and spent some points on intelligence. He didn't bother reading anything, and just closed it out again. His thinking crystalized; bits and pieces slowly forming together into a cohesive whole. A Thomas died, a Thomas was born, a quiet corner of his mind noted.

This was a blood forest; it was regarded as a serious threat. This mist, with the taste and smell of blood to it; magic produced some kind of byproduct. The trees were using magic, he presumed to increase their rate of growth. Some kind of critical feedback loop had begun in the last few hours; the plane was of finite size, right? He wasn't sure about up, or down, but somebody – the sage, maybe – had definitely mentioned that the plane was due to be expanded. Okay, so the pollutant was building up. The pollutant produced monsters. The monsters … grew into trees? Or, no, Balier would have ordered him to do something with the bodies, when he'd sent him to kill some bandits. The trees created the monsters. The monsters – were not spawned by the pollutant, they were … he looked around again, then down at the dead carnaath. They were intended to die, and were just enough of a nuisance to require killing. They created the pollutant. And once it reached a critical threshold, then the trees would spawn. And the trees … also used magic. To make themselves grow faster? No, they were spawned; maybe they used magic just to create pollutant. Which … the more powerful the pollutant, the more powerful the monster? They polluted the environment.

Maybe. Most of that was unverified. But it made sense. But why – no. They hadn't been seen as a serious problem until a large number of people were dropped in their midst. And if their monsters were meant to die, they'd just die without going through the strange process first. If they were self-sustaining below a certain point … he considered the smell. Blood. Assume the smell has something to do with the magic. Blood magic would be an obvious one – but he checked, and there was no spell school for that. Maybe it existed. Maybe not.

...he was wasting time with this. Thomas inhaled slowly, exhaled just as slowly.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He nearly shrieked, turning, and blinking at the naked woman, then man, then woman again. Oh. The nightmare thing was still there. Did he have brain damage from the fight with the spider thing? Or was this thing in some sense real?

“I don't know if you're real or not. Also, I think I need some sleep. Also, I need to keep moving, especially now. Why am I even talking to you?”

“Sleep deprivation, most likely. You know you haven't slept in … is it four days now? Even I've lost track.” He grunted. “But as for your question, I'm real of course. Granted, I'd say that if I wasn't, wouldn't I?”

“Why are you helping me?”

“Well, I want something from you, so it stands to reason I'd try to ingratiate myself.” He blinked at that, and stared at her. Him. It.

“Fine. Am I even going in the right direction?”

“If you weren't, and I could tell you, it stands to reason I'd tell you. Or just appear on the periphery of your vision so you unconsciously move slightly away from me.” He hesitated again. That was … oddly helpful. And he found he didn't have the energy to try to argue about it.

“I … alright.”

“Well, get on with it. You're wasting time just standing here.” He started walking again. Then jogging. And then he was running, through the haze of blood and nightmare trees.