At a jog, the remnant contingent should arrive within two hours. If the Canaen did not arrive before then, it would only help. Kelnere's attack should buy them that time, foolish as Tirlav thought it. That would mean between the two groves he had roughly four hundred in remnants and nearly three thousand fit riders of his own company. It was not likely that Kelnere's company would do great hurt to the foe, regardless of their skill. It was not hard to get a vaela to charge an enemy—it was the creatures' instinct to attack with their horns—but against an overwhelming number of quth pikes, death could be the only result. Tirlav had learned that the quth only carried pikes in the Meadow, for in the thick woods of the Mingling, long weapons were useless.

Wishing he'd thought of it sooner, Tirlav sent Tereth out with two fast riders to spy upon the result of Kelnere's assault and bring warning of any enemy approach. It was unlikely the spies could go undetected in the open Meadow, but upon vaela-back, they could flee if necessary. The sun rose over the horizon as Tirlav hurriedly inspected the woods along the edge of the Meadow, finding little preparation there besides some rotting sharpened stakes overtaken by vines. The grove itself was marginally better prepared, with a few ditches and a tiered earthwork ringing the edge, and the usual nettings in the trees. Dark thorny vines, their leaves speckled with yellow and violet fungus, clung to the slopes of the berms. The remains of old footings and posts stuck out from the earthwork at intervals, but whatever they had supported was long ago fallen and rotted.

Tirlav finished his tour of the meager defenses and stood surrounded by the plumes.

"Let us hope that our remnants arrive in time," he said.

"And if they don't?" Menlane asked.

"We're already dead," Yealn said.

Tirlav shrugged.

"We will do the same thing, just with fewer."

***

Tereth and the others rode into the clearing on heaving vaela.

"They could be here in an hour." Tereth said, slapping his chest to Tirlav.

Tirlav nodded.

"Change vaela and ride north. I want to know when to expect our remnants."

"No need, Liel," Tereth said. "They're less than a mile out. I could see them approaching."

That was well.

"What of Kelnere?" Tirlav asked.

Tereth shook his head.

"It was over," he said. "The host of Isecan were already leaving the field of slaughter. They did not tarry to bury their own."

As soon as the remnants arrived at a jog, Tirlav gave the sweating plume his orders. The remnants had jogged for roughly eight miles, but there was no time to rest. With his orders, Hanle dispersed his veterans to their positions. Tirlav stood with his helmet and long plume tucked beneath his arm, giving his neck a rest from the weight. He had chosen concealment in the woods near the narrow opening that led from the clearing to the Meadow. He could glimpse the approach beyond. Two ditches with berms lay on either side of the narrow path. Old half-rotten stakes projected from the berms, but they were pointed toward the woods. Nothing obstructed an attack from the meadow, though it would be funneled through the narrow path.

Some of the plumes had wanted to cut new stakes, dig trenches, and fell trees to fortify the approach. Tirlav had refused. Kelnere's choice to throw away life and company was foolish, but it might give them the only chance they had to make a decisive blow against the enemy. The encampment should not look freshly defended or prepared. The Canaen should not suspect that a sizable force remained.

Rout was not an option. Fleeing through the Mingling in disorder could be just as fatal as a battle. If Tirlav's plan did not work. . . They were already dead, anyway. At least this way, they would bite the foe.

Shielded by thick vines and branches, his colorful plume held out of sight, Tirlav watched the enemy outriders crest a distant rise and come to a halt. Even from so far, he could see the horns of their vaela. These were Canaen, not Quth. He knew that the Canaen utilized some riders, and he knew that they were once vien, too, but it was startling to see them on vaela-back for the first time. Except for the violet and green of their silks, he might have been looking at a company of Findelvien. The Canaen favored straight blades, he knew, but from this distance, he could not tell. From the watchtower, a remnant sentry sounded a whistle: Alert. Foe. Prepare. Alert. Foe. Prepare.

Again and again it sounded.

A few of the enemy outriders broke away from the rest and came toward the watchtower at a trot. The whistle ceased and the remnant sentries slid down ropes, abandoning the tower and running back along the narrow path. Other remnant vien rushed from the direction of the grove to the narrow point where the path opened into the grove clearing. To the approaching foe, Tirlav hoped that the scene looked like the reaction of the disordered remnants left behind by an already-slaughtered company of riders. He had given seventy-three of Kelnere's remnant vien to serve in this deception, and now they formed across the neck of the path, arrows nocked.

The advanced party of Canaen sounded a pipe of some kind, but Tirlav did not recognize the signals. Back on the hillcrest, the other outriders started forward at the walk, long upright spears resting on their feet, spear blades glittering in the morning sun. The light breeze had continued through the morning, and Tirlav felt a breath of it against his face. He was thankful for any break in the humidity of the Mingling, even if the breeze was just carrying along the damp. He was already wet with sweat, anyway.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

If Tirlav's will and desire could have forced the Canaen riders to attack, they would have attacked, but they did not. Once the outriders came up alongside their advance scouts, they halted. Did they suspect a trap? It was impossible to tell. Tirlav would have halted, too. Even against a quarter of their numbers, such an attack was best suited for a formation of foot.

"Do you think they suspect?" Glentel asked. He was standing beside Tirlav in the umbrage of the trees. Tirlav didn't respond. The question came more from the vien's nerves than anything, he suspected. The sweat dripped down their foreheads. It stung Tirlav's eyes. Time had never felt slower.

Tirlav and the plumes had already questioned whether the Canaen would suspect an attack:

"Kelnere had scouts observing the foe. If Findel blesses us, and they did not mark our movements, they may think the force of this station defeated," Tirlav had said.

"There are spies even in the woods. Quth lurk everywhere in small numbers." It was the plume of Kelnere's remnants.

"They will have come fresh from a victory. If they wish to press their attack in its wake, they may be reckless."

"They will probe with their riders," Menlane said.

"Of course. We will need to appear weak."

At last, a glint caught Tirlav's gaze, and then the heads of the pikemen rose above the crest. Their pikes had caught the light, signaling their approach. They did not stop to gaze as the riders had done, but marched on in a column twenty quth wide.

At the end of the path, the remnant defenders watched motionlessly. No whistles sounded. Leaves and branches swayed in the breeze. The enemy riders parted, allowing the pikes to pass through. The quth bore large shields that covered most of their bodies, and their pikes were nearly fifteen feet long, held against their shoulders as they marched. Whether they already knew the width of the path or whether it was coincidence, Tirlav didn't know, but the column looked just narrow enough to fit through the gap.

"It does not look like Liel Kelnere. . ." Glentel started to say, but stopped himself. It didn't matter; Tirlav had deduced the same. The foe's reported numbers were not noticeably diminished. Heart beating hard, Tirlav felt his meager hope waver. He had never seen so many figures at once.

A hundred yards from the mouth of the path, the column of pikes halted. For a few breaths, they stood, their hairy grey faces peering out beneath their dull caps—boiled animal skins, Tirlav had learned from Kelnere after the last battle—and over the studded rims of their great shields. The sound of a whistle wafted above the enemy host. It was ill-blown, hanging on a single note, but the timbre was unmistakable.

"I did not think the Quth used whistles," Glentel said. There was movement at the fore of the pikes, and then something rose aloft. It was a plumed helm set upon the end of a pike. It was Kelnere's helm, just as the whistle was his. The Canaen were taunting them. Kelnere's remnant's standing in across the narrow path remained still and silent.

The column of pikes advanced, a strange noise rising with the stamp of their feet. It took Tirlav a few moments to realize it was a song. The notes were so low that no vien could ever sing them. If it had words, they were indiscernible, but its rhythm was the rhythm of the march, so that their feet fell in time with the music, forming its percussion. The huffing singing formed a syncopated counter-rhythm. A shiver coursed through Tirlav. He had never heard anything quite like it—tones so low and so powerful, as if the earth was exhaling through their lungs.

Tears filled his eyes, and he hurriedly rubbed them away. When had he last heard music? When had he last felt beauty? Jareen's face rose in his memory, the curve of her form and softness of her skin. They might all die here this day, and would the last music he heard be the strange beauteous bellows of his foe come to kill him?

The vien made no reply. The enemy loosed the first arrows; there were Canaen archers hidden among the pikes, and now arrows fell among the defenders. Tirlav saw one remnant vien's leg pierced through just above the knee, but he struggled back up and neither wailed nor fled. The defenders loosed their own arrows. It was a hopeless defense, though a brave one. Arrows found their marks on both sides, and Tirlav clenched his fists without knowing it as he saw more of the vien fall.

Had he set aside too many for death? Or too few? They had obeyed him with little more than a questioning glance. The quth kept up their song. Their front ranks dissolved before the missiles of the vien defenders, but those behind marched over their bodies. Twenty yards apart, the vien could choose which eye to pierce. The Canaen were lofting their shots from further back, but the Findelvien drove their barbs straight into the approaching mass.

"Now," Tirlav said under his breath. "Do it!"

From among the defenders, Kelnere's remnant plume blew his whistle, and they did it. In glorious futile bravery they did it. Even though he had given the order, Tirlav could not quite understand. Would he have done it? He had not done it with Kelnere. This charge, at least, may serve some purpose. The remnant vien lurched forward with a cry, a futile attack to spend their lives, bows abandoned and swords drawn.

The defenders fell. Tirlav had sent them to die. But they were already dead. Only a few even made it beyond the long pikes. A handful turned and ran, but this too was planned. One went down with an arrow in his back. Tirlav saw the face of the Canaen who had shot him from among the quth, his pale face standing out against the grey-brown fur all around him.

Now, the quth broke forward at a jog, pressing toward the scattering vien defenders. The victory was theirs as they poured into the north end of the grove clearing, their song swallowed in rumbling hoots. Tirlav ducked down further, a mere fifteen yards from the passing quth but deep in the thorns and vines. Beyond them, he saw the Canaen riders move forward, apparently eager to witness the taking of the grove. Ranks of quth rushed through the narrowed opening into the clearing and spreading out beyond. Tirlav felt their thousands of footfalls going by.

More. Let more go through.

Someone shouted, and then another strange pipe-call sounded. The quth halted and crouched behind their shields, pikes leaning against the upper rims. Some of the quth were huffing at the air through their flat-ended snout-like noses. Tirlav strained to see. He had feared that one thing might cause their suspicion, for he had heard that the quth could smell as well as other beasts. Three thousand vaela were picketed within the grove. They were out of sight still, hidden in the trees behind the embankments, but nervous vaela also made noises.

A few vaela left behind might be explainable, but not thousands.

Pipe calls sounded from among the Canaen riders who could not see what was happening in the clearing. Other calls responded. Tirlav could not understand the signals, but he knew there was confusion, a sense of wrongness among the enemy. The quth gazed into the dense woods on either side, large eyes searching. Over a thousand quth had rushed into the clearing, spreading out to form long ranks facing the grove, but most of the others were still in column in the path from the Meadow.

This was it.

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