Tirlav did not spare himself any of the danger. It was not all out of a sense of duty or bravery; there was nothing else with which to occupy himself. The grove lived only war and survival. There was hardly any music, no gardening or orcharding. Food and drink were taken to sustain life but not please it. Tirlav's canopy was old and constantly molding. Everything molded in the close heat and humidity of the Mingling, even the silks on their bodies. A yellow film with violet filaments grew upon anything not constantly washed and maintained, and lay like pollen on any stagnant water.

The wrapped sandals the riders wore molded worst of all and soon smelled, no matter how much they washed them. After a couple of weeks, Tirlav's feet looked as yellow as a lemon, and he discarded the wraps and gave his riders permission to do likewise. Linneyn's advice to blacken their metal was well founded, for in the heat, the armor was hot enough without silk atop it. Tirlav told the remnant plume, that he wished to request a supply of light sandals. The plume shrugged and told him it might take a year or more, if ever such a request was honored. Most veterans made their own sandals.

So, to escape the grove, Tirlav rode often with the patrols. He sent them out two contingents together, day and night, always holding half the company in reserve, resting and defending, ready to be called into action if need arose. The nights were a horror, and Tirlav saw the weary red eyes of his riders and knew his own must look as strained. The quth and other horrors harassed the sentries nearly every night, though not in any force.

"They seek to drive us mad is all," the plume of the remnant of foot said offhandedly. Tirlav found his phrasing disturbing, for he felt himself half mad already after two sleepless weeks. In that time, no one else had died, but no quth had been killed either—or at least no bodies were found—though a great cat-like creature the veterans called a panther maimed a sentry one night, tearing a slice of meat from his arm. The beast was killed, and Tirlav stared at it agape. It was ten feet long, not counting the tail. If one of the archers had not buried a feather through its ear, Tirlav suspected the sentry would be dead. His mail alone had saved him. After the first three weeks, Tirlav had still not seen a quth, himself. He knew roughly what to expect from stories and descriptions, but he wanted to get a better sense of the enemy. Riders of the Shéna contingent claimed to have seen one slinking away in the meadows on all fours, but the remnant plume smiled and shook his head.

***

Tirlav was at the head of the Aelor contingent as the late afternoon sun cast a golden light on the waving grasses and vibrant, prickly wildflowers. Here, as in the forest, he recognized few of the species. The grasses and flowers rooted in fine black sand, and the vaela's hooves tore at the roots. To the north, the Tlorné contingent rode within whistle-call and to the south rode the Namian. Often they were out of sight across the rolling plain, but a signal could call them together. Coming to a slight rise that gave an eastward prospect, Tirlav sang the halt. The breeze lifted his plume, stretching it behind him. He chose to ride with the patrols even more than he required of his plumes, and that touch of breeze was one of the prime reasons. He had grown up in the woods of Aelor, but he had learned to love the sea winds. Even in Aelor, he had climbed to the utter treetops to feel the wind.

Far to the east, a dark line marked the eaves of the Charth woods of Isecan. The word Charth simply meant shadowed. That was the Canaen side of the Meadows, and this was as close as Tirlav ever allowed the contingents to venture. From here, he could see if any force of the foe had ventured into the open. He breathed deeply. Even his vaela raised its head and snorted the air. It was humid, but it moved. Often, Tirlav felt sorry for the vaela, bred for war as they were. After spending so much time with them, it was easy to sense what they were feeling, even what they were thinking at times. What was hard was resisting the urge to give them names and grow attached. He pushed the thought aside. The beasts were fleeting things.

A whistle sounded from the south.

Enemies. Reinforcement.

Tirlav raised his whistle and blew the notes.

South to Namian.

With a wave of his hand to those behind, Tirlav sang out to his vaela. The beast surged southward at the gallop. The contingent flowed through the tall grass against the southerly wind. Plume streaming out behind him, Tirlav formed the arrow-point of the Sons of Aelor. The land passed behind them in torn soil, and cresting an undulation in the ground, they glimpsed the scene ahead.

The Namian contingent rode in a wide circle, swirling around a thick mass of beasts. Arrows flew back and forth, and Tirlav saw a vaela stumble and go down, throwing its rider headlong into the grass. A knot of quth—he had no doubt they were quth—sprang away from their throng toward the fallen rider, even as another Namian rider wheeled to his fallen comrade's aid.

The quth were large, at least six feet if they had not been hunched. Their bodies were covered in long grey-brown hair or fur, and their dark eyes were unnaturally large. They bore shields, spears, single-edged blades, and bows, and they wore some kind of armor of a material that Tirlav did not recognize. At a glance, it was clear the stories about their strength must be true, for their arms and legs were thick and long. There had to be over a thousand quth within the mass, and Tirlav now saw that it was less a mob than a defensive ring of shields facing outward.

"Spears!" Tirlav shouted. They had taken Linneyn's advice and rode with half the contingent wielding bows and half their short spears. Now, his spears formed on him as Tirlav rode down toward the knot of quth who sprinted toward the fallen rider. The quth saw the approach of the Sons of Aelor. Arrows sped toward them from the main mass, and the separated knot turned and tried to flee back to their ring.

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An arrow glanced off Tirlav's helm, and he remembered to raise his shield. He dropped his spear point. The knot was closing on the safety of the shieldwall, but Tirlav would reach them first. . .

The clash arrived almost before Tirlav could think. He dipped his spearpoint just beneath a quth's upraised shield and bore it to the ground, but his vaela was at the gallop, barreling forward and slamming its horns through the body of the next foe. Tirlav's spear nearly wrenched from his hand, jarring his shoulder. Spinning the haft and pulling the blade free of the quth's pelvis was much harder than the drills they had practiced against melons or slabs of wood. His vaela stumbled but kept to its feet and bore on, shaking itself free. Tirlav wheeled, looking back. His spears had ridden down the knot, but a few foes still crawled frantically for the ring, wounded or thrown to the ground by the impact of the riders. One of the Aelor riders had not kept momentum, trying to skewer a crawling quth on his spear. In his fervor, he had turned his back to the ring. Arrows sank into his vaela's neck and the rider's shoulder. The vaela screamed and twisted as it fell. The wounded rider sprang free but landed hard. As if it were a living thing, the ring of quth bulged forward toward them, many blades its teeth. Tirlav sang his vaela back toward his wounded rider, but it was no use. He could not clash with that bristling shieldwall. The vien rose, stumbled, and tried to run, but when he turned a thrown dart bore him to the ground.

They had traded a rider for a rider.

More arrows sped from the quth, wounding more vaela, and Tirlav sang them back into a gallop. He slid his spear into place beneath his leg and unsheathed his bow.

"Bows!" he shouted. He turned, trying to get a glimpse of his contingents. The Namian still circled at a distance, loosing arrows into the shieldwall. As Tirlav rode away, he shot an arrow back over his vaela's rump, but he watched as a great brute caught his arrow on its shield with little effort. Tirlav's riders fell in with the circle ring of mounted Vien archers. The quth crouched down, leaving little of themselves exposed behind their tall shields. From behind the front ring, more quth arrows spat toward the riders.

Tirlav blew a string of notes on his whistle.

300 yard firing ring.

The two contingents fell away from the ring. Tirlav heard another vaela scream, but he could not see where. Once down, the high grasses would hide the fallen from sight, at least where the grass wasn't already trampled.

As they pulled away, the strange hooting call of the quth erupted behind them. Tirlav knew it well; it had bothered his nights for weeks. At three hundred yards, the riders formed in a ring around the quth, and over the low rise to the north, the riders of Tlorné streamed to their aid, spreading out throughout the ring. Tirlav noticed Glentel close beside him. He must have kept with him through the charge.

Reen, the plume of Namian, rode up to Tirlav and saluted, and Tirlav saw Efle of Tlorné hurrying around the ring to join them.

"A brave charge, liel," Reen said. Tirlav squinted and frowned. What did bravery matter? How were they supposed to touch a force of such number arrayed for war? The slavers they had battled on the coast had not shown much discipline, yet these quth felt different, cohesive. Tirlav watched the ring of enemies. He could not see well behind shields and beneath helms, he had ridden to slightly elevated ground, and it appeared that some of the figures in the center of the ring were not hairy nor as broad. There were glimpses of both darker and paler faces, and once, a shock of violet hue.

"Are these not all Quth?" he asked. Efle had arrived, his vaela panting, and the three of them gazed at the enemy.

"There are Canaen, liel," said Reen. "We saw them when we first came upon them, before they formed their ring."

Canaen.

"Were there any sorcerers?" Tirlav asked.

Reen gaped, alarmed.

"I. . . I don't know. . ."

Tirlav understood. He doubted he could tell from sight, either. What made one Canaen a sorcerer and another not? He should have asked Linneyn how to tell. Even in that moment, he felt another pang of anger at Hormil. Was it unusual for Canaen to be marching with the Quth in such numbers?

"How many Canaen did you see?"

"I could not see the whole of the line before they formed a ring," Reen answered.

"In which direction were they headed?"

"West."

Tirlav glanced toward the sun. They had about two hours of daylight left. He did not want to let this engagement last until nightfall—not so close to the eaves of the Charth woods. He could still see the dark line of the forest to the east. Shouts and hoots rose from the enemy shield ring, and the ring crept eastward as the quth and Canaen moved as one, taking creeping, squatting steps, their shields held close together. Those on the inside had shields raised above them, forming something like a roof.

"Liel," Efle said. "They're moving."

"Yes, I see that," Tirlav answered, part irritated and part distracted.

How were they supposed to break a formation like that? The foe outnumbered the Vien by hundreds at least, with spears and Canaen amongst them. Spears were not useful in the close fighting of the woods, but in the Meadow, they could be deadly to the riders. It would take hours for the enemy formation to cross the three or four miles to the cover of the Charth woods. The Vien were over fifteen miles from camp. A vaela could only manage a flat run for four or five miles at a time before growing winded. To balance speed and endurance, it was best to alternate between the canter and the trot. He could not send for reinforcements in time. They would not arrive before the enemy was dangerously close to the woods, and it would be foolish to fight beneath the eaves.

"We cannot win this fight," Tirlav said. "We have stopped them from crossing. We will observe for now."

"What is to keep them from attempting to cross again as soon as we leave?" asked Reen.

"The next patrols, then," Efle answered.

"What do you suggest?" Tirlav asked.

Reen frowned and stared at the enemy formation as it crept away, but he offered no solutions.

"Have your riders keep their distance," Tirlav commanded. He glanced over and saw a vaela carrying two riders. "And bring me word of our dead and wounded." Tirlav nodded to Glentel to include him in the command. Though Tirlav had not given up the leadership of Aelor when he became the Liel Commander, Glentel had taken on many of the duties of plume.

With that command, the plumes rode away, and Tirlav watched the creeping enemy.

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