The reports brought by Glentel and the two plumes were better than he feared. Nine riders were dead—one had struck his head on a rock when his vaela was shot through the eye by an arrow, and one had gone down in Tirlav's own attack. Seventeen others were wounded. What was worse, twenty-two vaela had been killed, and thirty-odd more were wounded by arrows with varying severity. It had all happened in a few minutes. A pitched battle could have turned into a catastrophe.

Tirlav watched the westering sun and the creeping formation of the enemy. He thought of calling his ring of riders to cease pursuit. They could watch them from a rise until they foe made it to the woods. Hopefully the quth would move faster without the circling vien. At least then they would be out of the Meadow. What else could he do?

High clear notes sounded to the south—it was a whistle, calling the approach of a force of riders. He had no other contingents on patrol. Tirlav raised his whistle and blew the command for all riders to form on him with speed.

He could not see the approaching force yet, and he did not want to trust. One thing Hormil had taught him—not to mention many songs and stories since his childhood—was that the Canaen were crafty and deceitful.

As his riders streamed back around the enemy formation to form in ranks behind their plumes, Tirlav sat upon his vaela watching south. At last, he saw the approaching force of riders. Except for the more weather-worn accoutrements and clothing, they might have been part of Tirlav's own company. At the fore rode a vien wearing the plume of a company liel commander. In number, they were similar in force to Tirlav's own patrol, and so he suspected the force was comprised of three contingents as well.

He sat motionless as the liel commander rode straight toward him, his company riding in column behind. As he arrived, the vien slapped his chest.

"Blessings of Findel to you," he said. "My scouts heard your fight and said you might be glad of help. I am Kelnere, Commander of the South Grove. We were patrolling and have ridden hard to reach you."

Tirlav could tell he had ridden hard, for his vaela were winded and their hair foamed with sweat.

"Blessing of Findel," Tirlav answered. "I am Tirlav, Commander of the Center Meadow Grove."

"The new company," Kelnere said, though he did not take his eyes from the quth. "They haven't sent you too soon. They have been putting great pressure on us."

"The Synod?" Tirlav asked.

Kelnere looked back at him, squinting subtly as if Tirlav had just said something stupid.

"The Canaen. It has been years since they tried to cross in force, but for the past months, for every company of them we intercept, I fear others make it through. I believe they prepare for an assault and wish to slip into our rear. We do not have enough riders to watch the entire Meadow at all times."

Tirlav wanted to ask so many questions. Perhaps he could convince the fellow commander to ride back with them for a few miles before parting ways.

"We have turned these back to their woods," Tirlav said.

Kelnere shrugged.

"They will not reach their woods."

"What do you mean?"

"We will slay them. That is our task." Kelnere's tone was unusually flat, a staccato of single notes. "They have entered the Meadow and will try again if given the chance."

"We cannot charge their shield wall."

"These are not just quth. There are Canaen here. We do not let them reach safety."

"They are equal to us in numbers and well disciplined."

"We are still more skilled. They are strong, but the quth live a mere forty years in strength."

"Yet have they not been bred to war by the Canaen? My company is but two years formed."

"There are Canaen among them," Kelnere snapped.

"Are Canaen lives worth so much more than the lives of our vien?"

"We are already dead. This is why we are here. We are not to allow the Canaen to escape. It is the will of the Synod."

The force of that last statement struck Tirlav like a blow. Was there really no choice?

If the Synod ordered it. . . Disobeying the Synod was not possible.

And yet he wrestled. He could never remember feeling such a revulsion to an order before. Even when he left Jareen. . . There was nothing that he could have done. It was what it was.

Now, for some reason, it occurred to him that he could resist the order. Why had that not occurred to him before?

No. It was merely an illusion. He would not disobey the Synod. He was a liel commander of the riders of Findel. He served the Synod, and so his folk. He would not dishonor his Tree.

But if it was foolish? If it was a mistake? His lungs felt weak, and sweat dampened his face.

"The war has long slept, but it is heating up," Kelnere said. "It will be as it was a thousand years ago in the days of Liel High Commander Lorviel. The Synod will send more companies to replace us." He turned to one of his plumes. "We will lead for these newcomers. You will turn their faces before we strike." With only this, Kelnere's plume turned, called out orders, and South Grove company split apart with activity.

"You will attack from the north, I will attack from the south. My archers will stream across the face of their formation from west to east. You are to strike at full charge as soon as they pass, as closely as you can. I will sound the attack. Findel's blessing be with you."

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With that, Kelnere turned and rode, half his riders following him and the others streaming after the dispatched plume.

Tirlav glanced back at Glentel. The nut-brown skin of Glentel's face had an unusual pallor. Nausea gripped Tirlav's stomach.

Tirlav raised his whistle and blew the order to follow. With that, he rode north to circle the enemy formation.

The Canaen clearly knew an attack was imminent. The formation had ceased to move, and in the space of Tirlav's conversation with Kelnere, the quth had jammed wooden stakes into the ground, angled outward around their shield wall. Tirlav was stunned that they had carried stakes. The quth crouched at the ready, spears bristling out from behind the tiered shields. The fearsome visages of the Quth glared out from above and between the shields, rounded caps upon their heads.

Should they ride in wedge, or in line, in one body or more? He glanced over the enemy to try to see what Kelnere prepared to do, but he couldn't tell. It was up to him. All the options felt like death. Would the Synod truly wish the lives of a thousand and more riders thrown away for the sake of one skirmish?

In keeping with the riding order of the company, the Namian contingent fell in on the right and the Tlorné on the left, with Aelor in the center. How many lines should he order?

Kelnere's whistle sounded. From the west, the arrow-riders of the South Grove moved toward the formation of quth, starting at a trot.

Tirlav blew his whistle. Four waves.

The South Grove arrow-riders broke into a canter, holding a course as if they would charge right into the heart of the enemy formation. Kelnere had told Tirlav to strike as soon as the archers had passed by.

Tirlav sang his vaela forward into the trot, and the riders behind him surged forward. Vaela snorted the air. Maybe four waves was a mistake, but it would make the three contingents extend nearly the width of the enemy formation. Without a wedge, the first wave would strike at once, each wave behind seeking some advantage in the chaos that would result. Maybe he led them all to their deaths, but he rode in the front wave, and he might never know.

He sang his vaela again, a single clear note joined by all the riders around him. The three contingents moved into the canter. From the west, the archers broke into a canter. A few early arrows sprang from the enemy. The archers were closing the gap. Tirlav had to cover more ground. He sang into the gallop.

At the same moment, the archers sang to the gallop and broke into two streams like waves split by a rock, racing past so close to the enemy that the spears nearly touched them, loosing arrows into the faces of the quth. Vaela screamed as arrows found them. Enemy shields toppled forward as quth fell. From behind, other quth jostled to fill the gaps. Tirlav lowered his short spear even as his vaela lowered its horns, its mane whipping into his face. The last of the archers tore past just ahead of him.

This was death.

They struck.

Tirlav felt his vaela shudder beneath him as steel tore into its chest. Tirlav's spear slammed into a quth shield with such force that it pushed the rim back and slid into the quth's neck behind it. The force of the blow drove the spear through mail and body, but the enemy was packed so densely that the Quth could not fall back. The vaela pitched forward, going down headfirst and slamming three horns into the skewered Quth. Tirlav leapt upward, as the vaela flipped, legs flailing, a horrid scream erupting from its twisted mouth, bearing down quth in its fall. The spear tore from Tirlav's grasp, but he landed in a crouch behind the wreckage of vaela. He tore a sword free from its scabbard and rose just as the second wave of riders struck. Vaela tore past him on each side. Something clipped him, knocking him from his feet as the second wave leapt over bodies, spears and horns plunging deeper into the quth formation.

Another vaela went down in front of Tirlav, kicking and screaming, and the unfortunate rider fell beneath it. Drawing his second blade, Tirlav rushed in behind it, slashing at the mass of quth, trying to get to the downed rider. There was chaos all around the formation, as Kelnere's attack had struck the far side at nearly the same instant. The two striking forces of riders compressed the quth into a narrower body, so that there was little room for the enemy to move. Tirlav caught the blow of an axe on one blade and brought the other up in an arc from low guard. A fur-covered hand flew away, parted from its arm. He managed a glance back. Much of the third and all of the fourth wave had held back, unable to plunge into the chaos, but they knew to switch to their bows, and now they poured arrows into the enemy. The darts sliced the air past Tirlav's head, finding marks in the broken line of the foe.

A shock of violet caught Tirlav's eye, coming toward him—a Canaen, pushing through the quth. He carried a short recurved bow, and on his loose tabard was the blazon of a tree with foliage above and below. His hair hung down from beneath a curved helm, violet streaked with black, and on his face were the raised growths and marks of the Change. The sight sent a shock of fear through Tirlav. The Canaen drew back and loosed an arrow, but Tirlav had seen the motion and twisted away. The dart sped past even as he rushed at the desecrated Canaen. Tirlav raised to attack from the high guard, but instead of moving to defend himself, the Canaen raised a hand, holding his next arrow outward.

Tirlav saw it, even though he could not make sense of it. The arrow burst into vining life, tendrils of growth springing toward him. Tirlav slashed at the vines with his sword, but those he cut away burst to life as well, sprouting thorns and digging into his sandaled feet where they had fallen. He cried out as thorns reached through the rings of his mail, skewering his arm. His cry was lost in a storm of screams and horrors. He lurched forward, his only thought to reach the Canaen, but the vines snared his legs while others grasped toward his exposed throat. Tirlav landed hard wrestling and tearing at the vines, sprawled over the body of a wounded quth that huffed and groaned.

The vines stopped moving, falling limp like any natural growth. Tirlav struggled to his knees, dropping his sword and pulling a knife to slash at them. He saw other vien pushing forward around him, and the Canaen sorcerer had both hands raised as if to ward them off. Two of Tirlav's riders struggled on foot against grasping roots surging from the ground. A jagged woody spine burst through the throat of one of the Aelor riders. Beyond the sorcerer, Tirlav saw riders of Kelnere's company pushing into the writhing mass.

Slashing himself free with his knife, Tirlav rose. More vien had tried to reach the sorcerer, but the Canaen had a wall of roots around him, lashing at anyone who came near. An arrow struck the Canaen's arm, but he did not falter. The arrow sprouted, sending out living shoots with green buds. The Canaen's face was distorted with spreading growths, barely recognizable even from moments before. His hands were knobbed and vibrant with violets and greens. The roots surged around him as more arrows sought a mark. The roots formed together in a tight mass, so that Tirlav could no longer see the Canaen. They appeared to fuse, forming something like the trunk of a tree that budded in leaves and flowers overhead yet bristled on the sides with wicked thorns.

Tirlav crouched and found his sword, but there was no enemy to fight. To the east, a body of quth put up a fierce resistance, but arrows fell on them like driving rain. Breathing hard, Tirlav watched his dismounted riders execute the wounded nearby. There was no sign of movement within the Canaen's living encasement.

"This one was strong," someone said. Tirlav turned to see Kelnere limping toward him. A vaela followed obediently in his wake, stepping over bodies and bleeding from a long laceration in its shoulder that made its hide gape open with each step. Kelnere walked up to the strange tree-like mass of roots.

"He's in there!" Tirlav said.

"Oh, this would have done him in."

Tirlav was having trouble thinking. He stared around at the jumbled ground. Awful stench choked the air. The intestines of a downed vaela hung out as it struggled to breathe and rise. A rider stilled it with a sword-blow to the neck. There were mingled bodies of quth and vien, and he saw a few other patches of spreading vines and roots not far away.

Kelnere stepped over and put a hand on his shoulder. There was blood spattered on his face.

"Your riders did well. I thought you timid at first, but I have not seen such a green company fight like yours. This could have gone much worse."

Tirlav gaped at him, trying to think.

"We have to move," Kelnere said. "Night is falling, and we must gather and move our wounded. But first. . ." Kelnere turned back toward the mass of roots. More blossoms had opened in its foliage, a canopy of vibrant yellows and whites.

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