Taking a breath, Tirlav raised his whistle. He hesitated. What came next was death, and the music would call it down. There was no avoiding it; he blew what he knew might be his last notes.

At the signal, the quth instinctively dropped to a knee. Shoulder to shoulder, they braced their shields against the ground and with their pikes outward toward whatever trees were nearest, a great bristling hedge. A great chorus of whistles rose from the woods all around, for Tirlav had given the order that every vien sound a note, for all had whistles. The music seemed to alter the breeze in its blowing, stilling the treetops.

The rotting stakes that used to litter the outsides of the grove embankments were gone, removed at Tirlav's orders. Up from the creeping vines on the outer berm rose his vien. In moments, arrows lashed the quth.

Above Tirlav in the trees, more vien loosed arrows from the foliage, and Glentel shot from beside him. The dart sped through the branches and took a quth in the face, toppling it.

"Well placed!" Tirlav said.

With shouts and screams, the dying had begun. The quth in the clearing were between Tirlav and the grove, but he had placed vien in the woods on all sides.

The quth who had made it into the clearing withered under the arrow-storm from all sides. Their hardened animal skins could not stop the vien bodkins, and their shields could face only one direction at a time. Tirlav watched with a surge of joy as the ranks that had spread out into the clearing broke. Some of the quth formed tight knots, back to back, using their shields as walls. Other quth pressed against those still crammed into the narrow path leading from the clearing to the Meadow. So far in their shock, they had not thought to attack. Down the path he saw Canaen riders scattering and vaela collapsing. He had committed many of his riders to the woods along the path, and at his signal they had crossed between trees on nets and poured their deadly darts into the Canaen riders from above. Beasts screamed and reared—Tirlav had commanded them to shoot the mounts.

Tirlav saw a Canaen shouting, rallying quth around him and pointing toward the Grove embankment. Tirlav pointed and shouted to the archers near him:

"Bring the Canaen down!"

An arrow slammed into the Canaen's gut, and he grabbed the arrow-shaft. It burst into tendrils, sprouting green leaves, but another arrow struck him, passing through his eye. The foe collapsed to the ground, the quth around him scattering back toward the narrow path, falling with arrows in their backs. All along the path leading to the meadows, arrows rained into the quth ranks, and Tirlav saw more Canaen fall in their midst, picked out by his archers according to his orders. Pipes rang out from the Canaen host, and in a doubled pace, the Quth formed into a shell of shields and started to march backward. The hollow sound of arrows against the shieldwall rang out. Scores of quth lay dead already, but most could march in order back out of the path and into the open Meadow.

This was wrong. Tirlav had hoped that they would attack, having to split their strength to assault the tree-lines to each side. Come nightfall, the vien would either have to retreat through the Mingling or they would be surrounded in the grove, harassed by a far greater host. Tirlav raised his whistle to his lips and blew a signal. They needed to fight now when the quth were exposed.

Any hope of victory depended upon a bloody struggle, there and then, while the bulk of the foe was strung out along the path. He blasted the notes as he rushed forward. More whistles took up the call.

Whether anyone was with him or not, he could only trust as he sprang toward the quth column, ducking through the clutching branches at the edge of the clearing. He dropped his whistle on its chain and drew an arrow. The quth held their shields so tight together that their pikes were nearly locked in place, but he loosed his arrow into the gap where a pike jutted through. He could not hear the impact over the noise of the fight, but one of the shields twisted as a quth staggered and its pike tipped downward. Without slowing his pace, Tirlav flung away his bow and drew both of his swords, sliding into the gap. Past the ends of the pikes, he pushed forward and slashed down at the exposed quth. Tirlav cut his own arrow and the quth's shoulder below it, slashing to the side with his second blade even as he wrenched the first free. The slash met something, but it did not bite.

A quth glared at him and roared, its fangs flecked with violet, but packed in the dense retreating formation the quth could hardly react. Tirlav slammed the tip of his blade through its mouth, then struck again and again around himself as the foe jostled and tried to bring shields around. Another fell and another as Tirlav cut a gap, nearly tripping on the bodies underfoot. He heard shouts and screams around him and knew he was not alone.

A quth in front of Tirlav dropped his shield and spear and grasped a short blade at its side, but before it could draw it from its sheath Tirlav drove the point of his blade up beneath its chin, dark yellow blood flowing down. All around falling pikes and shields clattered as the quth reached for the knives, cleavers, and axes that hung at their sides. Tirlav raised a blade to deflect a blow, but the massive quth feinted and barreled into him with its whole weight. They went down together. Tirlav's right arm was pinned beneath the quth, and his other blade had wrenched from his grasp. The beast struggled to turn its own straight blade for a downward thrust, but the hand that held it spun away, severed by a blow that Tirlav did not see. Without flagging, the beast opened its mouth wide and plunged its face down toward Tirlav's neck. The delay had served, though; Tirlav had drawn his knife, and he slammed it into the quth's neck. Blood pulsed down onto Tirlav's face.

Rolling with the dying quth to the side, Tirlav freed himself and struggled to regain his feet. Vien hands grabbed his shoulders and helped him up. The fight had moved just beyond, and he saw more vien grappling with quth, driving with short spears, and slashing with recurved blades. Arrows cut the air above from riders still in the trees. The fight was spilling beyond the edges of the path, now, down into the ditches and among the vines. The quth had abandoned their pikes and now the fight had turned into a brawl melee on all sides. Bending down, Tirlav found his second sword again and sheathed his bloody knife.

Ahead, a quth split the helm of a vien who buckled to the ground, and Tirlav rushed forward, driving his sword through the quth's boiled skin coat. The world was full of a rhythmless wail formed of screams, shouts, and the impact of steel on mail and bone. A foul smell of offal rose as the grass grew slick. The tuned Vien swords rang in harmonies above the discordant foe-blades.

Tirlav did not think. He did nothing fancy, his body remembering the simple drills he had done thousands of times with the company—the angled slices, the shifts of weight, the pressed thrust, the deflections, the anticipation of movements. The quth were strong, fierce, but slower, always favoring overhand attacks, putting their hunched weight into downward strokes with forward lurches.

It was like dance. It was like playing the harp—letting his body take over, responding to the moment, allowing his mind to cease its labors. There was only this song of death, this pit of misery. He wept and screamed in hate, but he did not hear himself in the chaos. The battle was the antithesis of music, for music was the selection of a right note at the right time. The carnage was all the notes all the time. In its midst, he was an instrument turned from finesse to brutality. There was no grand scheme of battle anymore, no worries of contingents or strategies or tomorrow. There was only the freedom of thoughtlessness, the movement of the body, the utter moment and no more. Never before had Tirlav known joy so foul.

He was wounded and knew it not. One of his swords was broken, but the ground was full of the tools of death. The path and embankments grew thick with bodies. Quth fell before him. An arrow shattered against his helm. A Canaen attempted to wrap him in vines, but he reached out his hand and the vines withered. He did not doubt they would. A root-like spear burst from the earth, thrusting toward his chest, but it twisted and shivered away. He hacked it asunder. The Canaen stared at him, eyes white and wide, his hair green like sea algae and his face marred with the Change. Tirlav bound forward. The Canaen dodged his first blow and rasped his blade across Tirlav's mail, a useless cut. Tirlav kicked into his foe's knee, buckling it backward. He brought the hilt of his sword down onto the Canaen's head, followed by a stroke that failed to burst the rings of the Canaen's darkened mail but snapped the collar bone beneath. Now on his knees, the Canaen raised both hands and sang a note, clear and high and full of power. The ground buckled beneath Tirlav, but as he fell, he slammed his blade through the Canaen's singing mouth, the death of his music.

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Tirlav fought on, hardly aware of the death-struggles around him as his vien strove against the quth. The path was a jumbled chaos as the vien pressed from three sides. From the trees, arrows found the backs of quth. Their formation was broken. The bodies of friend and foe lay tangled in death. Tirlav was halfway up the path when he searched for an enemy and found none standing. He saw the backs of quth pushing into the meadow as vien tried to press against them. Canaen riders circled at the gallop, loosing arrows, leaping the bodies of dead and wounded vaela. One vaela went down, its rider flipping headlong into the grass, his body bending backward.

Thought returned to Tirlav, like hearing when one emerges from water. He turned from the route and rushed back to the clearing, struggling across the bodies and slick grass.

"Come!" he shouted to those standing dazed or leaning on blades and breathing hard. "The vaela! The vaela!"

Tirlav was gasping for breath when he reached the vaela. Before the battle, they had planted their short spears in the ground near the vaela, and he grabbed one and yanked the knot at the vaela's head free, clutching its mane and swinging upward. Other riders did likewise, and a stream of his vien sprinted across the clearing to join them. He saw Glentel there, covered in yellow-red blood. Tirlav did not wait. He sang his mount forward, a keening note, and he felt the welcome wind of motion as his vaela broke into a run. It snorted at the battle and the air full of the stench of blood.

The vaela stumbled over the bodies thick in the path, but Tirlav hardly noticed, his attention fixed forward. The Quth had clustered together, a thick knot retreating into the Meadow. A few furthest away still had pikes—no doubt those who had not made it into the path before the melee, but most of the quth had abandoned them in the close fighting. That was well. Many still had shields, and these walked backward shoulder to shoulder, still harassed by a few vien archers from the trees. Beyond the pikes, a few score Canaen riders remained in good order, and Tirlav knew that the moment any of his vien drew too far from the eaves, they would swoop down.

Tirlav reached for his whistle but fumbled it, his wet fingers sliding over the silver. He grasped it again, and tasted blood. He spit and shouted instead.

"Form ranks! We are not done! Form and follow!"

With weary resignation, the vien on foot shuffled forward as Tirlav rode through with the riders, halting in the open ground just out of bowshot. The riders formed all around him in double rank with no sense of contingents, each rider fitting where they could. He saw the bloodstains on many of them, the light blood of quth and the darker blood of vien. Did they have another fight in them? If he waited too long, he feared they would not. Hundreds formed with him, but there had been thousands.

He started forward at a walk even as more riders streamed to join and the foot formed behind. A few scattered arrows sped toward them from among the quth, but few of the hairless faces of the Canaen remained there. Tirlav eyed the Canaen riders. They had fallen back further to the east, pulling away from the withdrawing quth. How committed were the Canaen to defending their beasts? How great was their sorcery? It did not appear that each Canaen was equal, but even at a distance, he saw marks of the Change upon their faces in streaks of violet and yellow and green.

Tirlav sang his vaela into the trot. The Quth hurried their pace backward, struggling to hold together. Arrows sped above Tirlav's head, loosed from behind, keeping the quth shields raised. He sang the canter. The trampling percussion of the vaela hooves rose around him. The meadow grasses were crushed flat from the passage of so many that day. Tirlav knew they were still outnumbered badly, but the momentum of the foe was backward, and their forces were spread out. As the distance closed, some of the quth at the rear broke their lines and pushed to catch up to the Canaen riders. Tirlav saw some of the riders gesturing and shouting, and the quth slowed and halted, standing still in the open ground. A knot began to form, the heart of what could soon grow to a shieldwall.

Tirlav grasped his whistle again, and ignoring the taste of blood, he blew new notes.

Split. Circle. Attack the riders.

Spitting out the foulness from his mouth, Tirlav swerved as the riders parted into two forces, one side swinging south and the other following Tirlav north. The Findelvien did not outnumber the quth, but they did outnumber the Canaen riders. Perhaps fear of the Findelvien arrows had driven the Canaen too far from their quth, and now Tirlav could get between them. The realization must have occurred to them as the Findelvien galloped around the flanks of the quth, for the Canaen riders wheeled and retreated at the canter. A few of the Quth broke after them.

Cowards. Tirlav's heart rose.

"Liel!" someone shouted. It was Glentel, and he was pointing back toward the quth. The quth had broken, they were fleeing!

No. They were scattering toward the treeline, breaking all formation. They would reach the eaves of the woods.

Tirlav whirled, raising his whistle again, ordering his riders to run them down.

The riders bore down on the rear of the fleeing quth, ramming their spears home, the vaela shaking bodies from their horns, but hundreds, even thousand of quth were melting into the eaves of the forest. The Findelvien foot held together as the quth streamed past, downing some but fighting not to be overwhelmed until the riders arrived.

Tirlav rode down a beast that held its ground in futility. Tirlav's vaela lowered its head and impaled the beast's breast with its three horns. His vaela tossed its head and shook the body free. Tirlav glanced back again, but the the Canaen riders were still fleeing at a canter, turf flying up behind them as they crested the hill.

Tirlav looked around, trying to see any of his plumes. He saw one riding down a quth, but he could not tell which plume it was. He rode hard to the cluster of vien afoot.

"Get back to the grove and hold it!" Tirlav shouted. If the quth who had slipped into the trees re-formed, then there could still be hard fighting, and with hundreds and more now beneath the trees, there could be no lack of vigilance.

"Liel!" a voice called. Tirlav looked to the side. It was Glentel again, riding beside him. "My congratulations on the victory," he said. Tirlav looked at the gap in the forest trees where the path led to the clearing. Something caught his eye—a plume upon the ground. He rode up to the body. A knot of bodies lay around it, vien tangled with fallen quth. It took him a moment to make sense of who he was looking at. It was Lenai, plume of Lishni. He had been ordered to hold the eaves and, if possible, prevent the quth from retreating out of the path. At Lenai's feet, Tirlav recognized another face. His body was rent, the blade still clasped in his hand was broken, and his eyes gazed up at the sky, seeing nothing. It was Selnei, the veteran who returned.

They had given their lives to follow Tirlav's order, overwhelmed by the mass of retreating quth.

No. They had already died. They were already dead—the moment the Synod called them, or when Selnei chose to return. In that place of carnage, Tirlav recognized the bodies of many of Lenai's contingent. Too many. They lay heaped upon each other and their foes. Were there any left? Down in the ditch beside the path, a foul mix of quth and vien blood had pooled.

Yet Tirlav was still alive. He had joined in the fray no less than any, and he had lived. A heaviness dragged down on his limbs and head. He felt he could lie down and sleep for days, and yet he was filthy. During the battle, he had felt more alive than he had since. . . he wasn't sure when. No, he knew. Since Jareen. And yet now he felt like his body would give way. He tried to think clearly.

"Liel?" someone asked. It was the plume of Kelnere's remnant. He had survived, too. "What is your command?"

How did one even begin to untangle such a field of death? He took a deep breath, suddenly feeling nauseous. He could still taste blood.

"Bring the wounded into the grove," he said. "And give them what aid we can." He turned to Glentel. "We must find out what has happened to the northern station. Find three scouts to ride north." Glentel nodded and wheeled away.

The thought of riding twenty miles north was inconceivable to Tirlav right now, and he hated to give the order that others do so, but they could not rest. There was so much to do. He had left his unmounted riders, some of them still wounded, in the Center Grove. He could not leave them there, now.

There was so much to do. Tirlav's fingers were tingling. He looked down. They were bloody. He wiped his left hand on the mane of his vaela, looked in confusion, and wiped it again.

"Are you wounded, Liel?" someone asked him. Tirlav looked over. It was Reen of Namian. It must have been him Tirlav had seen riding down the quth.

"No," Tirlav said, shaking his head and clenching his hand. "No."

He didn't yet know that the blow of a quth axe had parted his mail across his flank, digging into the muscle of his side.

"Send twenty of your riders with strings of vaela to the Center Grove and bring those we left behind," Tirlav said.

Reen looked around.

"I will try to find my riders," he said. Tirlav was also trying to take stock of his surroundings. The fighting had ceased, and there was little order to those in the Meadow or along the path. Groans and cries continued from the wounded. He needed to know how many vien he still had.

"And I will try to find my plumes," he said.

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