Fae. He pulls in a deep, bolstering breath, feeling lit up with a renewed sense of holy purpose, eager to finally engage with the horrific Evil Ones in defense of the Magedom.
“We dismount here, Mages.” Commander Bane’s voice rings out from the front of their party, effortlessly dominant.
They all dismount, tether the restless horses to trees to be cared for by the Calvary Mage, and make their way into the forest on foot, following the commander’s assured lead, the smell of smoke growing more pungent.
Thierren pulls out his wand and readies it as he recites wind and air spells in his mind, weaving the magery together inside his lines.
They’re dangerous, these Tree Fae, some of them able to access multiple lines of elemental power and feed it through branches. And sometimes they use wildlife in their attacks. They just got word of Dryads farther south of here ambushing Mages with small cyclones and flocks of raptors in retaliation for land being cleared.
Land that belongs to the Magedom.
No matter. Thierren glares at the threatening trees as his unit moves deeper into the forest. I’ll be conjuring a great cyclone very soon to destroy both you and your Fae minions.
The piercing sound of a child’s scream jolts through Thierren, slowing his steps. He looks to the other soldiers in confusion, but they seem to be ignoring the sound.
Unsettled, Thierren follows his unit forward, stepping over roots, his boot heels sinking slightly into the soft, mossy soil.
The sound of a child crying.
A baby’s wail splitting the air.
Women pleading in low, tortured tones in a strange language.
Thierren feels a harder stab of confusion. He steps through the trees and looks over a small meadow that ends at an even thicker band of forest. Fires are smoldering along the sides of the meadow where trees have been set ablaze by the soldiers.
And there they are.
The Dryads.
A line of pointy-eared, forest green Tree Fae are standing, side by side, before the far wall of untouched Northern Forest.
As if they’re forming a barrier with their own bodies.
But...the most pathetic, easily broken barrier Thierren has ever seen.
Bewilderment whips through him. He’s seen pictures of Dryads, horrific beings dripping with rotted vegetation. Crazed eyes, pointed teeth. Demonic and dangerous.
These Fae don’t look anything like those pictures.
Yes, they’re intensely green, their skin glimmering deep green more strongly than Gardnerian skin, their hair black, their green eyes wide, and their ears sharply pointed. And they’re dressed in garments that appear to be formed from leaves melted together.
But the similarities to the monstrous pictures end there.
An old Dryad woman, her hair white as snow, has her hands pressed together as if in prayer. She’s fallen to her knees, pleading in a long stream of unintelligible words. A young boy clings to her, sobbing, his face pressed into her garments. And a girl of no more than ten stands beside them both, wielding a large stone in her fist, her face a mask of hatred, her breathing labored. Sharp, hostile syllables burst from her mouth. She hurls the stone across the meadow toward the long line of Mages, but her throw is weak and the stone falls short.
Women, old people, children, teens.
And all of them appear to be covered in a black soot, the dark grains sprinkled over their skin, their clothing, as if it’s been rained down on them. They’re breathing heavily, their bodies slouched, as if they’re tethered to the ground by some invisible force.
“What’s wrong with them?” Thierren asks no one in particular.
“Tried to attack us with wind.”
Thierren turns to the bearded soldier beside him.
The man throws him a jaded glance. “That young one there.” He points to a boy who’s perhaps all of twelve years old, shirtless and covered with the dark specks as he yells out a stream of what sounds like vicious curses at the Mages. “He threw two Mages about twenty span with a waterspout he sent out from a branch. Broke Kerlin’s leg against a tree. So we covered them in iron dust. That calmed them down. Stripped them of their cursed powers.”
Thierren turns back to the line of Fae, his mind storming.
There’s a baby. With round cheeks. Covered in iron and screaming. Being cradled by a lovely young woman. The baby throws the Mages a look of pure horror as he tries to claw at his face with tiny hands. The young woman is desperately trying to calm the child, tears coursing down her cheeks as she attempts to both gently pry his fingers