"Of course," Miro said.
"And how do you intend to do that?" Rorelan demanded. "You'll never get men from the south here in time, and you told me yourself that the east is barely holding."
"High Lord, Layla's people saved us. Now they need our help."
"I know that! But like Beorn, they're just going to have to hold."
Miro pictured the small Dunfolk, gentle in nature, hunters who hid in the forest. Nightshades would tear them to pieces.
"I'll go myself."
"Miro, no," High Lord Rorelan said flatly.
"Beorn is an able commander, and he has four bladesingers with him."
"I said no! You're needed here. Your position takes precedence, Miro. People always say bladesingers are accustomed to too much freedom to make good soldiers. Free will is the last trait a commander can have. Do you hear me? You are confusing your responsibilities."
Miro turned his dark eyes on Rorelan. "We owe the Dunfolk a debt. I'm going." He followed Layla from the room, turning and speaking one last time over his shoulder. "But I'll be back."
11
MIRO sat still and silent, once more looking over water and waiting for the enemy to arrive. Yet this time was different: where before the river had been wide, with earthen banks to either side, this tributary of the Sarsen was narrower, and on both sides the thick bushes grew all the way to the water's edge. And rather than night, it was early afternoon. This time Miro would see his enemy.
Next to him, Layla sat with her eyes closed, resting in the bushes, her bow across her lap. There was a time when Miro would have wondered at her ability to sleep when in the next hour her life might be taken from her, but that was long past, and Miro knew the value of snatched sleep.
He considered trying to rest himself, but his nerves were taut and his senses heightened by fear. Fighting legionnaires was one thing, but nightshades were altogether different.
Miro had never actually run up against one, but he'd seen two bladesingers take on a single nightshade at the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta. The living tree had easily triumphed, tearing the first bladesinger in half before reaching for the second. Only the intervention of a Halrana colossus had saved the second warrior in green.
And Miro planned to take on two nightshades.
Raj Vezna's masters of lore were called cultivators for a reason. Where Halrana's constructs were animated creatures built of wood, iron or bone, and required an animator to control their movements with skilled activation of the runes, the cultivators applied their lore to the living trees and vines that inhabited their forest home. Of course, the essence inevitably worked its way into the veins of the plant and killed it, but the creations of the cultivators were capable of some truly impressive feats.
An iron golem required a controller, but it would continue the fight until its runes faded and the essence was depleted, and if renewed it could fight again. The creatures brought to life by the cultivators required no controller, they were given a life of their own, but the plant would eventually die, to rot and feed other plants. The Veznans called it the cycle of renewal.
"You smell," Layla said, her eyes now open as she sat up.
"Thanks," Miro said with a wry grin.
"You smell like the town, and the sweat of a man. It is important to adjust your scent to your environment."
Layla came over to Miro. Standing, she was only a little taller than he was seated.
"When stalking a deer, a hunter spreads the dung of deer on the skin of his arms and legs. The deer is then tricked by its senses into thinking the hunter is another deer."
Miro was mildly repulsed, but he could see the logic.
"We're not fighting deer though," Layla said. "We're fighting men."
Layla leaned forward, and Miro wondered what she was doing before he felt something soft and squishy being pushed into the hair on the back of his head. It felt like mud.
"We're fighting men," she repeated.
Miro's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth. Her expression was serious, but there was a twinkle in her eye. Surely it was just mud?
"The enemy approaches," a voice called softly.
Miro looked out over the narrow river, but could see nothing. He turned back to Layla, but she was gone, vanished into the undergrowth. Quickly clawing his fingers through his hair, Miro did his best to imitate the Dunfolk. At least his armoursilk was green.
Miro felt his fear rise as he waited. Just as he was starting to wonder if the enemy were approaching after all, he saw the flicker of black against the trees on the other side of the river. A single man stepped out, a tattooed legionnaire clad in the scaled armour common among his kind.