The nightbirds hushed in the grove as Tirlav and his contingent waited in the shadows, arrows nocked, strings waiting to be drawn. They formed a loose semi-circle in the trees. The vaela had little trouble moving in the spacious old growth, and Tirlav had decided to keep his warriors mounted rather than in the trees. Somewhere in the dark, a vaela snorted and another whistled. Sweat dripped down Tirlav’s face from beneath his crested helm. Would the humans hear a vaela and suspect danger, or would it draw them in? How much time had passed? He had expected them by now, but still no shouts of fear rose from the warriors pretending to be locals, drinking and singing in the lamplight closer to shore. It would be impossible for the humans to actually sneak up on them through the thickets and trees, especially when attack was expected. Tirlav had seen humans only once before in his life, the emissaries from Drennos who had come to Tir’Aelor before the trade agreement. He had not been impressed, but that did not mean they weren’t dangerous.

  Without releasing it, Tirlav rolled the silver whistle back and forth in his fingers. The whistles used by the riders were of the same variety as those used to mimic birdsong. They were short, merely a few inches in length, and able to be played with one hand. A series of drilled holes at intervals allowed for a meager scale, extended by varying the intensity of breath. Its tone was high and able to cut through commotion, but it was not offensive to the ear. Tirlav had always found the long, mournful keening of such whistles to be especially evocative at night when heard from a distance, yet the use of this whistle was to be heard above the din of death. Most such whistles were made of wood, but the rare metal gave the whistles a recognizable timbre and the plumes a symbol of status.

  A scream pierced the night, followed by shouts in Vienwé. This was it. He checked the placement of his arrow on the string for the fiftieth time as his mount sidestepped. They had taken up their positions over a hundred yards further into the grove, and it was not long before he saw the flitting forms of his false locals running to where comrades waited with their vaela and weapons. Well behind them, more forms rushed through the trees, heavy boots thudding hard on the ground, crushing leaves and snapping branches, sounding like a stampede of vaela. Tirlav raised the whistle and blew the signal. A shadowed chorus of bows sang before the notes faded.

  There was a guttural cry and silhouettes fell. A new series of shouts and screams rose, this time in a human tongue, though Tirlav recognized that the language was not Noshian. A few more humans fell. Some cried out on the ground while their fellows behind turned and fled toward shore, shouting warnings. There appeared to be only a score, yet many more had come ashore. A few of the Vien sang their vaela into pursuit.

  “Halt!” Tirlav shouted. “Do not follow!”

  But whether he did not call loud enough, or the thrill of battle was too strong upon them, he saw three riders continue in pursuit near the far side of the half-circle, loosing arrows after the humans as their vaela bounded. Tirlav felt the urge to ride after them, but instead he ordered the rest to advance at a walk. The vaela were restless, tossing manes and whistling and blowing. It was not the goal to drive the men back too soon. His saboteurs needed time.

  There was a another cry up ahead, and a shout from a Vien tongue, though the words were garbled. Two riders came fleeing back through the trees, one turning to rejoin the rest and another continuing on into the night, followed by a second riderless vaela.

  Tirlav forced himself to ignore it. Up ahead, he saw the hanging lamp his false locals had hung from a tree, but around it stood a wall of men shoulder to shoulder, broad shields raised, staring into the night. One of the men turned and flung something at the lamp overhead, shattering the glass, but the candle still flickered.

  “Aim for their legs,” Tirlav called. The humans carried shields and some looked to have short mail shirts, but none appeared to wear anything more than heavy boots on their legs. Vien bowstrings sang again and again. Someone succeeded in knocking the lamp down. A fresh shout rose from among the humans, and a flight of arrows shot from behind their shieldwall. A vaela screamed and went down near Tirlav, thrashing its cloven hooves and tearing the loam. More arrows flitted from the humans into the dark, many striking trees. One whished near Tirlav’s shoulder. They could not see the Vien clearly, but upon the vaela they were broad targets.

  “Back!” Tirlav called, and the riders sang away. If the humans did not have their backs to the coastal thicket, they might have enveloped them, riding in circles at a distance and loosing arrows, but in this new stationary fight, their vaela would only be targets. He had wanted to draw them inland, leading them along from vaela-back, but the humans held together with more discipline than he had hoped.

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  Out of bowshot, he ordered the dismount and called for the vaela to be led away. Yet as the vien spread out and prepared to move in by tree and upon the ground, Tirlav saw that the humans were filing back through thicket and down the trail to the shore. The relief from Vien arrows had afforded them the opportunity. In good order, the humans in the rear walked backward, shields raised. Tirlav and his warriors rushed after them, flitting between trees. They sunk feathered shafts into the shins of the last two men. The other humans in the rear hurried away, abandoning the wounded who cried out after them. The two injured men crouched together as more arrows found marks in exposed flesh. Soon, they lay upon the track, groaning. Some of Tirlav’s excited warriors fell upon them and finished them with knives. Tirlav glanced down at the faces of the dead men, the beards bristling from unshaven faces. His heart was pounding, and he could not take the time to contemplate them.

  From the path, Tirlav could hear commotion on the beach. Had the attempt to stave in the boats been successful?

  “Liel!,” someone called. Tirlav turned to see Felwen standing over a shape on the ground. Striding over, Tirlav realized it was a Vien shape, a thick arrow protruding from the chest. It was Tennla. Just hours before, they had been sitting and shaving arrow-shafts together. He had ignored the command to halt, one of the three who had ridden forward.

  “They have cut off his hair,” Felwen said.

  Tirlav looked closer. Tennla’s helm was missing, and the humans had not just cut his hair, they had cut off his scalp, leaving the bloody skull and thin strips of fat exposed. Turning away, Tirlav tried to keep the vomit from rising at the unexpected horror of the sight.

  “Cover him,” he said. “Cover him with something.”

  “Liel!” someone else called. Tirlav saw one of the vien he’d left on shore hurrying toward him, his silks torn by the thorns of the thicket.

  “What news?”

  “We fell upon the guards and stove in the boats. Elbri is fallen upon the strand. Yol is wounded, but not unto death, I think.”

  "Is he captured?"

  "No."

  “Are the others well hid?”

  “The foe cannot reach us easily, but we can observe them. There must be two hundred upon the beach.”

  “Bring out Yol if you can. The rest of you, do not let them rest, but do not expose yourselves. I want no more casualties.”

  “Yes, Liel.” The warrior bowed and slapped his chest.

  Tirlav turned, looking at the Vien gathered around him. He had so few to work with against so many, but the humans did not know their numbers and would no doubt feel safer on the beach than in the thickets and woods. The ship could see them upon the shore, no doubt. It was a bright night beyond the shadow of the trees. Were there more boats aboard that could try for a rescue?

  Tirlav saw Melwy standing near and called his name.

  “Take five and harry them from the thickets to the east, but do not expose yourself. Be careful.”

  Melwy nodded and turned, calling for others to join him. Eager to fight, more than enough volunteered, and Tirlav had to keep some from going with Melwy. Even sending so few, it left Tirlav only a handful of fighters in case the humans tried to press back up the track. Would High Tir send aid? How much time had elapsed? Tirlav had a hard time trying to figure. It was far too soon to expect the nearest detachment of his own contingent.

  Human shouting continued on the beach, and he wondered if he should move into the thicket himself to get a better handle of the situation. He wanted to know exactly what he was dealing with, yet no one could move quickly in that thicket, for it was necessary to belly-crawl much of the way, worming around wicked thorns as long as daggers. The thicket was cultivated along the coast for just such a barrier to incursions, grown from transplants from the Mingling. If the humans attacked while he was within the thicket, he would not be able to lead. He needed to stay where he was and rely on his scouts for eyes, as frustrating as that was.

  Tirlav paced at the mouth of the trail, unable to contain the energy that surged within him. The beach was narrow at high tide, and the thicket would cover any view of it from the trees, but he ordered one of his Vien up a hackberry near the edge of the grove, anyway. At least there would be a view of the ship in case the humans still aboard attempted a rescue.

  As Tirlav struggled to form a plan, Elnan and Tereth returned, eager to draw human blood after having missed out on the skirmish. They had found a Tree of kelp harvesters and sent them to warn others.

  “Let us harry them,” Tereth asked. Tirlav ordered them into the thicket to join the others. Soon after, Yol crawled from the thorns, grimacing in pain. He had taken a heavy human arrow through the arm as well as a blow to the side from an axe. The axe had broken a few rings of his mail and likely a few ribs along with them. Breathing was clearly painful for him.

  Tirlav sent him back to where the sentries held the vaela, but not before asking after the situation on the beach. Yol grunted out that the humans had formed a shield wall and had begun to dig into the sand, throwing up an embankment. Others had advanced to the edge of the thicket and were chopping down thorn trees, dragging them back to form a breastwork. It was difficult to get close enough to harry them through the dense thicket, even with the short Vien recurve bows. The skirmishers had wounded a few of the humans, and a few more lay slain upon the sand, but skirmishing would not resolve the matter. His vien depended upon him for a plan, but he had not lured as many into the grove as he had hoped. Sweat rolled down his forehead.

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