Adarin hadn’t realized how much the dead forest had weighed on him and his men until he stood again on a carrack’s deck, riding against the Dray River’s steady stream toward the confluence where the Dray was born from two highland rivers. The steady swash of the rudders put his mind oddly at ease.

  Around him: a full Order company, two mages, sixty skeletons, thirty-five musketeers, five scouts. They sailed up to the confluence, and soon the forest became more vital, already sprouting, already growing from the black muck. Trees here had not lost their bark to the rotting spell, and the vibrant green contrasted warmly with the general state of the land.

  The closer they drew to the confluence, the more a heavy sadness settled over them—tinged with understanding. Whatever influence it was, it wasn’t angry at them. It was sad for the necessity of their actions, but it comprehended them. And Adarin felt the section of his computronium core where the grove heart was placed begin to pound. He cast an analyze cantrip, confirming his suspicions. A wave of Alteration magic, not unlike that which had sustained the temple’s garden, washed around them. But whereas in the temple there had been disordered ripples from a source bound by walls, this felt like the slow breath of the world’s heart, like a tree quietly drawing air and turning it into life.

  They landed on the peninsula as soon as they had found a beach that wasn’t blocked by fallen trees. The gangplank fell, and Adarin was among the first down. Incendiary grenades and diamond dagger at the ready, his manipulators crunched into the sand, and a few steps later he felt the firm brown beechwood humus underfoot. None of the decay spell’s energy had made it here. Gentle emerald light played around them as musketeers, skeletons, and scouts disembarked. Adarin exchanged nods with the female captain, a one-eyed user of Conjuration magic. Cannoneers sat at the deck, ready behind their cannons. Yet even on their faces, smiles that hadn’t been seen in a long time appeared.

  Adarin let out a long, sighing breath, and the men around him chuckled. One of the mage lieutenants walked up to him. “Units ready, sir. Do we advance in force or do we send the scouts?”

  Adarin looked at the man. “What’s your name, son?” He shook his head. I sound like some rear-echelon motherfucking staff officer trying to make buddy-buddy with the troops.

  But the mage smiled. “I’m Mage-Lieutenant Krislov, sir.”

  Adarin nodded his core, then pointed into the forest. “Order the scouts into a perimeter. We’ll advance slowly.”

  He focused on his Divination core again, let the energy flow from his Alteration core around it—a green accretion disk around a white star—and focused: ‘Where do I go?’

  The thoughts manifested in his mind like the gentle brush of leaves. ‘Come here.’ The intrusion of something alien into his mind should have been an outrage. He should have screeched, jumped, thrown defensive protocols at it. Yet he simply smiled and nodded.

  He creased his brow, and the voice came again. ‘Do not be alarmed,’ it whispered breathily, with the tremor of an old woman. ‘You are at a locus of power. We have presents for you. Come, come, come, come.’

  A hundred different voices, whispered the mage.

  Lieutenant Krislov tensed, hand readying on his sword. “Sir, did you—”

  “Yes,” said Adarin. “Something is speaking to me as well. What is it saying to you?”

  “Just—” He shook his head, inviting thoughts. “My Alteration core, it feels—” he touched his heart, “warm, smooth, and at peace.”

  Adarin nodded and called out. “Who else is hearing voices or feeling something with their magic?”

  Soldiers exchanged looks. Some chuckled, taking it to be a joke. Then one by one, nearly a third of his men raised their hands.

  Adarin made a split-second decision as he saw the sailors and cannoneers. “Anyone who feels something—join me.”

  The captain looked about to protest, but then shook her head and let her sailors go. I wonder if that’s my reputation as a commander or if she is just too scared to argue with the crazy woodland creature.

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  They walked into the forest, letting the gentle rustling of the wind in the leaves, the soothing green light, and the vibrant feeling of life wash over them. Soon the undergrowth thickened, but it felt like a cozy blanket closing in, not like a threat. And then a humming that Adarin was already familiar with from the Spriggans on the willow island filled the air, and another of the strange female horned creatures stepped seemingly out of the trunk of a tree.

  Its voice hummed like a swarm of wasps: “Greetings, Guardian of the World Tree. Your arrival was foretold. Your mentor shall speak to you later. For now we have giftsssss.”

  The last consonant drew out into a hum that filled the entire forest.

  Adarin looked around. We should be more disconcerted by this. Everyone is just smiling and accepting it. If something attacks, we’d be slaughtered.

  But then the voice sounded again, and this time it was familiar: Bloommaster Ges’ksi.

  ‘Appreciate your worries, my student, but this is the Druidic Locus. Trust nature. Here there’s a compact that shall keep you safe. You have my word and the system’s guarantee of that.’

  Well, if the system says so, nothing can go wrong, Adarin murmured privately in his mindspace, but continued marching.

  After half a minute they reached a depression surrounded by old beeches where the ground was rich with roots. Adarin saw creatures—four of them—impaled, bound. Overgrown roots had pushed into all of their orifices. Two of them seemed dead. One had already begun rotting, and the putrid sweet smell of overripe meat filled the clearing. The other two were vigorously writhing, one desperately trying to fight back, trying to save its last remaining eye against a sharp sprout that was wiggling like a snake, growing forward with inevitability to claim the remaining eye.

  They were large, brutish humanoid bats. Wing membranes connected their clawed, over-muscled fingers and crooked, too-strong feet. They were all different but the same: some had horns, another had over-large ears, another’s skin shifted with the environment—though death had greatly reduced the effect.

  Mage Lieutenant Krislov gasped, and the feminoid Spriggan’s wooden mask seemed to settle into an air of disgust.

  “Lesser vampiresss,” it hissed, each consonant the sound of a snake. “They sought to infiltrate the grove. They paid the priccce.”

  Adarin quickly assessed the situation. Prisoners—if we can get— He spoke up. “Might I interro—”

  The Spriggan shook her head. “There is no need. Lesser vampires are brutal beastsss, barely worthy of being considered intelligent. We have tortured all the knowledge out of them and defined what could be inferred. There are many, many of the corrupted blood of the Nosferati in this land. Be warned. Your force shall not be their match.”

  The Spriggan inclined her head and looked over the semicircle of soldiers and skeletons. Then she made a sharp cutting gesture, and roots exploded forward like snakes, impaling the lesser vampires, then twisted and wrung them out like towels. Silvery blood sprinkled the ground, and the roots began to churn, absorbing, devouring, and dragging the corpses down.

  In less than a minute, nothing remained of the bloody spectacle except a peaceful grove of old beech trees.

  “Follow, as I tell you of your foe.”

  Adarin’s mouth was strangely dry. Where the hell have my wits gone?

  He marched alongside the Spriggan, one wooden creature next to another, and it explained to him the hierarchy of the Nosferati.

  “The enthralled humans—folklore says the bite itself corrupts, but that is not true. They infuse their own blood, which is the real threat if you have bitten men. Watch them carefully. They grow slowly more susceptible to suggestion and control.”

  Adarin swallowed hard, thinking of last night’s unit they had saved. “Is there a way to cure them?”

  The Spriggan nodded. “Over time the body will destroy the vampiric virus. Thralls need to be regularly… emptied and refilled.”

  The entire forest shuddered at those words, as if the trees themselves were revolted by the very idea.

  Adarin described the creature he had encountered, and the Spriggan lowered her head. “Either greater or an elder vampire. Do not fight it. You shall not stand a chance.”

  Adarin was about to ask for a deeper explanation of the different vampires, but the Spriggan already knocked her head to the side, as if anticipating.

  “There are five ranks. The ones we just executed—the cattle, the lesser vampires. Higher vampires are like your mages, masters of deception and the origin of most of the myths. As for greater, elder, and ancient ones—the latter are a myth, an elder patriarch or matriarch of an entire bloodline. It is said that there are seven bloodlines, one for each of the divine archetypes.”

  Adarin had so many more questions burning in his mind, but froze as they reached a circular plantation of ancient beeches. Their trunks were massive, almost one and a half meters in diameter. Their branches formed a cathedral of brown and emerald. He studied the place and how the undergrowth seemed to come to life. Hundreds, thousands of wooden creatures crawled and stood there, waiting. Spriggan, shards, branchshees, ents… The air hummed with fertility and fecundity, and in the center, on limestone bound by roots, sat a greenskin—clothed in green leaves, hair trailing with flowering ivy.

  Adarin had seen him only in the vision before. Bloommaster Ges’ksi, his system-assigned mentor.

  The orc smiled, showing off his tusks. “Good to finally meet you in person, boy.”