His hands felt the edges of the box. Cold, damp, worn. Time had seen this box worn smooth, its edges dulled, its makers’ mark faded, its story lost. He saw the lie that was. Vivid. Bright. Fresh. He sat with a small animal horn in front of him, smooth curling lines flow across the horn. His hands slide over it in shallow arcs that dip and memorize every line and carving. Inside he felt the familiar weight of packed sap, tightly coiled potential ready for release. Even from here he could smell its fresh aroma drifting from the opening of the horn.

  All around him was the forest. Its edges bleeding dark browns and bright greens into his eyes. Small birds chirping in the distance. Thumping, threshing, noise. The trees shook with the violence of a step. Creatures turned and went silent, seeking the safety of silence in the illusion of obscurity. Each step rolled in through the heels of his feet, through his calves, and into the base of his spine. It was calming almost, reassuring in a deeply primal way. The grunts of a large beast lurching just behind the dense thicket of pethorn came to a slow stop. His eyes slowly drifted to where the many feet came to rest, seeing an outline in the dark forest just protruding into the edges of sight. Small flickering leaves reveal the outline of the great twisted beast as it loomed menacingly in the background.

  “Come.” He said, beckoning to the beast without a second look. These… beasts… always were too unsightly to look at for any real length of time. Brief flashes and images flickered into his mind then. That deep, sickly, uncomfortable goad of the whip tightened in his hand. That slick sick invisible whip that made your will manifest in the beast. He often wished to simply let it go, unleash the beast into the wild and be done with this affair.

  It strode closer. Thump. Thump. Thump.

  More thoughts flashed, more detailed, and longer now. Pain came to him in sympathetic mockeries of empathic connection. He felt his skin crawl with maggots and flies, despite him being fresh from the river spring not over the hill to his left. Long, painful, thorns remain embedded into the black and blistered meat of the twisted thing. He didn’t wish to look at it as he pulled harder on the imagine rote born goad in his mind. The tense of each muscle as it obeyed. “Give me what I am looking for.” He remarked simply.

  The creature looked down at its master knowingly. Its face then slackened as if it could only recognize it as his master, and the thing that brought immense pain with it every time it spoke. Then nothing. Then something. Then-

  “Now.” He remarked more firmly. The disparate sympathetic sensory overload softened, then clarified into a vivid – but out of focus – image. It was like running through cold cooking tallow. Every movement was a monumental glacial effort to keep the image stable in his mind. “Stop moving.” He commanded firmly. “Or I will make you stop moving.”

  The beast drooled in compliance; fat gobbets of rotten spittle pattered the ground in uneven fat plops. The creature going slack across its body in an attempt to comply with the master’s whim.

  He saw the image clear once more in his mind, obstructed by pain and residual loathing the creature exuded.

  It resolved, a river, a forest, a clearing. Bound and held together in perfect trifecta. A chink in the armor, a wound in space. Held together by weakness of faith, and the empathy of kindred. It dissolved briefly, held together by the very fingernails of necessity. “Focus.” He commanded, and the beast obeyed. The image cleared finally, after long effort and trial did it do so. A single house. Wrap around porch. Men going to and from in the early morning. The old preacher. A youth. Blue eyes.

  He closed his eyes, the power of faith etching blue eyes and a blazing red blade into his sight. White robes. Brown leather boots. Old leather. “Focus.” He said in rote once more.

  They had gone then. Free. Empty. Ripe.

  The image resolved to a battered corpse, legs smeared, blood leaching into the soil.

  He opened his eyes and glared at the creature. “You were hunting again. Without permission.”

  Kneel, writhe, agony. The beast fell to its twisted knees, its bunched black necrotic flesh screaming out in unnatural torsion. All of it actively alive and rotting.

  “You HUNT when I TELL you to.” His hand found the small of the creature’s back, bunching up the flesh as his fingers made featherlight contact. He channeled his sap and tallow into the beast’s rotten flesh. Drawing the mental image of the Carrion Bloom into his mind. In the small of the beast’s back lay a simple piece of bone, curving into a skull lodged deep into the rotten flesh of the beast. His hand traced the simple rose flower carved into it.

  The beast shuddered, writhing, blistering agony, emptiness. The body flinched, molted, and slickly opened to his touch, the skull a twisted container from a morbid mind. The top neatly perforated and ready to be filled with the tallow he had at hand.

  His hand drew a small phial and added tallow into the slot, seeing the clear oil fill the bone vessel. “Reserve your strength, this is your fuel for war.” He remarked sternly. “Sip on it sparingly and wait.”

  Blaring hot pain blistered, flesh coiled, pooled, molded, changed.

  He saw the last biting annoyances free from the beast, driving the distractions from the rotten stink and finally clearing his abomination’s mind of pain. Ugly long thorns lay in a pile, fertilized by the black Ichor of the beast. “Go, linger there you saw. Wait until summoned.”

  The beast inhaled sharp, fresh, white hot, clear air. A facsimile of thought once arose. ‘H-om-e’ The beast conjured the thought in broken words. The sound came from ugly broken lips, split in three jagged joints from two mouths wound together.

  The master, sensing the lingering insanity briefly lift for a cogent word, nodded. “Home. Go.” He lifted his arm and pointed towards town, his robes catching the light breeze that picked up.

  The creature lifted its seven eyes, all of them mismatching in color.

  He saw the creature limber off, powering through a tough thicket of thornbush. Plants leveraging, snapping, uprooting as it passed. His eyes drifted down, disregarding the pained grunts of the forest as his creation threshed behind him. They rested onto the box once more, assessing the distressed wooden artifact he had placed here so many years ago. A deep sigh passed through his lips as his fingers trailed down his side. They stopped at the feeling of a cold metal blade of rusty iron. A disjointed choir of screeching steel softly sung as he pulled it forward.

  He felt the choice weighing down on him as he slowly lowered himself to sit next to the box. Not so much larger than his splayed hand, the box caught the light that poured in through the forest canopy. The tip of the blade softly sunk into the surface, and started tracing a delicate pattern. His eyes followed the blade carefully as his hands worked.

  It found a worn spot and sunk in deep, splitting the rotten wood with a muted crack. Its small screams of pain echo out into an uncaring world as the blade was leveraged back. Underneath it lay the fine fibers of a casket, and the stark white remains of small bones shined through. Spreading out from the bones was a dark stain of rot that shortly filled the air with a putrid stink. His eyes watered at the smell.

  His hands stopped, and he examined the box. “Never again.” He whispered, looking down at the small coffin. He gently set the box down and covered it with dirt. He stood and began the walk home through the forest. All that remained there that would identify him were footsteps that went to and from a small mound of freshly disturbed earth in the middle of a clearing.

  His feet carried him back along the snaking path of dry light grey rocks that blistered up through the earth amidst verdant green grasses. The grove of forestry thickened as he made it home. Thick beams of twisted pethorn creaked and gave way, inviting him into a small village of men and women about their daily lives. The sound of the living gate opening halted a few, most kept walking.

  “Holler, aye lad.”

  The voice came from nowhere, and everywhere all at once. Hollar looked down at the ground and saw a bright red and green fly-trap spoke from the ground, growing tall to meet his gaze.

  “Flytrap.” Hollar said in a dour bite.

  “Lad, you were out again.” Flytrap spoke with this strange method of making a statement as its questions. He didn’t so much as ask questions directly, not often anyway. No, he would state something and lean on the guilt of a person to tease out an answer.

  “Aye. I was.” Hollar remarked simply, shrugging off his pack and simple robe. His lithe arms came to rest on his abdomen as he applied his knitleaf poultice. The bright green paste stood out against his silvery skin.

  “Hollar.” The animated carnivorous flower spoke again, stressing his name.

  Hollar slowed in his application of the poultice, knowing he had to answer the indirect question the animation posed. “I was patrolling the boundaries.”

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  Unsatisfied, the flower lowered itself. Examining Hollar’s boots. “Red clay.” It remarked, unbothered by Hollar’s previous answer.

  Hollar closed his eyes, rage beginning to boil in his soul at the probing flower. “Yes. I have a stout-“

  “You Have.” The flower remarked, its pedals twisting into a sick grimace. “You have nothing.” It lifted its head and circled around Hollar in a slow arc. “You are a part of the cycle.” The flower was at head height now, as if it could see his face.

  Hollar closed his eyes and spoke. “I like the stoutfather trees to the south. I was visiting my-“

  “That is fine, Hollar. But remember. You are mulch with opinions. Nothing more, nothing less-“ Flytrap suddenly stopped speaking, withering into a black desiccated cane. Small black pedals fell to the ground in front of Hollar then shriveled black eye slits looked up at him from the ground.

  Hollar panned around as the other men and women in the village felt the same impulse at the same time. The vicious pethorn trunks shuddered, allowing another into the tightly knit druid grove. He was ragged, tired, and his robe had blood soaked into it. Hollar looked shocked and ran to see the arrival.

  Cale, one of the older druids, slowly strode into the village. Others moved to tend to his needs, bringing bowls of water and food to slate his bodily needs. He saw Hollar and beckoned him closer. “Hollar, I have bad news.”

  Hollar frowned and sat next to Cale. “What is it?” He asked impatiently. He looked like he was coiled, ready to strike at something.

  Cale frowned, looking remorseful at the youth. “Its Henk. Hollar, Henk is dead.” Cale could see the youth’s ready state, wondering if he had been arguing with Flytrap again.

  Hollar froze, another of the grove gone. “We can use the-“

  Cale shook his head once. “No, we can’t. They have priests Hollar.” He remarked simply. “They’re spreading iron across the land as they work now.” The old druid turned back to drink a little more from the recycled glass phial one of the other grove women offered, turning back to Hollar.

  As Hollar remembered entering, a single flower took bloom between the group, only being noticed once it started speaking. “Cale, you’re injured” The flower peered over the old man’s wounds, inspecting them to see they’ve been healed a long time prior to getting back.

  Cale relaxed visibly at Flytrap’s presence. “Loggers. They’re out in force this year. We lost a new clade to them, Briarhold is next.” Cale took a long sip of drink from an offered bowl, slating his thirst then. He looked back at Flytrap and spoke again. “We have twelve splitting teams cutting tracks through the external pethorn barrier. Three have made it deep and one has, or will, reach the river soon.” Cale looked weary at the mention of the burrowing teams. They felt like maggots drilling into flesh.

  Flytrap took a moment to consolidate the information, attempting to process the news. “You were sent to secure knowledge of Clade Tallon’s health.” The flower pulled back, sitting roughly head height while speaking to Cale.

  Cale sighed and lifted his hand, moments later a small bird landed. Cale took it and offered it to Flytrap in a grim motion. “It’s all in the life of this one here.”

  Flytrap took the animal in its jaws and melded in a mating of animal and plant. The small creature, already close to the end, accepted its fate and sat in the mouth of Flytrap. A forest of thorns protruded from its mouth, neat rows on rows meant to dismember and snag. Closing its jaw, the small bird was consumed, colors faded and the sickening snap of an animal’s final moment escaped its mouth. Flytrap looked contemplative then, holding its peace as it worked its jaw.

  Hollar looked at the animate being, waiting for anything that came. The final twinges of sympathetic pain having left his achy bones.

  Cale sighed. “I don’t think we could have any worse news. We might just have to pack up and leave.” Cale quietly started unpacking his gear in order to assess what he has left. “We can’t fight them anymore. Too many of us have died trying to protect the green.”

  Flytrap remained silent, standing stationary. Its figure draped its shadow over the others like a sun dial.

  Hollar, frowning this time, spoke. “Aren’t you going to say anything, Flytrap?”

  The thing remained inanimate.

  Hollar growled. “You sit and think too long, we’re going to lose our-“

  “Your.” Flytrap spoke again, composing itself. “This isn’t ‘Your’ home. You forget the way, Hollar.” The thing looked back up to Cale, trying to formulate a response.

  Hollar sneered. “This IS my home. This is OUR home. Just because-“

  Cale gave Hollar a sudden and severe glare.

  Flytrap spoke again, handing out a deliberation. “We are going to fight. We must. This is not a tolerable grievance; we cannot grow around this intrusion. If they keep digging, they will find Briarhold. We cannot relive Snarewood’s fall.”

  Hollar frowned, knowing this was going to be the choice anyway. “Where are you going to find the druids to do that, Flytrap?”

  The flower turned and said nothing, deciding to wither and desiccate once more. Once again black eye-slit pedals fell to the ground, peppering Hollar’s boots.

  Cale shook his head. “You need to learn respect, Hollar.” He started setting his possessions out, turning out dirty clothes and cleaning them passively as they spoke.

  The youth rose his voice, standing from the seat next to Cale. “You need to see the writing on the wall. They’re not going to stop.” Hollar leaned down and swept his foot across Cale’s laundry. “Fighting them on our terms isn’t working. They’re spreading black sand everywhere they go. We need to strike back at their towns.” They both made intense eye contact as Cale retorted.

  Cale shook his head. “No. They will see that as an escalation!” The old man brought his foot down, causing a few of the other – more lighthearted – grove peoples to walk away. “What do we do if the whole Covenant comes down on us?!” Cale stood, getting face to face with the young man. The soft patter of clothes rolling off his lap sounded out like soft plops, cleaner than the ones Hollar heard this afternoon.

  Hollar stood straighter, pulling the rage from his belly and letting it square his shoulders. “Then we dip into the old ways! We fight like we used to! With flesh, with bone! The Green cannot protect us anymore! Why cant you see this?!”

  Cale got closer as if to strangle the boy.

  Hollar brought his hands up and nearly yanked on the goad. He reached forward and shoved Cale back ready to fight to make his point known. “We can’t live like this! You act like we’re a part of the cycle! You act like we aren’t people!” The youth threw a fist, whiffing and overcorrecting.

  Cale moved in and lodged his boot into the man’s ribs. “We are Guyah’s disciples! How dare you!?” His boot found Hollar’s ribs three more times, the third landing wrong with a sharp snap.

  Hollar screamed in pain, his rib giving way. He yanked hard on the goad mentally, summoning his monstrous beast. A small vial jettisoned a black cloud of soot as he pulled, amplifying the will of the spell. The poof of gas coating his back with black residue from his belt.

  “You think your little pet can breach the thornveil?” The old man sneered. “Knock that shit off. You’re going to cause a bigger scene than you already have.” Cale took a step back and spit on the ground. “We do this the right way, or not at all. Do you understand me?” The old man knelt and glared at the youth, waving off healers until he could get some sense to the actionable whelp.

  Curled up and ready to burst, Hollar lunged at the kneeling fool. His hands plunged into Cale’s eye sockets. “The RIGHT way is to burn their homes down! Don’t you get it?!” Cale’s screams perforated the camp in this bloodcurdling shriek, men and women now rushing back to see the source.

  Cale scratched and clawed, trying to strike Hollar. “GET OFF ME!” His hands scrabbled at Hollar’s face, attempting to return the gesture. Legs flailing violently in an attempt to buck his assailant off.

  Hands started to multiply on Hollar’s body, one final sickening act of rebellion saw Cale’s fingers mangled and ripped off before the village could separate the two. “FUCK YOU!” He screamed in pain, allowing the pain of grief to take hold over his broken rib. His agonized scream turned haunted mid breath. “I won’t let you kill us! You’re going to let Briarhold die! The Green will fail us!” He threw his body against the hands that held him then, trying to get back to the writhing Cale.

  Healers surround Cale now, his body reknitting in bodily jolts of agony and squirming wisps of flesh. One eye reformed in a grimace of rage, locking onto Hollar’s agonized wails. Softening in remorse as he saw Hollar’s true grievance then. All rage left him, the tender moment of agonized pain fleeing his body as the healers began their anesthetic rotes.

  Hollar felt the pain in his ribs recede in time, those same restraining hands now felt calming as they administered relief. He locked eyes with Cale as the other eye reformed and then saw an acknowledgement. A registration of loss. As if he was saying ‘I know, Hollar. I’m sorry.’ The rage left him then, and nothing but sorrow filled the void.

  Pain flared. Roots twisted. Thorns embed. Maggots festering.

  Hollar curled up as he felt the sense of his beast lingering nearby, drawing closer. He released his mental grasp on the goad, having finally made his point to Cale.

  The pethorn trunks shivered once more, unraveling to admit another much larger beast. In the time he dismissed the creature then, to now, it had already collected many new thorns and pains. Hollar couldn’t describe the pain he had radiating back to him. He stood, ignoring the sensation and strode to the beast once his ribs had reknit. The two strode out, deciding that fresh air was better than festering in a wound.

  As Hollar walked alongside his creation, he noticed something off in the dense rings of pethorn trunks. Hollar turned his head to look at the dense spot in the living hedge wall. One bright green flower slowly tracked him as he walked from Briarhold. Hollar was accustomed to the occasional sight of Flytrap peering at visitors or travelers from the wall. It was a nice security feature to know that the living pethorn itself was your ally in a land as wild as this. But as he strode in line with the beast… Flytrap’s tracking motion lingered in Hollar’s mind.

  Flytrap sprouted next to Cale, pushing some smaller tufts of grass into death as it did so. “The whereabouts of Clade Tallon. It has escaped the notice of your offering.” The looming flower turned as it grew in real time, making ‘eye contact’ with the elderly druid.

  “Apologies, I thought I imparted that.” He cleared his throat. “One of their main facilities was the target of Clade Tallon, as you already know.” Cale bent to pick up the clothes he dropped while fighting with Hollar. “Tallon was intercepted and fought off by the Authorities of the town. They couldn’t penetrate the facility.” He softly lifted a shirt and folded it. “From what I am told, they couldn’t even set foot near it. They would burst into flames, or simply wither when they did. Whatever the Covenant did to that land it’s highly toxic to our druids.” He set the shirt down softly, packing it into a looted suitcase. Its unnatural leather color caught Flytrap’s attention.

  “Another trinket.” Flytrap muttered, almost annoyed.

  “Its moral to steal from your enemies, Flytrap.” Cale maintained. “Even if its against your code of ethics to produce immoral things, theft is a form of diminishing something.” He closed it with an audible click. “If we can diminish every aspect of the Covenant, we can win against them.” Cale softly set down the leather suitcase next to him. He looked into the lone flower that sat in the middle of the vine.

  “You take from them that makes me sick. That is unnatural to the cycle.” Flytrap remarks.

  “Flytrap. You didn’t bear the cost of this abundance. You only benefit from it.” Cale reached down into the suitcase and pulled out a single piece of paper. “We might be able to turn around this war against the Covenant.” He opened it up and read it to himself, speaking as he did. “We might just win the war with this.”