Chapter 64: The Withering Fiend

"The Withered Fiends are both the spawn of the Black Blight and the carriers of this disaster. Ten days ago, in the southern part of the Hanging Forest, we first encountered these abhorrent creatures—a memory that remains deeply unsettling even now." Magnir took the mug of barley beer his father handed him and wet his throat. Fixing his gaze on the campfire, he fell into reminiscence, and only after a long silence did he continue, recounting that strange and terrifying day.

"At the time, we were advancing north along the banks of the Iphen River under the guidance of a local scout, seeking a way into the heart of the Hanging Forest—which is likely the headquarters of the Conquest Cult. But as we passed through a stand of pines and cypresses, we suddenly noticed that wild animals were fleeing the woods in droves. We had to halt our march, stepping aside for the panicked herds of deer, then for a stampede of wild boars, and finally—most astonishing of all—even the dinosaurs, the apex predators of the jungle, began a mass exodus, heading south. That raised a troubling question: What kind of threat could possibly drive such massive beasts to abandon their home?"

"I cannot do justice with words to the spectacle of those migrating beasts. What I witnessed only fueled my curiosity, but for our guide—a half-elven hunter who’d lived in the northern forest his whole life—it was a cause for terror. He insisted that a migration of this scale was a grave omen, a sure sign of the gods’ wrath. If we continued north, into the ill-fated lands from which the beasts were fleeing, the gods would surely punish our arrogance."

Magnir Powatan took another sip of beer, offered by his sister, to moisten his parched throat, and went on describing the strange events that befell them during their reconnaissance north.

"It took significant effort to calm our terrified guide. I tried to explain that beast migrations are not at all rare—a forest fire, for instance, can drive herds from their lands. We humans possess reason and courage beyond that of animals; how could we allow ourselves to be frightened into flight before we even know the truth? I argued that we could not behave like ignorant beasts fleeing blindly into the night."

"My words were not entirely wasted. The half-elf guide reluctantly agreed to stay with us, but he laid down a condition: if we ever encountered another omen as dire as this, no amount of persuasion would keep him from leaving."

"As you can see, this sowed seeds of discord within the team. None of the Asa warriors with me showed a hint of fear, but as foreigners in an unfamiliar forest, we simply could not carry out our mission without the guide’s help. Any misstep could get us lost forever in those woods."

"And so, with uneasy hearts, we pressed on. That evening, we camped beside a small river. Following our usual routine, we pitched camp, lit a fire to drive away the cold and lurking beasts. I sent six of my men with the guide to fetch water and let our mounts graze and drink their fill by the river."

"I remember it was an overcast day, the sky shrouded in clouds without a trace of moon or stars. The air was so oppressive it set one's nerves on edge... As we were preparing supper, a sudden neighing of horses rang out from the riverside, followed by shouts and screams."

"I immediately realized our water party was under attack. I took half the men and rushed to their aid, instructing the rest to arm themselves and hold the camp, ready to blow the horn if we needed support."

"That was a calm response. What did you find when you arrived?" Matoca asked his son.

"By torchlight, we saw a group of strange beings attacking the horses. My men, who had gone to water the mounts, drew their blades and were rallying around our wounded guide, fighting as they retreated. Their enemies were bizarre monsters—humanoid in size and shape, but covered in dense branches and leaves, with indistinct faces. If they crouched still, they would be indistinguishable from a clump of shrubs. Clearly, these masters of camouflage had lain in wait among the real brush by the river and launched a cowardly ambush on our guide and horses."

"Monsters that look like human-shaped thickets..." Victor murmured, stroking his chin. "This sounds like some evil form of animated plant—are these the 'Withered Fiends' you mentioned earlier?"

Magnir nodded, then clarified, "More precisely, that was a subspecies of the Withered Fiend, known locally as 'Witherbranch Fiends.'"

"How many subspecies of Withered Fiends are there?" Conti asked with curiosity.

"We’ve seen three with our own eyes. Witherbranch Fiends are the lowest tier."

"Enough digression," Matoca interjected. "Let Magnir finish the tale of the riverside ambush."

"The sudden attack of the Witherbranch Fiends caught us off guard, but in hindsight, their only strength lay in stealth and ambush. Once we recovered from our initial panic, these cowardly attackers became our prey. Someone tried attacking with torches, which proved highly effective—these creatures are terrified of fire. Once their dry branches catch flame, they burn swiftly and cannot be put out, writhing helplessly to ashes."

"We destroyed most of the Witherbranch Fiends with torches and fire arrows, keeping two alive for interrogation. Unfortunately, they seemed almost mindless, incapable of speech or communication, so I gained nothing useful from them."

"Our guide wasn't badly wounded, and I used divine magic to staunch his bleeding. The poor fellow was so shaken he couldn’t speak for quite a while. We all realized then that danger lurked everywhere. Returning to camp, the mood was heavy, but none of us considered retreat."

"That night, I doubled the sentries. The men passed a restless, oppressive night, and the weather showed no sign of improvement come morning. We trudged onward through sleet and rain, hoping to find shelter for the night. The guide seemed listless, more taciturn than ever, but the promise of double wages kept him at his post."

"We pressed on through foul weather all day, and by dusk, men and horses alike were spent. We made camp in a valley thick with pines. In retrospect, it may seem obvious, but even then I felt an unaccountable sense of oppression in that place. Had the guide not insisted, I would not have chosen to camp there," Magnir said bitterly.

"I suppose your instincts were soon proven right," Conti could not resist interjecting.

Magnir nodded, his face darkening.

"That very night, we were attacked by Withered Fiends again. This time, besides the Witherbranch Fiends, two even more formidable types appeared. One, at a distance, seemed like a stooped old man, but up close, we saw its whole body covered in dense thorns, like a humanoid mass of pine needles. The name 'Witherneedle Fiend' fits it perfectly."

"The Witherneedle Fiends caught us completely off guard. They specialize in ranged attacks, firing their needle-leaves with the force of crossbows. No fewer than ten Asa warriors were wounded by their deadly volleys; six fell, never to rise again..."

Magnir clenched his fists in grief, taking a deep breath before continuing.

"We fought back in haste, suffering losses, but soon steadied ourselves—blocking the Witherneedle Fiends' barrages with shields and counterattacking with fire arrows. Like their kin, they are highly vulnerable to flames."

"Just as we were regaining the upper hand, the third type of Withered Fiend struck from the flank. These 'Withervine Fiends' appear as ordinary vines when still, but when they move, they crawl like a nest of serpents, sneaking silently through the grass under cover of night. They closed in on our camp, then launched their attack."

Magnir paused, recalling the most perilous moment of that bloody night, his eyes burning with intensity.

"Of the three, the Withervine Fiends are the most cunning and dangerous. They excel at stealth, but also wield supernatural power over vine plants, controlling them like trained serpents from ten feet away, binding our warriors who then could only struggle helplessly. The Withervine Fiends are also the only ones among the Withered Fiends capable of speech. Their voices are broken and grating, a mix of Sylvan and Elvish, mostly obscene taunts for their victims. The only useful information we gleaned was their constant reference to two names: 'Our Father Gantheas' and 'Master Shaman'... Sadly, we have no idea who or what Gantheas and the Shaman truly are."

"Gantheas... Shaman..." Victor murmured, as if something had occurred to him, his expression growing odd.

"Magnir, you did defeat those ferocious Withered Fiends in the end, didn’t you?" Conti asked.

"Yes, but at a terrible cost. By dawn, nearly everyone was wounded, and twenty-seven Asa warriors had fallen, their bones left in a foreign land..." Magnir gritted his teeth, mastering his grief to continue. "Worse than the loss of men was what we discovered after the battle: our half-elf guide had vanished. Whether he was captured by the Withered Fiends, fled in terror during the night, or left for reasons unknown, it left us with a grim reality—we were now stranded in this perilous, unfamiliar forest without our only guide."

"Given the likelihood of more Withered Fiends lurking in the dark woods, and the dire consequences of getting lost, I could only issue an order that may seem cowardly, but was nonetheless rational—gather our things and retreat the way we came." Magnir’s eyes betrayed a sorrow he could not conceal.