Third expedition

The crystal-clear water of the Ribbon flowed over the edge of the cliff in a gentle arc, cascading between black boulders in a roaring, foaming cascade. It was so clear that every pebble was visible in the multicolored mosaic of the bottom. Suddenly, the water churned, and silt rose from the bottom. This was caused by heavy military boots. However, their owners were no ordinary soldiers. They knew what awaited them on the other bank. Therefore, they tried to make no sound. They could hear birds chirping peacefully in the forest on the other side. They hopped on the branches, curiously examining the silhouettes in the water. Salmon trout splashed all around, trying to catch insects buzzing low above the water. Here and there, a stronger splash could be heard, caused by a beaver's tail. The forest was thriving with life. Even deer, grazing on the other bank among the skeletons of men and horses. Brokilon. The Forest of Dryads. The Forest of Death.

The unit consisted of three dozen professional Verden soldiers, three guides/trackers, and a dozen scalp hunters. Dryad slayers.

"I'll be quiet now," whispered the expedition's lead leader, Maria Barring, "if you value your life," she added. Maria was the best guide. She knew the customs of the Dryads, was a great tracker, and, moreover, a perfect archer. They say that anything can be learned, that skills can be acquired over time. True, but to be able to shoot like Maria Barring, you had to be born for it.

This was the third such expedition she had participated in. The first time, the unit that set out into the heartland was called a party of daredevils. There were many of them, many more than now. When only three of its members returned (one of whom died a few days later from his wounds), the unit was renamed suicide bombers. However, there were still many willing, or rather greedy, individuals. Ervyl paid a lot for the witch's scalps. A lot since the last expedition. That wasn't the only reason for the considerable size of this unit. Barring led them. If it weren't for her and her skills, no one would likely have agreed to set out. Only with her did they have a chance. It was assumed that an army of around 5,000 men, which would have to include at least a dozen catapults, would achieve the same results. Maria Barring and the high rewards for witch's scalps were much cheaper and more manageable.

The group consisted exclusively of humans. The elves, who had been giving the rulers of the four kingdoms quite a few stomach aches by fighting in commandos for some time now, would only participate in this fight by helping the dryads cut down the wounded. Halflings were unsuitable for this task, just like gnomes. The dwarves, on the other hand, believed that running around the forest, which could end with your butt being riddled with arrows, was far less sensible than going to an inn and getting drunk on beer. And then knocking out a few teeth in a good brawl.

The squad formed up, two trackers (including Maria Barring) in front, followed by the dryad slayers and soldiers. The remaining tracker brought up the rear. They moved in silence. The forest was teeming with life all around. No one ventured here. Not even poachers, who had been in abundance in the woods since the last war. Practically no one hunted here. I mean, the animals weren't the targets of the arrows.

Occasionally, a twig snapped under one of the heavy boots.

"We shouldn't have taken these soldiers with us," thought the theoretical expedition leader, Aspra of Kerack, one of the scalp hunters. "Theoretical because, in reality, Maria was in charge of the expedition. They can't move in silence. The farthest thing they'll ever get is the gnomes. It's strange that so far... the whistle of a shuttlecock. The swish of feathers cutting through the air. The sound of death. Death more certain than a roof crackling with flames; than the sight of a charging rider; than the claws of a raging griffin; than a black-robed tax collector approaching a village. Yet something can save a man from all of these. There is a chance of survival. There is no escape from the dryads' arrows. A whistle meant death. In their forest sanctuary, they practically never missed. Aspra fell forward like a log. They slammed facefirst into the forest floor. An arrow, adorned with yellow fletchings dyed in birch bark, protruded from his back. He made no sound; he probably didn't even know he was dying. The others knew they were about to die. A whistle. Many whistles. Shouts from people, wheezing, cries broken off mid-word. A whistle.

*

"M... m... I tell you, we... have to get... back. It's not our... problem." Let me... let me... let my lords worry about this pro... problem. We can't do anything anymore. Let's save our... our... lives at least," the commander of the Verden soldiers wailed in terror. "There were twelve of them left, of which only eight were actually countable. The rest had no chance of surviving until nightfall. Well, none of them had a chance of surviving until evening, but those four would soon die from their wounds anyway. Dryad arrows always killed. That doesn't mean instantly. Besides the soldiers, there were five scalp hunters and two trackers left.

" "No," one of the assassins objected, "we have no chance of returning anyway. Even if by some miracle we reached the edge of the forest, they'd still shoot us while crossing the river. Better to keep going and take at least a few of the damned wives with us. Revenge!" His eyes boiled with pure hatred. One that no other races can muster. Not even elves. Their hatred is more subtle, more calculated, and therefore can seem greater. In truth, only humans are capable of hating so intensely, so wholeheartedly. In the name of hatred, they murder in cold blood. And, of course, allow themselves to be killed under its banner.

"Sir, I'll manage to get us to the edge of the Ribbon," Maria Barring said slowly. "The sun is setting, and in a dozen or so prayers, the fog will rise from the river. We'll be able to hide in it. The nymph's ship won't always find its way through the fog. Although a few will survive.

" "Y-yes," the stuttering commander of the soldiers supported her. "Naa-am, you have to report. If you want to, get a second guide and continue into the la... forest. The nymphs will take care of you, we'll have more s... time." The tracker, standing a few steps away, rose from his knees and moved away from the corpse, which had been struggling for breath just moments before. He headed towards them. "I won't go any further." To emphasize this, he spat into the forest. "I don't know the paths," he said quickly, seeing eyes burning with hatred and a hand reaching for a dagger. "I don't die anytime soon," he muttered under his breath, so quietly that almost no one heard him.

"Then it's decided," Maria decided. "We're going back. Hey, you there," she said to the soldiers who were leaving the groaning bodies. "You want to leave your friends in need? You're to drag them, even on your backs," she ordered in a firm, yet quiet voice. "I won't let more people die than necessary," she added, her expression perfectly controlled.

The scattered unit hurriedly headed toward the splashing river. There was no point in sneaking. The dryads knew they had visitors anyway. Moreover, the wounded were moaning, perhaps not loudly, but constantly. And a dryad's ear could hear much more than the most trained human ears. The birds continued to chirp, the deer shied away from the gasping, stamping humans. They didn't run far, only a dozen or so paces. Instinctively, they knew they weren't the ones in this forest to be afraid of.

"You really did it. You got us to the shore," the soldier gasped gratefully.

"Hush, you fool," Maria Barring chided him, "don't waste your breath talking. Get to the other side as quickly as possible." Halfway there, they heard a whistle. Arrows flew in high parabolas, falling almost vertically. The humans deceived themselves into thinking that in the darkness, under the cover of fog, they would be able to avoid the arrowheads. Not a single one splashed into the water. Dryads never missed

.

The splash of water. The crunch of sand on the shore. The sound of a body falling, then another. Loud gasps as he tried to catch his breath. Birds were also chirping on this side. They were finishing their daily concert, but not because of the people. Night was falling. No one hunted them here. An arrow flying from the forest, even crossing the wide river, had enough momentum to pierce chainmail. After a few minutes, the breathing evened out, calmed. Two bodies rose, bent over, moving along the path leading upward. The nocturnal inhabitants of the forest fled from under their feet. From time to time, an owl hooted suddenly, causing the heart of the commander of the Verden soldiers to race. He was unharmed. Alive. Only those two thoughts circled his mind. After a while, gratitude joined them. He looked at Maria Barring. "Thank you. You saved my life." It's just a pity that the others didn't make it..." He grimaced for a moment, but then soldierly discipline took over. "I'll personally report your participation in the action to the commander. If it weren't for you, no one would have succeeded.

" Milva smiled to herself. And said quietly, almost moving her lips, "I won't let more people die than necessary..." The full moon seemed to be smiling at her with his entire round face.

It was the color of blood.