Chapter 148: Roots of ashes [1]
Dawn came soft as fog drifted over the south field, the air smelling like sap and smoke. The corpse of the Thorn Crown Behemorph lay broken where it fell. Its crown was shattered, and its eyes were dark having lost all signs of life.
The wall still stood, barely.
Cracks ran across it like spiderwebs through stone and root. Arrows stuck out at odd angles, and blood darkened the moss, evident of the brutal siege that these warriors just survived. The lamps flickered, then steadied.
No one cheered now though, the cheering had burned out in the night. Now all that was left was only work.
Clayton walked the parapet. His legs were heavy and tired, his hands trembled but he didn’t let it show as he walked with his back straight, Awakened warriors greeting him respectfully as he passed.
Regalia rested across his back, quiet at last.
He stopped where the wall had sagged the most. He pressed his palm to the stone as he triggered his Aspect, causing roots to stir under his skin, answering the stimuli of his touch.
They pushed into the gaps, knitting around the fractures as the wall finally sighed in relief, regaining a bit of integrity after the night siege.
"Hold," he said.
And the wall held.
Torren limped up beside him on the parapet; his face was split with dried blood but his grin was still there.
"You look like death," Torren said.
Clayton looked at him. "You too".
Torren chuckled as he looked towards the horizon.
They stood in silence for a breath. Below them, runners moved, and stretchers carried the wounded toward the inner clinics. Barrels of water rolled, while thorn cannons were dragged to safer mounts.
That was when he arrived.
Bzzz!
Kaelin emerged from the smoke like a ghost. "Perimeter’s clear," he said.
Torren jumped, startled at the sudden intrusion before glaring daggers at Kaelin. "You’re becoming even creepier as time moves".
Kaelin kept an even look on his face. "I’m a scout, a ghost, I’m not meant to be seen. Your reactions shows that I’m doing a great job".
Torren scowled but said nothing, while Clayton just chuckled.
Kaelin paid attention to Clayton again and repeated. "The perimeter’s clear. There are no more large signatures. The stragglers only, nothing brave."
Clayton nodded once in satisfaction. "Good."
Veyra stood at the tower’s edge, her bow unstrung, fingers raw. She did not speak, she just watched the field, eyes on the corpse.
Every line of her body was tired, but steady.
’We killed a Verdant Warden rank Behemorph!’ She still couldn’t believe it.
A few months ago, Veyra would have been mortified at the mere prospects of facing a Verdant Warden rank Behemorph on the battlefield. But since becoming a part of Clayton’s Rootsite, her view of the world changed completely.
Clayton was just so abnormal that being a part of his domain already brainwashed her that she now became used to the abnormal too.
This was not the first time that the Rootsite faced a Verdant Warden rank Behemorph on the battlefield. Most times, Kaelin and his scouts succeed in luring the Behemorphs away with some help from Clayton.
At other times, they were forced to fight but once the Behemorphs realize that it was too much work to bring down the city, they leave, and they could do nothing about it.
They could only watch the monster that caused them so much suffering swagger out of their territory after causing untold damage.
But this time, they didn’t just repel the Behemorph, they actually killed it!
To Veyra, that meant everything. ’We’re growing,’ she thought. ’Not just on the civilian side, our military is far stronger than ever before’.
As for Soren? He paced the southern stair, his voice even as he orders to those under his command. "Rotate the third line. Bring the shields down for repairs. You, eat. You, sleep. You, guard." His calm held the wall like another root.
As for Lorn and Mirra, they moved through the wounded with quiet hands. Vines twined around broken ribs and torn flesh even as they sealed burns, and water touched lips. The panic and pain softened wherever they passed.
The city breathed.
By midmorning, the headcount began.
Despite Clayton’s elaborate strategy to take on the Verdant Warden rank Thorn Crown Behemorph, not everyone survived. There were still casualties.
Eleven Initiate Ember fighters had fallen on the wall. Three more made it to the clinic, but unfortunately did not rise again.
Two unranked civilians had died below when a support brace failed during the worst of the shaking. Lorn traced the failure to a rotten beam, hidden and unlucky. She marked it with a vine knot so it would never be used again.
Clayton listened to every name as it was called, he did not let anyone rush the list.
"Hale Dren, Initiate Ember."
"Pietta Karr."
"Sol Reed."
"Jano."
"Ruth."
"Thann."
"Viko Mar."
"Neri."
"Tomas."
"Eryx."
"Dale."
He repeated each name once after they were called, and then with a solemn look on his face, he looked at the crowd that was gathered below.
"Remember them," he said, voice solemn. "They didn’t just die, their death bought us the ticket to survival. Their sacrifice was so we could keep living, and so the best we can do is to honor their name".
"They fought and they bled for the Rootsite, they are heroes".
"Remember them".
The crowd answered as one. "We will remember."
Clayton did not promise vengeance, he did not make elaborate speeches to rile up the crowd, he just gave them the truth.
"They stood," he said. "Now, we still stand because of them."
Nothing more was said as the funeral pyres rose in the central court.
Not wood piles, but living pyres. Lorn shaped them from gentle vines and broad leaves. Each pyre was a cradle, and each cradle held a body laid with care.
Mirra placed a single white flower on every chest, the last give from the Rootsite to send their heroes home. She whispered the same words each time. No one asked what she said, it was meant for the dead.
Families came, friends came, fighters came. Some cried, others just stood in silent respect as they paid their last respects to the heroes of the Rootsite.
The court was filled to the brim, and then it fell silent.
Clayton stood with his commanders.
He looked at the faces gathered there. He knew too many of them now; he knew the father whose hand shook. He knew the girl who would not cry yet, and he knew the old man who stared at the ground and would not look up at all.
He stepped forward.
"We return them," he said. "To the earth from where they came, back to dust. To the roots, and to the light."
Torches touched the pyres and they lit up.
Flame climbed the vines, slow and clean like tendrils climbing up a tower. Sweet smoke drifted into the air; the leaves did not crackle, rather, they glowed. Lorn had woven them to burn without pain.
People whispered the names again as the flames rose. It was soft, it was steady, and it was a promise.
Their individual names may fade with time, forgotten, but their sacrifice and valiance would never be forgotten. Future generations of the Rootsite would remember the sacrifice of the men who fought and died against the first Verdant Warden rank Behemorph that died to the army.
It was a significant milestone for the Rootsite, and they marked it.
When the fires were low, children came forward with small pouches. The pouches held seeds, ember grain, fungusfruit, and even blue cap. The children scattered the seed into the ash as Lorn folded the pyres into the soil.
Life on top of death, roots in ash. It was the Rootsite’s way.
Clayton bowed his head, also paying his last respects and he felt the Heartseed answer, slow and deep.
After the memorial, there was no rest after.
Harrick took fifty workers and two squads to the south wall. He spoke little, but he lifted much as work began.
Stones moved, root ropes pulled, and plates of bark were layered into gaps and sealed with sap resin. The sag became a straight line again. When it held on its own, Harrick finally sat and drank water with shaking hands.
Kaelin vanished and returned and vanished again; he was constantly moving. He climbed the tallest shells and the lowest culverts, marking paths with hidden cuts that only he would read.
Just like most of the other warriors who participated in the harrowing battle and survived, he learned so much from the battle.
He dragged two thorned spines from the Behemorphs’s corpse and grinned like a thief.
"For traps," he said. "For later."
Soren rewrote the rotation board. No one argued, no one dared as he posted the new rules on the wall in simple ink.
It was now shifts of four hours on, eight hours off.
The rules were simple: eat before a watch, never fight alone. If the drums beat three, move the civilians. If the drums beat four, you do not break the line.
He nailed the rules up where everyone could see them. He stood there right until three squads read them twice.