The group turned and saw a tall, bald giant striding toward them. His steps were light, almost jaunty, but the look of intense indignation on his face clashed completely with his gait. "Outrageous! I have no clue what sort of sorcery that mage used, but I lost control of myself and just kept running away!"
The bald brute rushing over was none other than Luger Stonehide—the one who, after turning into a Giant Bear and wreaking havoc, had been repelled by a single staggering smite from Charles.
After being struck by Charles's sword, he'd wandered off to who knows where, hiding until now—when he just so happened to "regain" his senses and return.
"Hmph! If not for that fellow, I would've slaughtered eight hundred more at least!"
Luger Stonehide ground his teeth, his face twisted with resentment. Ilarode was quietly annoyed; as a spellcaster, he had clearly seen the Giant Bear pause on the battlefield, clearly recovered from the effects of magic.
In other words, that werebear had, in the end, chosen to keep running entirely of his own volition—the spell that had repulsed him really wasn't to blame.
Torun wore a subtle expression as well. He too had seen through the real state of things, but he said nothing. Back in the Tide Caverns, he himself had felt that terrible, soul-shaking terror and couldn't keep from turning and fleeing.
Only the Chimera tribe's warrior seemed to believe every word. "That's the power of spellcasters. You always have to watch out!"
Luger Stonehide managed an honest-looking smile, thinking, Well, that worked. "I only just came to, so I ran over as fast as I could. What are we discussing? Anything I can do?"
"We're dividing the spoils," said Torun. Then his gaze swept the battlefield, where squads of minotaurs lugged weapons, bags of grain, gold and silver, and all manner of goods away. He couldn't help lamenting, "All the tribes involved with this small town have made fortunes over the years."
Luger Stonehide's expression turned grim. "Yes, and just how much of the mountain's welfare have they sold out along the way, trading it all for their own pleasure!"
Nearby, the half-orc of the Chimera tribe nodded, his thoughts drifting back to his relatives in the Stonefist tribe, working as bodyguards in Liberl Port. He clenched his teeth, whether from jealousy or something else was unclear: "Exactly. A pack of traitors to the mountains!"
The three quickly reached an understanding; the air was harmonious, even friendly, as they split their spoils. But then, all at once, from behind came the voice they least wanted to hear at that moment: "Ilarode!"
The group whirled around. There, in the distance, was a company of satyrs with snow-white fur, approaching in solemn procession. There were both men and women, tall and short, some with rams' horns—but without exception, their expressions were complex and full of grief.
At their head was none other than Willo, Matriarch of the Green Vines tribe.
She looked completely spent, her eyes bloodshot as if she hadn't slept in ages. Hearing news of what had happened, she had rushed here as soon as possible.
But she was a step too late. By the time she arrived, Rockseeker's Outpost was already engulfed in flames. The Mountain People's warriors were merrily hauling away the small town's possessions, looking for all the world like a shameless band of robbers.
Willo's chest was burning with rage. She glared at each and every one of them, her anger plain as day.
"Why?" she demanded. "We had agreed in advance to purified the demonic pollution first. Why, then, did you suddenly launch this raid?"
A heavy silence fell instantly. No one dared meet her wrathful gaze—they didn't know if she'd overheard the conversation moments before. However many high-sounding excuses they'd used, the truth was that this war's origin was nothing more than greed.
Seeing them all lapse into awkward silence, Willo cast her eyes to the oldest and most powerful person present, leader of the Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers: "Archdruid, please tell me—what is the real reason for all of this?"
She worked hard to keep her rage in check, but it was clear that if the Archdruid couldn't offer a proper explanation, the only thing awaiting the alliance would be division and collapse.
Ilarode cleared his throat. If he wanted to be the true leader of the alliance, then he had to be the one to answer now. "The reason… naturally, it's complicated. Just a few days ago, we were approached by envoys from Blackstaff Tower. Their attitude was arrogant, and their proposals completely unacceptable to us."
"Furthermore, we have every reason to suspect they are sending more troops into this town—a threat to the safety of the mountains…"
Willo's eyes glinted with open derision. "So you decided to strike first, is that it? You didn't even wait for me to return before ordering the assault?"
Her discipline held; she couldn't even muster the sort of harsh language that might have stung the Archdruid. Still, her tone was so cutting that even Torun and Luger winced. In their hearts, both were surprised—a satyr normally so gentle, yet now so furious.
But there was nothing to be done—the satyrs were the only healers available, and with so many wounded, everyone needed their help.
So, however disgruntled, everyone bit their tongues.
"Ah… I admit that I didn't handle it perfectly. I failed to prepare enough, all for the sake of surprise, and so there were so many casualties," Ilarode said, subtly steering the conversation elsewhere. "That naturally means extra work for all us, especially for you and your tribe. But right now, those wounded and suffering need your attention, Matriarch Willo—yours and your tribe's."
His tone was sincere, but the mood in the air barely eased. So he pressed on: "As a sign of my contrition, and to honor the Green Vines tribe's effort in tending the wounded, I'm willing to yield the first pick of the spoils to you. The Mountaineer tribe will choose last."
He seemed the embodiment of generosity. Beside him, Torun, Luger, and the half-orc from the Chimera tribe were all visibly moved.
After all, in this battle the Mountaineer tribe had unquestionably done the most, claimed the most merit—and now he was willing to take the smallest share of loot, all to appease the anger of the Green Vines and keep the alliance together!
In that instant, at least in those three men's hearts, Ilarode's leadership was now beyond challenge.
Yet when faced with Ilarode's great concession, Willo seemed entirely unmoved.
"That's unnecessary," she answered coldly. "The Green Vines tribe has no need of this material wealth."
She might as well have had "I refuse to join you bandits" written across her brow.
She considered herself a guardian of ecological balance—not a thief or thug. She preferred to use her own hands and wisdom to claim what she wanted, not this bloody, destructive path of killing and plunder.
"We will tend the wounded, but only this once," she announced. "If this sort of thing happens again, I will leave the alliance."
Having said her piece, Willo turned and, with her people, strode quickly away—leaving the others to stare at each other in the smoke and gloom.
After a moment, it was Ilarode who finally let out a sigh. "Matriarch Willo is, after all, a satyr from the Feywild, and a woman—her emotions run high. It's understandable."
The other men nodded in agreement. The Archdruid paused, then continued: "However, as leaders, for the safety of our tribes and our alliance, sometimes we must dirty our hands, snuffing out threats before they can take root."
"Misunderstandings, outsiders' scorn—these are the burdens we leaders must bear."
As he spoke, his features hardened with resolve. "When we take up leadership, we must have this resolve!"
At that, the assembled warriors broke into applause. Ever since Willo's rebuke they'd been filled with guilt—but now, as Ilarode spoke, their doubt and self-reproach melted away, replaced with a sense of pride and satisfaction.
And in that instant, Ilarode's position as leader was further solidified, beyond any doubt.
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