Colin Foster eased his way across Town Square. The Season of Fire had truly begun and he somewhat regretted wearing a jacket on his errand. With his nephews out of the way, he had the rest of the afternoon to finish his work and he planned to do so as quickly as possible so he could relax and spend the rest of the day smoking his pipe.

At this hour, past noon, the streets were deserted, most people having the sense to stay out of the sun. Alas, this was probably the only time he had to make sure his contact was alone.

The Morgan General Goods Store was empty, as he hoped. Of course, the counter was empty too, though a bell rang when he pushed open the door. The wall behind the counter was chock-full of assorted goods, dried food, travel bags, even a lantern.

A middle-aged man entered from the back nearly a minute after Colin entered.

“May I help you?”

“Of course. May I know if I speak with Master Shane Morgan?”

“Yes, and you are?”

“I am Colin Foster, from Cierra’s Foster Emporium. I’m looking for, shall we say, a conduit.”

“Well, you’re speaking to the right person. I’ve trade licenses for as far as Rumiga City.”

“Do you have an off-world license?”

“Huh, well, I don’t,” he paused, wiping the sweat off his brow, “but I know who does. What are the goods?”

“Spice, friend Shane. Spice. For Haveena and beyond.”

*-*-*

Time in the Tidelands was strange. Sometimes, it flowed faster than it would in Rumiga and sometimes, slower. Once, Virgil came out of the Shallows after spending nearly a week inside and he found his escort just walking away from the border.

Another time, he had only stepped in for a minute and when he stepped back, more than an hour had passed judging by the position of the sun. There simply no knowing how time affected them until they returned to Rumiga.

He had his theories, of course, as did every scout of the Empire whenever they entered any Tidelands in the myriad planes it occupied. But the Chaos defied being bound by rules. One could create theories on how the different hues of the air defined how strange the temporal effects were, and one could collate all the data to support it, only to find a particular set of circumstances or even a location that ran counter to said theory. It had driven many scholars mad.

The only true constant was that one did not exit the Tidelands before one entered it but that had more to do with the Celestial bodies, the Sun and the Moon, than anything else. They forced Order to the Chaos, though the further one was from the planes, the less effect they had. Most journeys into the Tidelands ended with the Full Moon as it was easiest to return to the plane when that happened. Conversely, the Dark Moon was the best time to leave the plane.

Distance was also strange but compared to the temporal shift, it wasn’t much of a mind-bender. What looked near may be far, and what was far might be there at the next bend. Turning left can lead you right, up in the air, or even down into the ground. Becoming lost in the Tidelands was incredibly easy and a death sentence, but as long as you knew where you wanted to go, you normally wouldn't become lost.

Now their conundrum was that they didn’t know where they wanted to go. A problem of expectation in a realm of infinite possibilities was that if they expected to find a monster, one way or another, they would find one.

It might not be the monster they wanted to see, but it would be a monster. Expectations narrowed their perception, and they would miss the tree for the forest.

The tendrils of Animus Sarra attached to their backs ensured that they would remain relatively close together when they stepped through the border. Virgil found himself alone, surrounded by giant trees in a small clearing. The nearest tree trunk was wide enough that it would take at least half a dozen men to encircle it. The wood was straight for ten or twenty paces from the bottom before they twisted like a pretzel and went all over the place.

The yellow tendrils of Animus led towards his left, around the tree trunk and into the undergrowth. The air had a bluish-green tint though his Field kept most of the effect out. With a thought, he fed Animus to a pattern set in his eyes. He focused on the tendril and his vision turned and twisted, following the guide around turns, and he saw Sarra standing warily next to a small bush, maybe a couple of hundred paces away.

He drew his back-up pistol, feeding a little bit of Animus in the rune-carved jade on the handle to prime the weapon. Agility was much more important than range and power in this terrain. He followed the tendril, making sure none of the leaves, twigs, and hidden thorns touched his Field.

A minute later, he walked into Sarra’s clearing, the last one there as the other three had already arrived in good condition. He had spent some time watching for danger as soon as he saw the others coming close.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Virgil commented when he arrived.

“Indeed,” Craig smiled, but then he suddenly frowned. “There’s nothing here.”

The woods were silent save for the rustling of the leaves. But when the wind stilled, the silence was deafening.

“Let’s get moving,” Balliol muttered. “Inquisitor?”

Sarra nodded as she released the tendrils, absorbing as much of her spent Animus as she could. A couple of lumens were probably wasted but that was fine, Virgil reckoned. His own Animus recovery skills were just a tad inferior to hers.

Yellow light shone from her eyes, ears, every pore in her head. It pulsed, sending waves of light outward. A few moments later the light was pulled back and reabsorbed.

“I only saw traces of a few Wanderers. Craig, if you can ascertain where they went?”

“Of course, lead me to them please.”

The colours in the air shifted as they moved, changing in spectrum from red to violet, even pure white at one point. The air was yellow when they stopped.

The carpet of leaves on the ground was recently disturbed. Virgil thought it was a trail but he could barely make it out. Broken twigs, torn leaves, and even dried tree sap littered the ground, but there was no clear dirt trail that an animal might have made if this was a forest on the other side of the border. Craig’s blue Animus glow covered his head like a halo. His gaze swept the area before settling on a direction. When it faded away, he shook his head.

“It was headed to the border. It might have already been hunted down. Not what we’re looking for.”

“Let’s keep moving.”

Hours went by as they combed the forest. “We’re more likely to find what we’re looking for past the Shallows but,” Sarra said quietly, “It’s better to be sure.”

“We’ve only seen Wanderer tracks,” Amiri muttered, “none of the weaker swarmlings or the stronger Hunters?”

“You should know better than that, Amiri,” Craig said. “Hunters feel similar enough to Wanderers that it’s hard to differentiate. There aren’t any Hunters though. Don’t worry.”

“Why should I? I’ve burned down hundreds of those gits,” Amiri boasted.

“That’s when we had an army at our backs.”

Craig led the group with Virgil bringing up the rear, his Plasma Caster held at the ready. Balliol was beside both of the women, his hands radiating a faint bluish glow, and his eyes darted to either side, watchful of any potential danger.

An hour before sunset, the five of them made camp at a hollow under a tree. After a rather uneventful day, they were tired and hungry. Craig wordlessly poured some water on a pot, dumped dried meat jerky inside and handed the pot over to Amiri.

“What?”

“To a rolling boil please.”

“Oh, come on! I’m not a stove!”

“No fire, no smoke.”

“Urgh, after a decade out of the army and I’m the kitchen again.”

“You didn’t make the stew. You’re just the fire.”

Amiri’s answer was a kick to the shin which Craig swiftly dodged. “Don't spill the water!”

Grumbling to herself, she channelled her Animus into the pot while she sat on a rock and less than a minute later, the water boiled and released a meaty aroma. Craig dumped some dried vegetables inside along with some oats and a pinch of salt.

He ladled the resulting porridge into bowls a few minutes later and handed them out. They ate in silence. Balliol cleaned the bowls and the pot afterwards without comment and each of them, save for Virgil laid, on their bedrolls to sleep.

Virgil sat outside to keep watch, wishing he had a mug of kaf in hand, but he made do. A couple of hours later, he switched with Sarra and tucked into his bedroll.

When morning came, the air was an ominous red hue, but the pervasive silence remained. Breakfast was cold bread with strips of dried meat and cheese as they continued on their way.

“How many waypoints to the Mid Marches?” Virgil asked Sarra.

“I think a couple more, depending on what we see here. I sense an ominous air. We might see a Wyldling or two.”

No sooner had she said it that Virgil suddenly snapped his Plasma Caster and aimed at a distant point. Purple Animus flooded the rifle’s jade studs and a bolt of superheated plasma contained by his will was chambered.

He aimed briefly, and as he exhaled, he pulled the trigger. The plasma bolt wove its way around the trees and a second later, there was a loud cry of pain that was abruptly changed into a gurgle.

“A Wanderer.”

“Let’s go see.”

They made their way across the forest floor. One thing about having giant trees was that it killed most of the undergrowth. They didn’t have to push their way past low hanging branches or shrubs. The floor was littered with dead and decaying leaves and twigs though, which made for a noisy walk.

The Wyldling was about a longstride away, a fist-sized hole in its head. On open terrain, he could have spotted it a league away but here, his range was only a fifth of his normal. It would be worse in denser woods. Part of his Facet allowed him to build a better image from a fragmented view but he could only see around corners if he was less than a hundred paces away.

The creature looked like an ant with a humanoid torso and was three paces long. Its forearms were scythe-like blades similar to a mantis. It was a common enough variation that they had named its kind an Antid.

Virgil drew a knife and stabbed it into the Antid’s carapace on its torso. After he pried the exoskeleton open, he dug into the exposed flesh and withdrew a black shard the size of a fingernail. The ichor dripped of it naturally and he gave it a shake to hasten the cleaning process. Of course, his hand was now dirty but a quick pulse of Animus pushed the filth off it.

“Three HiJins by weight. Not bad.”

“Pretty standard,” Craig shrugged.

He gave the shard to Amiri to keep and she placed it in a small drawstring pouch.

Craig examined the tracks for a while, before saying, “This one was headed to the border as well. If we follow where it came from, we may find a gathering point.”

“Let’s do so. We’re looking for a gathering of swarmlings,” Sarra affirmed.

With that firmly in mind, they continued their trek, making a few leagues before the day ended and they made another camp, this time under the curtain-like leaves of a willow tree that hid them completely from sight.

Virgil took the first watch again which was, mercifully, uneventful. He turned in after waking Sarra.

Someone shook him awake after what seemed like only a couple of hours, a hand covering his mouth. Craig hand-signed him to wake the others quietly. When they were ready, Craig pulled the leaves carefully aside.

The forest had disappeared, and what lay before them was a vast plain filled with shadowy lumps. The cloud cover allowed a ray of silvery moonlight to shine down, revealing the lumps to be dog-sized creatures covered with a brown carapace. There were thousands of them, a great enough flood to drown Faron’s Crossing and every village for leagues around.