Title-- Excerpt from The Panthera Walkers: Peace
Rating and Warnings-- R; violence and death.
Species and Characters-- Lupos, Avans, and Panthera - Treestrong (Lupos brave; beta of the Tehar clan), Plainstalker (Panthera beastwalker), Songwinds (young Lupos shaman; ambassador), Skybright (Lupos healer; beta of the Tehar clan), and various Avans, largely unnamed.
Summary and Notes-- Treestrong leads a party of six Lupos, including his fellow beta and a young ambassador, and one Panthera to the Spire in order to meet with a party of Avans from a city interested in establishing a truce. What happens after the fairly-successful first meeting, once they reach the base of the Spire once more, is as follows.

There had been an ambush.

Treestrong watched as one arrow, then three, then a dozen sailed into the sky and arched to rain towards them. He was unarmed and bereft of the heavy metal plates that he wore as armor; similarly, the Panthera was naked, and the two Avans defenseless.

One of the Avans was a scholar, the other a warrior. The warrior lifted his arms and deflected the arrows from his vitals, placing his body between the deadly hail and his young charge, the cultist. Shafts feathered his forearms and thighs until he staggered and sank to one knee, still shielding his head with one bleeding limb.

The scholar was shrieking in Avanic, and Treestrong recognized one of the phrases as "cease fire" or the rough equivalent. The intellectual had managed to dodge most of the arrows by leaping behind some low-lying brush, but a few shafts protruded from his long shanks. The young cultist was unharmed, and her eyes burned as she crouched behind the kneeling warrior.

The Panthera had fallen, an arrow finding a place in her breast, but not in her heart. She yet breathed, eyes flickering as consciousness faded; her wingsnake had been flung, half-dead, onto her still form, and her trembling hand managed to cradle its narrow head against her stomach.

Songwinds. Out of sheer instinct, the young pup had forsaken his tangibility and become ghost-like, impervious to harm and incapable of touching anything physical other than the living earth on which he stood. Arrows zipped through his body harmlessly, but his blurry face had no eyes above the strangely drooping muzzle. His form began to warp, bending as though it were melting.

Treestrong himself was peppered with arrows before he could glimpse any kind of shelter. A sharp lunge forward had spared him fatal strikes, but enough shafts pierced his flesh that he was slowed, his blood burning. There was no shield to be hefted against the barrage from the sky. No spear to be wielded against the archers, hiding somewhere in the trees and shadows. He was as good as naked to the world, just like those falling alongside him.

The Avan warrior was dead now, crumpled in a mass of blood and feathers, arrows protruding from his lean body like obscene decorations. The scholar had found a niche in which to hide and had pulled his wounded form into the crook between a tree trunk and a small boulder, huddling and still crying out to their hidden attackers. The Panthera had been struck a few more times, but her heart beat steadily, albeit faintly.

The young Avan was whispering something, fire in her eyes, and the earth was sprouting green and purple vines that wove up and braided into a shield for her. Songwinds' spirit-form was twisting further, limbs mutating and frame crumpling in on itself; after nearly congealing as a translucent monster, he shuddered back into his physical body and collapsed behind the cultist, unconscious before he struck the earth.

With eerie calm, Treestrong began plucking arrows from his body as the second wave ceased to fall. He had a dozen punctures in him, all bleeding profusely, but his organs and arteries were all intact. The cultist's wall of foliage was successful in shielding herself and the fallen shaman from the next wave, which would inevitably come.

Once the last wooden shaft was removed from his skin, the guardian brave lifted his head to the sky. "Father, grace me with your clarity of sight." He shifted his weight, testing out the damage done to the two right-side limbs that had borne the brunt of the wounds. "Brother, grace me with your sharpness of ear." His gait was solid, and he turned his body to begin walking towards the origin of the arrows. "Mother, grace me with your calmness of spirit." He glanced down at the soil, ignoring the feline's unmoving body as he passed it. "Sister, grace me with your strength of body."

Now, he could hear the faint noise of arrows being nocked to bowstrings, the creak of bowstrings being drawn back to cheeks. He was too big to move quickly enough to fully dodge; he could only hope that they would aim upwards again, letting the arrows rain, rather than drawing a bead on him in particular.

Strings twanged in near-perfect unison, but too few arrows went up from the trees as though to pierce Brother's clouded underbelly. Three soared from the brush with shocking speed, straight towards him.

He expected it. He flung himself to the side, presenting a muscular forearm to the arrow that would have otherwise torn into his chest, dodged the second, and felt the third sink into his rearmost leg. That hurt; he would lose a lot of his power in rearing up with that wound. The first arrow pierced neatly, albeit bloodily, between the two bones of his forearm, the broadhead protruding from the other side. He snapped off the fletching and pulled it the rest of the way through, immune to the rush of white-hot pain that flooded his system. He twisted back and yanked the third arrow from his haunch, flexing his leg and gauging the damage. Not as bad as he'd feared.

Time to move. The Tehar beta whipped around and leapt forward, forcing his battered body to run as swiftly as it could into the brush, invading the archers' hiding spots. He could smell them, hear their hearts and the arrows rattling in their quivers as they jerked away, and he turned unerringly to find the nearest one. It was not a large Avan, weighing well less than half the brave's bulk, and it shrieked something as it drew a knife and slashed at his upper torso.

Mistake. He caught its wrist in his good hand, then squeezed, snapping the joint with a fleshy pop. Pushing upwards with his forelegs, he reared to dodge the slashing kick that it aimed at his lower chest, then used his medial paws to claw at its body until it fell. From there, it was an easy step to crush its skull.

A solid thunk into his lower ribcage sent him staggering to the opposite side with the force of the blow. Not all of the archers had scattered with his charge; one remained, cloaked in an unusually dull-colored green-and-brown cloth, with a hood to cover its face. It knelt next to a tree's thick trunk, a second arrow already nocked and drawn back, ready.

Treestrong eyed the shaft in his torso. It had hit no organs, when an archer so close and calm could have easily sunk the arrow into his neck or heart or spine.

The Avan spoke in poor Lupos. "The others have fled; the fight here is done. There are other Lupos nearby, still alive, fighting." The arrow did not fly from the string, but it remained drawn to the cloaked creature's cheek. "Go to them."

"Father help you if you kill my people," Treestrong intoned in a voice like thunder, "for I and mine will hunt you until death, be it yours or ours." His ears twitched; the sounds of battle were loud on the winds, and Songwinds and the Panthera were still safe in their unconsciousness.

"I do not kill your people," the Avan answered, barely intelligible through the accent and clipped syllables forced through a curving beak. He gestured with the arrow's tip. "Go quickly. I will pretend I thought you dead with my first shot."

Treestrong launched into a gallop, ignoring the stitch and burn of his wounds, heedless of the wet warmth that leaked down his limbs and flanks as he moved. Some part of him expected to feel an arrow plunge between his shoulderblades as soon as his back was towards the rogue archer, but there is no twang of the string, and he didn't look back.

The battle had been raging for a while, it seemed. Five Lupos, fully armed and armored, were fighting for their lives against what seemed to be a small army of at least forty. Had Skybright not been one of the five, they all would be dead - but for now, the white-furred moon healer held death at bay through sheer skill and rapport with the Mother.

Near the battle lay the clothing and weaponry of those who had scaled the Spire to meet and seek peace. Treestrong's platemail, shield, and spear were among the ignored equipment, and he moved swiftly to the heap. It would take long minutes to strap on the armor that would protect nearly all of his flesh, and his mobility was reduced with the holes in his body; he merely leaned down and grasped his shield and spear. Leaning the bladed staff against his upper stomach, he tied the shield's bracer to his uninjured forearm, then wrapped his right hand around the hide-wrapped grips of his heavy spear, hefting its weight easily.

"Skybright," he muttered under his breath, trusting his fellow Tehar beta to hear him, even over the din of an impossible battle. "Songwinds is yet alive. It is up to you to ensure that one of us returns to Suncaller to give him news of this treachery... and to say that the same arrows that bled me dry killed one Avan general and wounded the ambassador badly. Do you understand?" He straightened stiffly.

"I understand," Skybright said, her voice pitched low, her eyes never glancing towards him. She remained focused on the enemy and the four Lupos before her who were keeping Avan warriors from mutilating her. The archers who had fled had not appeared here yet, and Treestrong wondered just how many Avan parties might be haunting the land at the base of this damnable mountain. "It probably won't be you. What would you like me to tell your mate?"

The question sank like a frozen knife into Treestrong's breast. He had known that he would not be the survivor, but in fulfilling his duty as guardian brave by dying for his clansmen, thoughts of Stargrey had been pushed from his mind. "...that I love her, and that I died well, doing what I could to establish peace." His vision blurred momentarily, and a wave of cool relief washed over him - most of his wounds sealed, and the bloodloss from the others ceased.

"I will. Now, you have to make me truthful, old friend. Get over here, and die well with us."

The brown-furred Lupos' grip on the spear strengthened, and his heartbeat quickened; Skybright was doing all in her power to heal him and to enhance his natural regeneration, so that he would be as hard to kill as possible. "You were never a liar, Sky. I wouldn't dare make you one now." His voice was rough; he was thinking of Stargrey. But he moved, a few steps at first that led into a galloping charge, his shield held to protect his upper torso, and his spear extended to kill.

The first Avan died easily, its neck snapped from the force of Treestrong's spear thrust. Two quick slashes laid out two others, and he broke through to the ranks of his own people from the thinly-guarded flank. Despite Skybright's healing power, they were all wearing out, bodies ceasing to be capable of repairing themselves from so many near-fatal wounds.

The brave turned and laid eyes on the faces of the enemy. Mages seemed to be in short supply; perhaps the motionless forms in the back were all that was left of them. Most of the Avans seemed to be warriors of some sort, protected by chain and plate, wielding devastating melee weaponry that could carve a Lupos into pieces within seconds.

"Father, give me strength." It was a simpler prayer now, more heartfelt, as he moved between two of his clansmen and took his place at the point of their defensive 'V' formation. "Mother, give me fortune." His shield-arm moved, almost of its own accord, to prevent the sweep of a broadsword from removing his head. "Brother, give me energy." His spear cut down two Avans who rushed him, and he listened to his heart pumping blood too quickly through his veins. "Sister, give me peace."

Another strike to his shield sent him staggering with the unexpected impact, and the Avan holding the two-handed axe jerked it back - but the blade was firmly embedded into the wooden shield, and it jerked Tree along with it. With a rebellious growl, the beta threw his shield-arm aside, baring the Avan's midsection just long enough to run it through with the spear. It gurgled, and Tree used his shield to scrape the corpse off his weapon.

The fight became furious and yet mechanical. Every move was calculated - every strike and reaction deliberate and calmly enacted, though his blood burned wildly. He did not want to die when he had Stargrey to live for, but even after drastically lowering the Avans' numbers, there were still over twenty against six Lupos.

No, four Lupos, now. Two had fallen, despite Skybright's best efforts. The remaining two were sagging, hearts and spirits giving out long before the moon healer would allow their bodies to crumple. "Fight, by the Mother!" she howled to them, desperation finally twisting in her normally-impassive voice.

Treestrong looked to those remaining, and saw that the light had left their eyes. "They're dead inside, Sky," he growled, blocking another enraged attack by an uninjured Avan warrior. "It's time for you to go. I can hold them long enough for you to outrun them safely."

Her composure had broken. "No! I will not leave and let you die!"

His shield broke in twain when the next axemaster crashed its heavy blade into the splintered wooden surface. The impact jarred his arm and shoulder, and he quickly stripped the pieces off. "You said you would tell the ones I love that I died well, Sky," he snarled, heart catching. He wouldn't get to see Stargrey again. She'd left for less than a moon, both of them regretting so short a time apart, and now she would spend her life without him. And his son would be left to only her to finish rearing. "And tell Birdcall that I am... I have always been proud of him. And I love him."

Suddenly, there was a flash of white fur next to him, and he felt her hand on his flank. A shudder ripped through him as every one of his wounds was healed in an explosion of seen-yet-not-seen silvery light. "Die well, my friend," she whispered, spinning and racing away.

"Brother's speed to you, my friend," he managed to reply, gripping his spear in both hands and using the thick haft to block the next blade aimed for his neck. Within seconds of her magic's absence, his two clansmen fell dead, even though the wounds that decorated their corpses did not warrant such an instantaneous demise.

There were over a dozen Avans that fanned out to surround him. He had no armor, no healer, and no shield; all that remained was his flesh and his spear.

Treestrong would die. But he'd be blighted if he wouldn't take most of them with him.

One Avan fell, face crushed in. Another fell, throat ripped out by the spear's blade. A third fell, its stomach spilling out of its mutilated torso.

A blade sank into the brave's rearmost haunch at the knee joint and twisted.

That one died when he jerked around and put his spear through its face.

An axe fell, carving into his lower torso and only barely missing his spine. It was enough to slice messily through to his stomach and out again, innards dripping from the massive cut through his body.

Treestrong buckled and fell, the pain already fading away into shock. The axe-warrior received the honor of being his final kill; the spear plunged into its narrow chest, snapped its spine, and burst out the other side.

Bloodloss stole the color away from the world and pain leeched the breath from his lungs. He had died before, but this would be forever. There would be no coming back to Stargrey and Birdcall.

He had lost.

The Avan warriors moved backwards, now only nine in number, and the most-decorated one shrilled something in Avanic. Blearily, Treestrong recognized the phrase. "Bleed to death." They would let him die slowly, agonizingly.

"I am sorry, but I will not let them dishonor you." The voice was quiet, distant, and disturbingly familiar with its horribly mutilated version of the Lupos tongue.

He didn't turn and look; he didn't acknowledge the words. But when the arrow sank into his upper chest and stilled his frantically beating heart, he felt relief, and a strange sense of gratitude, as the blackness took him. With the upper heart destroyed and so many other wounds, it was mere seconds before his lower heart failed.

The spiritworld had never looked so cold as when his soul rose from his broken body for the very last time.