There’s gonna be combat!
“Put me down,” said the dryad suddenly. “There is danger.” I’m no fool; I stopped immediately, and let her dismount while I checked my weapons and armor. I‘m stronger than a dryad. A dryad has senses that shame mine. If there was something evil to be heard or smelled, she would be the first to know. Although now even I could now smell something foul on the wind.
“So, we’re expected, then.” I said as I took stock of our surroundings. We had paused by a tree, overlooking a stream; it was higher ground, at least, and would give us some warning of an attack.
“How can that be, Jack?” The dryad sounded more annoyed than fearful as she pulled a thorn-knife from the satchel she carried (the thought of satchels originally came from Yonder, but Those Who Speak have made it their own). That was good, as long as she did not take it too far. “I thought bittersap did not think.”
“It does not,” I replied as I noted the spastic sound of rustling, just ahead of us. “But it can be cunning. And even a beast knows enough to defend itself from harm.” And then I stopped talking, for out from the brush rushed a clot of beasts, snarling and screaming as they came.
Most of the poor damned creatures were small, and weak; voles and squirrels, mice and rabbits. No birds, thank the Sky Lady. Those would be especially dangerous. Though bittersap does not corrupt those of us made of meat, a bittersap bezoar can dominate the smaller beasts, for a time. And flying things would be of special use to one.
In some ways, what bittersap does to animals is worse than what it does to plants, or Those Who Speak. Bittersap preys upon plants, to take full possession of them and spread poison across the surface lands. It cannot do the same to animals. But the way bittersap rips through blood and flesh still swiftly drives beasts mad from the pain. There is no cure for the pain, once the animal has lost itself to madness. There is only the red haze of combat for it. They will fight, and strive to kill, until they die.
That was the fight we now faced; and any hopes that I had that it would be more tiring than dangerous died as the bushes shook to reveal a stag. Like the rest, it was jerking and befouled with the ichor of curdling bittersap. The blood smeared on its antlers and matted fur told me that this was not its first fight of the day; and I hoped it had killed its previous victims, for I could not go looking for them while the bittersap bezoar still lived.