Shortly after the next week began, Tasha discovered why the humans had ignored them.
The army began training drills, and supply convoys shuttled back and forth between nearby cities and garrison towns. They were clearly preparing for war, their forces pointed southeast, with an attitude far more serious than when attacking the Wanderers' camp. Chatty veterans painted pictures of their future in conversation, saying they would return triumphant with the heads of "those devils."
Tasha asked Marion if there were any known gathering points for the otherworldly creatures there. The werewolf girl didn't give a definite answer.
"That's the Angaso Forest," Marion recalled. "It gets more rain than here, and the woods are denser. I've heard hunters live in the woods, but when I crossed through two years ago, I didn't encounter anyone. Then again, I was hiding from others back then, and the forest is vast."
The Angarsu Wastes were split into Western and Eastern Plains by the long Angarsu Mountains. The former Wanderers' Camp lay deeper inland in the Western Plains. Marion's group had crossed the lower central section of the Angarsu Mountains to reach the Eastern Plains where the Dungeon resided. Human settlements occupied the southern Western Plains. South of the Dungeon and east of the human towns lay a dense forest known as the Angarsu Forest.
These folks sure do name places simply and bluntly. Tashar liked that.
Marion, being an obvious outsider, needed to be doubly cautious. Most of her time in freedom had been spent fleeing; survival mattered more than gathering intelligence. Though she'd traveled to many places, she knew little about all the regions she hadn't visited. The Wanderers' Camp once housed more seasoned outcasts, but such individuals tended to be solitary and cautious. They never shared their whispered lore with the masses back then, and now they hadn't followed the thick-skinned artisan dwarves into the dungeon either.
The Oak Elder remained dormant, offering no immediate aid. Victor claimed the dungeon's location should have been rolling hills, but since the heroes who destroyed it reshaped the terrain, what use was his knowledge now? In the end, Tarsha had to consult the unreliable Artisan Dwarves. The question circulated among them, making a full round before they finally produced an answer.
"People live there!" declared a red-nosed middle-aged craftsman dwarf. "Once when I went out gathering herbs, a downpour trapped me in a cave. I happened upon someone seeking shelter. That woman was tall, carrying a bow and arrows, and looked fierce—I thought I was done for! But instead of shooting me, she gave me a bow—a splendid one, though the string was faulty. She asked if I could repair it. I only had a few tools with me back then, so I couldn't fix it perfectly, but she refused to come back with me to finish it. She left after the rain stopped. She said her people lived in the Angars Forest."
The dwarf craftsman raised his hands high and even hopped up to illustrate the woman's height as he spoke. He rambled on without much conclusion, his face clearly showing regret. After finishing, he sighed deeply: "It really was a fine bow. I should have brought my number three pliers—the stringing position could have been more precise. She really should have come back with me to get it."
The woman he described had no particularly striking features beyond being somewhat fierce and tall (a detail largely meaningless given his own stature). Even Victor couldn't guess her race offhand—whether she belonged to the forest's soon-to-be-hunted alien races. One couldn't assume she was an elf just because she carried a bow.
"It's such a hassle now, too many human half-breeds," Victor sighed. "Things used to be so simple. Orcs had beast heads—you could tell their species at a glance. Pointy ears that were pleasing to the eye meant elves, pointy ears that were painful to look at meant goblins, tall ones were giants, and while there were many types of short folk, dwarves were all bearded devils. As for whether someone was a gnome or a halfling, you just tossed a gold coin in front of them. If they vanished into the crowd to pick pockets, they were a gnome. If they crowded around trying to hawk something, they were a halfling."
"Aren't you being a bit racist?" Tasha asked.
"What? I'm just stating facts!" Victor retorted.
"'Halflings are all thieves' and 'gnomes are all peddlers'—that part," Tasha said. "That's sweeping generalizations."
"Halflings are inherently despicable thieves! Just like dwarves are all penny-pinching, money-grubbing misers!" Victor retorted.
"Have they ripped you off?"
"..."
"They've ripped you off," Tash said sympathetically. "And you're a great demon, no less."
"You have no idea how infuriating they can be," Victor said, launching into abyssal slang references Tashan couldn't decipher.
While Tashan scoured the area for intelligence, the ghost traversed the Angaroth Forest.
The further south they ventured, the denser the vegetation grew. Amidst Tashan's aimless wandering, a sudden downpour caught them. The Artisan Dwarves' grand map lacked precision, but major landmarks were unmistakable. Angaroth lay in a remote corner of the Erian continent, with the sea stretching farther southeast. Winds from that direction carried ocean moisture inland, colliding with the Angaroth Mountains and forcing the air upward, forming rain clouds. Thus, unlike the dry, barren wasteland beyond the mountains, this side of Angaroth claimed the rain meant to irrigate the interior. Every tree thrived beneath its drenching.
If the Old Oak hid here, perhaps no disguise would be needed: through the dense foliage, it was hard to discern the shape of trees mere steps away.
The forest's interior proved treacherous: moss-covered stones, twisted roots protruding from the ground, and fallen branches concealing unknown hazards littered the path. Face-sized spiders spun webs among thigh-high shrubs, while a snake as thick as an arm hung lazily from a branch. The distant cries of unidentified creatures echoed through the air. Only a ghost capable of phasing through all this could traverse the forest swiftly. For anyone else, crossing it in a short time was impossible.
It was no wonder humans couldn't spare the resources. If their target lay within the rainforest, no amount of preparation would be excessive. Still, Tasha couldn't fathom how a human army would attack. She racked her brain for historical examples of cold-weapon eras clashing with forest dwellers, but none came to mind.
A moving shadow flashed across Tasha's vision.
The figure darted through the jungle so swiftly, Tasha almost mistook it for an animal. Had its path not coincided perfectly with the ghost's direction, she might have missed it entirely. Clad in brown leather armor, the figure wore only green or brown cloth, its exposed skin painted to blend completely into the forest.
The ghost changed course and swiftly followed.
It was a woman, agile and showing no signs of inhuman traits, a head taller than Tashar's ghostly form. Her long legs moved through the trees as if on level ground, seemingly weightless. She carried her prey on her back—four or five medium-sized animals strung together on a rack. The hollows where the animals' eyes should have been, along with the bow and arrows in the woman's hands, clearly revealed her hunting method. Yet Tasha saw no quiver on her back. Taking advantage of the woman's blind spot, she circled around her and spotted the quiver hanging from the woman's right hip.
The quiver held only four or five arrows. Upon closer inspection, the female hunter also clutched three arrows in her right hand. Her left hand held the bow, her right the arrows, while a string of prey hung from her back—none of which slowed her pace. Suddenly, her ears twitched, and her head snapped in a certain direction.
Tasha hadn't noticed what had happened. Following the hunter's gaze, she saw leaves rustling there, so subtly it seemed like a breeze had passed. Before Tasha could make out what it was, an arrow had already flown.
She'd seen shotguns fire in movies and crossbows here, and Tashar had assumed she wouldn't be moved by primitive cold weapons like bows anymore—clearly, she'd been wrong.
The arrow was faster than Tashar's gaze. The twang of the bowstring, the thud of the shaft striking something, and a piercing scream blended together, making it nearly impossible to tell which came first. A large, mottled gray-black creature tumbled from the treetops, an arrow lodged in its head. It was considerably larger than Tashar had anticipated. How had this thing concealed itself? Sharp claws like a lynx's, unmistakably carnivorous. The feline landed squarely in the path of the female hunter. Had she not spotted it, the ambush would likely have succeeded.
It never truly hit the ground. Before it could, a hand scooped it up. The huntress never stopped moving—not when she spotted the threat, not when she drew her bow, not even after releasing the arrow. Her skill and confidence were absolute, as if she never doubted her aim.
Tasha clapped silently beside her, though the huntress couldn't see.
"I know what she is," Victor said suddenly. "An Amazon."
Amazon? Tasha thought of an Earth river at that word, but Victor clearly meant something else. She watched the huntress hang her new prey while murmuring incomprehensible syllables, waiting for Victor to elaborate.
"Amazon warriors—a nomadic tribe of only women. Their finest archers rival forest elves. What she just spoke was an Amazonian hymn of praise to the goddess of the hunt after a successful hunt." Victor chuckled at this point. "But if human soldiers are referring to them, and this really is an Amazon... well, that makes things interesting."
"Why?" Tasha asked. "Because it's a man?"
"...Huh?"
"Just kidding. Go on," Tasha said, her expression unchanged.
"..."
This interruption deflated the subtle malice that had begun to swell in Victor's tone. After a moment's silence, he said dryly, "Because... the Amazonian warrior is entirely human."