Welsh lifted his chin and looked high into the trees where the slaves worked. With a number of limbs now cut from the surrounding trees, the harvested deadrot was hanging on by a thread and in prime position to come tumbling down.

  "That's enough," Welsh said to Lonnek. "Have them come down. We should be able to knock it down easily enough."

  Lonnek whistled loudly. The two slaves looked down to see him pointing toward the ground and got the message. Carefully, they made their way into the limbs of the surrounding trees and began their descent.

  An occasional high-pitched screech would come from the clearing in the distance. Soralees had fallen asleep after his meal and would sometimes let out loud squeals. The group would cringe for a moment before continuing their business. While Soralees's uselessness and breathtaking screeches were problematic for a number of reasons, Welsh ultimately decided he would be better off letting him sleep. After all, they had nearly finished the harvest and would be beginning their trip back to camp soon.

  Now back on the ground, the slaves began delimbing the tree and cutting it into smaller, more manageable logs. On normal, larger harvests, a hand-drawn wagon would have been brought to transport the lumber. In this case, each slave would be carrying their own section in pairs of two.

  Stepping over to oversee their progress, Welsh couldn't help but notice something particularly odd. During his time at Camp Keldarn, he had seen hundreds of deadrot harvested, and one trait that was always consistent was the color and texture of the tree's sap, which was always a thin, runny green ooze that would run freely down the side of the tree.

  This deadrot didn't fit that description at all. Instead of the usual watery substance Welsh was used to seeing, the liquids that made their way from the cuts were thick and purple. It even sometimes came creeping out in clumps. He looked around himself for those with answers, but Soralees still slept soundly, and he assumed Lonnek would be just as stumped as he was. He made a mental note that he would ask about the sap when they had returned to camp.

  A high-pitched squeal and growl bellowed from Soralees' resting place, followed by light rummaging.

  The Elite was waking up.

  Lonnek cautiously leaned to the right and looked in the direction of Soralees. He then sighed.

  "It was peaceful while it lasted, huh?" Lonnek asked.

  Welsh nodded. "At least he won't be screeching anymore. I was close to waking him up myself."

  Soralees sat off by himself, clearly trying to regain his senses. He paid little attention to the workers who continued to dismember the large deadrot. The workers grunted and tugged, tossing the limbs and twigs off to the side. Before long, each of them was covered in the oozing purple sap of the deadrot.

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  Soralees finally found his way to his feet and came creeping over to the workers.

  "What's going on here? What did you do?" Soralees asked, directing his attention to Welsh.

  Welsh looked around, bewildered. "Me?" he asked, pointing to himself.

  "Yes, you!" Soralees squealed. "Why are they all purple?"

  "Oh, that," Welsh said with a sigh. "I was hoping maybe you could answer that. Look at the sap from the deadrot."

  At first, Soralees seemed skeptical. He, like Welsh, had seen multiple deadrot trees after harvesting. They had never seen anything like this.

  "I see," Soralees said. "Oh well. It's only sap."

  Welsh was surprised by his dismissiveness. "Oh well? Are you not curious?"

  Soralees shook his head. "No," he replied, "because the Overseer knows what he's doing, and I won't be the one to question it."

  This sentiment, on the other hand, was not surprising. Soralees had always been Keldarn's most subservient ally.

  Regardless, Soralees was right. Aside from being curious, there was little Welsh could do.

  Winds within the Orchard had begun to pick up, clearly coming from the direction of the Ruined Fields. It was unfortunate, Welsh thought. So far, the expedition had gone off without a hitch, but if the sky above the exposed portion of the dome had become active, the risk of shock and sandstorms would definitely cause problems on the return to camp.

  The slaves—whose bodies were covered in bruises and scratches—had now gathered around the fallen and pieced-out deadrot tree. They would sometimes look at the palms of their hands, which were now stained in a deep purple. Welsh noticed that they, too, were confused about the gooey, purple sap.

  Soralees walked the line, weaving his way in and out between the slaves on the left side of the fallen trunk. As he sulked, he would point out slaves two at a time and point to the section of tree they were to carry. Upon request, the slaves acquiesced immediately, taking their places and lifting their section. Their march across the Ruined Fields would be tedious. It would be slow. And as they towed their cargo, it would be dangerous.

  Not only for the slaves, but for their leaders as well. The storms found within were powerful and would routinely send down destructive bolts of lightning, which would char the land and turn the soot a deep shade of black. Luckily, the tree they were after had been found just inside the entrance to the Orchard. The slaves would have the bulk of their remaining energy to trudge across the field.

  Now, with their section of the harvest in tow, the slaves stood in a single-file line, preparing themselves to cross the Ruined Fields. Welsh considered the possibility of waiting out the storms; it wasn't an option. The Korvis had, so far, been dormant or unaware of their presence, but this luck wouldn't hold out forever. Dealing with random bolts of lightning was one thing, but dealing with the Korvis was something else entirely.

  Welsh stood at the front with Lonnek nearly a dozen feet off to the side. Soralees brought up the rear. Welsh would start the trek across the fields, and from there, Lonnek would send them in pairs, making sure to spread them out. After all, should the slaves be grouped too closely together, a stray lightning bolt might kill the better part of the unit. There was no need wasting perfectly good slaves.

  Welsh took a long look into the Ruined Fields and drew in a deep breath. The dark soot of the fields had been lifted by the wind and now swirled through the air in the distance, blackening the horizon. There would only be a moment of peace before the expedition met the storm.

  Welsh turned and did a final check, looking at the line behind him. The slaves stood in their pairs, clearly strained under the weight of the deadwood chunk which lay draped across their shoulders.

  He raised his hand in the air, to which all slaves immediately looked up. And with the thought of finally getting back to camp, he dropped his hand, pointing forward, and the line started their march.

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