Read an extract from Green and Deadly Things by Jenn Lyons

Mathaiik has studied all his life to join the sacred order of the Idallik Knights, charged with defending their world from the forces of necromancy. Only vestiges of that cursed magic remain – nothing like the fabled days of the Grim Lords, the undead wizards who once nearly destroyed the world.

Until monsters once more begin to wake. But something about them is even stranger: whole forests coming alive and devouring anyone so foolish as to trespass, formerly peaceful animals mutating into savage carnivores . . . the land itself has turned upon humanity and the Knights are powerless to stop it.

It’s a good thing, then, that the Grim Lords were never truly destroyed. One of their number sleeps below the Knights’ very fortress. And when an army of twisted tree monsters attacks the young initiates in his charge, Math decides to do the unthinkable: he wakes her up.

READ AN EXTRACT FROM GREEN AND DEADLY THINGS

We know who woke the Queens.

His name was Catimus Abhigan. He was neither knight nor king, wizard nor priest, but rather, an unremarkable manager of middling talent and minor ability, assigned to Kegomar Lumber Company’s most remote logging camp in the Parnassa Forest.

He likely believed he’d do some good there, for a definition of “good” that included words like “efficiency,” “quotas,” and “profits.” Some have claimed he was blameless, a hapless man in the wrong place at the wrong time, with no role in later events.

This is untrue.

Claims that it took him but a single day to ignite the catastrophe that followed are also untrue.

He accomplished that in under thirty minutes.

–

From the moment Catimus Abhigan stepped down from the carriage, gazing at the Parnassa Logging Camp’s primary work site, he knew he would make great changes.

The base camp, for one thing—it was too far away. The crew had to walk a mile every morning to reach this work site from their camp. And that logging camp! Practically a permanent residence, wasting valuable timber on a thick palisade around the camp’s perimeter. The extravagance continued with a bombard field around those same walls, only safely navigable by a narrow corridor.

Honestly.

Little wonder they lagged on fulfilling their quota. All quite ridiculous. He read the papers, littered with stories of grimmocks and black magic. One would think the country was all but overrun!

Abhigan was too smart to be fooled by such sensationalism.

How had these people ever managed without him? Abhigan studied the work site, noting inefficiency, indolence, sluggishness. So much to whip into shape.

His stare stopped at the ragged, uneven tree line. Three pristine trees rested atop a gently sloped hill. Magnificent specimens. Each one towered over the trees they’d already felled.

So why . . . ?

“Why are those trees still standing?” Abhigan pointed the trees out to the first lumberjack unfortunate enough to catch his eye.

The crew knew Kegomar had sent Abhigan to ensure they met their deadlines. They knew he was the kind of hatchet man who had nothing to do with lumber.

He expected an answer, but instead he was met with open disbelief. “Those are the Three Queens,” the logger explained—and then said nothing more.

Abhigan couldn’t guess the old lumberjack’s age. The man had been left outside too long, his dry, brittle skin weathered to the texture of autumn leaves. Deep folds of skin cloaked the man’s eyes in shadows.

Those eyes judged him. Abhigan didn’t like it.

“Pft,” Abhigan scoffed. “I don’t care if they’re three grim lords. You dough heads named them? Like they’re pets? Did you make them crowns and throw tea parties for them, too?” He flapped one arm toward the trees. “I want those trees down and loaded on a wagon by the end of the day. Do you have any idea what’s going to happen if we don’t have enough wood to satisfy this commission?”

Nothing good. Maybe these men didn’t think it mattered if Kegomar couldn’t provide enough wood for the empire’s quincentenary. They damn well would if Kegomar lost its license because the governor felt embarrassed by his inability to keep up with the regent’s demands.

The old lumberjack ran his tongue over his teeth like he was hunting for the last scraps from lunch. His eyes remained fixed on Abhigan’s face, his expression blank. He might’ve been thinking about anything.

“Did you hear me?” Abhigan demanded.

“Ganner . . .” Another lumberjack, younger and more cautious, put a hand on the older man’s arm. Ganner shrugged it off.

“I heard ya.” Ganner crossed his arms over his chest. “And I won’t do it.” His gaze swept over the crowd, a warning or a dare.

“They’re trees,” Abhigan told him. “It’s not like they’re grimmocks. I checked with the Idallik Knights before I arrived. There’s no ‘necromancy’ here.” He didn’t hide his contempt at the idea of “black magic” and “curses.”

A grimmock had terrorized Catimus Abhigan’s neighborhood once, when he was a child. He never saw it himself, but he heard the stories, each worse than the last. How the twisted mockery with two heads and four sets of jaws and scales must have been a dog before it succumbed to a curse. He always thought the stories were exaggerated. Dogs attacked children all the time— because they turned rabid.

Anyway, he’d never heard of tree grimmocks.

Ganner leaned over and spit a glob of pomuv juice, which landed close enough to Abhigan’s polished leather boots to seem purposeful. “I won’t touch a leaf on the Queens. If you’ve got even a lick of sense, you won’t, either.”

“You’re fired! Do you hear me? You’re fired! I want you off this land right now. And don’t expect to be paid!” Abhigan was angrier than he could ever remember. How dare he? The look Ganner spared him wasn’t hatred or anger, but a sad, weary contempt.

“Figured as much.” Ganner began walking. He wasn’t even walking back to the logging camp, just away.

Good riddance.

Abhigan turned to the gathered crowd. He drew himself up, and bellowed, “Back to work. I want those three damn trees cut down! Grab your saws and go!”

Matters didn’t resolve themselves so quickly, naturally. Tree cutting was a slow business. He paced and waited and cast angry glares in the direction of the camp. He might have been safely sequestered with a nice cup of tea, if only that lazy bastard hadn’t made such a fuss. If only the camp itself were closer. He finally tracked down a folding table, complete with several pots of stale coffee.

Honestly, the trees were strange. He poured himself a cup of coffee as he contemplated the tree line. This section of the Parnassa Forest hadn’t been considered old growth for over a century. And yet, those three trees had been left alone—not just by superstitious villagers, but by Kegomar Lumber.

Abhigan checked his papers again for any declarations, proclamations, or writs of protection. That would’ve been a hell of a thing to have missed. He had no desire to deal with angry Triunist priests, upset because he desecrated some holy landmark where one of the Tri-Mother’s sainted children had carved their initials into the bark.

He chuckled and was taking another sip of terrible coffee when he heard the first scream.

Abhigan startled, scanned the area. He hadn’t heard a tree fall, just the steady grind of saws drawn across wood. Perhaps someone had slipped? Accidents happened.

“What’s going on?” he shouted. “Who’s been—?”

Something red and wet crashed into the folding table, smashing it to the ground. At first, Abhigan didn’t understand what he was seeing. Viscera? A wild-animal carcass? Then he noticed the glint of a silver buckle, the ragged, twisted strips of sturdy twill, the creased leather.

Deer didn’t wear boots.

Recognition lanced through him, painful and bowel-clenching. These were the remains of a lumberjack.

Something had . . . something had ripped the man open, face to feet, and then tossed him aside.

The screaming hadn’t stopped.

Abhigan stared up, wide-eyed. Why hadn’t the screaming stopped? He glanced toward the Three Queens . . .

They were gone.

Not even a stump marked where trees had once stood. There was blood, though. Enough blood to coat the hillside slick with crimson, streams of it flowing around twisted, misshapen bundles of white, yellow, and—

“Run!” someone screamed. “Grimmocks! Run!” The grimmocks came out of the forest.

No. The grimmocks were the forest.

“Grimmocks can’t . . . can’t be . . .” The trees were alive. Moving. Attacking. The wind didn’t blow through the branches; the branches moved of their own volition. No eyes. No faces. They still looked like trees, but trees uprooted, now gliding downhill toward the lumberjacks on roots turned sinuous and tentacular.

“Back to camp!” he screamed out. “Retreat to camp!”

Catimus Abhigan ran to the carriage, praying his driver had been too lazy to unhitch the horse.

“Sir? What’s going—” The driver sounded groggy, as if he’d woken from a nap. “Drive, you fool!” Abhigan screamed, pulling himself into the carriage’s open back. “Back to the camp! Grimmocks are attacking!”

The man needed no further explanation, although the sound of screams and men running for their lives added to Abhigan’s delivery. His driver cracked the whip and set the nervous horse to a gallop so quickly Abhigan fell backward into his seat. The horses were still tired, however, so the gallop reverted to a trot after a few hundred feet.

Halfway to the logging camp, Abhigan jumped forward and grabbed his driver’s arm. “The flags, you fool! Pay attention to the warning flags! There’s a bombard field!”

“Thank the Tri-Mother,” his driver yelled, and began searching for the safety flags.

The man was right. Thank the Tri-Mother, indeed. The palisade, the bombard field—all designed to stop grimmock attacks. He prayed the camp had messenger birds too; Isofal wasn’t so far distant. As long as they could lock the gates, they could hold out until the knights arrived.

When they reached the camp, Abhigan shouted, “Grimmocks are attacking! Get ready to shut the gate.”

A camp guard gaped at him. “Wh-where? Where’s everyone else?” “Running,” Abhigan snapped. “They’ll arrive soon.”

Hopefully. Assuming they ran faster than the trees.

Should he have tried to bring any lumberjacks with him on the carriage? He dismissed the idea. A one-horse carriage couldn’t hold more than the driver and one or two passengers. If he’d waited, too many would’ve wanted to ride. They would’ve overwhelmed its weight tolerance. No one would have escaped.

For an eternity of seconds, they waited. Then a thin trail of dust billowed as lumberjacks retreated from the logging site. They weren’t making any noise beyond their ragged breathing and the heavy stomp of their boots. They had no breath for shouting.

Beyond them, other things moved in the distance. Things that weren’t human.

“Run!” one guard screamed. “Hurry!”

When the largest group made it through the gates, the guards began to shut the doors. “Barig’s still out there!” someone screamed.

“Close it now,” Abhigan ordered. “They won’t make it in time!”

There was no other option. Abhigan found himself almost glad when the trees caught the men before they’d reached the safe passage through the field. Had it been otherwise, they might’ve revealed the safe route, would’ve . . .

Wait. What was he saying? These were grimmocks. They weren’t intelligent. Grimmocks were cursed creations of black sorcery. They couldn’t think. He flinched and looked away when the men screamed. He tried to stop his ears to the sound of tearing flesh and breaking limbs. A sharp thunk sounded as the lumberjacks finally closed the gate.

They’d left it open, even when he’d ordered otherwise.

He wanted to yell at them, but at least the gate was shut. The grimmocks hadn’t made it inside. They were safe.

Except he didn’t feel safe. He peered over the palisade and saw the monsters, really saw them, for the first time.

They were trees. Regular trees. Just trees that somehow could move the way trees never moved and couldn’t move and this couldn’t be happening . . .

The sun shone, a light breeze blew. There wasn’t a cloud anywhere in the sky.

Thunder echoed, though. Oh yes, thunder sounded the first time a monster staggered into the bombard field. The men, Abhigan included, covered their ears against the strength of that boom. An enormous pile of dirt and splintered wood flew into the air. When the ringing subsided, the men were cheering.

Then they stopped. There had been exactly one explosion, and no more after.

Abhigan turned back to see what the trees were doing.

Nothing. Nothing at all. It was as though the forest had always started just beyond the bombard field. Then the branches moved. There was a sense of . . . undulation. But nothing entered the field; the trees slid to the side.

Another tree moved into that open space.

Only, not any tree. From its size and shape, Abhigan felt certain this was one of the big trees he’d ordered cut down—one of the “Three Queens.” It was an oak tree, albeit an oak tree strangely red along its lower trunk and roots.

Oh. No, that was blood.

No one made a sound. Then one man said, loudly, “Is that . . . is that a woman?”

It was. And it wasn’t. It felt like someone had set multiple paintings in front of Abhigan’s eyes, again and again. Tree. Woman. Tree. Woman. Tree. Woman—

The Queen of Oaks was a woman and yet still a tree. She had no hair but branches that sprouted from her head like antlers, and no clothing save for the suggestion of different thicknesses of bark and leaves and vegetal matter. Her skin, too, seemed less skin than smooth bark, and if she had legs at all, he couldn’t see them. There was just the trunk and roots, joined smoothly to her hips. More branches that seemed like arms, raised up.

She had a face and lips and, most terrifyingly, eyes.

Those eyes focused on the palisades, the camp, on the bombard field encircling it. Intelligent, aware eyes.

She turned her face to the sky; the wind pulling at her leaves strengthened.

A second thunderclap rocked through the air, but farther away.

Clouds scuttled across the sky, faster than any Abhigan had ever seen before. Dark gray storm clouds moved to cover the sun like a curtain drawn over a window. That fast, that unnatural.

Grimmocks couldn’t think. Grimmocks couldn’t cast spells. It began to rain.

Abhigan shouted: “Have we sent out the messenger birds? We must send word to the knights!”

The tree woman could summon rain. But, so what? The palisade walls protected them. The camp had a lightning rod. If she tried to overrun their position, she’d run into the bombard traps, wouldn’t she? Everyone would shelter in the permanent buildings—the kitchen or the woodshed—and wait until the knights arrived.

Everything would be fine.

Abhigan was so busy reassuring himself that everything would be fine, he missed whether anyone had answered his question about the birds.

Maybe they didn’t have birds. He hadn’t checked, had he?

No. They must have birds. The company was paying the knights for a location sign. They had to be. Kegomar the company hadn’t canceled that to save costs, had they?

Had he decried that as an unnecessary expense?

Someone whimpered. He whipped around in case that heralded some fresh horror, but it was just everything that had already happened.

The men were catching their breaths. That was all the opportunity fear needed to sink in its claws. For himself, he was . . .

It all seemed distant. Unreal. Like a dream. He wanted to wake up.

It began to hail.

Small at first, but the hailstones grew larger by the second.

Abhigan dashed for cover even as a lumberjack screamed for everyone else to do the same. Ice the size of cherries, of plums, hit him on the arms, on the side of his head, before he reached shelter. The wood roof overhead shuddered, the ice a barrage, like cannon fire . . .

Catimus Abhigan turned white when the first boom echoed, when he realized what it meant.

He’d been wrong. Again, he’d been wrong: the trees had summoned hail to clear the bombard field.

Once every explosive had triggered, once the field was scoured clean, only the wooden palisades would separate the men from the Queens and their monster forest.

It would be no protection.

Maybe if he begged. Maybe if he sank to his knees and begged for forgiveness . . .

He could beg. He could do that.

Thunderous booms echoed all around them, so tightly spaced it all merged into one enormous, deafening roar.

Then nothing, except for the fading patter of hail and then . . . Silence.

No one moved as they listened to the sound of—no, it wasn’t silence. It was the gentle sound of a forest in the wind, the susurrus of rustling leaves and shaking branches. Abhigan had always found that sound soothing, but not that day. Now the sound meant something else.

“What was that?” someone whispered.

Catimus Abhigan didn’t listen for an answer. He already knew what that sound meant.

Death.

Green and Deadly Things by Jenn Lyons is published by Tor on 5 March 2026