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Dry stalks scratched at my arms as I made my way through the field, heading north toward the black shapes of the trees—shadows against a shadowed sky. Lord Oeric’s guards had noticed my absence, and someone upon the wall of the ring-fort was striking an iron bell while the wavering lights of torches gathered like fireflies. 

Bran would be safe. A horse was as valuable as the warrior he carried; more so, if horses were in short supply, and I had not seen many in recent days. I was less certain about myself. 

I ran, my feet steady underneath me despite the dark, following the hard-packed row, while the fields whispered in the night wind. If I could reach the trees before a regiment of men with torches and spears could be mustered to chase me, I could remain unseen until morning. Then I would have to find the burial ground, and from there seek out the forest folk. 

If I survived the night, all would go according to plan. 

The oaken door to the fort opened, allowing a trickle of light-bearing men to pour out and around the wall. I shut my eyes against the stinging bright spots and forced myself to face forward. What little I could see in the darkness turned all to shadows as glowing stains lingered in my vision. I took another step, and another, and my right foot went out into empty air—an irrigation ditch, invisible in the impenetrable night. 

I fell, tumbling down a brief, dusty slope to a bare inch of mud at the bottom, my hands tearing uselessly at shallow roots and crumbling gravel. The sound of my feet scraping against the dry earth was loud as thunder in my ears. I crouched in the ravine, my knees throbbing with pain, and listened for my pursuers. Surely they had heard me fall. 

They fanned out through the field, drawing burning arcs through the air with their torches. They’d done this before, this pursuit of an escaping fugitive from their walls to the forest. My only chance was to outrun them, and remain in the darkness as long as possible. 

I pulled my feet underneath me, keeping my head below the trembling sheaves of wheat and my eyes to the ground. The burning afterimages of the guards’ lights faded until I could just make out the edge of the ditch and the carved lines my boots had left in its side. 

One of them was coming directly toward me, his light growing brighter with each step through the stalks. I stuck the butt of my harpoon into the dirt and pushed myself up, climbing out of the ditch. 

What little sight I had regained was gone. I put my arms in front of my face and ran, praying to whomever might be listening that I wouldn’t find another ditch in the darkness, as my pursuers shouted after me. 

Alone, unburdened by anything but my harpoon, I was swifter on my feet than they—or, perhaps, I was just more reckless. Heedless of anything but the shapes of the trees, their wet bark limned in wavering orange light, I charged forward. Pain followed me at a distance greater than Oeric’s men. I’d feel every scratch and every blow of the hard ground against my feet later. 

I reached the trees just as a thrown spear thudded into the trunk beside me. My hands met another tree, slick and covered in moss, and I stumbled over its roots to put it between myself and the oncoming assault. Another spear clattered into the wood, lost until morning. 

I kept going, moving from tree to tree—I couldn’t see farther than the reach of my arm. One by one, my pursuers slowed and fell back, their lights receding and leaving me in darkness. 

They did not need to chase me. I’d be back at their fort before long. I wouldn’t leave Bran to be conscripted to hunt barbarians for them. 

The forest closed around me like an enveloping cloak. The signs of human habitation—the smell of smoke, the burning lights, the rows of crops, and the sounds of conversation and industry—all disappeared. I had run for barely half an hour since climbing the wall, and already I was deep in the wilds. 

An owl cried in the distance. With no other heading, and impenetrable darkness on all sides, I followed it. To discourage any larger predators, I tapped my harpoon against each passing tree trunk, and sang my rowing song in a low voice. I supposed I’d walk for a while to put distance between myself and the fort, and then find some sort of shelter to wait out the night. It had been a devilish impulse that had driven me from the safety of the guest house in the fort, but I could not have remained there a moment longer. I had been imprisoned under the guise of hospitality too many times already. 

The owl called a second time, so close that it might have been perched by my ear. It was an illusion, surely, brought about by my lack of sight. In any event, I was far too large to have anything to fear from an owl. 

An answering call came from somewhere behind me. It wasn’t quite right—a little too low in pitch and resonance. I had only a moment to question whether this was an owl or a man imitating one before two pairs of hands grasped me by the arms and a foot kicked my knees in from behind. 

A single flash of firelight scorched my eyes before a blindfold was draped across them and tied tightly at the back of my head. 

“Who are you?” I asked as my sight was taken from me once again. “I mean you no harm. I’ve escaped from the ring-fort.”

Of course, if these were men from said fort, they already knew this, but I was far enough from the fields by now that it seemed unlikely. 

Words were exchanged over my head, and rough hands pried my harpoon from my fingers. The language was familiar, though the cadence of it was odd: a dialect of the deep forest, where the only exchange with the tongues of the outside world was what was shouted across the battlefield. 

“I’m only here for a relic,” I said. “An obsidian knife. I need to retrieve it for my employer.”

“Did the lord of the fort send you out here in the dark?” a man’s voice asked. “You need a new employer.”

I shook my head, and the blindfold’s knot shifted against the back of my skull. “I’ve come here from the south. Lord Oeric wanted to keep me prisoner in the fort, and I’ve escaped to find the relic. Are you the forest folk that he speaks of? If you return the knife to me, I will go, and trouble your lands no longer.”

“You’re after the ritual knife?” the same voice said. 

“That’s all. I swear it.”

Their single lit torch was a bright spot against the blindfold. The shadow of a man moved between it and me, wavering like the apparition of a spirit. 

“If he wants the knife, then we may as well show it to him,” the man said to his companions. To me, he added, “On your feet, then. This will be easier for you if you cooperate.”

Hands gripped my arms again. The rough fibers of a rope scraped at my wrists. By instinct, I pulled away.

“Or we can cut your throat here and leave you for the wolves,” said the man. “It’s your choice.”

I let them tie my hands and lift me roughly to my feet. “Where are you taking me?”

No answer came. I was marched, with one of these men on either side, deeper into the forest. With every turn, I tried to keep the fort in my mind, and remember in which direction it lay, but I lost it before long. If I survived the night—the offer to show me the knife was, I was certain, a threat—I’d have to find my way out of the woods by the position of the sun. 

My feet caught on roots and undergrowth, but my captors kept me upright, bearing my weight between them. They were shorter than I, and not as tall as the folk of the ring-fort, but their arms were strong and their shoulders sturdy. By their footsteps, I counted six or seven of them, all told. None of them spoke as we walked. 

I lost track of the time, as well. I thought morning might come soon, and save me from the black abyss in which I traveled, interrupted only by the obstacles underfoot and the men holding me captive. Whoever bore the torch had either put it out or moved far enough behind me that I could detect no hint of its light. But darkness persisted, and the night went on, and on we marched, until at last my feet found the edge of a clearing. 

The men at my sides dropped me, unceremoniously, to my knees. A thin carpet of moss kept me from gaining any new bruises. Someone lit more torches, and the world around me went from black to a dull orange. Unclear shapes cast looming shadows over me. 

Someone else tore the blindfold from my face. I closed my eyes and turned my face away. 

“Well,” one of the men, a different voice this time, said. “Here we are.” 

I blinked the ache from my eyes and looked up. I knelt at the edge of a circle of standing stones, each twice as tall as a man and as wide as the span of my arms. Others, just as large, lay atop the pillars, forming a ring of towering arches. On each was carved a map of spiraling currents, green with moss against the dull gray stone. 

I had seen these spirals before. Similar ones were tattooed down my arms and on the shaved sides of my head. 

“Welcome,” a familiar voice said. The first man, the one who had spoken to me in the forest, sauntered into view. He wore a cloak of hide, as did his companions, but on his head of black curls balanced a headdress made from the skull of a deer, its antlers polished and shining. His face was painted a vibrant blue. 

He spread his arms to indicate the circle of stones. “I suppose this is what you were looking for?”

I sat back on my heels. I had only one chance to talk these strange folk out of killing me. After that, I could only hope that I could retrieve my harpoon fast enough to cut my bonds and escape. “I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m a stranger to these lands. I’ve only come for the knife. It belongs to a sorcerer of the south, and I’ve been tasked with returning it to him.”

The man grinned, baring his teeth, and his eyes gleamed in the firelight. “That’s quite the story.”

“I have better tales, if it’s a tale you want,” I said. 

“Later, maybe, if I decide to let you live that long,” he replied. “I have a story for you. The knife belongs to the god of the grove, not some sorcerer a thousand miles away. It was stolen, and we took it back. It’s where it belongs now.”

He took a step to the side and held out a hand to indicate a young tree growing at the center of the circle. Embedded deep in the smooth, untouched bark was the leather-wrapped handle of an obsidian knife.

Back to Chapter LV: The Hall of Lord Oeric

Forward to Chapter LVII: The Village in the Forest

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I’m not completely satisfied with this arc, but I hope you’re enjoying it while I’m working it out.

I have two more chapters before this draft is done! It will have a total of 68 chapters and 6 interludes. For those keeping track at home, this is chapter 56 and there have been four interludes. Editing will cut this down significantly. I’m planning on fewer, longer chapters and more of a focus on different locations in the divisions between chapters.

Thanks for reading!