"We deal with the warlock. We bring Birgid back. They will talk to us. You'll be able to share your book. We will work something out."
"You always say that. Always tell us what's going to happen and what's right for us. Three of us left now, Shield, and nowhere to turn. We were supposed to be something."
"Are you done? Are you ready for the bog to consume your flesh and bones? Who's going to share the Song of the Southern Sword? There are still great things ahead, unfinished business for the Hounds. Our destiny."
Harad shook his head. "We'd be dead and you'd keep dragging us one step further. Might as well just chase the sunset to see if it can't be daylight for ever."
Shield broke from Harad and wheeled his horse about to the front of the small party of Northmen. The night prior Harad had corralled some of the youngsters around a fire and had pulled out his book. But the pages were stuck together, speckled green and black with mold. The children had been patient at first, but the big man fumbled with the words and had to skip whole sections where he could not separate the pages. Soon the children were wrestling amongst themselves, dirtying themselves in the ashes by the dying fire. Then one of the old women scatted the children back to their beds and scolded Harad for wasting their time with stories of the devil people.
Patch was up front with some of the young warriors, laughing, continuing to spin the yarns of their adventures that he had begun with a bottle of mead the night before. The young warriors were enraptured, lured by the song of the Hounds. Maybe these boys were Shield's new Hounds, young blood to finally replace the old. Maybe Shield had just needed to return North, to the source, to draw from the land and people to regain his strength.
The party of travelers – the Hounds, the young warriors and Eliode – paused at the edge of the forest.
The leader of the gang of young warriors who had first met the Hounds at Lake's End, the one who called himself Little Wolf, stared into the shadows of the wood and the mists that entangled the trunks. A low, near indistinguishable hum that came from within. "We can pass south following Forest's Way. I know the watering holes and where the deer gather."
"Too much time would be lost," said Eliode, wrapped tight in furs on her white horse. "Through the Dark Woods we shall go."
Shield knew that Eliode was right, that if they wanted to get at Birgid and the warlock as soon as possible that the fastest way was through the Dark Woods. But remnant fear clung to him.
"We can't go into the Dark Woods," said Little Wolf. "It's forbidden."
"We have no other choice," said Shield. Fear ran through the riders as clearly as the wind rippling across the surface of the lake. It even ran through Harad and Patch.
"The hunters only skirt along the edges," said Little Wolf. "There are dark things in those woods."
"You earned those scars sitting around the campfire with the children?"
Little Wolf said nothing.
"Just follow me."
Even as Shield passed the first tree, the chill came to him, not the chill of a sudden winter storm or of morning before sunrise, but the chill like that from a pit in the earth, a place of shadows that never saw sun.
This was not Shield's first time in the Dark Woods and he knew it was not the first time for any of them. They all had ventured across the shadowy barrier. It was a rite of passage – to follow a wounded deer, to pluck the herbs that grew beneath the trees, to embrace the dare of a clan brother.
But when they had crossed before into those woods, they had ventured only far enough so that the lake and the valley were always in clear sight through the trunk of the trees. In regards to the Dark Woods, they heeded the warnings of their elders.
There were whispers of those who did not. Those who pursued the wounded deer just one step further. Those who saw a patch of glowing mushrooms just beyond the next tree. Those were the ones who never came back to Lake's End.
"I hate this place," said Harad, voice low to keep from adding to the fright of the others.
"Don't we all."
"But you overcame it, didn't you, Shield?"
Shield remembered that day long ago. It had not been Shield alone that had overcome the Dark Woods.
He had come to Lake's End before those last summer games, full of bravado. The clans had begun gathering and Shield wanted to prove himself by bringing back a stag. He had tracked for prints along the lake following the waters around the northwest side to the edges of the Dark Wood. He had nearly given up hope of a bringing back a prize when he saw the prints in the mud, the deep prints of a heavy beast. He should have noticed that something was wrong with the gait of the stag, that the impressions in the mud were too deep, but he was hungry for glory. Driven, he followed the tracks up the slope, through the grasses and rocks to where they scratched open bare earth before vanishing into the Dark Woods.
He had hesitated at the border between light and dark. The warnings of the elders resounded in his ears. He was not ready to cross them. He decided to turn back empty handed. Still he was torn by his decision. While he would not be ridiculed, he would also not stride back triumphant. He wanted all eyes on him, especially those deep shadowed eyes of Birgid. But the stories of the dangers of the Dark Woods filled his head.
He had been just starting back when the branch snapped.
A massive, muscled leg of a stag and then a spread of antlers caught for a moment in a shaft of light. The prize was there within the range of his spear. He would not need to venture far. Shield crept into the forest. Behind him, the forest closed with each step as if the trees themselves moved closer together.
He knew not to push beyond where he could see the lake and the grasses of the valley. He had been warned. He had heard the stories around the campfires, the tales of dread and dark magic since he was a small child snuggled tight on his mother's lap on those starry summer nights when the clans gathered.
So he kept the lake within sight, moving parallel to the edge of the Dark Woods. Leaves rustled deeper within the wood. He could see the antlers, then that back leg. What a prize it would be to bring back a stag so large. He craved those dark eyes on him.
But he was not close enough to make the kill. He would need to move deeper into the woods. What difference would it make whether he was a step or two away from where he could see clearly to the lake and the grasses? He would simply turn around and walk out.
So he slipped forward those few steps that he had been warned never to take. He looked back. The lake was gone. The grasses of the valley hidden from sight. But Shield was not worried. A few steps back in the direction he had come and he would be able to return.
He turned back to the stag. Its shape deformed into shadows. He tightened his hands around his spear ready to hurl it true to its target.
What he would have sworn a moment ago were the antlers of a stag were suddenly the bleached branches of a dead tree. The shadows shifted. The stag was no longer there. How could it have disappeared? Fear pricked his spine.
Shield realized he had made a mistake. So he turned, took those few steps back towards the lake and the grasses, took a few more steps, ran, and then stopped.
He had easily retraced the steps that he had taken, but the space between the trunks never opened, sight of the lake and valley never came. It was as if the woods had closed and he could not return to the lake.
The must of an animal smothered him. A branch snapped and then another. Leaves rustled behind him. A breath came down on him suddenly.
Panicked, he turned and hurled his spear. It flew into the shadows of the undergrowth disappearing into the darkness. There was something: a noise, like an unwinding. Shield could swear it was laughter and it came at him slowly, picking its way among the black tree trunks.
Shield drew his blade, crouching low but staying mobile. There was nothing in front of him. Leaves crackled beneath the approaching steps. Branches snapped high in the trees. The shadows in front of him condensed. A whisper seeped from the cold earth.
Somethi
ng came at him, something right at him that he could not see.
Then a hand cupped his shoulder and Birgid's breath touched in his ear. "Come with me, Shield."
Without taking his eyes off the shadows, he had stepped backwards, guided by the warm clasp of Birgid Wordswallow, guided by the witch that he desired, guided out of the Dark Woods and back into the bright light of day.
Now near two decades later, he returned to those woods, to whatever might lay in wait for the one that had gotten away, strengthened only by the hope that the daughter of Birgid would be able to lead him through the darkness.
INFILTRATE
A LONE RIDER challenged Spear.
"I've heard of an army gathering, an army to challenge Empire, and I've come to add my sword."
The rider was young, one of the Painted Men, his near naked body covered in blue. The man's eyes scanned Spear, his weapons, his face. "Your beard."
"Growing back. Below the Black River I was captured. They shaved my beard, cut my locks, shackled me in iron to build up their fortress. But I escaped and now I want my revenge."
"You made it this far without a horse?"
Spear laughed. "What's a little walk in the rain and the heather?"
"Join us around the fire for story and mead."
Spear did not realize that he was holding his breath until he was well past the sentry. He should not have been afraid. After all he was Spear Spyrchylde, little lord of Cullan town, a man whose scars were earned through blood and battle. But now he walked into something so familiar and yet unknown.
He thought of Yriel back in their small home in the fortress town. He missed her. When he got back, he would spend more time with her, linger in bed in the mornings like she wanted to. A sudden fear dropped to the pit of his stomach. Why were the things he knew he should do always lost in the future? Why was he never willing to do those things now?
One day, he would be a good man to Yriel. One day he would have enough coin to buy his citizenship. One day he would start to live his life.
What if those days never came? What if this day was his last? Then what good were all the dreams deferred?
The encampment was sprawling and once he was past the sentry he was one of the men, no different than the others gathered.
They occupied a grassy meadow, tents of skin and branch littering the earth, bunches of men gathered around evening fires, a few tending to their horses, others skinning recently caught deer. It was more than just Painted Men here and this is why it was easy for Spear to fit in. There were men from a wide range of clans. He hoped that he would not be recognized so he pulled the hood of his furs over his head.
He wandered the encampment. The tents were loosely clustered along clan lines. He did not see anything that looked like it would have housed the warlock: a tent apart from the others or a tent heavily guarded. He needed to find out if the warlock was here.
He wanted to avoid those who knew him so he ended up approaching the edge of a fire circled by old timers from the fishing villages on the Western Seas. They nodded him into their circle passing a bottle of mead and signaling him towards a small rabbit on a spit. He peeled back a strip of gristly flesh between thumb and knife.
He introduced himself with his concocted story and let the conversation drift, following, waiting until the right time.
"How long will we make camp here before going after the Dhurmans?" he asked.
"Fennewyn will draw them to us," said one of the old timers, a man whose wrinkles and gray were not that different from Spear's. "He destroyed a legion far south. He waits for them to come to him."
"And we wait here with him?"
"He's not here," said another. "A day or so north. There," he said pointing, "those mists to the north. His bog. In there is his stone tower, or so they say."
"And we will fight the Dhurmans here in this field before they can reach him?"
"No, we're to let the Southern devils through. Engage them and then flee north towards the tower, then scatter once we're in the bog. He's warned us not to stay too long, not to get too close."
"And he's enough to defeat them?"
"He's got Painted Men up there, a small force. But it's not just that, he's also got that witch up there with him, that Birgid Wordswallow. I think she's the one the Dhurmans need to fear more than anything else. Her magic runs deep."
Hours later when the darkness and the mists had thickened, Spear walked to the edge of the encampment and then past the silhouette of the sentry.
Birgid Wordswallow? He was to help kill Birgid Wordswallow?
PATCH
HARAD FLICKED HIS eyes to the right. Nothing. He was sure that he had seen something moving in the shadows of the boles of the trees. Every time he looked, he met only the endless line of dark trees.
"It's not just you," said Patch. "Something's there."
Harad nodded, words too caught in his throat for him to answer.
They were half a day's ride into the Dark Woods.
"I'm having a hard time imagining us getting any sleep tonight," said Patch. "Especially with these young whelps tagging along." He nodded his head at the line of young Northman trailing them.
"You think she knows the way?" Harad asked of Eliode, who wrapped in furs, rode at the head of the column with Shield at her side.
"We should have just followed Forest's Way. A mad rush to set ourselves in front of dark magic again. This never ends, does it?"
"Where will we go back to after this?" said Harad.
"Maybe there is no after this. We're dead men riding. Our time is long overdue."
"Can't talk to you when you're like this, Patch."
"Twenty years of answering his fucking call until only three of us are left. And now this shit."
"We did what we had to," said Harad.
"We did what we were told. We've never been free. We shackled ourselves when we stood and let Shield kill our king."
Harad shook his head. "He was not our king. Not at all. He killed Shield's father. What were we supposed to do? Let that blood debt go unanswered?"
"I'm tired of all this, Harad." Patch stole a glance again to the back of the line of horses, back into the thick woods. "We cursed ourselves to this fate that day. Nothing for us any more. Traitors in the North, foreign devils in the South. Even the legions refuse us. We're as good as dead."
Harad was about to respond when the shadows materialized.
The thick spear flew true, tearing through the chain mail of one of the young clan warriors in the middle of the pack. Harad saw the deerskin loincloth, the naked torso of a man, blood painted on his cheeks. Then the attacker vanished into the trees, one moment his mouth wide in smile, then next gone into the shadows as if he had never existed.
But the body on the ground was proof otherwise.
Without a word, the party slipped from their horses and dispersed, creating a loose circle, spears and shields in hand. They waited but nothing came.
After a while, Shield called the circle tighter. "Strip him of his gear and get his horse."
"We take his body with us," said Little Wolf. "He is my sworn brother. I will not leave him here."
"He's already gone," said Shield. "We can't be burdened with the extra weight."
"Easy to see how you lost so many Hounds."
Patch lunged forward. "I should fucking kill you."
Shield stepped between the two men. "Enough."
"Okay, leader," said Little Wolf with a sneer. "Lead us. What the hell do we do now?"
"We keep moving. Tighten up the column. Send one ahead on foot as a scout, another to trail behind. We push ahead."
"We go after him," said Little Wolf. "He's just going to be waiting for us further ahead. I can take a few of my warriors and track him down. We'll be back within the hour with his head on our belt."
"We focus on our objective. We keep forward and get through the Dark Woods."
"We let him away and he'll only come back at us."
"No
. We keep moving toward Fennewyn's tower," said Shield.
"I don't follow traitors." Little Wolf signaled his men to him. They dismounted and tied their horses to the trunks of trees. Their bare swords glinted in the dark of the forest. "We'll catch up to you, old timers." The young warrior and his men vanished into the trees.
"As much ground as we can cover," said Eliode.
An hour later, Harad was kicking his horse as hard as could through the trees following the barely marked trail. They suddenly plunged into a gully only to peel their way out.
Another of Little Wolf's band screamed in horror behind them. The shadow creatures were closing on them.
Branches whipped across cheek and shoulder, bushes against thigh and shin. Patch was fast on him, the breath of his horse on Harad's shoulder. The sky grew dimmer about them and then the trail ended at the entrance to a cave in a stone rise.
Harad turned side to side, but the tree trunks, black and smooth, were grown as thick as the pickets of a fence. Behind them, the swirl of the riders, the rising whisper came over the screaming of one of their own.
He hoped that Shield and Eliode had somehow escaped after they had been separated during the pursuit.
"Into the cave," shouted Little Wolf.
"No," said Harad. "Not the cave."
But it was too late. A handful of the clansmen had raced their horses to the entrance of the cave, leapt from their mounts and turned to face whatever it was that came at them from the forest.
He tried to say something more, but it was too late. A blade of shadow flicked out from the cave and plunged through the back of one of the Northmen. Then the blade turned into a claw and pulled another of the young warriors into the cave.
Little Wolf stood frozen, spear rattling in his hands. The shadow creature came out of the cave, his hands and lips bloody beneath the gauze of shadow.
Little Wolf had led his small band into a trap. They had not found the warrior who had thrown the spear. They had found something worse. Harad had been shocked to see the young warriors racing up the trail after the Hounds and Eliode, but even more shocked when he had seen what pursued them.
Black River (The Hounds of the North Book 2) Page 23