The thoughts swirled darkly, but there was no point in thinking like that now. He had sworn his oath to Lythian and it was his duty to get back to him. I must tell him what has happened. Tell him his hopes for unity have been dashed. He ground his jaw at the thought of it, and held tight to his dragonsteel blade. Ten’kin. If ever I see him again, I will take his head from his shoulders, and spit on the ruin of his corpse.

He walked for long hours, trudging through the woodland and an open valley beyond, across a lofty hillside cloaked in mist, down the slope into another identical wood, always hoping for some sight of the sun. The gods did not grant him so much as a glimpse. The skies were dark grey and murky, the air bitter cold. There were sores all over his body from where his armour had chaffed him, the padded clothes he wore beneath soaked through by the rain. He felt soggy, chilled to the bone, sluggish and slow. He came to another hill, and climbed the sodden slope, stepping through the roots and rocks and soft humus on the forest floor, step by weary step. When he reached the summit, the trees thinned, and he looked around in hope, but saw nothing. Just the same grey skies, the same thick fog. Have I been here before? he wondered. Have I been walking in circles all along?

He could not say. The way down on the other side was more thickly forested, and what light there was withered and died, strangled by the branches and boles. Through a thick gloom he drifted, eyes scanning lazily for berries and edible roots. At the base of a large maple, he saw a cluster of mushrooms and knelt to pick them. His first instinct was to devour them instantly, but he inspected them first, turning them between his fingers, looking at the stalks, rings, gills and caps, and concluded that they were likely edible. Then he devoured them hungrily, chewing through the spongy flesh, eyes moving about in search of more. He found another spouting nearby, and another, and soon his belly was not so empty. It was scant nourishment, almost tasteless when uncooked, but would serve for now.

On he went. At the bottom of the forested hillside, a great muddy river was rushing stroppily through the vale, choked with sticks and branches and bits of debris. Pagaloth wondered if a river had ever rushed through here before. Most likely this one was new. Much of the land had become flooded and waterlogged, collecting in basins and valleys, but when some natural dam burst, the waters would come pouring out, always moving downhill, storming away to freedom.

They will make for the sea, Pagaloth thought. He had wondered if he should do the same - at least the rivers would lead him, if not the sun and stars - but decided against it. If he reached the coast he would know where he was, but those lands were open, offered little cover, and he would struggle to go unnoticed.

The river was too fierce and hazardous for him to cross safely here, but upstream he found a fallen tree that cut across its length, creating a place to ford. He picked carefully across, the water rushing up to his thighs, testing every step before moving forward. When he got safely across, he found another shallow hill before him, overgrown with high stiff grass and thornbushes. He continued upward, fighting through the tangles as his legs screamed out at the toil. His efforts were not in vain. At one bush, he found a great bounty of blackberries and feasted greedily, pricking his fingers a hundred times as he plucked them free and threw them into his mouth, chewing and swallowing, not caring a jot for the pain. He ate until he felt satisfied, then stashed the rest of the berries in his pack for later, not missing a single one.

By then the light was fading, and he would need to think about where to sleep for the night. At the top of the hill, the winds blew wildly, buffeting him as he struggled on, tugging insistently at his cloak. Ahead, the lands lengthened and flattened out. Through the bands of fog he glimpsed a broad plain, the shadow of another forest beyond. His heart sank. For a moment…just a brief moment…he’d wondered if the open plain augered the end of the Wandering Wood. But no. He was still in its midst, hopelessly and helplessly lost.

He sagged, though had no choice but to keep on going. The open land made him wary. His eyes flitted left and right and behind him, searching the mists, and often he stopped to stand still and listen. Distantly, he heard the howling of wolves, that long sorrowful sound that set a chill in the dragonknight’s bones. Common wolves he could fight off, perhaps, but anything larger would make a meal of him. Fellwolves, direwolves, shadowwolves and worse all prowled these parts, and those were all one family. There were bears and boars, slithering serpents and savage cats of similar peril, and more ancient creatures besides lurking in the dark.

The wind blew loud in his ears as he crossed the field, the fogs thickening and weakening and thickening again. Sometimes he could barely see his hand before his eyes. Then suddenly the air would clear and he would be granted a broader view. At one such time he sighted what looked like a building away to his right. He saw it in a glimpse and stopped, waiting for the mist to clear once more. On his second sighting, he realised it must be an inn, raised here in this field between the woods. It was small, a timber structure of two storeys, with a stable annexed to its flank. There was no light glowing behind the shutters. He saw no horses in the stalls, no movement outside, but could not be certain from this far.

He pondered what to do. It was possible the Agarathi had taken it for a base, dousing their torches and candles to lay a trap. Just as likely there was no one there, and he might be able to scavenge some food from the larder. Might there be an innkeep in hiding, with his family? He could have a map, Pagaloth thought. Information. He might be able to show me where to go…tell me where I am…

The thought of it was too tempting. He crept closer, moving through the tall tufts of swaying grass, trying to stay hidden as he approached. The wind gusted across the plain, loud and then quiet and then loud again, never resting. Pagaloth drew as near as he dared, then crouched in cover to watch. Rain pattered down upon his shoulders, but it was gentle now, and he could see the faintest colour in the sky, the blurred red hue of sunset beyond the clouds. West, he thought. He logged its position against the inn. At worst, he would find a tree nearby to camp in, then return here at daybreak, and go west from there.

He watched the inn for long minutes, searching for a glimmer of light, a flicker of movement behind a window. When the wind died, he closed his eyes and listened for voices or the tread of a boot on floorboards, the whicker of a horse. There was nothing. He turned his eyes behind him, and then left and right along the track. He saw no one out there. I’m alone, he thought.

He stood and strode forward.

First, he checked the stalls, and as expected, he saw no horses. Then he went around the back of the inn, peering through cracks in the shuttered windows, and saw no one. At the front door, he drew out his dagger, better for combat in close quarters should he need to fight. The mushrooms and berries had driven away the worst of his hunger, and there was a little more strength in his limbs. He reached for the handle. Turned it. It made a horrid whining sound as he pushed forward, and stepped in.

He moved his eyes across the darkness. The common room was silent and still, shadows of tables and chairs here and there. Dust motes flickered in the faintest of light. The inn looked long abandoned, its hearth cold, the air stolid and stale. The dragonknight moved quietly, light on his feet, but the floorboards creaked all the same. The sound seemed loud as a thunder strike in the silence, echoing eerily through the house. He reached a door that went back to the kitchens and pushed it open. The cabinet doors and drawers were all opened, their contents removed. He saw some jars and pots, but they were empty or elsewise of no use to him. If there had been food here, either the innkeep had taken it with him when he left, or someone had come by and cleaned them out.

He turned back into the common room, moving to a set of wooden stairs that led to the upper floor. The boards groaned as he climbed. At the top he found a landing that gave access to several rooms. There was a ladder, too, that permitted access to a loft where smaller sleeping cells would be. Pagaloth went room by room, hoping to find a map, a letter, anything that might tell him where he was, but found nothing. He climbed the ladder to the loft, but found nothing up there either. Just a bundle of clothes, heaped to one side, old and moth-eaten, and a small leather-bound book that had been left behind, forgotten beneath a bed.

He sat a moment, flicking through the pages. The book was a compendium of flora and fauna found in the Wandering Wood. He searched for a chapter on mushrooms, found the ones he’d eaten earlier, and confirmed that they were edible. It was one less thing to worry about.

A horse whickered outside.

His heart gave a lurch and he was on his feet in an instant. There was a small window in the loft, looking over the field. He paced over, looked out. A troop of men were coming up the road from the south, a dozen of them, perhaps two. Several had already reached the stables and were dismounting their steeds, moving to the door.

Pagaloth spun at once, speeding for the ladder, tossing the book onto the bed. He could hear men stamping into the common, heavy boots rattling against the boards, talking to one another in Agarathi. He wondered if he should stay up here and hide. Draw the ladder up so they couldn’t find him. Then he heard a man call out, “Search the building. Every room. If there’s anyone hiding here, I’ll know of it.”

That sealed it. Quick and quiet as a cat, Pagaloth descended the ladder and dashed into one of the rooms with a window that gave access to the outside. He made it just in time as a pair of soldiers stamped up the stairs, crimson-cloaked and leather-armoured with tattoos around their eyes, declaring their kills. “I’ll take this one,” he heard one of them say. “You start there.”

Pagaloth slipped behind the cover of the door, melting into shadow. He drew a breath to still his heart. He could hear the soldier walking along the landing, see the shadow passing the door. He slid his dagger from its sheath, waiting.

The man pushed the door open with a creak. He stepped in two paces and turned his eyes around. Pagaloth pounced, emerging from the shadows to slap a hand over his mouth, muffling his screams. His dagger flashed up, driving deep into the flesh of his neck. The soldier gave out a shudder of pain, jerking his legs as Pagaloth dragged him into a darkened corner. The boots thumped against the ground too loudly. Pagaloth pulled out the knife with a fine spray of blood, turned it, slammed it down into the man’s chest, puncturing his heart. The jerking stopped at once as his body fell limp. As quietly as he could he laid him on the ground, cursing that it had come to this.

“Jangor, you all right in there?”

The other man had heard. He was right outside, stepping in.

“If this is some joke, I…”

Pagaloth lunged out from the darkness, slashing at the man’s throat, cutting it to the bone. His head snapped back, blood gushing out in a wild red fountain, a gurgled scream spluttering from his mouth. He reached for his blade and stumbled back into a closet, crashing against the wood. The sound rang out through the inn. At once there was shouting down below, voices calling, the thunder of stamping boots slamming up the stairs.

Pagaloth spun, rushing for the window, pulling the shutters apart. There were too many for him to fight alone. The wind howled in from outside. He could hear men running up onto the landing, hollering as they came. One leg went through the window, and then the other, until he was perched on the edge. The drop was not far; down into some bushes below, growing at the side of the inn. He had time enough to glance back and see the men rush in as he threw himself out, landing in the shrubs with a crash of twigs and branches.

“After him!” a voice bellowed.

Pagaloth scrambled to his feet, pulling free a foot caught among the vines. He stumbled out onto the road. Above the skies were breaking up, and he saw his first sight of stars in long days. The rain had stopped falling, and the fog had started to clear. Damnit. Why now? The one time he needed those mists to conceal him and they were gone. Curse the gods!

He set off at a run, making for the woods. Men were crying out behind him, rushing to mount their horses and give chase. Several others had vaulted through the window in pursuit and were following him afoot. A sharp wail suggested a man had landed poorly, but Pagaloth gave him no mind, dashing through a pool of moonlight, turning off the road and away to the nearest trees.

A spear came whistling past him, so close it almost shaved the skin off his neck. It slammed into the ground ten paces ahead, quivering. “Alive!” he heard a man bellow. “We take him alive!”

He reached the trees, rushing beneath the canopy…and all hope of escape was gone.

Far as he could see they spread out evenly, widely spaced, the forest floor flat and mottled in open patches of hard-packed dirt and slanting rays of moonlight. There were no hazards to trip horses, or slow them, no rivers into which he might jump and swim and flee, no rocky cliffs he could scale to win his freedom. It was the plainest wood he had ever seen, as though some cruel god had made it just so to taunt him. Curse the gods! he thought again. He drew out his sword and turned.

There was a man right behind him, who had not expected him to whirl. Pagaloth took him off guard, saw the eyes widen as he swung and cut the man down. A host of others were following, though they were not all together, and coming in ones and twos. Pagaloth roared and ran at the nearest pair, hoping to thin out the herd as best he could. He was on them in a flash. His dragonsteel sword caught the moonlight, rippling red between the fullers, as he cut down at one man’s hand, shearing through the fingers and slicing off half the palm as he snatched for his sword. The man stared at his mangled hand in mute shock. Then the pain came and he screamed.

The other foe was a dragonknight, the one who had thrown his spear. He had a sword as well, ripping it from its sheath. Further back a voice was still calling for them to take him alive, but the dragonknight paid it no mind. “Traitor!” he roared. Then he stormed forward with all his rage.

Pagaloth swung up to fend off his attack, and they clashed loudly, steel on steel. The impact jarred. Pagaloth moved back, letting his enemy come onto him, then turned his next cut aside, pirouetting around the knight’s back, slashing off half his cloak and raking a line across his scale armour.

The man with the mangled hand was still screaming, clutching at his wrist, watching in horror as the blood burst and pulsed from his palm. Pagaloth swung about, silencing him with a flashing upcut that sliced through his low jaw, and in the same move danced back about to face his foe.

“Traitor!” roared the dragonknight again, seeing his companion crumple in a bloody heap. He came at him, blade swishing. Pagaloth’s caught the attack six inches from his eyes. The blades trembled against one another, ringing. Hie foe scraped his blade away, edge to edge, then swung in a brutal sidecut. Pagaloth turned it, tracked backward, cutting hard at his opponent’s flank. His steel bit into the thick scales of his dragonhide armour, lodging there a moment. With a heave Pagaloth ripped it free. A trickle of blood came with it, red on black. The man grunted, swinging at him again. Behind, Pagaloth could see the rest of the host coming his way. Too close, he thought. Too many. There were another five, six, seven of them afoot, racing into the trees. Behind came the mounted men, kicking their spurs, brandishing spears and swords, their tips and edges winking in the moonlight.

He would be overwhelmed in short order, he knew. Unless…

He whirled, suddenly, ramming his bloodied blade back into its sheath and surging away through the woods in a sprint. The move caught his foe unawares. “Coward!” he bellowed, disdainful. Then he grunted and made to follow.

Pagaloth Kadosk had always been quick. He drew upon his reserves of strength now, hurtling with all his speed. Some of the men were left behind; others raced to keep up, but none were as pacy as he was. It was the horses who would catch him. And the first one to reach him…

He glanced back. One was closing fast, galloping past the boles, kicking up clods of dirt. The forest floor shivered, leaves stirring. Shouts rang out through the trees. Pagaloth knew it was his only chance. He reached for his dagger as he ran, drawing it out. Ahead was a large oak, thick-trunked and wide. He kept up his sprint until he passed it, then abruptly changed direction, dashing to the right. The rider shouted a curse and pulled the reins, twisting to give chase, but Pagaloth had stopped and turned. He steadied his footing, drew a breath, took aim at his target and threw.

The dagger sliced the air. The rider had barely enough time to blink before it struck him in the eye, gouging a path to his brain. His head cracked back. The horse gave out a ringing neigh and reared, but Pagaloth was already there, hurrying forward to snatch the reins. With his other hand he reached up, grabbed a fistful of cloak, and tugged hard, pulling the dead rider from the saddle. Then he vaulted up, swinging his leg over, kicked his heels into the horse’s flank and roared, “Heyah!”

The steed set off at a wild gallop. Hope soared in him. The trees were spaced out and even ahead, and suddenly that favoured him. Ride hard! he thought. Ride until you can ride no more! He would lose the men afoot like this, and if he could only outpace the other riders…

A thump rippled through the horse’s rear. The beast screamed and buckled, its front legs collapsing beneath it. Pagaloth went flying from the saddle, gouging a muddy track in the ground where he landed. He crawled to all fours, wheezing. The horse was trying to stand, failing, screaming as it fell back down. A long black spear protruded from its rump, blood trailing down through its glossy coat. Behind, mounted dragonknights closed in, the rest hurrying to catch up, shouting as they came. Pagaloth glimpsed a man in robes back there, robes red as a bloody dawn. No…he thought.

“Get him up,” someone said.

Men were pulling to a stop around him, dismounting. Pagaloth staggered to his feet, reaching to draw out his sword. In a blink three dragonknights had him surrounded. He panted, trying to recover his breath, then lashed out at the first he saw. The knight swiped his attack aside. The two others came in behind him. He felt hands on his wrist, shaking his blade loose, an arm around his neck, choking him. He struggled against them, but it was no use. A boot kicked at the back of his leg with a sharp stab of pain, driving him down to his knees. Two men held him there as others gathered around, panting and scowling and cursing. Their eyes showed hate and their lips were twisted. Pagaloth glimpsed red in their gaze.

Their captain stepped through, waving as he came. “Someone silence that damn horse.”

“We should silence him too,” said another man. He snatched a dagger from his belt and took a menacing pace forward. “Northern scum. He killed Jangor and Taglo and...”