“Well…I cannot be completely certain, my lady, but the flying of the royal standard has me rather convinced.”
Her lips quickened into a smile. “You mean…”
“Yes, Lady Saska,” he said. “Hammer is fast approaching. And unless I am mistaken, the man who gave you that armour is aboard.”
45
He could hear their voices muttering through the branches.
They’re right below me, he thought.
Sir Pagaloth Kadosk had only just awoken from a short and troubled sleep, nestled among the high branches of an old oak tree. He had lashed a rope around him so he did not fall. Quickly, quietly, he worked the knot loose and coiled the rope, sitting up tight against the trunk. The leaves were thick and green and dripping, the rain falling from a slate-grey sky, the light thin and sickly. Pagaloth peered down through a gap in the canopy and saw men moving beneath him, glimpsed red cloaks and black armour and tall dragonsteel spears.
Dragonknights, he thought. I live in fear of my very own order.
Sir Pagaloth did not make a sound. He pulled his legs in, so that they did not dangle or rustle through the leaves, and kept himself perfectly still. He ached all over. Sleeping tied atop a tree branch was not comfortable, he had discovered, nor restful, and he felt weary to his bones. How much sleep had he had since he’d run from the battle? An hour here, an hour there, never much more than that. He could not even say how long it had been since he’d been running, or in which direction he had gone. Every day dawned grey and wet and foggy, and rarely had he glimpsed the sun. A week? Has it been as long as two, three? His exhaustion and discomfort were only matched by his hunger. His stomach felt so empty he could eat an entire boar and still have plenty of room for another.
The men below were talking to one another in hushed voices as they passed, though one had stopped to kneel on the ground near the oak’s broad trunk, brushing his hand through the undergrowth, searching for tracks. Don’t hear me. Don’t see me. Don’t look up, Pagaloth prayed. He had been careful to cover his trail when he made camp in this tree, though a skilled tracker might still see signs.
He drew a long deep breath into his lungs, trying to energise himself should he need to run. He had a way down through the branches planned out. If he was quick, he might be able to reach the ground before they had him surrounded, and then it would be a footrace once more. He’d found himself involved in two of those already, in the days since the battle, and had managed to outrun his opponents each time.
But now? I’m too tired, too weak, too hungry. Desperation would only take a man so far when his vital needs were not met, and it had been too long since he’d had a proper meal.
Keep going, he thought. Just keep on going. There’s nothing here for you. The tracker was still on his knee, searching the ground, eyes sweeping across the forest floor. Pagaloth saw another man step over to join him. He glimpsed a pin that marked his rank as captain. Words were shared, too low for him to hear, and then the captain looked up, peering through the branches.
Pagaloth froze, pressing himself against the bark. He had draped his cloak over him to better hide him among the leaves, and hoped he appeared no more than a shadow from down there. He dare not look. Hooded, he sat as still as a statue, listening for sudden shouts and commands below.
But there was nothing. Just the murmur of voices, then the rustle of armour, the tread of men continuing on through the trees. Pagaloth did not stir. He sat as he had been, cloaked and cowled and patient as a stalking cat, waiting for the sounds to recede. Then he waited some more, and some more after that. This might be some trick. They might come back. It was a risk he was not willing to take, so he stayed where he was for what felt like an hour, before finally climbing down.
He reached the forest floor, carefully descending through the thick, rough branches. When he landed he looked around. The tracks of the dragonknights were clear, moving away through the wooded valley and into the mists, though in what direction he couldn’t say. The skies were so clogged even the glow of the sun was veiled. Pagaloth turned and went the opposite way.
The Wandering Wood was a giant maze, he had come to find. Vast, unending, a hundred separate woods that all looked much alike, clothing a thousand rolling hills and valleys that he could not tell one from another. His days here had been more frustrating than he could say. He had no map, no guide, no horse, no one here to help him. When he did see the glow of the sun, he would make for the west at once, to try to get back to King’s Point, but those occasions were rare, and it was far too easy to get turned around again. For all he knew, he was further away than ever before. Perhaps I’m wandering toward the South Downs instead? I might be hundreds of miles away by now.
Navigating was no easier by night. If the skies had cleared to show the stars, Pagaloth had not seen them. Each night was black as the bottom of some pit, it was almost always raining, and that rain was turning cold. He slept where he could, but staying dry had proven impossible. One night he’d crawled into cover beneath the tangled branches of a deadfall, but had been awoken when a great river of rainwater came flooding down into his den. Another night, he had found a barn, long since abandoned and almost entirely overgrown, deep in some forgotten part of whichever smaller wood he was in. He had thought it safe enough to sleep in, so forged himself a nest of leaves, only for the roof to crumble as he drifted off to sleep, bringing rotted wood and rainwater down atop him.
Since then, he had chosen trees. The canopies were often thick enough to keep the worst of the rain off him, and if he lashed himself to a wide branch, he supposed he would not fall. That experiment had almost failed two nights ago, when the rope came loose in the night, and he woke with a start, about to roll off the edge, but he’d stopped himself just in time. Now he double and triple-checked his knots to make sure they held fast.
But sleep, when it did come, was almost impossible in anything more than fits and starts. He had to be on his guard all the time. From the fell creatures that might catch his scent and climb up to have a taste. From the Agarathi patrols, prowling about in numbers far greater than he had thought possible. Had more of them come from the south on ships? Most of the forts along the Black Coast had been destroyed now, and the Vandarian defences were shredded and dispersed. For all he knew thousands more of his kin had poured across the Red Sea, raiding and pillaging, shepherded by the fire priests who spoke with Eldur’s voice.
That thought disquieted him. He needed to get back to King’s Point and warn Lythian and Amron Daecar. If one of those priests should manage to infiltrate the prisoner camp, he would quickly muster all the Agarathi to his will. Like Ten’kin, he thought, bitterly. The man had been like a plague in their ranks, secretly taking the Agarathi deserters back into thraldom beneath the Fire Father’s wing. Pagaloth remembered the look in Sa’har Nakaan’s eyes as he cut at his own throat, sawing back and forth to empty his own lifeblood to the earth. The fear of being taken back into bondage had been too much for him to bear. He had sooner died than served, but how many are so strong as that? Am I? If they find me…will I be able to resist?
Sir Pagaloth walked on, bitter and alone, aimlessly wandering through the Wandering Wood and wondering, now, if that’s why they’d been so named. A man could wander here forever and never find his way out. Where is west? Where, damnit? He kicked out at a stone, sending it spinning off into the fog. Run, Sa’har Nakann had told him, and he had…but now a part of him wished he hadn’t. I might have stayed and fought. Maybe they even won?
He scowled at his own stupidity. It was a foolish notion and he knew it. Five hundred foes had descended upon them that day, pouring out through the mists of that valley, and the Agarathi deserters they had gathered had turned on them too. There was no winning that fight. Sir Hadros, Sir Bardol, Ruggard Wells and Mads Miller, Moro and Bellio and Sir Quento, the paladin knight. Most likely all were dead. They were my companions, my confederates, and I left them there to die. He had to, lest get caught himself, and turned a slave, and for some foul purpose…but all the same it shamed him.
He gripped the hilt of his dragonsteel sword, tightening his fingers around the leather grip. Around him the woods were thinning, the trees spreading. Banners of mist rippled by, drawn along on a whispering breeze. He could almost hear the voice of Ten’kin in the way it rustled and moved. Come, child, join us. It is no use to resist. If not me, another will ensnare you…
Another. How many of them are there? The dragons had brought some of the priests over from the south, Pagaloth had no doubt, and perhaps more of them had been sent in ships, protected by companies of spearmen and knights. For all he knew there were dozens of them spreading the will of Eldur through these lands…
The cracking of a twig caught his attention, somewhere to his left. The dragonknight froze to look around, listening for the tread of pursuers. He squinted at the drifting fogs, looking at every trunk and tree as though an enemy might come out from behind it.
He stood still for several minutes, turning slowly, listening, until he was satisfied there was no one there. The only sound was the keening wind, whispering in Ten’kin’s voice, the soft distant babble of a stream somewhere away to his right…and the rumbling in his stomach, cramping from lack of food. All he had eaten in long days were berries foraged from fruiting bushes, and those were scant enough. Most he found had been picked clean, by man and beast both, and game was scarce. He had been close to catching a wild turkey once, but the bird had been spooked by the approach of a patrol and Pagaloth had been forced to abandon the hunt and flee.
On he went, knowing not where. His head felt as foggy as the woods, his legs weak as river reeds, and not for the first time he wondered if he was dead. Had he perished in the battle after all? Was this some purgatory for the things he’d done in the past? Lythian had told him a hundred times that he’d paid his debts, but Pagaloth was not so sure. I should have trusted Kin’rar and Marak back then, he thought. I should never have spoken of their plot. It was his duty, required of his honour, but who was he to talk of honour against men like Ulrik Marak and Kin’rar Kroll and Lythian Lindar, the Knight of the Vale? I am but a spec on this earth compared to them. I should have let them kill Tavash, as they’d planned. Perhaps then none of this would have happened.
He had thought about it so often since then…how different things might have been had he simply kept his mouth shut. Tavash would never have been king. Lythian and Borrus and Tomos would never have been imprisoned and mocked and scorned. Sir Tomos would not have died. Lord Marak and Skymaster Kin’rar Kroll would never have fled to Tethian’s side. They would not have saved Lythian and Borrus from the Pits of Kharthar that day. Without Ulrik Marak, and Kin’rar, and Lythian, they never would have been able to get to the Wings. How could they have done so without Neyruu and Garlath to fly them there? How could they have made it down to the depths of Eldur’s Shame without Lythian and his ancestral blade? The prophecy of the Fire Father’s awakening was fated, some said, and had those events not transpired in that order, Eldur would have awoken anyway by some other means. But maybe not, Pagaloth thought. If only I had stayed true to the men I admired, if only I had not betrayed them, all of this might have been avoided. It is my fault the world is falling to ruin. My fault. And this is my penance.
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…
