The morning mist was thick and twisted as the boy came stumbling out of the forest into the village of Falderfell. He dragged his bruised and bloodied feet across the damp soil of the pathways, his shirt and trousers all in tatters. His hair was uneven and raggedly cut and fell about in mats, stuck to him by sweat and dirt. His breaths came out sharp and fast as if he had been running for a great distance through the great ocean of trees that surrounded the village. He hobbled, panting and shaking into the village square, where he collapsed against the stones of the well, laying so still that only the rise and fall of his breathing was indicative of life. The townsfolk gathered around him, murmuring and shaking their heads. They were not surprised at the boy’s coming. Unknown children were far from the strangest thing that tended to wander from the trees. The most peculiar thing about the whole affair was that the boy clutched in his hands a massive sword.
The mayor was able to pry the thing from the boy with considerable effort. The boy clutched to the sword as if releasing it would stop his heart, and his teenage muscles were wiry and strong even through malnutrition. The sword was of fine make, finer than any of the blades carried even by Captain Gareth. The handle was of twisted black iron, turning up into a small cross guard that just covered the first finger. The blade was long and made of steel that shone in the soft morning light, the single edge curving slightly to a wicked point. Etched into the blade were a multitude of runes that no one, not even the town librarian Ruthe, could make any sense of. It was deceptively light but strong enough to crack one of Ranger’s smaller short swords when tested.
Raya watched the affair play out as she and her mother carried baskets of grain and flour through the village. It was time for harvest, the air was beginning to grow crisp with the beginnings of autumn, and her mother insisted they had no time to gawk at strange boys in the town square. Her mother was the town baker, as her mother had been, and Raya would be before long. As they carried the baskets from the wagon into the bakery’s storage shed, Raya couldn’t help but watch as the mayor and the ranger discussed what to do with the boy, but more importantly the swords. The ranger, the one currently stationed in the village was a lean, rat-faced fellow named Jeorge, was insisting that the sword needed to be brought to the old fort.
“We’ve barely got enough steel as is. The Captain needs every bit he can use.”
The mayor scrunched his face and massaged his forehead with his fingers. “Don’t you think we should at least try to understand what it is before we just ship it off to hack at gods know what?”
Jeorge shrugged, crossing his arms. “Not much to understand. A blade’s a blade. If it can kill a rot walker, it should be at the fort.”
The boy had been given a blanket by one of the Mothers and lay against the stone of the well, staring blankly forward. Mother Reila had brought him a bowl of soup and he tore into with the ferocity of a child who had not eaten in untold days. A few of the Mothers stood to the side, watching the boy and speaking amongst themselves, their arms crossed in front of them. Raya’s mother noticed her staring and grabbed her arm.
“Come now, Raya. The Mothers will sort it out, and it’s no business of yours.” Raya’s mother was in line to join the matriarchs within a few years. Her father had had no interest in running the town. He was likely in the bakery already, covered in flour as he kneaded the dough for the day. Raya caught one last look at the boy as she entered the bakery with the last basket of grain. Mother Elin was guiding him by the hand into the town hall, the mayor still arguing with Ranger Jeorge. His eyes were green and wild, darting to every corner and every rooftop, his bony arms covered in scratches and bruises. Raya thought she caught a glimpse of something in between neck, just barely covered by his shirt. The skin looked scarred and blistered, but too precise to be the result of an accident. Was the boy branded? Raya’s mother called out from inside, her tone hinting that she was not going to ask another time. Raya darted inside, her skirt fluttering behind her as she joined her mother and father in the bakery that had kept their family housed and fed for untold years
After a few hours of deliberation, a decision was made about the boy and his strange sword. The blade would be brought to the old fort as a personal gift to Captain Gareth for his years of service as captain of the Rangers. The boy would be cared for by Jaret and Fey Ferrew, the town blacksmiths. They had lost their oldest boy to a particularly territorial oak shade and needed the help and companionship in their forge. Within a few days, things were normal, and the boy was a member of the village. He had no memory of where he was from, why he was in the forest, or even his name. When the Mothers would mention the strange brand on his back, the boy would grow deadly silent and start to shake uncontrollably. The village decided it was best to leave the matter and named the boy Tefta. It was not the strangest thing Falderfell had seen, nor would it be their last curiosity.
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The stars were hidden, but if Seren craned his neck at just the right angle, he could see the moon through the dark blanket of clouds covering the night sky. The wind was cold and howled faintly as it made its way through trees. It wasn’t a biting cold like the winter months brought when the cold seeped through layers of clothing into the skin and bones. It was cold enough to be a nuisance without a fire, so stealth be damned, the Rangers had built a fire.
Seren sipped a cup of hot tea, his short sword and bow resting on his lap. The two other rangers assigned to Camp Baelon sat near him in a circle, Fyrn whittling a piece of wood with his hunting knife and Trissa lying on her back staring at the canopy above.
“Boring night,” Fyrn said absently as he carved away at the scrap of wood. He had an annoying habit of not letting silence be. Always had to say something.
“Dreary is more like it,” Trissa tossed a stone into the air and caught it before tossing it up again.
Calling Camp Baelon an actual camp was a vast overstatement. The Ranger’s southern outpost was a single canvas tent to house the three Rangers and a wooden shack that the word rickety could not begin to describe. The shack held the supplies that would keep the Rangers fed for the next few months until winter drove them back to the old fort.
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“Have you ever wondered why this place is called Camp Baelon, while the old fort is just…well the old fort?” Fyrn held the scrap of wood up, turning it in his hand. His hood was thrown back, and his brown-black hair tied in a tail behind his head. “Seems like it should have more of an official name.” The wind howled again, making the embers of the fire flare up in its wake. Seren spotted a pair of eyes flickering in the darkness behind Trissa. Probably a wind nymph, better to leave it alone. Few things in the forest were a good idea to acknowledge.
“It’s called Camp Baelon because some much more talented and experienced Ranger named it such,” Trissa said as she sat up, tossing the rock from hand to hand. If Fyrn couldn’t shut up, Trissa couldn’t sit still. Her black cloak was pulled around her to ward of the chilly air and her amber hair spilled around her shoulders. “And the old fort is called the old fort because it’s a damned old fort.” Trissa suddenly threw the rock. It whistled past Seren’s face making him jump. He turned, grabbing his sword. A grass-green roxie lay next to a spilt bag of dried acorns by the shed, dazed and leaking green blood from its pointed ears. It must have snuck in while they were distracted.
Trissa stood up and grabbed the tiny imp by its foot and tossed it into the darkness. Seren heard a wet thump as it crashed into a tree. “Damned things. The winter needs to come so we have a few months without the bother.” Seren felt a twinge of pity for the poor creature, but remembering the two daggers that had gone “missing” last spring quickly extinguished that feeling.
“The winter needs to come so we can leave this blasted place,” Seren grumbled. They had been stationed here three weeks ago at the beginning of autumn and instructed not to leave unless a dire emergency needed to be reported. The last few weeks of uneventful patrols and nonexistent game was painting a picture for the next few months, Seren feared. He never thought he would miss the hard cots of the old fort, but at least you got to fight an oak shade or a rot walker now and again.
Fyrn snorted. “Got a long time until then. The glorious life of a Ranger not suiting you?”
“Shut up. I just wish we could at least see a deer or two.”
Trissa stepped around him, wiping the roxie blood off on the back of his cloak. “Don’t be so sullen all the time. It’s not good for you.”
“You know, you could’ve hit me with that rock.”
“But I didn’t, did I?” Trissa smirked. She was quite pretty when she wasn’t lobbing rocks at him. She had joined with Seren, gone through training with him, hunted with him, and was now stationed in a barren camp too close to wight country with him.
The fire crackled as Seren placed another log on the embers. The trees surrounded the three Rangers, ever-present and watching in their eternal vigil. Occasional cracks from the underbrush and rustles gave Seren the feeling of being surrounded. In truth, he knew that Camp Baelon was in a marginally safer location than the old fort. The deep woods beyond Ela’s Weeping were an ominous sight for even an experienced Ranger. At least the old fort had a wall and the safety of numbers. And they were so close to wight country. Seren imagined the circle stones waiting in the maze of trees, harbingers of the mist-choked and wight-infested ruins that lay beyond.
“Movement in the brush,” Trissa said, breaking Seren out of his daydream. He grabbed his bow, Fyrn sheathing his knife and laying his wood scrap down gingerly. Fyrn was the senior of the three and was serving as the patrol leader for the deployment. Trissa had already slung her quiver over her shoulder and had an arrow in hand, crouched by the fire, her face hidden under her hood. Seren reached for an arrow, but Fyrn’s gesture stayed his hand. Don’t be jumpy, Captain Gareth had told them before they left. Jumpy will get you killed.
Fyrn crouched down. Leaves and brush were rustling from in the darkness, too heavy to be normal wildlife. He kept his hand out, beckoning for the younger Rangers to stay still. They
waited there, Seren’s heart slowing as he waited for the inevitable disappointment. It would turn out to be nothing in the end, just like that moon deer he thought he had seen. His muscles were beginning to ease up and his hand loosening on the arrow when an electric blue glow began to shine through the forest, casting long shadows in the dark.
“Cover the fire!” Fyrn hissed. Seren pulled his cloak from his shoulder and threw it over the fire, feeling exposed and bare as the world plunged back into darkness. The fire was mostly embers, and the Ranger cloaks were thick for this purpose, designed not to burn. He knocked an arrow, holding it to the string but not pulling back, as the captain had taught. Don’t pull the string back until you’re ready to shoot. Your arm will tire, and you’ll miss and then you’ll die. Fyrn had his sword in hand, still in the sheath, Trissa still motionless in the shadows.
The glow moved through the oaks, making shapes across the Ranger’s faces. Hopefully, it was a moon deer or just a lone wight. They weren’t dangerous unless you ran into a group of them. But they were so close to the circles. Seren eyes focused to the sudden darkness. He could make out a group of figures making their way through the forest, aglow with that electric blue light, their skin a mass of uneven shapes and ridges. They carried spears of wood and stone, wisps of lichen and moss hanging from the handles. They chittered in a clicking, shrill tongue as they lumbered through the brush.
Fyrn stood up, pushing back his hood. “Put your arrows away,” he said aloud. “It’s just a squad of toadstools.”Seren’s body relaxed as he put the arrow back in its quiver. He pulled the bowstring from its place and let the bow go slack. “I didn’t think they came this far south.” The Mycellians walked past in a single row. They were all composed of countless interlocking series of
mushrooms, toadstools, and lichens. Their faces were uneven and made of the same petrified fungus. Some of them, who knew if there even were males, had beards and long manes of moss around their faces. Their eyes were black beads placed into depressions in their fungal skulls. Some carried spears, others carried mossy swords of black obsidian. Their bodies pulsed with that glowing blue light. He pulled his cloak from over the fire, the embers still glowing faintly. He slung it back over his shoulders, the cloak wasn’t even warm.
“Do you think they notice us?” Trissa asked, her bow still in hand as she walked up between Fyrn and Seren.
“Oh, they do,” Fyrn said, plopping back down on his log and unsheathing his knife. “They just don’t care.” He threw another log onto the embers and grabbed his wood chunk. “The only ones that care to notice are the rot walkers, and I could do without one of those bastards raging about.”
The rest of the night proved uneventful, as Seren feared. Trissa went to bed not long after the Mycellians passed through, and Fyrn followed, letting Seren take the first watch, as usual. He sat by the fire, running a whetstone along the edge of his short sword, the rasping sound cutting through the silence of the night. The night had grown cold, and the fire small and weak, so he wrapped himself in his cloak.
He couldn’t help but think of his fear when he saw that glow in the dark. Things that glowed like that in the forest weren’t afraid to show themselves. Things that wanted to announce their presence. Even a peaceful moon deer could be deadly, with its glowing horns and iron hooves. As Seren sat underneath a cloudy sky, by a dying fire in a cold forest, he was profoundly aware of the fact that he gave off no light of his own and blended into the shadows.