Melaxu keeps giving you orders, but it appears to be some kind of instinct trained by centuries of employing those mechanical helpers of hers; slowly she stops acting amazed that you do not immediately respond and starts asking you questions about the best route.

The morning is already warm. You can see nothing outside the grove, but as Melaxu watches the weather, you know that you can use the dense woods to your advantage. The trolls will be everywhere, but you know these lands better than they do.

After one final check of your meager supplies, you and Melaxu leave the grove. The woods instantly swallow you in their gray-green embrace. You move fast beneath the trees of the different tribes–pine and alder, oak and apple–and past those unclaimed, or claimed by the nations long dead: beech, yew, aspen, willow. The air reeks of smoke, and you hear troll voices in the hills, but that only hastens your flight. You see no one else. One time around midday you find a Pine tribe scarf trampled into the mud, but searching turns up nothing. And you dare not shout lest the trolls descend upon you.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Melaxu collapses the moment you set camp for the night. She is not used to wilderness travel, and you suspect the brutality of the last few days has unbalanced her. She eats her share of dried fish and immediately falls asleep. But despite the horrors you have seen, you have eluded the trolls. You are confident that you and Melaxu will reach Adwer by tomorrow evening.

If you can avoid growing lost. If the wolves, still hungry from the long winter, leave you alone. If the trolls don't find you.

Next