Belius poked at the corpse with the base of his staff. “What do you think, Corporal?” his voice near back to its normal gruffness

A snort. “I think, great Belius, that you don’t know when to quit. I think I’d rather be in a tavern oglin’ servin’ wenches —ugly servin’ wenches— than standin’ more than two days’ march inside a faerie wood oglin’ the corpse of a were boar whilst Bayel is stirring.”

“Ah, so you’d noticed it was a were,” Belius ignored the rest. “Good. Do these tracks tell you anything?”

“Oh, aye,” the corporal waved an arm in a broad gesture, his tone full of self-mockery. “They tell me a’plenty. That one there, for instance? It says plain as day, ‘Corporal, you’re after bein’ in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ An’ that one over there? It says—”

“Yes, yes, we all know you’d rather be somewhere else, but what do they say?

“Hah!” the corporal’s bark of mock laughter held no humor. “I’d rather be anyplace else, Belius! As would you if you’d the sense the gods gave a house mouse. Hells, man, I’m naught but the son of peasants, but even I know what happens when Bayel stirs!”

But the mage was stubborn to the point of statuary, and so the corporal sighed, pointed to the tracks surrounding the dead beast, and told the story. “The boar lay over there, pretending to be a rock or stump or sommat, you know how they do. Our golem walked past pretty as you please, luring it out into the open—”

“Luring?” Belius broke in. “You don’t think he might simply have missed seeing it?”

“Might’ve if it weren’t for the rest.”

“Rest...?”

“Aye,” the corporal told him. “See, once he lured it out and it broke its camouflage spell, it charged him instead of the others.”

“Others?” Given time, Belius might be able to cast a dweamor strong enough to have even one of the trees of Bayel’s wood tell him what had happened, but he was a complete dunce when it came to reading trail sign.

“Oh, aye, others,” the corporal groaned, “an’ don’t I wish I were home in the stockade rather than out here where the boogies roam. Soon’s the boar charged the golem, the wolf weres struck from out of the shadows.”

“Wolf weres?” Belius didn’t want to believe it. He’d convinced himself they’d been following a simple man, no more.

“Aye. Four of them. Jumped the boar from the quarters, they did, but t’was the golem killed it.

“See, here one of ‘em tore out a bit of the hind leg, and here was one flung from atop its back. Another was at a foreleg, and yet the last, and biggest of all tore out its throat.”

“Then how do you credit the man with the kill?”

The corporal stooped to catch up a fallen twig and pitch it at the mound of flies covering the beast’s head.

“Is that—?”

“Aye, ‘tis,” the corporal confirmed. “Me sergeant’s sword, or what’s left of it. She goes in this end and comes out t’other, clean as milady’s sewing needle. Now, we all know the powers of the weres, and we know —you and I both— that it might have survived the throat wound and killed the wolves to the last. But nothing gets over three span of steel through its brain.

“In any case, great mage,” he went on, “after the beastie goes down, the five of them —your ‘simple man’ and the four wolf weres— has them a little jawbone. One of them took out with him, after the horse, I’d presume, and then they mostly separated.”

“Mostly?”

The corporal nodded grimly. “Three of the weres took off in that direction,” indicating north, “and our golem and a wee injured wolfie in that direction.”

“So you're saying he’s involved in the war?”

“Only insofar as he appears t’be fightin’ it.” the corporal’s voice feigned nonchalance.

“And he’s now traveling with a were?”

“Belius, oh wise one,” the corporal declared deliberately. “He’d been traveling with the weres for the better part of the day. I had such of me lads as didn’t bolt for the horizon upon yer mention o’ th’ oldest to backtrack them, and they’ve been ghostin’ him right along. Doubtless the lot knew o’ this one and thought to draw him out wi’ supposed easy pickin’s. Which looks to’ve worked.

“But, of course,” he added with an overly cheerful lilt, We can be sure he’d never lay any trap ever again, so we’re probably safe.” He gave the mage a wide, oily smile. “ Aye, safe as houses.”

He waited for the mage to turn them around for home, but the old man remained silent.

“That said, friend Belius,” the corporal finally prompted, “do we follow, or do the sensible thing?”

“They were your friends,” Belius reminded him, troubled at this new turn of events but struggling to remain steadfast.

The corporal snorted derisively; “Beltran was some noble’s middle boy, or he’d’ve been the scullery slave he was born to be instead of a soldier and me sore burden these last three years. And the others cheated at cards. Not mentionin’ me sweet’eart was due back in town with her da yesterday, and here am I in th’ dark o’ th’ wood with a smelly lot o’ ruffians, chasin’ after the gods only know what sorter divil ter me almost certain doom.”

“Nevertheless.”

“Aye,” the corporal sighed in defeat. If Bayel itself couldn’t stop the old man, how would something so mundane as meddling in the were wars do so? “Onward, lads,” he shouted. “Pay no mind ter the big bad beastie here; ‘tis the one ahead’ll get yers if yer not careful!”

* * *

Thrush Dancing regarded the clearing in utter horror. Neither a waypoint nor natural clearing was it, but a great wound burned into the wood. Shards of metal and some softer, stranger substance littered the forest floor and protruded from wounded trees. A thing with the hilt of a sword, but no blade burned away still upon the ground. Little wonder that Bayel was aroused.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

From the center of the chaos, the man tracks issued, beginning in nowhere. Staggering and unsteady at first, they circled the clearing, crossing over themselves several times before they evened out and became the trail the sylvans had followed. Four other sets of tracks, fresher, crisscrossed the wounded patch. Wolf weres, they looked to be.

“Was this the gateway?” Swallow wondered aloud from behind.

Thrush Dancing shook her head. “The gateway isn’t in this world or the other, it’s in between. I don’t even know if this is where it opens out. But this is definitely where he came from. See the devastation the others bring wherever they go?”

Swallow looked around, but her observation was somewhat at odds with her sister’s. She nudged at the half melted rucksack. “It looks like whatever was done here was done to him, sister.”

Thrush Dancing regarded her sister over a shoulder. Oh, but didn’t she want with all her heart to agree. But she dared not, for such would weaken her resolve and her wards. “We can’t know. We must tell the elders.”

“Tell the elders?” Swallow’s voice bled awe. Sister, there was fire here! Fire in Bayel’s Wood! Do you really think the elders don’t already know?”

“So we won’t be surprising them. Do you need to rest?”

“Hah!” Swallow hahed. “The day you outlast me is the day you’ll see me with ten children clinging to my legs!” And she was gone into the forest, racing on tiptoe and singing a running song that would sound to man children like the wind itself.

* * *

The white wolf was walking more easily, her wound nearly healed in only a couple of days. The soldier envied her. He still ached from the battle that had been raging on the other side.

The wood was growing —if it were possible— even wilder. They walked in twilight as dark as midnight thoughts, alive with the sounds of life both strange and fell. Huge oaks stood side by each with sycamore and mahogany and even coconut, defying everything he knew of nature. Out in the darkness he could hear the cries of half-familiar voices that his mind told him should be separated by climatic zones rather than paces.

Even the wolf seemed overly edgy.

“You needn’t follow me any further,” he told her softly. “The danger of infection is over. You can go back to your pack.”

She looked into his eyes and cocked her head. He knew she understood, but she simply waited. After a moment or two, he forged ahead, not the least bit curious at the compulsion to move that now gripped him.

Without warning, they stepped out into a cathedral of shadow and directionless illumination. The man halted abruptly as his foot touched short grass that shouldn’t be growing without sunlight, feeling the horse bump into him, feeling it quiver with fright. Off to his right, he heard the wolf whine low in her throat.

Looking up, he beheld a canopy of translucent green, shimmering with internal light. It stretched forward for hundreds of meters. The cathedral itself must have been better than a kilometer across and bare of feature save for a great column in its center. And throughout the whole of the empty space swam a vast awareness that was almost palpable. As he stood trying to take it all in, the man felt the awareness enter his mind.

Come forward, lost child, its voice filled his head. And welcome to WoodHeart. The soldier stumbled forward, awestruck. Slowly and alone, he ventured out into the open, the realization slowly dawning that the column in its center was more than that. Hundreds of meters in diameter it seemed, the gnarled wood of it crying out of the ages it had seen. Ten minutes he walked before realizing how badly his initial impression of the clearing had underestimated its size. The column seemed no closer than when he’d started.

At long last, he stood at the base of an immense wall of living wood, a small pool of mint green water lapping between roots the height of buildings.

Drink, Lost Child, the awareness invited. Drink and tell old Bayel how you come, beyond all possibilities, to visit the second world.

Before he could stoop to drink, an ant the size of a bullock skittered down the trunk of the great tree bearing a tray upon which stood a goblet that resembled a flower bud and a leaf shaped platter. Frozen in place, he watched the ant set the tray before him and vanish back into the upper reaches of the great tree.

Behind him, he heard a commotion and turned to see the wolf dragging the unwilling horse closer, reins gripped in her teeth. He turned back to the tree, all sense of wonder drowned, the feel of being dream-bound overpowering.

Drink, the awareness coaxed. Eat. Then we shall exchange stories.

Still, he couldn’t quite bring himself to touch either the goblet or platter. Instead, he took the reins from the wolf and calmed the horse enough that it wouldn’t bolt just for practice, calming himself as he did so. Only when the horse was relaxed enough to dip its muzzle into the mint green of the pool did he allow himself to reach for the goblet.

What filled the golden vessel wasn’t water. It tasted sweet. Syrupy. Fermented. After the first sip, he bolted the rest, feeling the heat rage through his system, sending his head spinning.

Sounds intruded upon his consciousness: feelings, hungers, imperatives.

What—? he thought rather than said.

Worry not, the awareness soothed. The knowing will pass quickly enough. It happens to all who sup of Bayel’s blood — to feel and sense the entirety of life even if for just the moment. You will be the stronger for it. Now eat, and the knowing will ease.

* * *

Thrush Dancing froze in mid-stride, nearly falling.

“What is it?” Swallow circled back.

“We are summoned.”

“The other—?” Swallow brought up short, feeling the touch.

“Bayel!”

* * *

“Whoa!” the corporal reared back.

“What now?” Belius demanded. Then he too saw it.

Sunlight. In the heart of Bayel’s wood. And not a waypoint either, but a small clearing only large enough to hold a pool of clear water. And beyond the clearing, an obvious trail, leading arrow-straight toward the center of the wood.

“Is that the invitation it looks?” the corporal asked, grey-faced.

“It would so appear,” Belius sighed.

“And what if we don’t—” but the corporal didn’t bother finishing the question. Behind them the wood had closed like a door, trees and vines interlocking into a mesh so tight a gnat must needs go the long way ‘round — had there been a way ‘round at all.

* * *

Upon the plain a hush had fallen. Workers and slaves alike stopped whatever they were doing and turned as one to face Bayel’s fabled wood. Above that haunted place clouds were forming — huge thunderhead clouds, roiling and angry. They spread out, ignoring the wind, racing in all directions of the compass, shrouding the world in dimness. For long hours the clouds rolled outward, seemingly endless, and the peoples of the world quaked in mortal terror, fearing the end.

The world grew dark, the pall of Bayel shrouding the globe in grey. Upon the ice, the darkness huddled within itself, limbs racing to firm its shield of misdirection lest the godling end the game too quickly.

Abruptly, thunder clapped and sheets of lightning slashed downward, illuminating the entirety of the globe for a single instant. Rain fell in buckets and barrels for ten breaths, as though the oceans had lost themselves within the heavens and had suddenly remembered the path home. Ten breaths only, and the sky was clear. The sun shone down as bright as ever and in the direction of Bayel’s wood, all was calm. Slaves and workers returned to work, only hints of doom lingering.

But there were those whose regard did not return to normal. Mages and priests, politicians and nobles. How great did an omen have to be before they took heed? Orders were given, forces marshaled, spells readied, prayers commenced. Upon the western ramparts of the palace Niediel, within the heart of Elion, capitol city of Turalee, four eyes watched the returning sunlight with far less sanguinity than even the most nervous courtier. The queen mother lay an arm about the shoulders of the supposedly mad boy king, sharing concerns and incipient plans without speaking aloud.

* * *

Elsewhere upon the plain, a lone dall slave smiled to himself. The scent was strong. Change was near. Joblar Bonecruncher, once a chief of his people, swung his axe the harder, clearing yet another forest for the hated man children. But every three hands of strokes, his swing faltered just enough to strike the chain. The impact of steel against iron would ruin the blade, making the chopping that much harder. But with every impact, the chain would weaken. And if a slave knew anything, he knew patience.