Vigir had travelled far from his mountain home. He had seen not only great cities but steppe and hills, desert and jungle, wide rivers and wild shores. The forest now surrounding him was familiar in the broad, much less so in detail. The ground was a litter of leaf, ferns and mould, pocked with shrubs and saplings where gaps in the canopy let light through. His tree was a mighty broadleaf, reaching high in tiered layers that met with its fellows to form a dense canopy. Chatter, hoots and calls from above told of an active arboreal life. Birds swooped between the dangling vines, beetles crawled over the bark and something small and brown scurried across the leaf-mould between clumps. Yet the tree was of no kind he knew, the bird and animal calls unfamiliar. Vigir shrugged. It was a jungle, and that was better than some cold waste for he was lightly clad. He was no naturalist and the world was wide. That he was far from Zangier was evident. When he found people he would know where he was. Whether months or years, he would one day be back in Zangier, and then let that sorcerer beware.

The first task was to descend. A leap on to a neighbouring branch brought him within reach of a tangle of vines. A tug showed they would support his considerable weight, and they dangled very nearly to the forest floor. He was part down when a glint below caught his eye. His sword had come with him, it seemed. A drop, strong legs absorbed the impact, a few steps and its familiar hilt was again in his hand. With an arm’s-length of good northern steel there was little he had to fear, whatever the beasts of this land. Which way should he go? The sun’s rays were so filtered by the leaves that they gave no clue as to direction; he would follow the ground. A stream would lead to a river, a river eventually to the sea, and if men lived here that was where their dwellings would be.

Later that day he stood on the bank of a considerable stream. Thirst had not been a problem, for hollows and leaves collected water. Scratches and insect bites he could ignore. Hunger was another matter. His only food had been a snake which struck at his shoulder from a vine. Vigir’s reflexes had saved him from the venom, his blade had struck off its head and its flesh had sustained his journey. He had steel but no flint and who could light a fire in this pervading damp? He had eaten raw fish sliced thin, caught fresh from icy streams, and sand-snakes roasted over the camel-dung fires of desert nomads. This snake tasted a little like both, and he chewed away with the more relish as it was a defeated enemy.

Vigir looked upon the rushing brown waters. Such rivers in Sham concealed strange beasts, toothed and scaled, that burst forth to seize the unwary and drag them to their deaths. A single swing of his blade felled a sapling. Once trimmed, it tested the depths. Vigir grimaced as his pole was seized and nearly dragged from his grasp. He planted his feet, heaved and brought a thrashing knot of tentacles to the surface. Before it could let go it was swung on to the bank and pierced with his sword. The creature made a sad sound and dissolved into foul-smelling goo. Vigir cursed this strange land and set out downstream, hacking away at the thick growth near the bank to make a path to the more open forest above. It was an ignoble use for his weapon, and he again vowed revenge on the vile sorcerer.

His sword did not avail him. Something shot a volley of living darts at him from a copse of trees. Only lightning reflexes saved him, and a charge into the shrubbery yielded nothing but more scratches. Then a troop of long-tailed screeching tree-rats followed him from above, hurling first sticky sap and spiked seed-balls, then dung and over-ripe fruit. Their aim was superior, and they were persistent. Vigir scraped off the worst of the vile mess once he had left them behind, did his best to ignore the smell and kept on. Finally a patch of flowers gave way beneath his foot, plunging him into a waist-deep pit swarming with voracious insects. He leapt out and spent painful minutes detaching their heavy jaws from his flesh. It was a hungry, bitten, odorous Vigir who hacked branches aside and staggered forward to find himself the object of stares from two women.

Stolen story; please report.

The two stood under a small tree, one with a basket at her feet and a short staff with a hooked blade in her hand, the other in helmet and mail, long-handled axe at rest. Both were of mature age, sharp-featured and brown-skinned, neither more than passably comely. If Vigir had passed them on the street in Zangier he would have barely spared them a glance, as perhaps the wives of craftsmen out buying food for dinner. That is, except the armour and weapons, and that both wore breeches and serviceable boots. They looked him up and down, frowned at his bedraggled state and then relaxed. Vigir straightened up, slid his sword into its battered sheath in one smooth motion and called out.

“Well met. Can you spare a bite for a stranger in need? And tell me where is the nearest settlement?” This was said in Zangi and met a blank response. Vigir repeated the requests in all the tongues he knew, to no avail. The woman with the axe responded in like fashion, with phrases in languages unknown to him. At last Vigir resorted to mimicry, holding hand to mouth and rubbing his belly. After a short discussion one rummaged in a pack and tossed him a small package. He unwrapped this to find a small white ball. A cautious sniff detected an unfamiliar smell, slightly sweet, that set his mouth watering. Vigir shrugged and popped it in. If it was a poison he had enough strength to take a last revenge. The ball was hard, too large to swallow, and dissolved slowly. He could feel it lending him strength, and thanked the women with a small bow. They gave him nods in return. One turned to collecting seed-pods from the tree while the woman with the axe stood next to her, alert but easy. Vigir was of no more interest.

He stood there a moment, irresolute and not a little angered. Was he a stray dog, to be thrown a morsel and then dismissed? He was also puzzled. What were women doing here? Why did they not fear him? Many men and not a few beasts had fallen to his blade, and he had the scars to prove it. The woman had her axe, but Vigir topped her by a head or more, and was far broader in the shoulders. As for the other, she wore only light clothing and her staff was a farm tool, not a weapon. Yet neither gave him more regard than one would an orphan beggar. Surely they would value the protection his strong right arm could provide. He shifted the ball to the other cheek and marched across, determined to make his case.

The woman with the axe watched him approach, then shifted her gaze to the trees behind. This show of disinterest irritated Vigir yet more; he was about to reprimand her when she leapt forward past him. There came the clunk of an arrow hitting mail, an arrow that would otherwise have pinned his jerkin to his ribs, the other woman garbled strange words and ran to stand by her companion. Vigir was shocked to see other shafts arc from the cover of the bushes, glance from some invisible defence and fall to the ground. The woman bent to touch an arrowhead and it sped off whence it came, eliciting a guttural howl. Axe-woman motioned Vigir to stay behind her, the two backed away to pick up staff and basket, then slipped through a gap in the foliage. Vigir could pick out a narrow trail, and a gesture and a push urged him to walk on briskly.

The light was fading but still enough to see his way. It was a short trip, for after a hundred paces he came to the bank of a small river. Axe-woman pushed past and threw aside some vines to uncover a canoe. She looked at the other, who made a wry face and said something, and Vigir was invited to take a place in the middle. Axe-woman took the prow, the other the stern, they took up paddles and shoved off into mid-stream. Vigir was by now in a state of seething bewilderment. It seemed these women were protecting him, and one commanded unlawful arts that could halt arrows in mid-air and return them to the sender. He would be wounded, perhaps dead, from that coward’s shaft, if not for her brusque treatment, yet the manner of it sat ill with him. He recalled fanciful tales of a land where women ruled. Had he fallen into fable?