“Rolf, you idiot, this is not the time for hunting! You’ll lose the path!” Alfrick looked with exasperation at the quickly vanishing shape of the young knight riding into the gloaming. In little more than a moment, all that was left to view was a flash of white as Rolf’s horse disappeared into the trees. It was as if the forest had closed around him, swallowing him into its deep and brooding silence, heavy with the weight of years.
Alfrick fought down his frustration, ignoring its edge of fear. Sir Rolf had all the sense of a newly whelped pup. Rolf had taken off like a shot after the white stag, all warnings about venturing into the Shadowed Wood forgotten in the thrill of pursuit. Alfrick was not much older than Rolf, but he had grown up in the North. Alfrick’s father was the Duke of Svernhold, and his ancestors had governed the North in Galbrica’s name ever since the Galbrican Conquest nearly five centuries ago.
Rolf was city bred, raised in Galbrica’s capital amidst the ease of the king’ court. He was ill-suited for the dangers of the North, as were most things from south of the Koleagh Pass.
Alfrick glanced at his two remaining companions: Galfried and Danbar, both gruff knights from his father’s guard. Galfried was young for a guard, only a few years older than Alfrick’s twenty-four years, but he was already on his way to acquiring the grizzled look that seemed to be the hallmark of a Northern guardsman. Danbar had already been looking grizzled by the time Alfrick had been weaned. It was he who had trained Alfrick in swordcraft as a boy.
Alfrick met Danbar’s impassive gaze and knew the older man was waiting for his instructions. “I suppose we had better go after Rolf,” Alfrick said resignedly.
Danbar nodded brusquely. “Aye, my lord.”
“Galfried,” said Alfrick, turning to the younger guard, “stay close. Danbar, follow behind as quickly as you can and mark the path. You have the ash?”
“Nay. But Gormghlaith does, and I’ll have it off her quick enough.” The packhorse waiting behind them pricked up her ears at her name. Gormghlaith had been named by one of the stablehands when he was still young enough to think that the name sounded majestic, and despite the best efforts of the Master of the Horse, the name had stuck. Most people had taken to calling her Gorm, but Danbar seemed to feel it was a matter of the horse’s dignity to call her by her full name. Perhaps he was right. Gorm undoubtedly liked him best. She stood patiently as Danbar dismounted and unfastened a large, scuffed sack from her back. The sack was light for its size, filled only with ash. No northerner traveled through the Shadowed Woods without such a sack. Even the most careful of travelers needed to veer from the path at times, and the Shadowed Woods rarely surrendered those who did not mark their way. Ash had become the traditional method because of its lightness and because it stood out clearly in the forest gloom.
Danbar tied Gormghlaith to a nearby tree, then remounted his stallion and opened the sack, withdrawing one pale, crumbling handful. He nodded at Alfrick.
Alfrick returned the nod and flicked his horse’s reins, following the broken twigs and crushed undergrowth that marked Rolf’s route through the woods. Behind him and Galfried, Danbar followed, trickling a trail of ash to lead them back to the path. The bruised underbrush might be enough to mark their route for now, but the Shadowed Woods had played tricks before. Even now, Danbar distrusted the ease with which the woods were letting them follow the errant knight’s route.
To Alfrick, the going felt painfully slow. He could push his horse no faster than a trot while still following the signs of Rolf’s passage. There was no sign of Rolf himself. Surely Rolf would soon realize how far he had strayed and cease his pursuit. Or perhaps he would catch the stag at last, and they would find him bent over its pale body, pulling his arrow from its side. But the shadows were growing ever darker as night fell, and the traces of Rolf’s pursuit went on. At last, the woods grew so dim that Alfrick and Galfried had to dismount to make out the hoofprints in the underbrush, leading their horses, who snuffled and whinnied with growing unease.
Danbar caught up to them and dismounted to walk behind them, still scattering a thin trail of ash. He had to reach far down into the sack now whenever he drew out a fresh handful. They walked on and on until the last silvery trickle slipped from between his fingers. “Ash is out,” he said, his voice gruff in the settling dark.
Alfrick and Galfried turned to look at Danbar’s empty hand. Nothing but a few feathery flakes clung to the palm of his glove. A tense silence settled over the men until Danbar once more broke it. “Best go back, my lord.”
Alfrick knew Danbar was right. Still, he pictured arriving in the capital and having to explain that he had lost Sir Rolf in the woods–not just lost him, but left him there to die. The Southern nobles would not understand that there was no other sane option when someone had strayed so far into the Shadowed Wood. Alfrick pictured Willa’s face when she heard: Willa, the king’s middle daughter, the princess whose heart he had been so lucky to win and whose hand in marriage he was traveling to the royal city to ask. If he left Rolf to the Shadowed Woods, that would be the end of his hopes for marriage. The king would not want such a man as his son-in-law. There was only one decision that Alfrick could make. It was, without question, a stupid one.
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“Go,” said Alfrick. “I can’t ask you to come with me. Make camp at the edge of the forest, right where we left the path. If all goes well, I’ll return by daybreak, and Rolf with me. If I don’t come back by tomorrow at nightfall, ride to my father and tell him what has happened. Tell him I have chosen my own path. I will not have him send any others after me.”
“My lord–” Galfried began.
“You’re a fool of a boy,” Danbar cut in, the furrows in his face deepening into a scowl. “And you’re even more of a fool if you think I’ll turn back and leave you to wander through the Shadowed Wood alone. I always meant to die in the service of the Duke. Dying in service of his son will have to do.”
“My lord,” Galfried began again, “we’re not out of luck altogether. There’s the old trick still.”
“The old trick?” Alfrick asked.
“Aye. The squirrels are a danger, to be sure, but I haven’t seen any around, and the loaves that Cook packed for us are stale enough.”
A slow grin spread across Alfrick’s face. “Breadcrumbs.”
“Aye, my lord” said Galfried. “The old trick, as I said.”
“Daft,” muttered Danbar.
“Brilliant,” declared Alfrick.
Galfried unpacked the stale loaves and moved behind Danbar to take up the rear, scattering breadcrumbs as they resumed their slow way. He did not notice the clearing until he felt the others pause before him and looked up.
Alfrick gave a low whistle.
“Now would be a good time for stealth,” Danbar grumbled, his voice little more than a whisper.
In answer, Alfrick led his horse to the side so that Danbar could see the full view. At the heart of the clearing stood a castle encircled by a thick stone wall. The wall was covered in the most luxurious climbing roses that any of them had ever seen. The petals seemed to soak up the darkness and turn it into a velvety red so deep that it was nearly black. Alfrick forgot all about Rolf. He could think only of the roses, only of how Willa would smile when he gave her one. He stepped into the clearing. The deep, sweet scent of the blooms wrapped around him.
A flicker of movement on the other side of the clearing caught Danbar’s eye, and he turned, his hand going to his sword. It was the swish of a horse’s tale. Rolf’s steed, riderless. Danbar scanned the area, fighting against the rose-scented haze that pressed in on his mind, until he spotted the dark figure slumped against the rose-laced wall. He could make out Rolf’s pale hair against the dark blooms. He turned back to tell Alfrick, but Alfrick was no longer there. He stood at the center of the clearing, reaching towards the wall, one hand out to pluck a rose. Danbar called out, but it was too late. Alfrick snapped the stem and stared transfixed at the rose in his hand. He hardly noticed the thorn that had pierced through his glove, nor the slow trickle of blood that was spreading across the glove from his hand beneath.
A single prick, a trickle of blood. Blood magic was potent; it needed no more.
Danbar watched in horror as Alfrick slowly collapsed, the rose tumbling from his hand to lie at the base of the wall. Danbar was running before Alfrick hit the ground, his sword drawn as if he could fight off whatever magic was a work. Relief flooded him when he reached Alfrick’s side and saw that he was still breathing. Danbar searched for a wound and could find none. Alfrick’s chest was rising and falling with the slow regularity of deep slumber. Danbar slapped Alfrick lightly across the face. When there was no reaction, he tried again, harder.
“You’ll not wake him,” said a lilting voice from behind him.
Danbar spun around, sword raised. He recognized that lilt. It still lingered in the most remote of the Northern villages. It was the accent of the Old Ones, that vanished race that had inhabited the North before the Galbricans came and claimed it for their own. Vanished, at least, as far as people south of the Kolaegh Pass were concerned.
Before him stood a middle-aged woman with all the commanding regalness of a lady of the court. Her dark eyes pinned him in place. The hood of her cloak was thrown back to reveal finely hewn features, now set in an expression he could not pin down: some unaccountable mix of amusement, pity, annoyance, and a touch of satisfaction.
“Do you plan to stop me?” Danbar asked warily.
“Not at all,” said the woman. “It is simply not within your power. Your other companion is over there, by the way,” she added, nodding further along the wall. “He does not seem to have resisted the roses as well as you did.”
Danbar risked a glance in that direction and saw Galfried drooped against the wall, a fallen rose beside him. “What have you done to them?” he demanded.
“I have not done anything,” the lady replied. “The owner of this castle, on the other hand, has put a powerful working on the roses. They are a guard dog of sorts. But while a brave man may successfully fight off a guard dog, he will rarely be so successful in fighting off sleep.”
“A sleep spell, then? Can you undo it.”
“Only its caster can undo it. And, given that one of your companions was hunting one of her creatures, I hardly think that she will be in any mood to do so.”
“She?” Danbar croaked.
The lady smiled enigmatically. “I see you know the stories. I saw you scattering ash to mark your way. And breadcrumbs. It had been a long time since I saw that particular trick. It entertained me so much that I instructed the woods to preserve the breadcrumbs from decay. Not even the squirrels will touch them. They will be there to guide you should you wish to depart.”
Danbar thought of what the lady was offering. A way out of the Shadowed Wood. It was an offer few had ever received. He shook his head. “I cannot leave my lord like this. Nor the others.”
“I thought not. Come, then, let us load them on the horses. We shall take them to my cottage. They will be safe there while we wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“For the hero to come, of course,” said the lady. “There must always be a hero in cases like this. Perhaps this time, the hero will even be successful.”