Of course, the undermen did not come. The most notable event of the night was that Doryid woke up. His first words were

“I need to piss.” Followed by, “Aaagh, my leg hurts. And my side. And my back. And my neck.”

Kosohona was on watch at the time. “Here, drink this.”

“I can’t drink, I’m going to burst. I have to get up. Aargh, that hurts.”

“If you drink this dose of Healing, it will stop hurting, and you can go outside.”

“Urk, tastes horrible, oww,... fixed the wounds, though. Tell me if I start to look ugly.”

Doryid came back into the cave and volunteered to keep watch. He had had, he said, enough sleep.

The party moved further away the next day. Far enough, they hoped, that they were clear of the undermen home range. They then waded the little river some further distance downstream before crossing to the opposite bank. Here the trees were larger and the ground clearer than on the other side, and the greater visibility gave more comfort.

As they walked they discussed possible plans of action. No-one wanted another scrambling fight in the dark. Aitonala asked if there needed to be a fight at all.

“I don’t know much about undermen but, if they can speak, is there a reason why we can’t just ask the chief where he got the pectoral? Grymwer – you said you knew undermen soldiers. They must have talked to humans.”

Grymwer shook his head. “Undermen are not humans. For a start, they are born into their different sorts – the small ones that harassed us last night, the boss ones that dominate the small and the big ones. A female can birth any one of the three, and what the group does depends on the mix. Small-one mothers will kill boss infants if they can.Then the clans up north are rather different from the undermen here in the Wild. They have lived close to humans for generations, and both sides have learned to get on. But even the ones I knew used to make jokes about how humans taste – and I was never sure it was entirely a joke. I can only hope that whatever they speak here is not too far off the northern speech. I thought I caught a few familiar insults the other night.

Anyway, the ones round here think of humans as game. If you walked up to the chief, you’d be on a spit (and maybe not dead, either) before too long.”

Kosohona concurred. “My Order spends much time patrolling the forests to our north, where our holdings fade into the Wild. We keep the undermen away, or no house or traveller is safe. If they take a person, they do not come back. We do not bargain with them.”

The conversation went round for a time but, in the end, the overall plan was simple. Look over the underman lair, decide which entrance offered the best prospect and go in in daylight, early, with as much force as they could muster.

* * * *

It took most of the day to walk back upstream to where their ridge-top refuge was visible on the opposite bank. Had it not been for the need for constant wariness it would have been a pleasant hike. Chrys could not identify most of the trees, but could admire the shades and textures of the trunks rising high, the varied light through the foliage, the soft carpet of moss and leaves underfoot. Birds called from overhead or spiralled around the trunks. Small animals rustled in the thickets and the occasional larger one was glimpsed in the distance. A tree-bear scuttled up a trunk as they neared, then stopped to peer down at them.

“We haven’t seen anything weird since we left the trail,” observed Aitonala, “No strange light or phantom women or even odd rocks.”

“There’s a theory that interaction with people changes the Wild. We contribute new flows to the ether and sometimes it forms strange eddies or twists in consequence. You hardly ever get demons, for instance, except where dramatic human events have played out,” replied Grymwer.

“Well, the ones we came across were odd, but not actually harmful.”

“No, although I think Chrys was right to be very polite to that old woman.”“This place feels full of potential. I’ll be polite to anything we meet. The red and green snake that just slid under that log, for instance.”

“That was Mimic Viper. They’re harmless, but take on the look of dangerous snakes. They change into what will be most menacing to the immediate threat. That one was imitating a Death-Spitter.”

“Well, it wasn’t reading my mind, because I’ve never seen a Death-Spitter. Maybe it was picking up on Chrys’ cooker. Anyway, how do you know it wasn’t a real Death-Spitter?”

“Mimics change from the head down. The change had not reached that one’s tail before it disappeared.”

“Time to head uphill and look for a place to spend the night,” Venalse said.

Aitonala nodded, “Fine. I just need to visit a bush.”

“We won’t be far.”

Aitonala was refastening her belt when the round, whiskered face of an owl-cat peered around a tree not two steps away.

“You are cute.” it said.

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Aitonala blinked, then decided on being polite.

“Thank you. You’re cute yourself.” She adjusted her clothing, groped for a pinch of Green Powder and sprinkled it on the excrement, instantly reducing it to compost.

“Neat, very neat,” the owl-cat approved. “You have given my tree a gift. I must give you one in return.”

“Your company is gift enough,” Aitonala demurred politely.

The owl-cat drew itself up in affront. “Among our kind, failure to repay a debt diminishes one. Would you leave me crippled, soul-scarred, derided and pitied?”

“Not at all.”

“Then take what little I can give,” and it extended a beseeching paw.

“Well, alright then,” and she put forward her hand. There was a sense of pressure, a moment of confusion, and Aitonala found herself an onlooker to her own mind and body, aware yet detached. The owl-cat scampered into the branches, and Aitonala felt a bright, green-brown presence rummaging around in her head. Its observations came to her not in language but more directly, as perceptions, attitudes, thoughts.

There’s so much here! So much stuff! And it’s so clever! It talks so well! It has a troop (we MUST talk with them). It has steel claws! And venom! And extra skin. Why does it need that? Can’t feel the wind, can’t reach the roots. What’s this? Ecch, that has to go. Aitonala could only watch as her body trotted after the party, discarding gear as it went. Her bottle of Spirit Repellent was flung away, pack dropped, vials of poison examined curiously, helmet tossed into a bush. As Grymwer and Kosohona came into sight, her body began to throw off clothing. They watched open-mouthed as jacket, mail-shirt and undershirt came off and then as the body sat down to wrestle with boots and socks. After a short exchange, Grymwer ran on ahead while Kosohona turned and approached.

“Aitonala, what are you doing?”

“You say that so prettily. Aitonalà. That’s me. Aitonalà Evergreen Snugglebite. Aitonalà Sundrinker. Aitonalà Darkburrower. Aitonalà Vinefight Barkgripper. Aitonalà Shyflyer. Aitonalà Poisonclaw.”

“You are going to be Aitonala No-Tits if you keep waving that dagger around while naked,” interrupted Kosohona.

“Oh. Those are good words. I’ll keep this to hold the claw and the venom. Fun venom. What shall I bite?” The Aitonala body slung the belt across its torso, sheathed the dagger and grinned at the approaching party. Grymwer tripped as he tried to keep his eyes averted.

“Oh, dogbits!” was Venalse’s first reaction. “Aitonala, why?”

“Aitonalà Leafdance Beatlepicker Quicksleep I am” - bouncing on toes - “You will see the world with me.”

“Rakt,” Chrys murmured, “I don’t think this is Aitonala. Good idea if you could you pop your eyes back in and quietly circle around, gather up her gear. Keep a look out for anything thrown to one side.” Rakt nodded and eased away. Venalse called Chrys over.

“You’re the diplomat. See if you can find out what’s going on, what whoever it is in Aitonala wants." He left the 'and how to get it out' unspoken.

Chrys smiled at Aitonalà, who bared teeth back. “Lovely lady, surely we shall see the world together. For now, though, we weak ones must find refuge for the night.”

Aitonalà clapped her hands. “I shall show you a burrow to snuggle in, safe in the dark,” - a doubtful look – “or a tree-hollow, one for each, or shall we all lie together in a thicket and enjoy the slow rain on our backs?”

“Your offers are kind but, alas, these are not our kinds of house. We are looking for somewhere high, sheltered from the rain, not open on all sides but where we can see any undermen that might approach.” explained Chrys.

“Undermen? Green shrieking black-smoke wood-hurting iron-teeth! They killed my prickle-fur! And tried to hurt my trees! I made them frightened, and they don’t come here. Their smoke comes here, the flyers don’t like it. The fur-wing insect-catchers are sad, their home gone.”

“That is bad to hear,” Chrys soothed. “Still, we need to find a dry place to spend the night. Can you show us such a place?”

Aitonalà dug her toes into the mould, concentrated a moment then clapped, cried “Follow me!” and ran lightly off uphill. Chrys noticed that branches bent out of her way and the ground smoothed under her feet. She stopped briefly to talk to something under a fallen log, then led on to a ledge under a deep overhang.

“Good place. You have a wide sky, clear water,” and indeed there was a small spring bubbling away just downhill. Aitonalà sat down cross-legged on the grass and began to hum. Presently two crows spiralled down to a nearby branch. There was an exchange involving head-bobbing, cawing, throaty warbles and clacking of teeth or beaks. The crows flew off and shortly were replaced by several pigeons. Again there was an exchange, somewhat more melodious, and the pigeons left.

Chrys brought her dinner – an apple and a hunk of travel-bread with smoked meat, cheese and pickles – and sat down beside Aitonalà. For some minutes they watched the setting sun fade over the woods and moors below. When Aitonalà spoke, it was in an easy tone.

“The green-men are not hunting yet. They have not left their cave, not by the low entrance or the high, by the river-side or the boulder-side. They will come in darkness, and I will talk to the night-flyers before the moon rises. You need not fear them, for we will go the other way and see the world where they are not.”

Chrys noted the mention of several entrances. She replied in the same even tone,

“That will be an excellent thing. The world is very wide and has many wonders, and your company would make it more wondrous yet. There is, though, this one thing we must do before we can leave on our travels. We are under a great obligation that forces us first to confront these green-men, for they have something that must be returned to human lands. It will take us perhaps two or three days, and those will be made pleasant if you are there.”

Aitonalà was aghast. “You would go into their Place? Fight them under the earth, with their iron, in their holes?”

“Did you not fight them before?”

“Yes, but that was in my Place,” - she waved around, “where all flows with me. I made huge fierce beasts, and fire-birds. The grass grasped them, the trees hit them, the animals menaced them. When the smaller ones ran away, the bigger dared not stay.”

“We do not ask that you come with us under the earth. Share what you know, stay here and we will return to accompany you.”

“I will take advice of the blackwoods and the hair-ferns. For now I must sing to the frogs, else they get restless and tease the snakes.” And with that Aitonalà rose and jogged into the dark.

Chrys returned to where the party sat, leaning back against the stone or propped on hands. Rakt nodded to where Aitonala’s pack lay against the back wall. “Everything’s there, down to her undies.”

“ She had a small bottle. Did you find that?”

“Yes. Spotted it at the last minute, when the light caught it.”

Before he could go on, Chrys tilted her head meaningfully at a blue lizard clinging to a nearby tree and touched her lips with her thumb. A circle of frowns and then understanding passed around the party, and the talk moved on to what Chrys had gleaned about the undermen lair.