Kumul looked back the way they had come and watched as a breeze calmly ruffled the stalks of ripening wheat and barley which filled the fields stretching north to the horizon. Then he looked at the trees, scowled into his beard, and followed the others in. Immediately, some of the tension left his body, but his expression remained grim. “Let’s get on with it, then,” he grumbled, and led the way deeper into the gloom.
“That’s curious,” Lynan thought aloud.
“What’s that?” Ager asked.
“I don’t hear any birds.”
It was true. There was not the slightest sound made by a bird, not even a raven’s desolate cawing. Except for the companions, everything was still and silent. The trees closed about them like a silent escort, shepherding them north and into the forest’s heart.
They used trails when they found them and stayed with them as long as they led north. Most of the tracks had not been in use for many years and were difficult to follow, but some had been abandoned only recently and undergrowth had not yet made the way difficult. Occasionally they come across small, abandoned huts, their open doorways and windows making them leer like skulls, their wooden floors covered in cobwebs and dust. At night the huts provided welcome refuge from the damp leafy ground outside and some protection from the creatures they assumed roamed the forest as soon as evening settled on the trees, although the only spore they saw belonged to rabbits or hares and the occasional badger. When forced to sleep outdoors, the companions would take turns on watch, guarding a tiny, precious fire and listening anxiously for any sound. Even the snuffling and pawing of a wandering bear in the blackness just beyond the circle of flickering light would have provided some measure of comfort and reassurance, for, in fact, there were few signs of any life apart from the creaking of timber, the sighing of the canopy far above, scattered spoor in the morning, and the half-ruins of deserted human habitation.
On their third night, however, when Lynan was taking his turn on watch, he did hear a sound from somewhere in the night. At first he thought it was nothing more than a settling branch, the sound of wood moving, but the second time he was sure it was closer, and its quality was different somehow from a tree’s random swaying, as if caused by a definite movement.
He held his breath and peered out into the darkness, but could see nothing. He stood up and drew his sword silently from its sheath. He wondered if he should wake the others, but told himself it was his own fears and wild imaginings that were disturbing him.
And then the sound came again, from a different angle but closer still. He twisted around, staring into the dark forest, trying to make out some hint of movement, some sign of life. But, again, there was nothing to be seen.
He finally convinced himself he was overreacting, sheathed his sword, and was squatting to sit down by the fire when he saw two eyes—green slits that burned unnaturally—staring back into his own. He cried out involuntarily and leaped to his feet. The vision disappeared.
Kumul jumped up and grabbed his sword. He scanned the area slowly, then settled his gaze on the prince. “What the hell are you bellowing for?”
“I… I thought I saw something.”
“What?”
“Eyes. A pair of eyes. Green eyes. Before that, I heard movement.”
“Movement,” Kumul said dully. Ager was now sitting up as well. Both men stared out around them. “I hear no movement and I see no eyes.”
Lynan blushed. “Sorry to wake you,” he said stiffly.
Kumul and Ager exchanged weary glances. “You’re doing fine, lad,” Kumul muttered halfheartedly. “Such alertness commends you.” The soldier dropped back to the ground, and both he and Ager returned to sleep almost immediately.
Lynan angrily poked the fire until the flames were much higher. He walked to the limits of the light it cast and studied the ground as best he could. There were no tracks, nothing unusual.
Oh, you are a mighty warrior, he told himself. Shadows and creaks and fear make enemies for you, as if you didn’t have enough real ones already.
He sat down by the fire and tried to relax, but when he was relieved from the watch by Jenrosa not long afterward, he was still so tense it took him another hour to find sleep. When he woke the next morning, he was tired and irritable and could not shake from his mind the memory of those two green eyes.
The companions carefully rationed the dried fish and berries they had brought with them, but their food was gone entirely by the end of their fourth day in the forest. They managed to find a few handfuls of wild blackberries and nuts, but it wasn’t enough to keep away the increasingly urgent hunger pangs that disturbed their sleep. At least, they came across enough streams to quench their thirst.
On the morning of the fifth day they discovered a wide and apparently recently used trail. Fresh human footprints patterned the dirt, and they found a dropped nail and close to it a brooch, still shiny with recent use. After a few hours they heard sounds up ahead: human voices and the grunting of a pig or two. The travelers’ spirits lightened, but they proceeded cautiously, not sure of what they might find.
Soon after they came upon a hamlet comprising a dozen or so huts gathered around a level area, at the center of which was a well. The place was teeming with small children, all dressed similarly in plain smocks gathered at the waist by rough cords. Moving to and fro between huts and the well were women, wearing long woolen dresses and wide leather belts, and carrying heavy baskets of washing or wooden buckets of water. They carefully lifted their loads above the heads of the children who swerved and careened around them with carefree abandon.
As soon as they saw the companions, everyone in the hamlet stopped what they were doing. The happy faces of the children changed to expressions of uncertainty and fear, and the women dropped their baskets and buckets and retrieved long curved knives from the back of their belts. The blades shimmered in the soft light filtering through the canopy.
“Friendly lot,” Jenrosa murmured.
“Have you noticed how many there are?” Kumul asked Ager.
The crookback nodded absently, and Lynan realized that indeed there seemed to be a large number of people for the small number of huts. Then he noticed the frames of several new huts lining the trail as it left the hamlet on the other side.
Kumul motioned his companions to stay where they were, and cautiously moved forward ten paces, his arms spread out and his palms held upward.
“We mean you no harm,” he said.
“We’ll determine that,” a woman near the well said. She was shorter than most of the other women, but something about her voice bespoke authority. She came forward to within a few paces of Kumul. “Who are you and why are you here?”
“They’re hounds, Belara!” another woman said, her voice full of alarm. “They’re Silona’s hounds!”
There was a ripple of fearful moans from the people, but none of the women lowered knife or retreated.
“Don’t be foolish, Enasna,” said the one called Belara. “It is just past midday. No hound walks at this hour.”
Kumul shrugged, looked at the woman called Enasna. “As you can see, madam, I have two legs, not four. I am no hound, but a traveler.” He faced the first woman. “You are Belara, I assume. My friends and I are an embassy from our village to King Tomar in Sparro. We have been sent to ask for lower taxes; the past season has been cruel to us and our crops were poor.”
“There are easier routes to Sparro than through the Forest of Silona,” Belara said, her voice taking on a menacing edge. “And you don’t dress like any villagers I’ve ever seen. You’re soldiers, and the woman carries magical designs on her tunic.”