“Oh. That must have been trouble.”
“Indeed. Our ship was too badly damaged for us to leave, and too big to hide. It was a matter of little time before we were discovered.”
“What did you do?”
“I marched over to the pirate camp and challenged their leader to a duel of honor.”
“He accepted?”
“He had to. Pirate chieftains must appear to be strong, or their men will not follow them. If he had refused me, the next day he would have had to fight ten of his own lieutenants. As it was, I relieved him of that worry by killing him.”
“And then what?”
“I challenged the second-in-command. And then the next, and so on.”
Ehawk grinned. “Did you kill them all?”
“No. While I fought, my men took possession of one of their ships and sailed away.”
“Without you?”
“Yes. I’d ordered them to.”
“And so what happened?”
“When the pirates discovered what had happened, they took me prisoner, of course, and the dueling stopped. But I convinced them the Church would pay my ransom, and so they treated me pretty well.”
“Did the Church pay?”
“They might have—I didn’t wait to see. I had a chance for escape, later, and took it.”
“Tell me about that,” Ehawk pleaded.
The knight nodded. “In time, lad. But you tell me now—you grew up in these parts. The elders at your village told many strange tales of greffyns, manticores—fabulous monsters, never seen for a thousand years, now suddenly everywhere. What do you make of that, Ehawk, m’ lad? Do you credit such talk?”
Ehawk considered his words carefully. “I’ve seen strange tracks and smelled weird spore. My cousin Owel says he saw a beast like a lion, but scaled, and with the head of an eagle. Owel don’t lie, and he’s not like to scare or see things wrong.”
“So you do believe these tales?”
“Yah.”
“Where do these monsters come from?”
“They’ve been’t sleep, they say—like how a bear sleeps the winter, or the cicada sleeps in the ground for seventeen years before comin’ out.”
“And why do you think they wake now?”
Ehawk hesitated again.
“Come, m‘ lad,” the knight said softly. “Your elders were tight-lipped, I know, I suspect for fear of being labeled heretics. If that’s your fear, you’ve no worry about me. The mysteries of the saints are all around us, and without the Church to guide, folk think odd things. But you live here, lad—you know things I don’t. Stories. The ancient songs.”
“Yah,” Ehawk said unhappily. He glanced at Gavrel, wondering if he, too, had keener hearing than a normal man.
Sir Oneu caught the look. “This expedition is my charge,” he said, softly still. “I give you my word as a knight, no harm will come to you for what you tell. Now—what do the old women say? Why do unholy things stalk the weald, when never they did before?”
Ehawk bit his lip. “They say ‘tis Etthoroam, the Mosslord. They say he woke when the moon was purple, as was foretold in ancient prophecy. The creatures are his servants.”
“Tell me about him, this Mosslord.”
“Ah . . . it’s only old stories, Sir Oneu.”
“Tell me nevertheless. Please.”
“In shape, they say he is a man, but made of the stuff of the forest. Antlers grow from his head, as on an elk.” Ehawk looked frankly at the knight. “They say he was here before the saints, before anything, when there was only the forest, and it covered all the world.”
Sir Oneu nodded as if he already knew that. “And why does he wake?” he asked. “What does prophecy say he will do?”
“It’s his forest,” Ehawk said. “He’ll do what he wants. But it’s said when he wakes, the forest will rise against those who have done it harm.” He cut his eyes away. “It’s why the Sefry left. They fear he will kill us all.”
“And do you fear that?”
“I don’t know. I only know . . .” He broke off, uncertain how to put it.
“Go on.”
“I had an uncle. A sickness came to him. There was little to see—no sores nor open wounds, no marks of fever—but he grew more tired as the months passed, and his eyes dulled. His skin paled. He died very slowly, and it was only near the end that we could smell the death in him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Ehawk shrugged. “The forest—I think it’s dying like that.”
“How do you know?”
“I can smell it.”
“Ah.” The knight seemed to mull that over for a few minutes, and so they rode in silence.
“This Mosslord,” Sir Oneu said at last. “Have you ever heard him called the Briar King?”
“That’s what the Oostish call him, Sir Oneu.”
Sir Oneu sighed, and looked older. “I thought as much.”
“Is that what you’re looking for in the forest, sir? The Briar King?”
“Yes.”
“Then—”
But Martyn cut him off suddenly. “Sir Oneu?” the monk’s face was set in hard lines.
“Yes, Brother?”
“I hear them again.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere. In all directions now. Coming closer.”
“What is it, Martyn? Can you tell me what we face? Minions of the Briar King?”
“I don’t know, Sir Oneu. I only know we are surrounded.”
“Ehawk? Is there aught you can tell us?”
“No, sir. I can’t hear anything yet.”
But soon enough he did. The wood stirred all around them, as if the trees themselves had come alive. Ehawk felt as if the forest was tightening, the trees standing ever closer together, a great trap closing on the company. The horses began to whicker nervously, even Airece, Sir Oneu’s warsteed.
“Ready yourselves, lads,” Sir Oneu muttered.
Ehawk caught glimpses of them now, the figures in the trees. They grunted and growled like beasts, they croaked and mewed, but they looked like men and women, naked or wearing only the uncured skins of beasts.
Sir Oneu increased his pace to a trot, indicating that the others in the party should do the same. He lifted his heavy ashe spear. Ahead, on the trail, Ehawk saw that someone was awaiting them.
His heart was a cricket in his breast as they drew near. There were seven of them, some men, some women, cut and bruised and naked as the day they were born—all save one. He stood in front, a lion-skin thrown over one shoulder like a cloak. From his head grew spreading antlers.
“Etthoroam!” Ehawk gasped. He could no longer feel his knees clasping his horse.
“No,” Martyn said. “It is a man. The antlers are part of a headdress.”
Ehawk, trying to control his growing terror, saw that Martyn was right. But that didn’t mean anything. Etthoroam was a sorcerer. He could take any form.
“You’re certain?” Sir Oneu asked Martyn, perhaps sharing Ehawk’s doubts.
“He has the smell of a man,” Martyn said.
“They’re everywhere,” Gavrel muttered, jerking his head from side to side, peering at the forest. The other three monks, Ehawk noticed, had strung their bows and formed a loose perimeter around the group.
Martyn brought his mount alongside Ehawk’s. “Keep near me,” he said, voice very low.
“Ehawk, m‘ lad,” Sir Oneu said. “Could those be the villagers?”
Ehawk studied the faces of those who stood with the antlered man. Their eyes were very strange, unfocused, as if they were drunk or entranced. Their hair was matted and tangled.
“I reckon they might be,” he answered. “It’s hard to say, them lookin’ like that.”
Sir Oneu nodded and drew to a halt ten yards from the strangers. It was suddenly so still, Ehawk could hear the breeze in the highest branches.
“I am Sir Oneu de Loingvele,” the knight called in a clear, carrying voice, “a peer of the church on a holy mission. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”
The stag-horned figure grinned and raised his fists so they could see the snakes he held writhing in them.
“Look at their eyes,” Gavrel said, drawing his sword. He sounded grim. “They are mad.”