A limb reached down twiggy fingers. Rod drew his sword in a slashing arc, and the twigs drew back with a shriek of stressed wood. The trunk rumbled angrily.
Rod looked up, eyes alight. "Doesn't like the steel, does it? Well, then, ma'am, all I have to do is…" He stretched out the blade, probing into the crack in the trunk. The tree moaned in horror, and the edges of the cleft shrank back. The old lady snatched her arm free with a shout of joy, and the tree rocked forward, rumbling in rage.
"Run!" Rod shouted, as a branch struck at him like a club. He dodged, but other branches began to wave and lash the air, reaching toward him, while the tree's groans rose to thunder—and nearby trees began to stir restlessly.
Well, if it hadn't liked the steel of the sword, what would it really fear? Rod remembered a six-foot-long, two-handed lumberjack's saw he'd seen in a museum once— and his sword fluxed and stretched, growing until he found himself holding just such a toothy blade in his hands.
The tree shrank back with a moan of fear.
"Sir, behind thee!" the crone cried, and Rod spun around to see a branch with a huge, knotted burl on its end, striking at him. He swung the saw about, holding the teeth up. The burl halted its swing and bobbed up while the trunk let out a positive wail. Rod turned back at the sound, brandishing the saw like a two-handed shield, and began retreating. "Stay behind me, Granny! We'll get out of here the slow way, but we'll get out!"
So they did, a foot at a time, away from the old oak and back toward the pathway. The oak thundered in anger, its branches lashing the air, and the nearby trees began to rock as though huge gusts were racking the forest. But the farther from the oak they went, the fewer the number of trees that were uneasy until, a hundred yards along the path, they were walking through a calm winter forest again, with trees whose branches moved only to the gentle night breezes.
Rod stopped in a patch of moonlight and wiped his brow. "Whew! That was a close one, Granny!"
"It was, in truth—yet we are free, and thou has saved me." The old woman's eyes were huge.
"Glad to help." Rod frowned at the saw, thinking what an inconvenience it was going to be to lug around—and it shrank back into a dagger again.
The old woman gasped. "Assuredly, sir, thou must needs be a puissant wizard!"
"Only a warlock, ma'am." Rod slipped the dagger away, trying to hide the trembling of his hand. "And to tell you the truth, I'm a little uneasy about that right now. I've never been able to make things change shape before. Unless they were made of witch-moss, of course."
"Thou art a crafter, too?" The old woman shrank back, raising a trembling hand to her lips.
"Hey, hold on, now! Nothing to be afraid of!" Rod's fright faded before his concern for someone else. "Don't believe all that nonsense you've heard about magic-folk! We're just like any other people—some good, some bad, and an awful lot in between. I'm one of the last ones—no saint, but basically a nice guy, as long as you don't attack me."
"Oh, I shall not, sir, I assure thee!"
"I believe you. But look, you've got to be freezing. How long were you standing there with your arm caught in that tree, anyway?"
"Since—since not long after noon, sir."
"You must be a lump of ice. Come on, I'll walk you home. Where do you live?"
" Tis but a cottage in the wildwood, sir. And you've no need to put thysen out for the likes of me…" But she glanced from side to side with apprehension.
Rod's resolve firmed. "It's no trouble, Granny—I wasn't going anywhere specific, anyway. Come on, let's go."
"Well… an it please thee, sir." She fell into step beside him, clutching her basket to her scrawny chest, eyes still flicking from side to side, wary of the night's dangers. "Pray the Wee Folk do not find us!"
"Why? We could use some help. Say, I can't keep calling you 'Granny'—we're not even related."
"Oh, do, kind sir, an it please thee! All other folk do—old Granny Ban, they call me, the Woman in the Wood."
"Not too many old ladies who opt for solitude, hm? Well, I'm Rod Gallowglass." He ignored her start of recognition, casually turning away to eye the forest. "Personally, I think you have a nice neighborhood."
"I do find beauty in it, sir." The old woman managed a timorous smile. "And the wild creatures do be good neighbors indeed, save the wolves and bears."
"You're just lucky one of them didn't come by while you were stuck in that tree." Rod frowned. "Or did it have them frightened, too?"
"I know not, sir—I ha' ne'er come near that oak aforetime. Yet I misdoubt me an…"
The conversation went on, her answers becoming longer and longer—and, bit by bit, he drew her out, until she was chattering like a power loom, months' worth of pent-up talk coming out in a stream, once she realized she had an attentive ear available. Rod listened and smiled, nodding and prompting her with the occasional question, usually having to do with which fork they should take; so he wasn't entirely surprised when, having reached her door, bade her good night, and turned away, he heard her cry, "Oh, no, sir, thou must not stay longer in this bitter cold! Come in and warm thy sen by my fire, I prithee, until the sun hath risen to warm the air a bit."
Rod turned back and gazed at her, weighing his habitual reluctance to accept hospitality against his chilled feet and nose, and the possibility of frostbite. Then he shrugged and grinned. "Why not? If you don't mind my taking a nap. I can't do too much harm if I'm asleep."
"Assuredly, sir—yet thou must needs dine first; I doubt me not an thou hast gone hungry this night."
Rod was surprised to realize he actually could think of food again—in fact, he was downright famished. "Well, now that you mention it…"
' 'Thou hast as much hunger as one of those wolves we but now did speak of, hast thou not? There, I knew it!" Granny Ban hung her worn old cloak on a peg and bustled about the single, cozy room, much more relaxed now that she was home again. She lifted the lid on a pot that hung from a crane in the fireplace, and a heavenly aroma swirled through the cottage. Rod's mouth watered. "I don't mean to put you out…"
"Oh, there's stew enough for two, and more, sir! There, as if thou couldst put me out? When I owe my life to thee, belike. Here." A steaming loaf plumped down on the table before him, whisked out of the oven hole next to the fire. "Eat, and bide; the stew will be with thee ere long."
Rod didn't need urging. He munched on the crusty loaf, soaking in the warmth—he must have grown numb, not realizing how cold he was—and taking in his surround-ings. No, this wasn't the only room—there was a door in the wall to his left. A scullery, probably, or an unheated pantry—good way to keep food the winter…
"And hast thou ne'er seen trees move of their own accord afore, sir?"
"Hm?" Rod hadn't realized he'd mentioned it. "No, never.''
"Nor have I. Tis odd, for I've dwelt in the wildwood these twenty years and more—and so puissant a warlock as thysen must needs have seen all manner of magics."
"Well, I have seen a lot—but I must admit this land of Gramarye has continual surprises for me." From the aroma, he judged that the stew owed more to vegetables than to meat—but it was wonderfully seasoned, and smelled heavenly. Rod could hardly wait for it to be served.
" 'Tis a wicked spell woven by thine enemies, I doubt not. Thou hast enemies, hast thou not, sir? Nay, of a certainty thou hast—all do know that the enemies of the King are the enemies of the High Warlock, too." She shook her head with a sigh. "Our poor liege! Scarcely hath he dealt with one foe when a new doth arise. One would think…"
"Yes, one would." Rod frowned, his attention caught. "A spell? You think that tree coming alive could be the work of a sorcerer?"
"Might it not, sir?" She set a wooden bowl in front of him, a carven spoon beside it—more of a ladle, really. "Never hath it chanced aforetime, and I have paced the path past that oak twice a week or more, these twenty years."