A land of Trees : Chapter 2 : There is no such thing as a fressle wizard.

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Chapter 2 : There is no such thing as a fressle wizard.

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Mary was busy in the kitchen, preparing meals for the customers as they came in for food and drink. The butcher’s boy had been earlier on, so she had five chickens, a side of pork and an assortment of river fish to prepare. The meat had been extortionately expensive. Each chicken had cost an extra penny on the usual blackbird she normally spent. A black bird was a silver six penny piece, and now it appeared that chickens were being sold for up to eight or nine pence in the market. Inflation was something that most people in Styke could not understand, but there it was.

As she gutted a trout (three pence it had cost!) she heard a commotion from the tap room. A sound like something breaking then a series of shouts. Then the guard dog started barking, great throaty outbursts.

Gingerly she walked down the narrow corridor between the kitchen and the tap room and looked round the corner.

A man in a purple cloak, the cloak of a coachman, had his dagger drawn and was wrestling with a garrison man. Both were shouting and spitting at each other, no recognisable words however, just snarls and grunts.

The other patrons, a man who had been eating some of yesterdays pheasant, and a couple of poor beggars Hanz had let in to get warmed up but who had ordered nothing, were backed up against the other side of the room.

‘Hanz!’, cried Mary at the top of her lungs.

She needn’t have bothered though, the northman had heard the shouts and she could hear his heavy tread as he came down the stairs from the guest rooms above.

‘Great gods!’, he bellowed as he entered, ‘I was only gone five minutes!’

Reaching behind the bar he took out a heavy axe handle and approached the antagonists.

A coachman would never be a match for one of King Turku's bezerkers and a garrison man little better. With a deft swing of his axe handle Hanz swept the knife from the coachman’s hands who yelled in pain and clutched his fingers to his chest. The soldier made to draw his sword, but suddenly he too was crying in agony and sucking at bruised fingers.

‘Not in here you don’t!’

‘You dirty sheepshagger!’, moaned the soldier, ‘I could have your head for that!’

The soldier was an ugly, gap toothed man in his late forties. He had lank dark hair and had not shaved in days. He wore a tabard which heralded him as one of King Woads men, a dark green toad on a red background.

‘Get back to your barracks before I break your head open.’, snarled Hanz as he reached down to grab the collar of the guard dog, a great shaggy brute of an elk hound.

Seeing he was out numbered the soldier headed for the door. Spying Mary at the other end of the room he snarled,

‘What are you fucking looking at?’

Mary said nothing, and mumbling to himself the soldier left.

The coachman went to reach for his fallen dagger with his bloody hand, but suddenly found Hanz's booted foot upon it.

‘That stays right here.’, said the northman.

Mary took a look at the man. He had the surly hardened look of a coachman alright. The roads in all of Styke, and especially the wooded area were full of bandits, fimpin, goblins and outlawed nogs. The coaches between Korismalle and Blaine, and even as far as Millwood were under constant danger of attack.

The men that wore the purple cloak of a coach driver were usually little more than bandits themselves. Hired thugs who didn’t shirk at a bit of killing.

This man was old and hardened, his grey hair fell across his shoulders in long dirty clumps.

‘But he started it, innkeeper. He said he would rather be back at the Hall, than garrisoned at this shit heap. He said he wouldn’t have to be here at all if the roads were clear.’

Complaining about the roads, that was the best way to start a fight with a coachman, Mary knew that.

‘Be that as it may driver,’ replied Hanz, ‘A dagger is no weapon for a coachman. Stick to your blunderbuss.’

‘Like I would have smeared him all over the room, ‘laughed the driver as he stood up. Quaffing back the last of the beer in his tankard he reached for his other weapon and swung it over his shoulder.

‘You would not have thanked me if I had used Bessie here on him!’

Mary eyed the long sleek weapon now on his shoulder. The gun had a dark wooden haft and a flintlock trigger that lay along the side of the gun on the firing plate. The black metal barrel ended in a sort of trumpet. It was about four feet long, not a very good weapon in a brawl, but an excellent weapon for blasting a goblin bandit to kingdom come.

‘And then you would have had my Jenny to contend with before you could reload.’, came the calm reply and Hanz weighted the axe handle in his hand, her name burned into the stained and many notched business end.

‘Aye, very well, came from a nog outlaw anyway, you can keep it.’

And with that the coachman pulled his cap down over his eyes and headed out into the evening snow.

Hanz gave Mary a disgruntled look and returned upstairs. The other patrons settled back down and the little fressle went back to her kitchen.

Korismalle has gone to the dogs a bit, she thought, as she started to clear up the work tops, dragging her stool from table to table. It was a lot rougher now that all the noggish soldiers had started to arrive, begging for jobs.

A garrison of two hundred men from Toad Hall had arrived and the town was virtually under martial law. Most of them were barracked at the citadel, but some others were billeted at the gate towers or in houses all over the town.

The arrival of the soldiers had stabilised the area a little, but incidents between the town guards and the coachmen were frequent.

Lord Herrias Herrasos, the towns magistrate, a bloodthirsty tyrant if ever there was one, did not take kindly at all to the arrival of a battalion of kings men, but he had no choice in the matter.

His arena catered to the violent desires of all the martial men in the town, and although she hated to admit it, Mary thought that the words of Lord Herrasos,

‘One fight in the arena prevents ten in the streets’, were probably true.

The kitchen clean, the larder full, and the cauldrons full of soup and stew, Mary’s work was done.

She went into the bar and greeted the barmaid, Gertrude, who had arrived a while earlier.

‘Give me a brandy Gerty, please’, sighed Mary as she gave into her tiredness a little. She put her stool down and sat by the fire to warm her cold feet. As she eased off her boots the barmaid came over and handed her a glass of brandy.

‘Here you go Mary.’ , said the simple girl and gave her a smile.

‘Thanks Gert,’, smiled Mary in turn and wiggled her striped stocking feet in front of the flames.

The tavern was a little busier now, but it would not get really busy until after ten, when the last of the dockers got off shift.

A burly figure tried to enter the room, from the street outside, and the dog looked up from the fire and let out a low growl.

It was a huge shaggy nog, wearing a long black cloak and big leather boots. His tabard was tattered and worn, but still bearing the gold thread work of a marine. He held his stovepipe hat in his hands, its gold piping still attached, with a tassel dangling from it. The nog had once been an officer.

‘You can’t come in here love,’, called Gertrude from the bar, ‘This place ent for your kind.’

The bestial face of the nog looked at her blankly.

Mary, along with every other person in the bar had turned to look at him. Poor thing, he looks gaunt with hunger. Still, many of the men were placing hands upon sword hilts or dagger handles.

‘Go down to the docks and turn left. Look for the sign of the Drowned Man, you will find friends there.’, said the fressle in a quiet voice.

The nog turned to her. She still found their tusked, hairy faces terrifying, but the nog simply rumbled,

‘Thank you, young one,’ and turning on his heel, left.

Two more barmaids arrived and Hanz came down stairs, from serving people in the private rooms, to talk with Mary for a moment or two by the fire.

Heating his large rear end by the flames he looked down on tiny Mary and said,

‘You will be off to the arena tonight then.’

‘Yes,’, replied the fressle.

In times of such hardship, it may be thought a little greedy to have two jobs, but Mary did also work at the arena as a healer.

‘Well, and how is your .. ah .. friend.’, smiled the northman.

‘Her boyfriend!’, came the gleeful cry from Gertrude across the room.

‘He fights tonight,’ said Mary sorrowfully.

‘He is a big tall lad, I’m sure he will do ok.’. said Hanz, realising he had maybe picked the wrong subject to make small talk on.

Mary took a sip of her brandy and nodded. She didn’t like to think about it though.

Just then another man entered and approached the fire. He wore a purple cloak, a coachman, but a different one from the afternoon. Calling for a drink, he took his blunderbuss from his shoulder and placing it beside the fireplace came to warm himself by the flames.

‘Lordy lord, what’s this?’ he said as he looked down at Mary.

‘Have we been playing dressing up games child?’

Mary turned up to look at him blankly, her big round eyes gazing up at the man.

‘Oh, I do beg your pardon little miss, I mistook you for a child!’, said the coachman, but he didn’t appear to be too upset by his mistake.

Mary looked up at the man. He was young, a short well kept beard grew on his face. He had the sallow look of someone who was slightly under nourished but he seemed cheerful enough as he took a swig from his tankard.

‘Tell me then, why are you wearing a wizards hat?’

This brought a chuckle from Hanz who still stood across the fire from the driver.

‘Why because she is a wizard of course!’, he replied for her.

The man laughed, ‘Well of course! And what spells does a fressle know? Summon Soup perhaps? Or Magical Carrots?’

‘I am a wizard.’, she said meekly.

‘Nonsense little miss,’ came the reply ,’All know that torms know no magic. Only humans and forest-dwellers know wizardry. Nogs and goblins know necromancy and the naxeme know the magic of rocks. There is no such thing as a fressle wizard.’, he said finally with great authority.

Mary’s cheeks were glowing red. She was furious, but all fressles tended to behave meekly before humans they didn’t know. When you are three feet tall, it is a survival trait.

‘Well, you are obviously wise in the ways of the arcane, ‘ came her tart reply’ ‘But I can assure you, I was apprenticed to Jendix L’Noir for two years.’

‘Oh really,’ laughed the coachman rocking on his heels by the fire and gazing off across the smokey room.

‘I can’t say I have heard of the gentleman.’

Hanz stepped in again to reply on Mary’s behalf.

‘It’s all true. L’Noir is a forth bach wizard from Tomsk.’

The coachman let loose a great guffaw of laughter then said,

‘A forth bach, take a fressle as an apprentice? You are joking with me now!’

‘Not a word of a lie,’ fumed Mary, ‘He passed through Tormwood once, and took me as his apprentice. Torms can be wizards as much as anyone.’

‘Very well then, show me a spell little wizard!’

Mary muttered something that he didn’t here.

‘What was that?’

‘I said,’ she replied tersely , ‘I can’t I am saving my spells for the arena tonight.’

The man was in utter confusion.

She went on to explain,

‘One spell I do know is how to staunch the flow of blood, a little anyway. And they pay me to use it at the arena.’

The man laughed again.

‘You jest surely! Well, I will be at the arena tonight. I will look for you there.’

‘You won’t see me.’

The man looked at Hanz for confirmation.

‘I don’t know what she does at the arena, but she does work there.’, Hanz said honestly.

The coachman shrugged his shoulders and raising his tankard said,

‘Here’s to fressle wizards then!’, and quaffing his beer in one large draught he then muttered, ‘And fressle wizard wenches at that.’

It was his birthday today, Bandrax thought glumly to himself. It was five days after the Feast of Yuric, five days after the new year, and he knew that was his day of birth. He was eighteen today.

And what a way to spend it. He currently sat in a small dark cell that had two doors in it, one at each end. The door he and Horace had come through led into the wooden rooms of the annex where the armoury was. The other door led directly to the arena.

He could hear the hubbub of a large crowd already. Nothing had started yet, but it could not be far away.

They sat on a low bench together. Bandrax had his legs stretched out before him and was looking up at the ceiling. Horace had his head hunched down low between his hands and was trembling.

They had both been outfitted in armour. Bandrax wore the breastplate, greaves, vambraces and bracers that he always wore. They were made from rusted metal, but the steel underneath was still good. The metal had been dyed various colours of orange and red. His helmet sat on the bench beside him, and a fox's tail served as decoration.

Horace was dressed in a mail hauberk over which he wore a plain black coat of brigandine. It was so heavy he complained he could hardly walk. The tall youth was armed with a long spear and a wooden shield. Bandrax was armed with a huge five foot long footman’s morning-star. The haft alone was three feet. It had three spiked steel heads, each held on to the end of the haft by three strong links of chain. It was a heavy weapon, but he was a strong young man, and with two hands he could wield it as if it was a willow switch.

Its name was Beefeater and Bandrax had taken to it after finding it in a pile of unused weapons in the armoury. Unlike a sword, it was very hard to block. A half starved goblin could not hope to have the strength to hold it off. Any weapon held up to it would be knocked aside by the flail's sheer weight.

Many times Bandrax had fought a desperate bandit or goblin in the arena who would be armed with a sword and shield. Raising his shield to block the haft his adversary would find the three heads looping right over it to bash him in his face. It was a messy, unpredictable weapon, but Bandrax had trained with it night and day for months. Many times he had injured himself with it, but now was considered a master with the weapon and there were not many people more deadly in the arena, except for perhaps Yorri.

Yorri had his own way of fighting, and a knack for getting out of the way of incoming blows. He was a very hard man to land a blow on.

Horace had had a week of training with a spear, but Bandrax had given him the best advice he could and reminded him of it now,

‘Just stick the pointy end in your enemy.’

Horace looked up.

‘What will my enemy be?’

‘I don’t know, ‘, admitted Bandrax , ‘Yirrloy would have given us an idea, but with him gone.. All the other guards are surly brutes who are happy to see us dead.’

Suddenly there was a clamour outside and a great round of clapping and cheers.

‘Already?’, gasped Horace in terror.

‘No, there will be a bull fight first.’

Horace shuddered and replaced his head between his legs.

Cheers and cries called out from the arena now. One of the bull fighters would be riding around on a barded horse doing his best to kill a bull with his lance.

‘I think we will be fighting together. Against something I mean, not fighting each other. I have fought with other men against bands of goblins or fimpin before. Never a bear or cats, but there is a first time for anything.’

Horace shuddered but said,

‘How did you end up here Bandrax?’

‘Hum, the same as most I imagine, I stole something and got caught.’

‘How did you know you would be any good at this? I mean, you seem so calm.’ There was a shudder in Horace’s voice now, ‘I didn’t think it would be like this. I should have gone to the galleys, but twenty years! All I did was steal another man,s purse!’

‘No one can survive five years in the galley let alone twenty, so you made the right choice.’

Horace looked up again, tears flowing down his face,

‘I won’t last a year here!’

‘Try and relax. If we are together then just do what I tell you. I will keep you right.’

‘Thanks Bandrax. Twenty years, one for each silver otter I stole. Gods have mercy!’

‘Hah!’, laughed the other man, ‘I stole apples. Ten years, one for each apple. Commuted to two in the arena.’

‘Yuric have mercy. Ten years? For apples? The kingdom has gone crazy.’

There was suddenly a single terrible piercing cry, then a collective gasp from the crowd, then silence.

‘Oh dear.’, said Bandrax.

‘What happened?’

‘I think the bull won.’

They were both still sat on the bench. From outside there rang the sounds of trumpets and scattered applause from the crowd.

‘Is this it?’, gasped Horace and he stood up and grasped his spear.

‘No, the trumpets mean its time for the tumblers and jugglers.’

Horace began to pace up and down the cell.

‘The waiting is killing me. I would rather it was over.’, he complained.

‘It will be an hour or so yet. Calm down. Try getting some sleep.’

‘Sleep?’, cried Horace, ‘You joking?’

No, thought Bandrax, you don’t look ready for a short nap about now.

‘How many fights have you had Bandrax?’

‘Thirty-two.’

And he remembered every single one of them. Goblins, fimpin, bears, even a snarling black tiger from Ertia.

‘Yuric have mercy.’, the young man sobbed , ‘What will we face?’

With a sigh Bandrax stood up and strode to the inner door and banged Beefeaters haft on it.

‘Hey! Guard!’

A voice from the other side growled,

‘What?’

‘What’s on for us?’

‘Shut up in there or I’ll come in and..’ then silence.

‘Or you’ll what?’, laughed Bandrax, ‘The door is keeping who safe from who now exactly?’

He gave Beefeater a swing, the three heads making swooping noises through the air.

The only answer from beyond the door was silence.

‘Come on Nurl, do us favour, for the newbie. He’s shitting himself.’

‘All right! Its fimpin, happy?’, came Nurl’s shouted reply.

‘How many?’

‘Fuck off!’

Bandrax smiled at Horace and went back to the bench and sat down.

‘Nurl and his cronies will beat us for that later, but there’s your answer. Fimpin.’

‘What are they like?’ shuddered Horace.

‘Tricky. You have to watch them. Difficult to catch as well, so I am surprised. Have only fought them twice before.’

‘All I know is what .. ‘, then Horace let out a bray of laughter ,’Is what my mother told me. Evil, nasty creatures that live in the swamps by the sea. They live on an island that can sink beneath the waves, she said. And every so often it will surface and a thick fog will come. Then they come. They eat babes, or so my mother said. I have never seen one.’

‘Well’, said Bandrax slapping Horace on the shoulder as he came to sit down once again, ‘You will be seeing a whole bushel of them tonight.’

Rostov had planned to meet some of his companions in the old tower at Stonebridge. As he had told Soora, he and some others had been far across the sea to the west, in search of adventure. Bands of like minded individuals would often form into such fellowships in Nillamandor, not quite mercenary bands, but not quite guilds. Many of them were little more than bloodythirsty groups of sellswords who were only interested in plunder and rape. They would sell their services to the lord who would give them the most gold. Their names would often be very far from the truth of their real purpose. ‘The Brave Brotherhood’, were a vicious pack of thugs from Lunaria, who dedicated every kill to their dark gods. ‘The Hands of Doom’ were a regiment of cavalry mercenaries from Lysander who were infamous for butchering the city of Gwent during the noggish invasion and turning traitor no less than four times. ‘The Tranquil Wind’, were supposedly a religious order from a land beyond the Norob Forest who followed the teachings of a peaceful god. But they were lead by a terrible savage of a red monk who was said to drink the blood of virgins. There were literally hundreds of such fellowships in Nillamandor, but not all of them were bad. There was one such band called ‘The Jesters’ who used the tankard more than the sword, and whose leaders had very altruistic tendencies. They were lead by noble twin brothers, and would only fight if the cause was just, and wherever they went they took twenty barrels of Ferrian wine and ten carts of grain and pork to give to any poor peasants who may have been displaced by the battle. Then there was a band called ‘The Wardens’, once the most powerful fellowship in the whole land, and had fought the noggish invaders fiercely in Lodz and had won great renown. But where they were now, no one knew, east, west, south or north no one knew where they had gone and now they were referred to as ‘The Shadows’. Some said they had tired of easy victories in Nillamandor and had gone to heaven to fight the gods themselves.

Rostov was counted as on officer in one such band, ‘The Heroes of Kaladorn’. Kaladorn had been an ancient naxeme king who had founded an order to go forth from his kingdom in search of allies. The kingdom of Kaladorn no longer existed, it was now not much more than an area of wild mountains that bordered Gnarlwold and Styke known as the Hook Vale, but the fellowship still remained. Its members were no longer just naxeme either, but men, wood-dwellers and even torms.

The fellowship has just returned from a long campaign in the lands across the Diamond Sea, and had returned home to spend the winter. They had disembarked from the Waverider at Millwood and had agreed to meet again in the spring. Most of the band had simply elected to stay in Millwood as they had no other place to go, and would be busily getting drunk and spending their money all winter. Some had homes to go to that were close enough to enable them to get back to Millwood by spring. Some would leave the company and never come back.

Just recently, the leader of the fellowship, a naxeme from the Hook Vale named Brond, had spent some of the profits of the western venture on a tower in Stonebridge, a village in the Hook Vale, and those that had decided not to spend the winter in the busy, smoky city of Millwood had elected to move into it and make it habitable.

Well, Rostov had decided he could stand Millwood for a while and had been there for about a month. He had drunk to their victories and had spent a great deal of money enjoying himself with his friends. But as they gradually drifted off he too had decided to join the more sensible ones at the tower. Besides, Necellia, who had elected herself as custodian would, be glad of the help.

At first he had been reluctant to come, it was, after all, so close to Soora that her presence nearby would nag away at him like a toothache. So he had decided to travel beyond the tower before presenting himself there to see her first, to get it over and done with.

But now he had seen her, he was too intrigued by what he had seen in the woods by her house to go down to the tower.

So instead of following the path to the north that led round the lake and eventually to the village, he turned himself west, and plunged straight into the virgin forest.

After a few hours travel he remembered that his friends might be wondering where he was. He had already sent word that he would be arriving that morning. So for a while he walked, looking up into the branches of the trees until he saw what he wanted.

Raising his arm he tilted his head and made a croaking sound. From the branches above, a large raven flapped down and landed on the druids outstretched wrist.

‘Take my apologies to Necellia. I don’t think I will see them tonight, but I am sure she will understand.’

The raven nodded and croaked. (Ravens are meat eaters!)

‘Thank you, black wing.’, the druid took some corn from his pocket and fed it to the hungry bird. After it had eaten its fill it flapped up to a branch. Then with a final croak it took wing again and was soon lost to sight above the trees.

Of all the beasts of the forest Rostov had particular affinity with ravens and wolves and rats. With luck the raven would pass on his message to the black skinned but beautiful necromancer Necellia. Rostov was sure she would understand - he was always missing meetings.

Walking onwards Rostov found a narrow game trail and began to follow it east, up hill and deeper into the woods. Stopping occasionally he would put his hands on a nearby tree and shut his eyes for a while. For a druid he was hopeless with trees, and he wished one of the other members of his coven was here. Xomano would be much better at this he reflected. It all evened out he supposed, as Xomano could no more command a raven than she could command a rock.

Sighing he started to walk onwards again, and decided to use the power of sight, a more mundane method, but his only option. He could certainly see that there was something wrong with the trees around here. The further east he walked, the more twisted the tree trunks became and the gloomier their aspect.

He passed through a wide, snow choked, clearing and looking up at the sun, and gauged that he had only a few more hours of daylight remaining.

Pulling his cloak around his shoulders against the gusts of wind that now had free access to him, he continued across the clearing to the tree line opposite.

Finding the path again he followed it until it led down to a river, which he crossed easily on a fallen tree trunk. Darkness began to descend in earnest on the old forest, but druids had ways of seeing in the dark. They also had ways of moving swiftly, especially in open wild places and he had already covered more ground than any other man could have walked in three days.

He found a place in the forest that opened up just enough to see the sky. The moon and stars looked down on him. Walking onwards, he felt like he was just getting into his stride. Travelling swiftly through a moon lit forest, this was what druids were born to. As he continued on his way, he almost forgot why he was out here in the forest. This was where druids such as himself would spend weeks sometimes, communing with their goddess. His mind began to wander and he hummed and whistled bars and snippets of songs he had learned on the long sea journeys he had had on the Waverider. His thoughts drifted into images of the past, when he and Soora had met, and had been lovers, of a time long ago. He remembered when they met. She was getting over the death of her son, and it took her a long time to accept Rostov into her life. He had fallen in love with her the moment his eyes had met hers. She was a single dark skinned tall woman in a land of short stocky pale maidens. She was so adverse to talking to anyone though, so devastated was she by the loss of her son; but his kindness won her over. Her pain and loss opened a hole in Rostov’s heart and he did everything he could think of to try and help her. He moved his thoughts away from those memories and thought of the good times they had spent together, in Stonebridge, and the time they took a trip to Millwood. They had hired a boat and sailed around the Gulf of Pallenos, holding each other tightly as they sat on the small deck, watching the sea birds on the cliffs. That had been before the war, back in seventy-one. Those memories were so bitter sweet to him, he found it hard holding back the tears. The war had changed everything, sometimes he wished that they had just sailed away and had never came back.

A distant wolf howl made him stop in his tracks, instantly bringing him back to reality. It was answered by another off to his left. A few seconds later he heard one from much closer, right behind him. Rostov smiled, he liked wolves, perhaps they could tell him something about what was happening here.

But, he knew wolves and he knew they would be wary at first. They would like to track him for a bit and get to know his scent.

The path he was following led down into a deep dell. For a while now he had been following the snaking turns of a valley, it was very mountainous around here although they were impossible to see through the trees. It was morning now, although still as black as inside a barrel and would be for several more hours.

He had been moving so swiftly, many times at a gentle trot, that he was sure he must have crossed the border into Gnarlwold. The track led further into the small sided valley and eventually terminated at a tumbledown woodsman’s hut. There was hardly a tree that he could see around here that didn’t have the same sick and twisted look to it that Soora’s apple tree had had.

He approached the hut fearlessly. All druids had great confidence in the wilderness, not always founded, but it was always said between them, that when in the forest, you are the most dangerous thing in it.

Seeing no light on, he approached the door and knocked on it. Getting no answer he pushed the door a little and finding it unlatched he entered the single roomed abode.

This dwelling had little to recommend it other than a single chair and table beside the fireplace and a small bed in the other corner. There was a chest with several bundles of animal fur piled against it, but that did not hold Rostov’s attention for long.

Sat at the chair, his throat torn out and his arms hanging limply by his side was the huts only occupant.

Cautiously the druid approached the corpse, who gave every indication of being dead a good long while. He was completely frozen and the blood from his throat hung in long red icicles. A single long white icicle hung from his nose.

Looking closer he judged the bite marks on the poor dead man to be those of wolves. Druids may be safe from wolves, but that certainly didn’t apply to everyone who set foot in the forest.

Just then he sensed something behind him and turning he stepped out of the hut again and looked out into the darkness. Any other human in these woods would not be able to see his hands an inch in front of his face, but Rostov could just make out the shadowy forms of a large pack of wolves coming slowly towards him and the hut.

‘Good evening chaps.’, Rostov said in somewhat nervous greeting.

The largest of the black shapes let out a low rumbling growl.

‘Nice night. How are you all doing?’

The shapes came forward, apparently none of them had anything to say.

And then the great shaggy lump that seemed to be the leader was right there, and removing his gloves, Rostov held out his right hand for the wolf to sniff.

In one swift movement the wolf clamped down its jaws on the druids hand. But Rostov moved swiftly too, and the wolf missed getting a grip although it did strip the flesh from two of his fingers.

Howling in pain, Rostov cursed, ‘You viscious swine! I’m a druid!’

The wolf lept, but the man sidestepped and was soon running as fast as he could in the opposite direction from the pack. The wolves reacted instantly at the sight of fleeing prey and with barks and yelps the entire pack hurtled after him.

There is nothing swifter than a druid running through the forest, expcept maybe a pack of wolves hunting down it's prey. Hugging his bleeding hand to his chest Rostov cursed under his breath.

‘I might have known the fauna would be as evil as the flora around here,’ he cursed to himself.

He was a long way from being tired from running yet, but the pack was no further away from him. Glancing over his shoulder he could see the sleek black shapes making chase. They were perfectly at home in these woods and ran through the trees like streaks of black lightning.

‘Well, I must be quicker.’, grunted Rostov to himself as he hurdled a fallen tree.

He ran on, never tiring, as the day began to break and weak dawn light began to filter between the branches of the trees. He knew he could not run for ever. He would either reach a dead end, or stumble and the pack would be on him.

A plan was formulating in his mind. He decided he had spent enough time in these woods and wished to leave. All druids of his age and experience had the power to travel swiftly over great distances and they could also use the ancient stone circles dotted around Nillamandor as a means of magical travel. It was also within their power to open magical gateways that would take them back to their coven, but these spells took hours to prepare and a pack of rabid wolves would be unlikely to allow him the time to enter the meditative trance he would need, or the space to make the gate. Rostov, for a number of reasons, had no desire to go back just yet. The last time he had seen Xomano, it was saying farewell to her as she left for their coven, so he at least knew she would be there. He had no desire, in fact, to ever go back there, but he certainly preferred that to being torn apart by wolves.

‘Stuff this, I need time to think.’, gasped Rostov as he found he was beginning to run out of breath.

With a great leap he bounded into the lower branches of the nearest tree and as swiftly as he could scrambled upwards as high as he dared.

Treed, he thought as he sucked a finger, he had knocked a nail off his left hand as he had climbed the tree.

Then the wolves arrived, barking and yelping in a great cacophony, then snarling they began to circle the tree.

‘Leave me alone.’, called Rostov down to the pack.

The shaggy pelted leader snarled back at him. You didn’t need to be a druid to know that it meant , Come down, we wish to eat you. (Why had'nt they eaten

‘Wolves never kill druids.’, replied Rostov. the woodman?)

In Gnarlwold, the rules have changed., came the growled reply.

‘Huh’, grunted the man and leaned against the trunk of the tree he had climbed and sucked on his injured fingers.

Ok, think yourself out of this one, thought Rostov to himself. If he was on the ground, and not being chased by wolves obviously, he could draw a magical circle, make a doorway from lashed together branches and enter the trance required to enter the summoned portal. He would then arrive at his coven, bruised and bitten but none the worse.

But to go back on the ground would be suicide. He would be ripped to shreds in a moment.

Still, who said I had to be on the ground...

And as he was thinking it, he was doing it. He took his knife from his belt and began carving the bark off the side of the tree trunk. Using the stringy sappy wood beneath he began to lash branches together. It wasn’t the easiest thing to do, but he could think of nothing better. As the dawn light began to filter through the trees upper branches, Rostov fashioned a circle from tied together branches that stretched all the way around where he sat. Tied to branches and joining up to the trunk behind him it was fairly secure, if a little on the small side for the purpose planned. The next thing he required was a door for the portal. Just as he started to make one, reaching up to pull more branches down, it occurred to him that he would also need to enter a trance to perform the spell. He looked at the belt on his waist and gauged the tree trunk. There was nothing he could attach himself to here, his belt was too short and the trunk to big. If he entered the required trance here, he would undoubtedly fall from the tree.

Sighing in despair he could not think what to do. He knew he would never make it back to Stonebridge. He doubted he would make it back to the border before the wolves would pull him down. Looking up to the skies as if seeking the gods for help he noticed the multitude of pine cones in the branches of the tree he was in.

Suddenly a crazy notion came to him and he laughed at the folly it would require. Well, the spell books said that a magic doorway was required for the druid, in his trance state, to walk through. Rostov knew this. He had cast the spell dozens of times before. But maybe a trap door would do just as well.

He stood up on his branch and started to pluck the pine cones from around him. With careful aim he began to drop them down beneath him.

What do you do, man?, snarled the wolves, but Rostov paid no attention.

Soon he had dropped many handfuls of cones and had formed a very rough square in the pine needle reddened earth below.

Well, it would have to do, he thought, but there were one or two that had fallen inside the square and they really worried him. What would that mean? Would it tarnish the spell, or make the square smaller? He could hardly go down there to rearrange them though.

Very well, he thought, all I need to do now is enter a trance, fall from the tree, and go straight through my trap door portal, and arrive at the thaumaugercella in the covenhall safe and sound.

Rolling his eyes at his own folly he settled down to meditate. But entering a trance is not the easiest thing to do when you have spent all night sat on a branch and with the knowledge that if you should enter the trance the next thing that happens is that you most likely get pulled apart by wolves.

Soon though he felt himself slip into semi-consciousness, but only to find himself sit bolt upright as soon as he felt himself lose his balance.

With a grunt of annoyance he settled to try again. But each time he felt himself enter a trance, the feeling that he was about to fall awakened him again.

‘Mother Etruna, give me strength!’, he cried in despair.

But there was only one thing for it; he had to keep trying.

The shaggy wolf was getting a little tired of the druid up the tree. They did not really need him as a meal. There were plenty of things to eat in the forest, but it was the principle of the thing. He had called his pack to make chase, and now the thing must be finished. But men were annoying beasts, and they could scamper up a tree pretty quickly. Then it was just a matter of laying siege to them. Eventually they would tire and fall off.

He could make no sense out of the dropped pine cones, but then, nothing that men did made much sense to him. Snarling he circled the ground a few times and then lay down. The rest of the pack took this as a signal to relax a little and they began to settle down as well. It had been a long night, they had chased a young deer clear across the hook gulley. They had got it in the end, but they had entered upper-vale-wolf territory so they didn’t tarry long. It was as they had been making their way back to their own area of the forest that they had scented the druid. Maybe they once respected druids, as the man had said, but the wolf didn’t really know or care. He lived in the now and didn’t care much for the past. But the druid had been swift and he suspected the man would be up the tree for a while yet.

Just as he began to nod off, there was a sudden thump right beside him which made him leap up in alarm. The other wolves leapt up as well to see that the man had fallen off his perch and landed in a heap directly amongst the pine cones he had been throwing around.

The leader snarled and went in for the kill, but then fell back with a startled yelp as a vibrant green light surrounded the man and he descended into the ground as if being claimed by the worms.

This was enough to send his pack running in disarray. None of them cared for magic. The leader joined them in a confused panic stricken run and soon left the tree far behind.

Once he had stopped running, he caught the scent of a squirrel and began to follow it into the darker reaches of the woods, instantly forgetting about falling druids.

Rostov awoke with a startled gasp to see several concerned faces looking down at him. He let out a great sigh of relief. These were the people in his coven.