A LAND OF TREES - Chapter One : After the War - 2009 rewrite

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A LAND OF TREES

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Chapter One : After the war.

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During the great war, the country of Styke was untouched. Not one drop of blood had been spilled in this land in the name of the great conflict between man and nog. Styke had not sent a single soldier to the great battle in the far north that would be the turning point in the struggle. Nog invasion forces

had landed in all the surrounding countries to the north, east and south, but not one single nog had set foot in the forests of Styke. Maybe they knew something that the people in Styke did not. The country certainly had its own problems. Blood thirsty rulers and rowdy neighbours not being the least of them.

Nobody in this sheltered kingdom thought the outcome of the war would have much affect on them one way or the other, but as it turned out, maybe victory for mankind was little better than defeat. The kingdoms of man were tired from many years of war, and the defeated armies of nog had nowhere to go. Back to Fiarka? Nothing awaited them there but strife as the southern noggish nation once more disintegrated into violent conflict with itself. Ertia? The northern nog nation had closed its borders. A wall was being erected and its new xenophobic leaders would have nothing more to do with anyone, not even its own returning soldiers. This left the tens of thousands of suddenly unwanted and landless noggish forces a choice of two options. Either retreat into the great forest and become outlaws and bandits, or try and integrate into human society. Opinions varied in the lands of man as to which was worse, a nog robbing you or trying to 'integrate' with you.

So, as the defeated nogs moved south, many of them trickled into Styke. Some became bandits and preyed on an already blighted land and some went into the towns and villages and became cheap labour. Labour so cheap in fact that all sorts of problems started to occur with them and the human workers that found themselves out of a job because a nog twice as strong and hard working had just taken it.

Styke's already pretty patchy economy collapsed and the country took a deep breath as it prepared to dive back into the dark ages never to return. Some may have prayed that neighbouring Bellavia or Enttland might invade and return some sort of semblance of order, but they had their own problems. To the north Tomsk was if anything in a worse state and to the east, well, people tried not to dwell too much on what was happening to the east. Styke and Gnarlwold had once been part of the same kingdom, many years ago. Gnarlwold had closed its borders ten years ago after a violent power struggle had catapulted the then Prince Bludwurm onto the throne. Somehow, no one was entirely sure how, King Bludwurm became a follower of the dark gods and the kingdom became a hellhole. Thousands were put to the sword and refugees fled to the surrounding kingdoms. But these days no one ever came out of Gnarlwold. No one except .. things best not talked about.

And no one ever went into the Gnarlwold forests to find out what was going on either. And if they did, they didn't come back.

When you are a race of people, smaller then nogs, smaller than men, smaller even than the naxeme, the smallest pygmy race in all of Nillamandor in fact, you either stay out the way, or stay where you are put. If your greatest warriors are no more than four feet tall you can forget owning a nice patch of good

farming land. Not for any great length of time anyway.

If the Stykians were the forgotten people of Nillamandor, the torms of Tormwood were the forgotten race of Styke. Many years ago a small kingdom of torms had existed between Styke and Tomsk. During one of the many wars between the two kingdoms Tormwood was gobbled up by the protagonists and divided up at the treaty table. North Tormwood became Fraska and South Tormwood became Fressle. The good land was settled by humans of both sides and the torms moved deeper into the forest. The bad land, well, the torms could keep the bad land.

Fressle became possibly the most little known shire on any map of Nillamandor. Torms, or fressles as they were known in Styke, were tolerated in the rest of the country although treated little better than tame goblins. Over the years this small people, who took almost anything in their stride made a place for themselves in the kingdom, even if it was, needless to say, a very small one.

Fraskans and fressles made little difference to mankind, but they were all torms as far as torms were concerned. So, this tale begins with a small fressle as she was born south of the border.

Why she currently was not in Fressle remains to be seen, but here she was trudging through the snow in a town called Korismalle.

Fressles are very small creatures, and Mary was even shorter than most. She stood not much more than three feet tall, which made the larger snow drifts particularly heavy going. Dressed in a multitude of skirts and pinafores, and an overcoat two sizes too big for her, topped off with a pointed wizard’s hat, its tip sagging slightly due to the damp snow, she looked more like a child’s spinning top than a person.

Her thick leather boots, made for the feet of a human child, were beginning to let the moisture in and she could barely feel her toes, wrapped up in two layers of stockings as they were.

Pulling the collar of her coat further up and hugging her muffler around her she continued on her way, the only bit of her face visible were her green eyes and very red nose. She was not far from her destination now at least she reflected. Just a few more streets and she would be at the inn.

It was still dark, as dawn had not arrived yet, but murky street lamps cast a yellow glow down onto the snow, and created an eerie effect on the fall of the clumps of thick snowflakes.

Leaving a trail of small foot prints behind her she crossed the smaller of the town’s two market squares. There were several cart loads of refugees here. Most likely from Tomsk. With nowhere else to go and nothing else to do they had simply stopped there carts here and set up home. It looked like a very cold existence, thought Mary, as she walked past them. A woman sat on a box beside her covered cart, all wrapped up in blankets, her frosted breath gently rising in the weak pre-morning light. She held a baby in her arms, not much more than a bundle of rags. It was very quiet.

Behind the cart could be heard the sound of chopping. As she crossed over to Grocer Street, Mary saw that it was a man, slaughtering the last of his horses. There was a small fire here as well, beside which huddled two children. Both of them bundled up heavily against the cold in a way similar to her.

It was usual policy to move vagabonds on in the Duchy of Cannonbury, but no one had the heart to move these ragged families out into the forest for they would have surely perished.

As Mary looked over at them her eyes made contact with that of the woman’s, her gaze was like a pool of numb despair. Mary doubled her pace and hunched her shoulders up in her coat. The refugees and herself were the only people in the square. The tall roofs of the kirk cast early morning shadows across the snow covered expanse. The street she was heading for was between the tall buildings of the sheriff's court and the citadel. Turning her back on the square she scurried onwards.

The cobbles on Grocer Street had been cleared and Mary stamped her feet as she walked to loosen the snow that caked her legs right up to her knees. She used her gloved hands to brush as much off her coat as she could.

Grocer Street had tall buildings on both sides and the snow sprinkled down slowly in a line all along its length to the river.

It was still quiet, but market stalls were beginning to be set up although no wares were on display yet. Cold and sleepy youths huddle around braziers drinking cups of steaming tea, talking softly.

By law no stalls could be set up in the market before eight o’clock, but that didn’t apply to stalls along the side streets, so early birds would set up shop along this thoroughfare to catch dockers and stevedores as they went to work.

Mary was still a fairly unusual sight around here. Fressles were not particularly uncommon this close to Tormwood, but one that wore a tall wizard’s hat, complete with moons and stars traced upon it in sequins was very much worthy of comment. The conversations stopped as she walked past and people watched her with unreserved curiosity as they might watch a cat if it had learned to walk like a man and wear boots and had happened to stroll by this morning.

A fressle who was helping erect one of the stalls gave her a friendly wave as she passed, which Mary returned. It was young Jeki, little more than a boy, but who liked Mary tremendously. He worked for a vegetable merchant in town and was kept very busy.

Finally Mary reached the docks, the canal was iced over, but traffic could still push its way up and down. Stevedores were gathered around the docks, stamping their feet to keep warm, waiting for the first of the day’s barges to come in. The local men were all gathered in one group and the migrant nogs, a much more ragged set, were in another.

She crossed the canal by the lock, its great wooden gates made slippery by ice and snow and began to trudge up Calinary Lane. A group of tall, but tired looking nogs walked past her. Mary stepped into a doorway to let them pass. Each of them must have been easily over seven feet tall. They had great shaggy pelts which tufted out of rips and tears in their once proud uniforms. Their faces were covered in fur and tusks jutted out of their lower jaws coming up to nearly touch their big black snouts. Their large brown eyes looked more like those of a goat's than anything human. Each of them had, at one point, worn the blood red tabard of the noggish marines, but only scraps of it could still be seen on them. Most had a sack over their shoulders as a makeshift cloak. One still wore his stovepipe hat although it was very bent.

Mary tried to make herself as small as possible as these great shaggy beasts, once proud soldiers, went down to the docks to try and find work. Although the war had ended a year ago, Mary had the instinct of all fressles that said, hide from the monsters, lest you be eaten!

After they had passed she continued on her way and entered the Lost Goose Inn that sat on the corner of Calinary Lane and Wool Street. The Inn itself jutted out into the street like a tall ship. It was four stories high, taller than the buildings on either side, and the lamp that hung from its doorway was still lit, casting an eerie glow across the snowdrifts. No one had cleared the doorway yet so Mary had to struggle to the entrance. She knew the door would be locked, as it always was at this time. She unlocked it with a large iron key which she drew from her coat pocket. Giving it a shove she entered the main room.

She kicked the snow from her boots once again and crossed to the fireplace. The huge guard dog that was curled up on the hearth looked up and gave her hand a lick as she put it out as a greeting. The fire was little more than embers but she put some wood on it and stoked it up.

In time she would clear the door way, clean the tables and mop the floors, all before the landlord would rise. She wouldn't hold that against him, he would have been awake until four in the morning last night.

But first she helped herself to a nip of brandy from behind the bar to ward off the cold. She removed her coat, but not her hat, and set it across the bar. She unwound her scarf and placed it on her coat which revealed her face for the first time. She had the delicate features of a child, but her appearance was deceptive, as her eyes were much older. To someone not paying much attention she might pass as a human child of about eight, but in truth she was a little older. She was fully grown for a fressle but still young, not having reached her nineteenth birthday.

Her small button nose was very red with the cold and her round cheeks equally rosy. Her long blonde hair was coming loose from her hat, which she removed to try and get her curls a little more under control. She took a grip from her hair and holding it in her teeth she wrapped her hair up into a bun. The grip replaced and her hat pulled firmly down she felt more ready to tackle all the morning’s chores.

After she had cleaned the taproom and the kitchen she gathered some things from the larder and started chopping vegetables and pork into a big cauldron to make soup. To do so he stood on a small wooden stool, which was her constant companion through the entire day. When you are three foot tall you need a wooden stool to do just about anything in a kitchen designed for grown humans.

'Morning Mary!', boomed a voice behind her as Hanz the landlord came down the stairs, stretching and then shivering as he ducked through the doorway.

Hanz was a big northlander and the houses in Korismalle were all too small for him. Not quite as tall as a nog, but not far off it, he had been a handsome man until a sword had sliced away his left eye and half his cheek.

He wore a black eye patch and a livid red scar ran from the patch to his upper lip hidden as it was behind a thick beard. He wore his platinum blonde hair tied back in a long pony tail. He had once been a warrior of King Turku of Vegas, but now was no more than an innkeeper.

'Mm smells nice.. ', he said as he peered into the cauldron, which bubbled away on the kitchen stove. He reached for a spoon but had his knuckles wrapped with a ladle.

'That’s not for you! Your breakfast is in the larder.'

Grumbling under his breath Hanz went into the side room and came back with a bowl of porridge. He meekly sat at the kitchen table and taking some milk poured it on his cold breakfast.

'Is there any honey Mary?', he asked.

'Yes there is, but none for you, and you know not to ask! If you must drink with your customers till all hours is it any wonder your digestion is in the state it is?', Mary had turned from the stove and was waving the ladle at him.

'Ya , ya, ok, ..' , muttering he went back to his porridge.

Soon though he had finished, and looking across to Mary rumbled out a deep laugh.

'You and that hat Mary! I swear you never take it off!'

Mary couldn't help but laugh with him . 'You never tire of making fun of me do you?'

Hanz shook his head as he opened the hatch to the cellar from which he would pull out however many barrels of wine and beer he thought he would need for that day.

Despite the snow outside it was still warm in the tea shack, as it always was. There were a lot of bodies in it. Everyone was gathered around the fireplace, sitting on the old overstuffed and broken armchairs, drinking tea that was being brewed from the stove in the corner.

One of the men was treating the others to a little history lesson.

'So young Horace, if you are to die, then you will be dying in an honourable place at least!'

The young man that was being addressed, a tall skinny youth held his cup in cold fingers next to his lips and looking up from his chair said,

'Why is that?'

Two of the other men rolled their eyes at each other behind the back of the historian and smiled.

'Well, young champion, this edifice may be used as a simple arena for sport and blood letting now, but it was once a great auditorium used by the Marathons.'

'Who were they?' asked the youth again.

The historian pulled on his grey beard and said,

'Yes indeed, they were a tall, slender noble race. As tall and slim as your good self I am sure. They are extinct these last thousand years, wiped out by a noggish invasion from the south. As is forever the way. It even had a roof at one point, which has long since collapsed. When you are out their today, look at the markings on the floor. Four great columns stood there at one time. They say the Marathons knew much of magic, certainly they were not humans, more akin to the wood-dwellers than men. Their empire included Styke, Tomsk, Gnarlwold and even Bellavia. A great nation indeed.'

'Huh!', grunted Horace, 'I have never heard of them.'

'Your ignorance does you no credit then, their ruins can be found all over the north west. Indeed, in Angor there are dozens of haunted little villages. And who do you think built all the canals? The Great Northern and the Royal? They sprouted out of the ground perhaps? If you die this day your blood will spill on magical ground.'

'I don't like the sound of that.', said the youth and shivered despite the warmth.

One of the men at the back of the room stood up and said,

'Don't worry about old Yorri. Get your cloak, I will show you round one more time before this evening. The guards allow it, if it’s your first fight.'

'You would do well to heed my words as well young De Fenn, we are all fated to meet our maker out there.'

'Not me old man! I have only two more months left to serve!' replied the younger.

The old man muttered something in reply, but no one heard it.

Nodding at the guards at the entrance the two men walked into the centre of the deserted arena. It was afternoon now, and the snow had stopped. Still, the snow that covered the centre of the arena was six inches deep. It would be cleared by evening though.

One of the men was tall and thin, the other shorter and stockier but still tall by human standards.

Horace’s teeth began to chatter.

'So, we can't see Yorri's pillars today because of the snow, but where we are is the best place to stand. I expect your first fight will be one on one. Whatever they decide you are up against will come from the Goblin Gate.', said the shorter man, pointing to a portcullis set in the wall directly before them.

Horace glanced over his shoulder as if looking for somewhere he might retreat.

'Don't stand any further back,’ continued the other, as if reading the young mans thoughts, ‘It’s within throwing range if the crowd decide that you are craven and besides its unlucky.'

'And then what?', chattered Horace.

'Remember your training. If it’s a fimpin or goblin then the thing will be half starved and crazy with fear. Just keep your shield up and cut at it when you see an opening. Remember and don't stab it. The fight will end quicker but the Master won't like it.'

Horace was looking around the arena. The other man had a strong foreign accent, perhaps from the western isles, but the skinny youth was too fearful of what would happen to him later in the day.

'If it’s a cat, then that’s fine. Keep low. The thing will be starving, but all you need to do is keep it back.'

The man suddenly cuffed him on the shoulder much to Horace’s surprise.

'Pay attention my friend, I'm trying to save your life 'ere! Just so.'

Horace looked down at his companion and took in his features for the first time. He had known him for a while but up until now he had just been another of the unfortunates sentenced to fight in the arena.

He had an easy smile and a gingery-blonde beard. Beneath it he had a youthful complexion and it dawned on Horace that despite his height and broadness this was a teenager younger than himself. No older than eighteen.

There was something else about him as well. His left eye was blue and his right eye was purple. That sort of thing could get you into trouble with the witch hunters in some parts of the country Horace knew. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed it before, but he supposed he wasn’t noticing much of anything these days.

'If it’s a bear, then you are in big trouble. Pray that they armed you with a spear. If not the only thing to do is try and duck beneath its claws and go for the throat, but that takes nerve.'

'You fight today don't you Bandrax?'

'Aye.’, replied the other , 'But it certainly isn't my first time.'

‘I’m terrified.’, admitted Horace.

‘Aye, I don’t blame you’, shrugged Bandrax, ‘It is annoying that we don’t know for sure what we will fight. They won’t let us near the pens, and Yirrloy is dead so now we have no one to tell us what they are holding.’

Yirrloy was a guard who had worked in the pens and had been very friendly with the pit fighters, and always told them when anything new came in. But he had been killed by an escaped bear in the autumn.

‘Let us hope they have something anyway, ‘reflected Bandrax. ‘Or we will be fighting each other.’

They trudged back to the tea shack, which was a small wooden room on the outer wall of the arena, but safe and guarded behind the compound wall. The abandoned arena itself had been used by a local magistrate for entertainment for the last five years or so. Condemned prisoners were offered a spell in the arena or a much longer spell in the galleys.

Despite the hunger and destitution that gripped the whole of Styke men killing animals, demi-humans and sometimes each other, seemed a sport that everyone was still willing to pay for.

'Ah, they return.' said Yorri. He had struck a match to his wicked old pipe and was smoking out the already fairly pungent room.

A guard by the door grabbed Horace and grunted,

'Not you, report to the armoury.'

Bandrax sighed and flopped down onto a broken old arm chair by the stove.

'Well, he’s been trained with a sword and he's seen the arena.'

The training yard was on the outside of the arena, enclosed by the wooden stockade wall of the compound.

Horace had only arrived two months ago.

'He won't last long, there is no fight in him.' said the old man.

Several of the others, wiry poachers and petty criminals, nodded at this.

'How you have lasted so long is a mystery to me' replied the younger man.

'I trained at Toad Hall lad, was one of Woads guards for twenty years as well you know.'

The older man removed his pipe from his mouth and stroked back his long grey beard.

'Here’s an interesting thing. I was thinking about your name lad and then I remembered something. Cadro De Fenn means beast of burden in old Ertian. Maybe you know and maybe you don't but the land that was conquered by the nog a few generations ago. The Ertians were refugeed throughout Nillamandor and would take any job to feed themselves hence the name. It is not generally known now in the northern lands although some older people from the south may remember. I remember a trader from Che mentioning it.'

'You are a veritable wealth of information.'

A few of the others laughed and one skinny poacher dressed in leather and wearing a large purple cloak said,

'Cheer up Bandrax, there are worse names.'

'Hum, ', muttered the young man as he poured himself another mug of tea.

'I'll not quarrel with anyone here today. Me and Horace will surely not be the only others fighting tonight and I would rather be on good terms if we must fight side by side again.'

The others nodded at this wisdom. Sometimes the Master had the urge for a melee and all the pit fighters would be called out en force to face a small army of goblins or a mixed menagerie of assorted beasts. They had all fought together side by side on occasion and although they would banter and jest with each other, for in truth there was not much else to do between the training and the fights, there was a comradeship there.

Alcoholic drink was never permitted although they could sometimes buy some from the guards, so they spend the winter nights sat together in the tea shack drinking greenleaf and bark tea, telling stories, bragging and insulting each other.

The men who passed through the arena were ex soldiers, poachers, thieves and rapists. No one lasted much longer than a year or two except for old Yorri who had been there as long as anyone could remember.

There were about twenty men huddled in this small room keeping warm. In the next room across the corridor there were ten armed men to guard them.

Of these condemned twenty, some would die tonight if they were unlucky and the prisons and lockups of Korismalle and the surrounding villages would be scoured for more likely looking candidates.

Bandrax sat in silence now, stroking his scratchy beard and sipping his tea. He longed for escape and had already beaten the odds by surviving for two years in the pit. He had been sixteen when he had been taken up.

As he listened to another of Yorri’s long winded stories his mind wandered and reflected on how he had arrived here.

He had a strong accent by the standards of the men of Styke as he was originally from Laval, one of the western Island Kingdoms. His town had been sacked by noggish marines during the war and he and his elder sister had ended up pulling an oar as slaves on a nog galley. But as luck would have it the war ended three months later and the galley, in accordance with the peace treaty of Kolopa, docked at the nearest port and released its slaves. Well, that had been Homderi, the western most port of Styke. In a kingdom that itself was starving, getting a loaf of bread was hard enough, let alone a passage back to the western isles.

In search of work they moved east, but there was nothing for freed slaves anywhere in Styke. His sister, tall and manly Brella was an apprentice blacksmith but even that could not find them income and they quickly realised that they would have to steal food just to live.

But it was on an orchard raid that Bandrax had been lifted by the Watch, while Brella managed to escape.

For stealing a bushel of apples he was faced with ten years in the galleys, the very same place he had just came from!

When a representative of the magistrate of Korismalle arrived at the jail and offered a shorter sentence as a pit fighter, Bandrax jumped at the chance. So, here he was. Taking a long swallow from his now stone cold tea, he reflected, and I haven’t seen my sister in nearly two years.

Soora woke as she did every morning and walked down to the lake to draw water to boil for her morning wash and to cook her breakfast. Her ramshackle hut was hidden from all directions by the deep evergreen forests that grew hereabouts but from the lake she could see all the way down the river to the village. At the head of the village was a tower that had sat unused, certainly since Soora had started living in the forest, slowly crumbling into ruin, another relic of ancient times that was no longer needed. The little village of Stonebridge had not had a use for it in a long time.

The lake was mostly iced over and the village was covered in a thick white blanket of snow, but smoke rose from the chimneys and lights could be made out, glowing in the dawn gloom.

The tower had become a lot busier just recently. Strange flashes at night, even stranger noises would drift across the lake, sometimes startling her out of her sleep. Since her son had been killed, she was very afraid of the night.

Soora was tall and dark skinned, certainly not a naxeme, as were the majority of the inhabitants around these parts of the mountains. The whole area was a pretty much forgotten about set of secluded flat, but tall sided valleys that sat between the towering Askbakar Mountains to the west and the vast forests of Gnarlwold to the east. Nominally these lands were ruled from Timu, but the de facto rulers were the town and village councils of each settlement. Most of the naxeme around here that knew Soora, and not all of them did know that an outlander lived above the village by the lake, knew her as an Eastman, but that wasn't the full story.

Although Soora's worst fears were that a necromancer had moved into the tower, she just couldn't bring herself to believe that the Sheriff had allowed it, or the magistrates come to that.

Putting the bucket down for a second, she pushed back her hood and looked across the valley to the village, the whole settlement laid out in front of her like a model. And just to confirm her suspicions of strange goings on she spotted a rider coming from the east, at full gallop, towards the tower. At the river trees grew so for a moment the rider was lost from view, but was soon flying across the next field and up the steep path that lead to the towers door. This wasn't the first time she had seen this happen.

As she watched, some strange blue glow lit up the top windows of the tower, then another and another, pulsing in the dawn light. Soora new magic when she saw it and it didn't make her happy at all. She had hoped she would never see anything arcane ever again.

Presently another rider appeared from the east, heading at high speed towards the tower, then another two close behind the first. It was going to be a busy day down at the village evidently.

Shaking her head, Soora carried the heavy bucket back up to her cottage, a walk that would take her twenty minutes following a deer path up an old dry gully until it levelled out into a flat hollow that may have been a quarry at one time. It was hemmed in on all sides by large pine trees and was very difficult to spot if you didn't know it was there. Soora's lazy dog, Toresian, would just be about getting out of his bed, she reflected.

But Tor wasn't in his kennel as she approached her door and that was enough to set her nerves on edge. Every day for the last three years he had sat at the entrance step waiting for his breakfast. With great trepidation she slowly pushed open her front door. With a creak it opened and inch by inch revealed the first of her only two rooms.

Muddy foot prints, not hers, lead into the bedroom.

Where is that cursed creature?, she thought, I need him to deal with situations like this. But the hound was nowhere to be seen. Carefully, as silently as she could, she pulled a log from the woodpile by the stove. With fear leaping up into her throat she carefully edged towards the bedroom door.

Pushing it slowly open she first saw the bottom of her bed, then as she looked through the narrow crack she had created she saw a pair of boots, as if someone was lying there. Suddenly something leapt out at her and she nearly swung at it before she realised it was Toresian. He greeted her with a slobbery lick on the face and just as she got her bearings back a man leapt from the bed and cried

'Soora!'

She gasped then sighed in recognition, 'Rostov!'

The tall bearded man, dressed in leather and chainmail smiled at her. He had removed his helmet, which lay on the bed and his long blonde northmans hair fell loose across his shoulders and down his back.

His kind blue eyes lingered on her for an uncomfortable moment before she said

'What in heavens name are you doing here?'

His smile dropped for a second and he waved a hand replying 'I .. ah.. just happened to be passing'

'Oh really, and you decided to come here and trail mud all over my clean floor?'

He seemed to notice the mud for the first time.

'I’m sorry I shall clear it up. In truth I have business in the village further down the valley so ...I thought,... well having not seen you in over a year.'

Soora shooed him to the front door and signalled him to remove his boots.

'When did you become so martial?' She said as she noticed the sabre at his side for the first time.

'These are dangerous times.'

'Wait just a second , you must have something to do with the tower!' she said as she put things together.

'Why yes. I have friends waiting for me there. The things I have seen this last year Soora! Lands way to the west you would not believe.'

'I don't want to hear about it. I am not interested in any of your childish wanderings.'

'Soora, I’m a druid. Wandering is my job.'

She folded her arms and looked at him. Suddenly Rostov realised how unwelcome he was here. He had not even been offered a drink. In fact she was standing in the doorway barring his way into the house even though he held his boots in his hand. With resignation he sat down on the front step to put them back on again.

Toresian licked at his hands and face and he ruffled the dog’s fur in reply.

'Well, perhaps a year was too soon after all ... is there anything I can do before I go?'

She gave him a sour look, and didn’t say anything for a long while, but then something seemed to occur to her and she said,

'Follow me.'

She led him out of the hollow and along a tangled and twisted path. Stopping at a small glade she pointed to a squat apple tree.

'You're a druid, find out why the apple tree didn't give any fruit last year.'

Rostov rubbed his chin,

'I.. a druid isn't really like a gardener you know ..'

'Right fine,' she said curtly and started to walk back to her cottage.

The man was about to follow her but something drew him to the snow covered tree and he reached out to brush the frost from one of its branches. It was more like something from a cave than a forest. The trees branches seemed withered and grey, and although not dead, it looked as if it would never bear fruit again.

All druids had an affinity with nature and the things of the forest. Rostov began to feel a little uneasy.

As he always did when he felt wary or uncomfortable he pulled a short clay pipe from his belt and from a pouch he produced from his cloak, began to stuff it with tobacco.

Taking the pipe in his lips he clicked the fingers of his right hand and a flame suddenly burst to life on his index finger. Putting his finger to his pipe he took a few long draws and soon he was producing a great cloud of blue smoke.

Letting his left hand feel along the apple tree as he walked past it, he walked a little deeper into the woods. Occasionally he would see another tree that had been blighted. He stopped at an old oak and, the bark beneath the snow was grey and flaked off when Rostov put his hands to it.

‘What ails you ancient one?’, the druid pondered to himself.

Stepping back he took another long draw on his pipe and pondered for a moment.

‘There is more to this than apples.’

Striding back to the cottage, Rostov remembered to tap out his pipe on his boot before entering. Soora hated the smell of the tobacco he smoked.

He was about to enter again, but decided he was not the most welcome of visitors after all and knocked instead.

Soora answered the door and said,

‘Well then. Fix the apple tree?’

‘It’s not as simple as that, I think a blight is on the trees around here. It bears further investigation.’

Soora nodded to him and said ,

‘You’ve been smoking that awful stuff again, I could smell it all the way down here.’

‘Aye’, laughed Rostov ,’Well, I still remember the promise that was made, but as yet you haven’t kept your side of the bargain! Besides, I have friends who do worse. Jalamu smokes Dragon Eye Seeds, so that he can see visions.’

‘I know exactly what Eye Seeds do and I don’t want to hear about it!’

Rostov raised his hands in submission and said,

‘Yes, yes. Anyway, I must make haste to join with my companions in the village. I might drop by later if I can discover what is affecting your apple tree.’

And with that he turned and walked down the muddy path towards the lake.

Just as he reached a bend which would put the cottage out of sight he turned to have one last look.

Soora was still looking down the path at him. Now what does that look on her face mean, wondered Rostov to himself? Sadness and longing were written all over her. But I only see that soft part of her when I am leaving. She is full of pride, but underneath it there must be part of her that wants me to take her in my arms?

Maybe I am just fooling myself he reflected, maybe her heart is as cold as her words.

Muttering to himself at the complexities of women he gave her a wave. She waved back, and with that final gesture he turned once more and headed towards Stonebridge.