2.

The path west was eerily silent. Not a single birdsong trilled from the trees; not a single traveler greeted them on the road. There was nothing but the sounds of their footsteps and the long, quiet mumur of the wind through the forest, the rustle of leaves being blown across their path. Flit and Cecil seemed ill-at-ease, as well. Martimeos' little cardinal perched on his shoulder, instead of flying about as he usually did, and Cecil, rather than prowling through the woods, refused to hunt and stayed instead by Elyse's side.

As they walked they scanned the cobblestone path in front of them, looking always for the sign of horse's hooves sunk into the solid stone. But there was nothing; nothing but the weeds growing up between the stones. Ahead of them, though, as they took the winding path through the forest, they could see the snow-capped peak of a jagged mountain range peering above the tops of the trees, bleak and gray. Elyse, for all her apprehension, was fascinated by the sight of that; she had never before seen a mountain. "I've heard a few names for them," Martm replied, when she asked him what they were called. "Back when she yet lived, some called them the Witch-Queen's range. They were also called the Crosscraw bluffs, for the people who lived there. I have heard dark tales of those mountains."

"Like what?" Elyse's voice was a hushed whisper, though no one else was around but them.

"Hauntings. Caves people enter and never return from. Man-eating giants who stalk the pines along the slopes. Who knows what is true, though."

The day wore on without incident, though as the shadows began to lengthen as the sun began to set, a paranoia set into the both of them. They strained their ears, listening for the distant sounds of galloping hooves; when the time came to make their camp, they walked far off the trail, until it had long disappeared, not wanting to be visible from that road. They lit a fire, but kept it small, behind a rocky outcropping that shielded it from the direction of the path, and both of them were subdued and quiet. The forest here felt oppressive; the black, bare trunks of the trees feeling as if they were pressing in as the light grew dim.

Elyse watched, sitting among the leaves, Cecil curled in her lap, as Martimeos dug through his pack. He retrieved Zekes's book of sigils, but did not open it. Instead, he rummaged further until he retrieved a sheet of yellowing paper as well, blank, and from the fire took a short stick with a blackened, charrred end. Then, sitting next to her, using the book as a flat surface, he began to etch on the paper with the stick. "Ah," said Elyse, after watching him curiously for a moment. "You are drawing the Mirrit. You have some skill at that."

"Less than you might think. I am not so good at drawing people. 'Tis simple enough to draw a snake of feathers, though." Martimeos paused in his etchings to blow away fragments of charcoal from the paper, careful not to smudge the drawing. "I want to make notes of it. Perhaps for a book of my own one day. Write down all we know of it, so others might have the knowledge."

"Hmmm." Elyse watched for a few moments more as he continued to draw. "No, no, its beak is sharper."

"I'm doing my best," Martimeos grumbled. "A general idea is all folk need."

"Do you not want to be accurate?"

"Why, do you think if I get the shape of the beak wrong, people might confuse it for some other feathered snake?"

Elyse was about to retort when she felt Cecil suddenly tense in her arms and emit a low, whining growl. She looked up and froze. There, across from the fire, its eyes gleaming in the firelight, sat a large, shaggy wolf, its fur gray and edging towards black around its snout. However close it had gotten, it had approached silently enough that neither of them had heard it. It merely sat, its tail curled around it, watching them with flat, motionless eyes. Elyse reached out cautiously to shake Martimeos, until he too looked up and froze at the sight of it, setting down his drawing, his hand going to the sword buckled at his hip.

For a long silent moment, they simply stared at each other, the wizard and the witch on one side of the fire, and the wolf on the other. And then the wolf opened its mouth, and with a long, rumbling growl, spoke. "Do not worry, manling. I am far from my pack. I do not hunt you."

Martimeos blinked. Animals with the ability to speak human tongue were not unheard of, though often they were a familiar; less common in the wild. Usually a creature who learned the tongue of men were unusually large, or unusually smart - some said that they must have been touched by the Outside. And they did, for whatever reason, seem more likely to speak to those who practiced the Art. "What is it you want?" he asked.

The wolf regarded him, its eyes twinkling gleams in the dim light. "I am hungry. I smell your food. Give me some fish."

"Why should we?" Elyse snapped. Then her eyes widened, and she hugged Cecil close to her; she had not meant to be so sharp with this wolf.

For a moment Martimeos thought the wolf was going to growl at them. Instead, it merely panted, its tongue hanging out; he wasn't sure if that meant it was upset or not. "Give me fish, and I'll tell you what I know of where you travel. Tell you what your weak noses cannot smell."

Without getting up, Martimeos reached out and slowly dragged his pack towards him, rummaging through it. He took out one of the leaf-wrapped preserved fish rations Ritter had given him, and gently threw it across the campfire, towards the wolf's feet. The wolf sniffed at it for a moment, then swallowed it down, pausing to chew only once. "I'll keep you secret from my pack," it said, once it was done. "They are hungry, though not desperate enough to hunt man yet, I think."

"Thank you," Martimeos replied quietly, his hand still on his sword, watching the wolf warily. "What do you know of where we travel?"

The wolf lifted its head, sniffing at the air for a moment. "Not far from here. A river. And on the other side, farmlands. Some shepherds. Was good land for hunting, once. Foul, now. My pack, we flee from it."

Elyse and Martimeos exchanged a glance. "What has made it foul?" he asked.

The wolf bristled, pawing at the ground before it. "Something there hunts man. Man becomes much more dangerous, when hunted. Lashes out. Carries sharp iron. Much more ready to kill. Not safe for wolves anymore."

"And what is it that hunts man there?" Elyse asked softly.

The wolf's head swiveled to stare at her. "Have not seen it. Only smelled it. Smells wrong. Smells like man, a little. And blood, a lot. But smells foul. I would not eat its meat. Stains the land it walks. Prey flee from it, too. Don't want to graze where it has been. I can smell it on this side of the river, a bit. But much more on the other side." It paused, then added, "Smelled...things I didn't understand. Was time to move on."

Suddenly, the wolf got to its feet, staring off into the distance, cocking its head to the side as if listening to something only it could hear. It turned to look over its shoulder at them. "You want my advice, manlings? Turn back. You will be hunted."

And then it bounded off into the woods, disappearing quickly behind the trees, its padded feet barely making a sound as it loped off. Cecil relaxed in Elyse's arms, then got up, slinking around the campfire to paw and sniff at where the wolf had sat.

Elyse and Martimeos sat in silence, not speaking a word, the wolf's warning playing through their heads. It was a long time, that night, before they felt comfortable in speaking in a tone higher than a whisper. And Martimeos spent more time than usual in drawing his sigils around the camp, ensuring that absolutely nothing might find a way in without alerting them.

Despite the wolf telling them that a river was near, it was another two days of fearful travel through the silent wood before they came upon it.

On the second day, while the sun still hung low in the sky, before they had even stopped to eat their breakfast, they came across it. A wide, deep river, its waters a murky brown, and gentle, flat as glass, except for the leaves and fragments of ice that drifted slowly down it as they broke loose from its banks. And across the river stretched a stone bridge, three arches to cross the river's width, covered in rough, dry moss. The banks of the river were cluttered with trees, roots dangling down the embankment to drink from the water, but even from this side they could see that across the river the land flattened, cleared of trees, obviously by the hand of man.

It was as they were crossing the river that they paused, spotting something that chilled their blood. There, sunk into the worn gray stones of the bridge, were the indentations of four hooves.

Elyse shivered as she stared at these. Just the sight of them made her feel foul, made her want to dip into the river to scrub the feeling from her. She was no stranger to filth in her mother's swamp, and in fact had gladly spent many days caked in mud growing up. But never had swamp mud made her feel as vile as this creature and its trails. Martimeos, for his part, just stared at them grimly. "Elyse," he said, after a moment, "Do not feel as if you need-"

"Are you about to accuse me of being a coward, Martimeos?" Elyse's tone was low and soft, almost threatening.

"No. 'Tis just...this is foul. Truly dangerous. I would...feel badly, were you harmed following me."

Elyse laughed, though quietly, half-heartedly. "I chose to follow, foolish wizard. Do not worry on my account. I knew I could not see the world without some danger."

Martimeos gave her a faint grin. "I suspected you'd say as much. Still, I had to say it. My conscience is clear though, now, you hear me?"

They paused for a moment on the other side of the bridge to eat their breakfast. Lightening from their foreboding mood, Martimeos pointed at the river, saying excitedly that they could draw water from it to see how much they were able to make boil with the Art at once, stumbling down the bank to meet the water. When Elyse, standing above the embankment, pointed out that they didn't actually have a larger container than the bowl she carried to suitably boil water in, however, he looked so honestly surprised and crestfallen that she burst out laughing. "Head in the clouds! So excited to work your Art on a bucket of water that you forgot the bucket!"

Martimeos scowled at her as he climbed his way back up the embankment. "It's not that funny," he muttered.

"Rushing down there. Did you think you would carry the water in your arms?" Elyse laughed once more at his expression. "Oh, don't pout. We'll get a chance to try soon, I'm sure."

Despite what they had seen on the bridge, their mood stayed lightened somewhat as they continued down the path into the farmlands, though thier familiars still remained ill-at-ease, Flit remaining perched upon Martim's shoulder, only occasionally fluttering away to peck at something in the grass, while Cecil never walked further than thirty feet from Elyse. Perhaps it was merely being out of the forest that brighted their spirits; the sun beamed golden light over rolling plains of grass, their sight no longer obstructed by dense thickets of bare trees. A low stone wall hugged the path on their right, obviously marking off a farm - the land on the other side was cultivated, and already harvested for the winter, the remains of vines plucked of their fruit and short, scythed wheat passing them by. Though curiously, as they continued on, it seemed as if some parts of the farm still had yet to be harvested, though it was probably past time they were; large yellow squash on the vine, some already soft and burst, lingered on.

Their cheerful mood left them, however, as they walked far enough to see the actual farmhouse itself.

They spotted it from a distance, and their apprehension only grew as they approached it. A small dirt path led through a gap in the stone wall, trailing away through a field filled with large, overripe pumpkins. And it ended at a charred, blackened patch of ground, surrounding a sad heap of burnt rubble.

Martimeos and Elyse stood at the start of this dirt path, staring out at the burnt patch of ground, considering for a moment. And then with a sigh, Martimeos began down it, picking his way through the pumpkins. Flit fluttered from his shoulder to peck at these, searching for seeds, as they drew nearer to the burnt ground.

Closer, things became even more curious. The rubble in the center of the burnt grass was obviously the remains of whatever farmhouse had once stood here. But all around the house was dug a ditch, only a couple of feet deep, with the dirt piled up beside it to form a barrier. Probably, Martimeos realized, to keep the fire from spreading to the fields. Whoever had done this had only wanted the house to burn, not the rest of the harvest. He leapt across this, his boots crunching on the burnt grass, steadying Elyse as she jumped across as well and nearly stumbled. The smell of burnt wood was thick, as they approached the house; Martimeos brought his scarf to his face, coughing into the red cloth, wondering if this had been done recently.

There was little to be gained, however, from the house itself; little could be seen other than blackened, flame-eaten beams and a stone foundation that had cracked from the heat, not unless they wanted to go sifting through the pile of charred ashes. Martimeos circled the house, while Elyse frowned and kicked at the rubble, hoping to uncover something interesting with her boot. Finally, Martimeos stopped, crossing his arms, stepping back from the rubble.

"An attack, you think?" Elyse asked, joining him at his side. "From what the wolf spoke of?"

"I...don't know," Martimeos mused. "Seems strange that a vicious hunter of men would be so careful to ensure the burn was contained."

As they stepped back across the ditch, away from the burned patch of ground, Elyse tugged at Martimeos' arm, pointing out to the harvested fields. "Martim, look. Someone's here."

Martimeos glanced up. There, across the fields, a few hundred feet away...it was true. There was a figure, though hard to make out the details from this distance, it looked as if it were a somwhat heavyset man. They seemed...odd. They walked back and forth, a few steps in one direction, and a few steps back, as if they were lost. Martimeos walked forward, cupping his hands to his mouth. "Hello!" he shouted, as loud as he could, his voice cutting clear across the empty fields. "Is this your farm?"

He took a few more steps forward, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the sun's glare. Something seemed off, about the figure, something...

Elyse stood back, watching Martimeos, as the wind whipped his shaggy brown hair and black fur cloak around his shoulders, clutching her ragged robes to her. Suddenly, the wizard froze, and dashed back to her, his eyes wide with fear. "What is it?" she asked, as he grabbed her arm and began pulling her away from the farm.

"Run," Martimeos whispered furiously to her. "He has no head."

"What?" Elyse gasped in shock. She glanced backwards, eyes wide, at the figure in the fields. It seemed now as if it was slowly walking towards them. And she realized, with a chill that sank to her bones, that Martim was right. Whoever the man was, he had no head. And she thought she could see a large red streak soaking into his clothes from the stump of his neck where his head should be.

They raced from the farm, Martimeos' boots trampling through the pumpkin patch in his haste, their familiars not far behind, not knowing what necromancy they had stumbled upon, back to the westward path. They did not stop running until their breath ran ragged in their throats, and the remains of the burnt farmhouse and its headless farmer had disappeared far behind them.