And so, they journeyed. Keeping to the smallest paths, they passed through woods of oak and pine, ferns, and bramble patches that weaved overhead, blocking out the sun. They forded streams and rivers, trekking down the banks, and crossing on the backs of felled trees wide enough for all three to walk abreast. Or, braving beaver damns, hopping from branch to branch, an eye always to the water’s depths. They pushed their way through fields of grass, walking down where the roots become a tangled mess, sleeping where the grasshoppers and crickets breed. They climbed up towering faces of rock, clinging to the roots of cedars, which jutted out from cracks in which there could be no more than an ounce of dirt. And they passed through marshlands, climbing up among the reeds, making their way from one to the next, endeavoring to keep from what might lurk in the muddy water below.

And all the while, Az wondered at the strangeness of his companions. Clearly, they were accustomed to the wilderness. Sharp-eyed and wily, they were adept at spotting the fastest route, and avoiding the dangers which might lie concealed beyond each leaf or stone. They knew how to live off the land, finding berries, nuts, edible roots and leaves. Rarely it was he who caught the hapless insect that would become their meal, the women often spearing them on sharpened twigs.

As a rule, the two spoke little to him, and seemingly even less to one anther. Although, every morning when he awoke, he could not shake the feeling that they had just finished taking each others council. Returning from bathing, cloaked and shivering in the morning air, they would glance at him as one looks at the subject of a conversation, who has just entered the room.

Once, when a raccoon had spotted them and come lumbering from the overgrowth, Eris had stepped out from cover, standing before the other two. As the beast had come towards her, she had produced a pouch from her robes, and at the last moment, had blown a mist of finely ground glass into the eyes of the bear. It had shrieked, clutching its face and trying for her in a blind rage. But Eris had calmly shrunk away, slipping back to the other two and leading them on down the path.

Az could not describe his amazement at the scene. Such a beast would have been enough to send a dozen brave men running. What kind of women were these? So quick of hand and rare to speak. Could such creatures really be afraid of some vague curse, brought on them for killing a mad old woman?

Perhaps a mile or two from Willowsroot, they crossed the wide rapids where the Little Greathorn flowed into The Lake of Stones. Here lay the ruins of a bridge left from the Age of Giants. Long crumbled into the fast-moving water, still enough of it remained that, aided by some sections of branch and bark maintained by the locals, they were able to make their way across.

They were now officially in the North, having passed the chain of lakes and rivers that ran from ­­­­the city of Marshside, by the ruins of Lazardy in the east, to the far end of The Lake of Stones in the west. Behind them lay commerce, industry, and civilization. Before them, one last city, then the boundless wilderness, dotted by isolated communities and stretching out of knowledge and into myth and legend.

A quarter-mile outside of Willowsroot, they paused atop a hill from which the city’s great tree could be seen by the banks of a small stream, off across a sprawling meadow. The surrounding country was all of rock and pine. Yet here, the people had settled on what once must have been a farmer’s field. They had kept the trees at bay, killing each sapling that dared poke up from the dirt. And now they lived on, generation after generation, farming this carefully maintained grassland.

The three companions bought roast cricket and salt-bread from obliging homesteaders, and lunched watching the tiny figures working in the field below. As he ate, Az watched the farmers toil, felling stalks of wild wheat, while their children followed behind collecting the grain.

“Does it interest you?” asked Eris as they finished their meal. “Their way of life?”

“Perhaps,” replied Az. “Certainly, it is a peaceful thing to watch.”

“We were not in jest when we said you would be granted lands, and not far from here, should you succeed,” said Eris. “That could be you down there, felling the stalks, children in tow.”

Az looked on, saying nothing, lost in contemplation.

“Why tease the man,” said Rhea. “His fate is written. I could tell it by one look at those blood-soaked palms – if he had the courage to show them to me.”

Az glanced at the girl then looked down at his hands, scarred and stiff. “Three more days and we’ll be in Burrowstone, then we will see if I get a manor and title, or a drink,” he said, standing. “Or perhaps a dagger in the back,” he added quietly to himself.

When the day came and they at last reached the village of Burrowstone, the first thing that struck Az was how small and bleak it looked. They had seen almost no one on the path. And those few they had come across had averted their eyes at first sight of the women, saying nothing and hurrying on their way. The village itself was little more than a few huts, standing around the wide openings to the town’s namesake tunnel system. Up on a high bank, overlooking a gentle curve in a river of at least six feet across, the burrows made their way under a large granite boulder. Down where the bank leveled off, and the shallows of the river pooled between smooth stones, Az could see minnow-traps and men spear-fishing with long pikes. Around them, piles had been driven in a wide ring, keeping larger fish and snapping turtles from approaching unannounced.

A classic frontier fishing village, thought Az. No wonder the women were so comfortable in the woods. Without a source of grain, these people would have to gather all they did not pull from the river. And who would come this far north to trade for fish? No one, he suspected. These people were basically on their own. Unless they killed a squirl, or otherwise came by a pelt of some value, there was little they could hope to sell. Even tools of tin or copper would be hard to come by for the inhabitants of such a place. No wonder his sword had left such an impression on the village headman. His was probably the only piece of steel north of Willowsroot. But then, how had they come by that pouch of gold? He would not have thought the villagers would find enough skins in a year to earn a single coin, let alone the handful they had given him just to come here.

As they passed between the huts, the women occupied there stopped what they were doing and began to whisper. Many of the huts were for drying fish – little more than wooden frames, with fillets draped across to dry in the sun. Others had no fish, but simply supported a roof without walls, designed to cover the narrow passages that let air and light down into the burrows. They were mostly covered in birchbark, though one or two used pieces of clear glass. Az was surprised to see the glass. He would not have imagined that such poor people could afford to trade for such luxuries. And, almost certainly, there was no source of it nearby.

As they drew nearer to the mouths of the tunnels, one of the village women called over a young boy, then sent him scampering down towards the river. Eris and Rhea stopped, setting down their packs and waiting self-confidently. Az too set down his pack, frowning and eyeing his surroundings. He had not expected such a cold greeting. If these women had really been sent to walk for weeks to find him and bring him here, why was no one happy to see them? They did not seem like members of the village at all. But like outsiders, imposing themselves by means of some unspoken threat.

Soon the boy returned, followed by three men. Two were burly and hard-looking, almost certainly come as body-guards, there to defend their headman. The third was younger. Fresh faced and bright-eyed, he had an intelligent look about him. Az did not recognize him, nor did the man look at him, giving him only the briefest glance. Instead, he walked straight towards Eris, his expression nervous, scared even. There was something else, too. He was missing his left hand. Cut just above wrist, it was not even a healed stump, but was still wrapped in clean bandages. Az could see no blood, but it was obvious by the way he held the hand that the man was not yet accustomed to it, and that it still pained him.

The young man greeted Eris with a nod. “Welcome,” he said. “I see you have found what you sought?”

“Indeed, Dain,” said Eris. “The man before you is Azazel, brought from the south at your expense. All is to be made ready. The weather is clear. We need only stay for one night.”

“Good,” said Dain.

“Have the villagers build a pyre,” said Eris. “And unearth the body of the most recent boy. We will go down and select the mushrooms. And tomorrow, we will find Nyxia.”

Dain nodded, turning to his companions and instructing them on who was to be set to each task. Both of the other men listened in silence, their eyes burning with hatred as they looked from Eris, to Rhea, to Az.

“I thought these were your people,” said Az when the men had gone. “They don’t seem very happy to see you.”

“Many of the villages blame Rhea for what happened to Nyxia. They whisper that by failing to die of her fever, Rhea spoiled the old woman’s prediction. Stole her powers. And that it was this that was to blame for Nyxia’s slow descent to madness. That it was this, that drove her to search for new methods that would allow her to once more read the future. And so, to begin preying on the children of the village.”

“They hate her for failing to die? Do they have the nerve to say such things in the presence of the girl’s own family?”

Eris looked at Rhea, who stood sullenly beside them, staring at the ground. “Rhea has no family here. Her parents died of the same pox that scarred her. And her aunts and uncles renounced her as a witch while she was still a little girl, giving her up to the care of Nyxia and myself. We seers do not live in the village. We live in the woods, accepting tributes, and giving council only to those who come and seek us out.”

Az nodded slowly. “Alright, what comes next?”

“We left some of our mushrooms down in the caverns before we departed,” said Eris. “Now we must retrieve them, and prepare the brew.”

The tunnels were wide at their entrance, but narrowed quickly. They were dark, especially where they ran below the boulder, the only light coming from the few dim rays that made their way down the air-holes from the surface above.

The village consisted of several main tunnels, each branching off into the many nest-like living quarters, their doorways obscured by woven reeds. To Az, the place seemed suffocating, and the deeper they weaved into the earth, the staler the air, and the more claustrophobic it felt. Eventually, they were making their way almost by feel alone, the vents growing fewer and farther between as they reached the lowest levels. What was this place like in winter, he wondered? Warm, perhaps. But dark, and maddeningly cramped. It would probably stink, too. Places like this invariably relied on cess-pits in the coldest parts of the winter, and the smell of them would permeate every room and tunnel.

When they reached the cavern where the mushrooms had been left, Az stayed at the door, straining his eyes back up the corridor to be sure they had not been followed. It was hard to tell. The tunnels weaved by necessity, creating low-points for water to pool in heavy rains. Outside, the sun was still high in the sky, and it was unlikely that many people would choose to spend such a beautiful day down beneath the earth. Unlikelier still, when there was work to be done, fish to be caught, and since the arrival of the women, wood to be gathered. But Az had not liked the looks that the people of the village had given them. Nor did he believe a word of Eris’s explanation. The people of the town did not merely hate Rhea, they feared and despised them both.

By the time the women had selected a mushroom and the three of them had returned to the surface, the pyre was already growing large. One after another, the villagers emerged from the treeline carrying twigs, pine needles, or as a group dragging a branch by ropes. The pile was made a little way along the bank, not far from the huts and tunnel entrances. Az could see ashes there, sodden and old, as if a mighty fire had blazed a month or two before, but not since.

Taking their packs, the women sat cross-legged on the grass, splitting the cap of their chosen mushroom and carefully scraping the black dust from within. This they ground, together with tallow provided by the villagers, herbs from their pouches and water drawn from the river. All these were mixed in a lidded stone bowl and placed on the edge of the pyre.

As the sun set, becoming an orange orb half concealed behind the treeline at the far side of the river, the villagers threw the last twigs on the heap and the flint was brought. Almost as soon as the sparks touch the pine-needles they began to smoke and crackle. Several of the villagers stood by with leaves, fanning the flames, and soon the whole pyre was alight. Three times the height of a man, the pile of twigs leapt into a towering inferno. The heat was intense, and Az was forced to shield his face or risk singeing his beard.

As the last rays of the day slipped from the sky the fire began to die down, the smallest twigs were all burnt and only the larger branches remained. Stepping forward with a y-tipped twig, Eris carefully pulled the stone cup from the edge of the fire. Leaving it briefly to cool, she then wrapped it in a piece of cloth, and handed it to Rhea. Without saying a word, the girl drained the cup, then sat back down and closed her eyes. Minutes passed, and the fire continued to crackle. A bed of embers had formed, and many of the villagers had been sent to fetch more wood which they were constantly dumping into the flames.

Opening her bag, Eris took out a folded leaf, opening it and revealing the dried remains of the spider’s ovaries. She laid them on the ground beside Rhea. “Bring the body,” said Eris. “The brew has almost taken hold.”

The two men who had been with Dain earlier now approached carrying a dirty husk of folded reeds. Laying it on the ground beside the women, they opened it, showing Eris what it contained. With stony faces, they closed the reeds and stood by, waiting.

Still seated on the ground, her eyes closed, Rhea began to tremble. As Az watched, the quiver that had begun in her hands spread throughout her body and she began to shake violently. Suddenly, her eyes shot open. Getting quickly to her feet, Rhea threw off her robes. Standing in the warmth of the fire, she wore nothing but a chest-wrap and loin-cloth, both made of spider silk, her dagger tied by her breast. Her body was a web of ritual scars, rune-like marks that stretched from her knees to her collarbone and down as far as her elbows. Silently, she stared into the burning pyre.

“Now!” said Eris. “Throw the body into the fire.” She led by example, taking up the dried piece of spider and throwing it on to the embers in front of Rhea. The men followed suit, throwing their bundle in on top. It sprung immediately into flames, the reeds burning away, revealing the body, which burned with a terrible stink.

Her arms outstretched, palms up, Rhea shook with even greater intensity. She stared unblinkingly into the flames – her pupils so enlarged as to leave her irises almost totally eclipsed. Quietly, she began to mumble under her breath, both inaudible and incomprehensible. Az looked on, as Rhea’s motions grew more and more violent, until finally, she collapsed – nearly falling into the embers. Only then did Eris step forward, dragging back Rhea’s thin and trembling form, and blanketing her with a robe once more.

Blinking, Az looked around. The villagers stood a-ways away, between the bonfire and the tunnel-mouths, watching from a safe distance. The two men who had thrown the body in the fire had joined them. Now, only Dain remained nearby, an emissary, sent to keep the peace.

Az made his way over to Dain, standing beside him and looking into the fire. “Eris told me you fought with me at Logside,” he said. “But you could not have been much more than a boy then, and I do not remember you.”

Dain smiled, not looking at him. “Well, I did not put up much of a fight. You caught me trying to flee. Hit me with the broadside of that sword of yours. Tied me up and threw me in the back of a cart. I’m not surprised you do not remember my face, but I certainly remember yours.”

“I… I am sorry,” said Az. “I did many things back then of which I am not proud.”

"Those were different times,” said Dain, lightly. “The Three Empires War led many men to act in ways they would not have done in times of peace. Consider yourself forgiven.”

Az bowed his head. “Thank you,” he said, “But should I ever again see General Naberius, my commander there, I’ll be sure to avenge us both. That is a promise I have made before God, our father, and I will make it before you as well.” For a moment he stood, lost in thought. “But… but if that is how you know me, how is it you knew my name?”

Dain broke his gaze from the fire. “Who said that I did?”

Az frowned, pausing to think. “How does one so young become a headman?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I came here as a slave, sold for firs by passing traders. People of the north seem to hate to see their kin in bondage. Eager to add a new face, who yet blends in with the rest. The people of the village freed me, a kindness which I will never forget. I became a fisherman. And it was I who organized the driving of the piles, a trick I had seen in the south as a boy. Some say it saves as many as three lives a year, but I’m not so sure…”

“And for that, they made you headman?”

“Yes, I was elected soon after. Since, I have focused on extracting salt from a nearby spring and trading it for glass to roof the air-holes. Let more light down into the burrows, and try to prevent some of the winter-madness. When I arrived, this village was poorer than those of the south might think possible. The discovery of the salt-spring has been a blessing almost beyond imagination. And some say there are others like it, enough to free the people from the worst of their poverty. If only we could be shown the way.”

“I’m glad to hear your story has a happy ending,” said Az.

Dain shot him a warning look. “My story is not over yet,” he said, gingerly touching the stump where his hand should be.

“How did it happen?”

“That is not something I would tell to one who came with them.” Dain nodded towards Eris and Rhea.

The older woman was kneeling beside her quivering charge, hurriedly mixing another brew, and pushing it towards the fire.

“The witches know the story well,” said Dain. “Perhaps they will tell you.” Turning, he started off towards his people. Holding up his stump, he called back over his shoulder. “I wish you luck, Azazel, son of God. I hope the gold serves you well. We pay dearly for our blessings here.”

And with that, Az was left to stand alone in the flickering light of the bonfire.