Cempa and the troop arrived at the edge of the forest. It was noon on their second day travelling from the rock. The forest itself was a disappointment. The air had a pleasant coolness and a hint of reverent silence.

With his horse dead, Sir Wulfslæd had walked the whole way in his armour. His missing shield and pauldron had been recovered and repaired. A white cloak was wrapped around his shoulders to stop the sun cooking him in his armour and Mésia had lent him her straw hat. His helm hung from his belt.

He might look silly, but after our last encounter, I understand why he never removes his armour in the field.

Cempa stalked towards the closest tree. Damn, these things are massive. Cempa slapped the tree. It sounded, and felt, like a tree. A maniacal grin stretched across his face. It’s a stupid tree, nothing more, nothing less. He turned around.

Everyone was staring at him.

“What?” said Cempa. He rubbed his arms.

Milde was riding Anggret, Leth’s horse. Despite the extra height the mount gave her, Milde appeared diminished. She’d lost a lot of weight and removed her heavy armour. “We’re waiting to see if you explode.”

Cempa shrugged, “Where next, Sir?”

“Any insights, Letholdus?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“There’s a lot of magic coming from the Wúduwésten, but whether it’s coming from the whole forest, or a single point, I can’t tell. I don’t even know if it’s a cause, catalyst, or symptom.”

Cempa shivered and gave the tree an apologetic pat, the mystical nature of their assignment was unnerving him. “We’ve traveled Gods know how many miles and almost died. There’d better be something here.”

“We know the Wúduwésten is part of the puzzle,” said Leth. “We need to be here to figure out where it fits.”

“Where do we start?” said Péton.

“The Wúduwésten is two-hundred square miles,” said Mésia. “It would take months to search it.”

“Any points of interest?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“I can take you to the old logging camp,” said Mésia. “We built it on the tip of the forest closest to the village, but we’re too far north right now.”

“Will we find any of the loggers?” said Cempa.

“Hoff visits every now and then, but he’s never seen anyone,” said Mésia.

“Are you happy to take us there?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“I lost two daughters and a son to the forest,” said Mésia. “I am unsure if visiting the camp will bring me peace, or cause further torment. I doubt you’ll find anything,” she shrugged. “It’s the only place I know.”

Cempa tapped his finger against his left gauntlet. What almighty disaster are we prancing towards this time?

“Well bugger me,” said Clæfre. “Let’s get this over with shall we?”

Milde sniggered and wrapped her arms around her chest, trying to hold her broken ribs in place. She swayed in the saddle.

How many of Leth’s alcoholic brews has Milde consumed?

Clæfre grasped Milde’s uninjured calf to help her balance.

“Stop fussing,” said Milde, “or I’ll fall off to spite you.”

“Please don’t say that,” said Clæfre.

“Shoo, shoo,” said Milde. She waved Clæfre away and guided Anggret two steps forward, forcing Clæfre to skip back.

Sir Wulfslæd clapped once, breaking the mood, “Mrs Tessel, please take us to the logging camp.”

“Alright,” said Mésia. She began to lead them south along the treeline, her leather sandals slapping against her heels.

*

The bronze buttons on Péton’s boots flashed as he rushed to catch up with Mésia.

“How far is it?” said Péton, checking he still had all his pouches on his belt.

“I don’t know how far north we are, but we should be there by the end of the day. The buildings should be standing, even a wood and grass bed will be better than sleeping among the stones and dirt.”

“It’s not so bad out here,” said Péton. “It’s a little cold at night, but at least it’s dry.”

Mésia smiled, “Wait until you see a thunderstorm. You’ll be glad of a rickety shack then.”

“Do you ever say something positive?” said Péton.

Mésia tucked a stray black hair into her yellow headband, “Not for a long time.”

“Sorry, that was insensitive of me.”

“When you’ve suffered a great loss, everything reminds you of what you no longer have. There is little you could say that could sadden me further.”

“That’s some comfort, I guess.”

“Do you have a wife and children, Péton?”

“Not any more, but I think we’ve had enough tragic tales for one day.”

“Does anyone here have a happy past?” said Mésia

“I can’t work out if Cempa and Weard are friends and Leth is unsure of his place in the world, but none of them have ever mentioned any great tragedy. The others seem content, but I expect they all have a secret or two.”

“I thought you had known each other for ages.”

Péton shook his head and smiled, “Sir Wulfslæd brought us together a few weeks ago. Fighting brings people together; the solitary types die off.”

“If you say so.” Mésia tapped the tin, horse head clasp of her sheep-skin belt.

Péton pointed at the clasp, “That Síðian?”

“Yes. A gift from Hoff.”

“What about the hat you lent Sir Wulfslæd?” He couldn’t keep the amusement from his voice.

Mésia chuckled, “It doesn’t match his armour at all. Hoff wove it while tending our small herd.”

“He’s a good man.”

“He has a big heart. Never said a bad thing about our kids, even when they changed. I don’t know how he does it.”

“Why did you come with us?” said Péton.

Mésia chewed her bottom lip and walked a little faster, “Do I have to answer?”

“No, but I expect Sir Wulfslæd, Cempa, and Weard knew you had your own reasons from the beginning. We know you’re not here to guide us.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“You never asked to be paid.”

“So simple.”

“The best answers always are.”

Mésia sighed and slowed a little, “There are many people in the village who hope you can keep our settlement together. Others believe I can keep your interference to a minimum. A foolish wish - nobility does as nobility pleases.”

“What about you?”

“This is a pilgrimage for me, a chance to visit my children’s illusory graves.”

“They could be alive.”

“You’ve seen the creatures that escaped the forest. Alive or dead, those grotesque creatures are not my children.”

“It’s not easy to watch your loved ones suffer and be unable to help,” said Péton.

“I try to forget about it,” said Mésia.

“I’m not sure I could do the same.”

“Thank you, Péton.”

After a few minutes Mésia said, “I would like to be on my own for a little while.”

“You know where to find me if you want to talk.”

Péton retreated a few yards, joining Leth and Milde.

“It’s bad manners to flirt with married women Péton,” said Milde, atop her high horse. “She’s crying.”

“You wound me, Milde. I don’t play around.”

Milde’s gambeson had slipped up her legs, exposing her white wool hose and short braies. She hitched the long padded coat a little higher, “You sure about that?”

The thick lynx bone used to splint her thigh spoiled the effect.

“Yes!” said Péton.

“Such a shame,” said Milde.

“What did you speak about?” said Leth. He slipped his staff around the back of his neck and hooked his arms over it as if it were a shoulder yoke.

“I asked about our journey,” said Péton. “How are your injuries? You don’t have a fever, do you?”

“Why don’t you hold my hand and find out?” said Milde.

“I’ll take that as a ‘No’. I need to check on Cempa. See you both later.”

“Aye,” said Leth.

“I wish he was a little less professional,” said Milde.

Leth smirked.

By late afternoon the troop was two-hundred yards from their destination: a ten-foot palisade of split timbers and hefty, tight fitting-pegs embedded in a four foot earthen embankment. A twenty-foot watchtower overlooked the gate.

Mésia gazed at the fortifications, “The residents added the palisade, ditch, and tower after a huge animal was spotted roaming the forest.” A melancholic smile ghosted across Mésia’s face, “But the walls couldn’t keep the forest out.”

No one spoke for an awkward minute.

“Cempa, Clæfre, move ahead and check the camp,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “The rest of us will wait here.”

“Yes, sir,”

“Aye,” said Clæfre.