They who walk in woods so wild, fear the fox most foul and fancy, call’d kitsune ‘neath canopy -Old Maston Tribe warning, often written in runes on trees just outside forests.
Gwynfor was alone in the dark. After Caistlin left, she was abandoned in her cell, though he hadn’t chained her again. Her body ached, and she was starving. She could not recall the last time she had eaten, or even how long it had been since the Banishment. The only thing in the room was a few Itterfire candles, leaving everything lit up so dully and dimly.
Had she really agreed to help Dylon hunt down a unicorn? Why had she done that? The spirits of Artaghan were sacred things. In the days of old elves and dwarves and spirits lived in harmony across the continent. Her skin felt cold and clammy and it barely seemed like she resided in her own body. What would Lydia say? She hoped Lydia was safe, even in prison. Gwynfor knew Lydia was friends with Arrietty, even if their alliance was strained, but would that be enough to protect her? Gwynfor found herself pacing the room.
It felt good to move, even with an aching body. Could Gwynfor escape, flee when they next came into the room? She doubted it, even perfectly healthy, and with food in her belly, she would not be able to outrun multiple soldiers. She had sold herself into sacrilege, and she had to figure out her next step. She could try and sabotage their efforts, refusing to help. But, they had her parents, and Lydia. Dylon seemed the vengeful type. Gwynfor sighed. There was little she could do. She was trapped now, and would have to lend her aid. She looked up to the ceiling, made of stone, and felt so very alone. It was not natural for an elf to be below ground. She should be out beneath the sky, feeling the wind at her back, helping her parents bake bread, and helping the Wraiths plan another protest.
She shuddered, as her mind wandered to the protest. How had it gone wrong so quickly? She hoped everyone was safe. She tried to ignore memories of crossbows being fired, people screaming, people falling, Benjamin and an axe…
They had to be safe.
Hours passed, as she was tormented by memory and worry, plagued with thoughts of the future. She fell into fitful sleep, and yet awoke without any feeling of rest. There was a sound of keys jangling, and footsteps outside. Gwynfor stood up, waiting, still half considering a desperate flight to freedom.
The door opened. Caistlin entered, leaning heavy on his cane. He was dressed differently, now he wore a heavy brown coat made for the outdoors, hung over his shoulders, and a wide-brimmed hat to catch the rain. He looked at her, light spilling out from the hallway behind him. “Time to go,” he croaked.
“Already?” Gwynfor asked, looking around. There appeared to be no one behind him. Maybe she could–
“Don’t bother running,” he growled. “Dylon is waiting outside. You wouldn’t make it thirty feet. Best keep to your word. Help us with the Unicorn, and everything ends up nice.”
Was she really obvious with her intentions, it almost seemed he read her mind. Gwynfor shook her head. “We’re leaving so soon, can’t I speak with my parents first?”
“No. Time is short. We need to hurry while we have an idea of where the Unicorn is.” He moved towards her, grabbing her arm. Gwynfor let him pull her and they began to walk out of the jail. It was devoid of life, as they climbed a stairwell and arrived into a barracks. Soldiers loitered around, looking uneasy. Many of them bore obvious injuries. Gwynfor smiled at that. Served them right.
Caistlin led her out into the streets, and Gwynfor was surprised to see it was the evening. The air was chilled, and only a few folk were about. She saw Dylon and his two other mercenaries waiting. They all were atop horses, and not like the typical pack horses Gwynfor was used to seeing. No, these were war horses, huge and sturdy and well cared for. There was only one spare. Her stomach sank, she would not even get to ride alone. She loved riding horses. Her parents shared a steed they had bought with several other elves in town named Rye. Gwynfor would go out and ride as often as she could. Caistlin forced her forward, and she climbed into the saddle, with Caistlin climbing up in front of her.
“About time,” Dylon complained. “Caistlin, have you an idea where to start our hunt?”
“Aye, sire,” Caistlin replied. He raised a hand and pointed eastwards. “Out of the city, we make our way across the Terracotta fields and to the Greenwoods. That was where the spirit was last seen.”
“Then we ride!” Dylon shouted. He whipped the reins of his horse, and screamed, “Hyah!” Instantly, he bolted forward with dangerous speed. Nearby, several of the citizenry walking the streets had to scurry out of the way to avoid being trampled by the horse. Gwynfor found herself clutching tightly to Caistlin in repressed anger.
He turned towards her, a smirk on his face as the other two mercenaries darted off to follow their bastard leader. “I wonder how you feel about him.”
“How can you work for someone like him?”
Caistlin shrugged, then whipped his own reins, taking off at a more controlled gallop. Gwynfor felt the wind whip at her hair–she hadn’t been given a new shawl and it made her feel exposed. “As I said, I can work with a devil to forward my own plans. It wouldn’t be the first time, nor do I doubt it will be the last.” He fell silent, as the horse’s hooves beat against cobbled streets and people balked out of their path. “Sometimes though, you work with a devil to harm a demon.”
He did not elaborate further, and Gwynfor did not ask what he meant. She had no pretense he would be willing to explain himself. He seemed the type who liked to act mysterious and like they knew everything. Absolutely insufferable. However, his words ate at her as they left the walls of Redport behind and exited onto the Terracotta fields. What was his game? Who could this demon he spoke of be?
They followed the old Briggand’s Road, a winding path through the hilly plains, where tall blades of red grass fluttered in high winds. Once, when the Artaghan Empire had been at its weakest, the road had been controlled by several groups of bandits, who either robbed you or forced you to pay a toll to pass. Only after Redport became an important stop on the way to Ghost, had they finally been driven out, and the roads reclaimed by civilization. Gwynfor had always been fond of the Feyfall group, composed of mainly elves who sought to take control of their ancestral land at the time. They had all been slaughtered in the end though.
Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
Very quickly, Gwynfor grew bored. She would have suspected riding at high speeds with a group of villains to have been more stimulating, but after a while, without control of the reins herself, there was little to keep her mind occupied. The Terracotta fields were pretty, but uniform. Dull brownish red blobs with reddish grass, and dotted with occasional trees and buildings. Even signs of civilization quickly faded away, and ruins became a more common sight. Despite western Artaghan being populated first, the interior and the south were more hospitable to life, and the west was abandoned quickly after humanity’s arrival. There was little in the way of cities here, and even villages and hamlets were few and far between.
Even worse, there was little in the way of conversation. Dylon would occasionally talk, but it was mostly confirming their course of action, an insult, or a complaint. Caistlin would make one or two word remarks. The other two mercenaries, whom Gwynfor discovered were called Gavin and Vericho spoke often to one another, in low quiet voices, and in tones which dissuaded others from joining their talks. They were rough looking men, who somehow managed a more frightening visage than Caistlin. They wore their weapons in a way which showed they would not hesitate to kill.
Another issue was saddle soreness. Gwynfor had ridden quite a bit, and several times on fairly long trips with her pad to buy rare ingredients for specialty cakes, but they had taken their time with plenty of rest. She also wasn’t used to not being in control, and the way she had to hold on made her arms ache and her legs sore. She wanted to curse Dylon’s name for adding to her collection of pains.
They rode without stopping for what Gwynfor suspected was five hours, though it was hard to tell. The moon had glided across the peak of the sky and now was slowly falling beneath the world once more. Morning was still hours off, and she suspected the chill would only grow for hours more. Her face was red in the cold, and she breathed out plumes of smoke like dragon’s breath. In the dark, Gwynfor could see ahead of them a vast blanket of even deeper shadow, a barricade of spines reaching up. The Greenwood, she suspected. Finally, Dylon held aloft a hand and said, “We break for a bit, I need to stretch or my arse won’t forgive me.”
“How illuminating,” Caistlin murmured, so quiet Gwynfor barely could hear.
She barely managed to cover her laugh with a coughing fit that drew Dylon’s ire. “Shut up girl. We need not draw attention to ourselves. You can never be sure what manner of spirit wanders about at night, especially so near the forest.” Gwynfor thought she detected a note of fear in Dylon’s voice, a faint tremble to his words. Frightened of spirits was he? That might be useful.
Caistlin already was sliding off their horse, and despite his injuries, he did so gracefully, his cane stabilizing his landing. He held a hand out to her. She refused him, and climbed out the saddle by herself. She would accept no more help than necessary from any of these people. Caistlin was one of them, no matter what he seemed to pretend. Helping them was a crime.
Yet, here she was.
Pushing away the thought, she saw Caistlin already moving to grab a few old carrots from a satchel and was feeding them to his horse. It happily munched away at them in the dark. Dylon was stretching and grumbling to himself, alight by a small box he opened up with a bit of itterfire within. The other two, Gwynfor could not really make out, they were hidden from sight by the void of night, mere globules of silhouettes in the dark. Murmurs came from them, but little more.
“How do you know there is a unicorn out here?” Gwynfor asked, looking to Caistlin but the question was open to any of them–were any of them interested in answering.
“Not your business to know,” Dylon cut in sharply. “Do what I tell you to do and ask no questions.”
Gwynfor set her hands on her hips. “No questions at all? Even if it might make it more likely for success? Fine by me, I won’t mind if this all falls apart.”
She already saw him stalking towards her, and she readied herself, as she saw Dylon’s hand raised, eyes glimmering in anger beneath the dull light of his itterfire.
“Oi,” called Vericho. Dylon turned to look at him, evidently surprised by his interruption.
Barely contained rage scythed out of Dylon’s mouth as he foamed, “Oi what you maggot?”
Vericho was a greasy looking man with long ragged hair that fell past his shoulders and tangled about his face. He looked sweaty and covered in grime and even from afar he smelled foul. “No need to hurt the girl. She was just asking a reasonable question, one I am curious about meself.”
Dylon glared at Vericho, then glanced at Gavin, then Caistlin. “It is my right to–”
“Oi boss,” Gavin interrupted.
“WHAT NOW!” snarled Dylon.
Gavin did not even take a step back as Dylon jabbed a finger at him. “Vericho’s got a chivalrous streak, it won’t affect his work–probably–but best not push it. Besides, no one knows you hired us. We could kill you and there would be no issue for us so far away from witnesses.
A profound silence accompanied his words as Dylon seemed to foam and froth in shock. “You…how…dare…petulant. HOW DARE YOU!”
Caistlin stepped up. “Let’s all take a little breather, shall we?” He turned to look at Vericho and Gavin. “I appreciate your honesty, but you would never manage to kill Dylon before I killed you, but you won’t as that would be bad for business for us all. Vericho, he won’t lay a hand on Gwynfor,” finally someone who actually used her name as if she weren’t some amorphous thing, “and we all get paid in the end and go our separate ways.” Caistlin turned to Gwynfor. “And, to answer your question, the unicorn escaped from the range owned by House Itterarkh. It has been spotted a few times by locals and we’ve been tracking it from there.”
“Convient it escaped right as we were all ready to go and hunt it down,” Vericho said.
“Indeed it is, almost like someone with a lot of power convinced someone to let one–”
“THAT is enough!” Dylon interrupted. “More than enough information has been shared to be satisfactory.” Gwynfor could see he was shaking, barely holding back his anger. But he was doing it, and for the first time Gwynfor saw true restraint and understanding in him. It was almost impressive, in the way seeing a toddler act mature was impressive. “We have stood around long enough, I want a few more hours in the saddle before we continue on.”
“Is it wise to travel through the forest in the dark?” Gavin asked, his own voice a little afraid.
Gwynfor understood that. Spirits were often dangerous. Even the ten spirits who gave their Gifts to the High Houses could be dangerous, but rogue spirits, like wraiths, and basilisks were all the more deadly. And that wasn’t considering wolves, bears, and more mundane wildlife. Besides, the road was old and covered in roots and broken stone. One wrong step and horse and rider could tumble into catastrophe.
“I would rather travel by night and sleep in the day than the other way around,” Dylon said.
“Especially these days,” Caistlin agreed. “All manner of spook and spirit have been more rowdy than normal. Best be awake at night when they are most active. Safer this way.”
Looking towards that solid black bramble of wood and shadow, entirely impenetrable in the depth of night, Gwynfor was not sure she agreed. Even in the past, before humanity, there were tales of dark spirits. The fox tricked them, the rabbit fled them, the stag startled them. But so too, were the tales of tribes vanished, children stolen, souls lost. And almost every single story of them began during a dark night, on the edge of a forest.
Dylon, however, was already in the saddle, turning towards the forest. “Hurry up, I did not hire cowards.” And he went beneath the canopy of the forest, and was swallowed by darkness. Caistlin did not hesitate, and he grabbed Gwynfor’s arm, his grip tight. She allowed herself to be led and climbed into the saddle behind him. Stomach turning at the sight of the forest, she took in a breath, cold as winter. And beneath the canopy they went.
