Following the edge of the woods along the mountains, they finally reached a man-made road gouged into the forest that led to Havenrook. Before the road even came into view, Annon could tell they were approaching it. First, there were plenty of carrion birds. Second, fewer and fewer whispers from the spirits, which tended to avoid places where nature had been savaged deliberately.
The mountains of Alkire were impressive, thick with cedar and pine at the lower reaches and then snow-capped and silvered above the fringe of the woods. It would take several days to hike to the foothills of those mountains and probably weeks to cross them. They formed a boundary to the valley, and the continual snowpack created the rivers that fed the lake where Kenatos lay to the northwest. The mountains were stark and unyielding, wreathed in patches of man-made fog caused by forge-fires of the Cruithne. Ore was mined from the mountains and brought down to Kenatos by wagon and riverboat. It was rumored that the Cruithne’s soot-colored skin was a result of generations of ore mining.
“There is the road,” Hettie said, surprising everyone because she had rarely spoken during the journey. “We should reach Havenrook by nightfall if we hurry.”
“Have we not been hurrying enough for you?” Paedrin quipped, giving her an impatient look.
She did not rise to the bait, and Annon saw a frown of disappointment flash on Paedrin’s face.
The road was wide enough for three or four carts to go by at a time, which made sense because goods came to and from the city each day. The ruts were worn to dust and nothing grew in them at all; not even weeds could withstand the constant tromping of hooves, the crushing weight of wagon wheels, or the trod of people.
The three of them entered the lane and started toward the city at a strong walk, having finished a meal at midday a little earlier. There were signs nailed to trees, offers of cargo or passage. Trunks had been gouged for firewood or hacked at by bored mercenaries for no reason. There was not even a whisper of thought in the air from the spirits. The cruelty shown to the forest was an abomination to them. No wonder they had all fled. The desecration of the woods outraged Annon.
Garbage littered the fringe of the path—broken crates, frayed ropes, a few smashed barrels. All were abandoned, including several wagons, all of which were missing wheels. It was disgusting and brought out Annon’s loathing. He felt unprotected, for there would be no spirits to draw upon for help. The woods of Havenrook felt like the city of Kenatos—devoid of sentient life. His fingers tingled with heat after passing another rotting carcass of a wagon.
Glancing at Hettie, he noticed her scowling and wondered if she too were offended.
“What is it?” he asked in a low voice, drawing near her. He wondered if there were any Druidecht at all in the kingdom.
Seeing she had been observed, she gave a cynical smile. “Romani wagons,” she answered, nodding toward a dilapidated set. “I am expecting we will cross paths with a caravan or two on our way.”
That explained her reaction. “We can hide in the mess if we hear a wagon train coming.”
She shrugged, eyes squinting as they continued to walk.
Annon’s observation about the clutter being a place to hide turned out to be prophetic, as he realized shortly after. The road was not chisel-straight, but meandered around blind turns and hooks, as if the woodcutters had all been drunk while working. Or perhaps deliberately creating blind spots to waylay travelers.
As they rounded one corner, Annon noticed the Preachán immediately, sitting atop a broken-down wagon on the edge of the road. His boot dangled off the edge and started tapping against the plank. With a wicked-looking dagger, he fussed with something under his fingernail.
Annon, Hettie, and Paedrin stopped as soon as he came into view. He was a handsome fellow, with reddish-brown hair that was untamed. Though slight of build, he seemed bigger wearing a coat made of black leather with buckles and straps around the arms and shoulders. It was cured leather, not fancy leather. Leather meant to protect him. He wore black pants as well, with green and gold stitching along the leg, and a wide belt with an enormous buckle. There was another knife in his boot cuff. A small blade at his hip, as well as three more stuck in the wagon frame, within easy reach. A ruff of white at his throat displayed several jeweled necklaces, including a Druidecht talisman.
The Preachán glanced up at them and smiled. “Ho, there.”
Paedrin swiveled his neck, as if loosening his muscles, and held still, gripping his walking staff in front of him. “Several in the woods on each side,” he muttered to Annon. “Let me deal with them if you want to chat with the dagger collection ahead.”