By mid-afternoon, Thealos could see the inland valley for miles. He stopped to eat on a low rangy hill crowned with trees. It overlooked a rich land with pastures dotted with stands of oak, ash, and maple trees. A hawk circled in the sky before dipping down to snatch a jackrabbit. He saw a few riders in the valley coming up from one of the many farms and towns scattered throughout the Inland. He knew his green cloak would conceal him in the tree line. Biting into a ripe wrepfruit, he felt its juice trickle down his chin and mopped it with his sleeve. The strangest part of being in the valley was the nakedness he felt without the thick woods around him. Avisahn was an intricate forest-kingdom that stretched nearly the entire western slope of the Ravenstone Mountains. But its borders ended abruptly at the Trident River. He was used to spending the day in shade, not under the hungry burn of the sun. Growing up, he had stared down at Dos-Aralon’s valleys as if they were the low countries, not a land that had once been a mighty forest. He wanted to laugh. A mighty forest. That was long before the Purge Wars. It was during the time of King Silvermere, the first Shae king to settle the valley.
When nightfall finally came, Thealos hid himself in a small grove of birch and nestled with his cloak in a patch of broad-leaf brush. He dared not build a fire, even though the air was cool. His vision was sharper in the darkness without a fire glaring in his eyes, and he had no intention of being caught off-guard. Cradling his short bow in his arms, he set out three arrows where he could easily reach them and fell into a light sleep. He awakened with a start each time an owl hooted. It was an exposed, unprotected feeling, not as comfortable as hunting in the woodlands of Avisahn.
When Thealos awoke the next morning, he was covered with chilly dew. A heavy white mist hung all around him, so thick he couldn’t see farther than he could toss a stone. The trees looked skeletal outside the grove. Thealos had seen the fog from a distance before – the docks at Avisahn and Dos-Aralon were always thick with it in the morning – but it had never claimed the highlands of the forest. Not being able to see was frightening, but exciting as well. Walking in the soft wet kisses of mist, Thealos discovered it had a taste – a little like tart apples dabbled with salt. Without the help of the sun, it was difficult to determine which way to go. He tried to keep heading south, but he caught himself straying further inland.
About midmorning, the fog dissipated and he could see the valley again. Long diagonal rows of wheat and corn grew in farms surrounded by stone fences. Fruit orchards running for miles deeper inland flaunted a rich harvest, and Thealos stopped at midday to have a snack of plums at the southern edge of a farm. He left a few Aralonian pieces at the foot of the tree to pay the farmer for the fruit he took. The farther south he went, the more the land became rugged with hills and riverbeds. Just before nightfall, he saw an old man sitting on the porch of a small home smoking a long-stemmed pipe. He lit a lamp and sat back on the crafted porch and watched, scanning the horizon. Thealos saw the old man raise his hand and wave, and he felt awkward that he had been seen. He waved back, but chose not to stop his journey. He wanted to be at least three days out of Dos-Aralon before making contacts with the humans. That would make him even harder to find. Cutting east, he went to find the river and shelter for the night.
The prairie grass whisked at his boots, and he kept his stride long. As he came down the slope leading towards the majestic Trident, he spotted a campfire in a tight cluster of vine maple near the riverbank. It was a large fire, and he could smell smoke and stew as the wind shifted towards him. The stew smelled like wild onions and rabbit meat, but it was laced thickly with bay leaves. The campfire flickered as something passed in front of it. It was nearer the Trident than he expected for a human camp. But the stew smelled good, not scorched. Curiosity leading, he stepped carefully down the slope and dodged between trees as he approached. About forty paces or so from the fire, he could hear them.
“Fetch the lantern,” a gruff voice said. “Can’t you get that fire any hotter, Tomn? It might frost tonight.”
“Any hotter, and you’ll be cutting your stew with a dagger. It’s bubbling like Pitan – you want me to burn it?”
“Aaahh, quit moaning. Jurrow, get over here with that thing. You two, don’t stand there...”
“Eat trope,” another voice snapped. “I’m almost through.”
There was a jangle of pots and metal spoons and then a hiss and a curse. “Sweet hate, this is hot! Get me that glove so I don’t burn my hand.”
“Get it yourself. Here’s the lantern, Tannon.”
Thealos saw a wink of flint and steel and then a steady glow appeared. It lit the eastern side of the camp, and he could see the man holding it. He had a stubby beard and a shock of gray-streaked hair. He wore the leather tunic and buckles of a field soldier, but he didn’t wear any livery. A wide brown belt wrapped around his thick waist with short flat daggers shoved in the band. Wrinkling his eyebrows at the glare of the lantern, the man stood and held it away from him.
“You’re crazy holding that thing. Now every Wolfsman on the other shore can aim for your throat.” They all had similar armor, each missing a badge or rank.
Tannon held up one of his hands. “I’m not asking you to do this. I’m not asking none of you. You do what I say, the quicker we make some pieces and get back north.”