I hope you are taking note of this, All-Father. Surely you watch, even if you no longer intervene. All I have done, my whole life, has been in the hope that you watch. That you would notice me.
They had left Drassil two days after Meical’s arrival and had made much quicker going of it than Meical’s journey into Forn. The central task at Drassil had been preparing the old fortress for what was to come: repairing it, making it defensible. During their explorations of the stronghold throughout the years tunnels had been discovered, initially bored by the roots of the giant tree, then extended by the giants. They ran for leagues upon leagues beneath the tangle of Forn, and they had made good use of one such tunnel to bring them close to the forest’s edge. He looked up to the heavens again, blinded for an instant by the glow seeping through the branches high above.
The trees about them now were spread widely, great-trunked monsters that stretched their roots wide, drinking deep of the earth. Soon they came to a space where trees had been felled, the round bases of the trunks white and leaking sap. Tukul ran his fingers over one – they came away sticky.
People. Tree-fellers, loggers. We are moving into another world indeed.
They moved through a field of stumps, came upon a wide river, roughly trimmed trunks stacked along the riverbank, the odd pier that struck out into the river’s black waters, but no sign of people. Yet.
Meical paused and waited for him.
‘We are nearly there,’ he said. ‘We are moving into Gramm’s land now. You remember him?’
‘I do,’ Tukul said. On their journey into Forn – fourteen, fifteen years ago? – Meical had led them to a hold built close to the outskirts of the forest. It had belonged to a man, Gramm. He had had a wife and two sons, youthful but old enough for some labour, and was full of boldness and dreams, his plan back then to trade timber along the river and to breed horses. By the looks of things he had made good on the timber trading, at least, and carved a life for himself out here, on the edge of the wild.
‘He’d better have looked after my horses,’ Tukul said.
‘You’ll see soon enough,’ Meical said.
They marched on, and in short time Tukul heard the sound of hooves on turf. Instinctively, his hand reached for the hilt of his sword, and without looking he knew his sword-kin were doing the same, all three score and ten of them. The Hundred, they were called, though they did not number that now. But a hundred had ridden out from Telassar all those long years ago, straight-backed and zealous.
Riders appeared, at least a dozen of them, dressed for war in mail shirts, with helmets and long-hafted spears couched at their saddles, most with axes strapped to their backs.
Axes – awkward, clumsy weapons.
The riders saw Tukul and his companions and cantered towards them, one of their number peeling away and heading back the way they had come.
‘They are shieldmen of Gramm’s,’ Meical said, ‘scouting his lands.’
‘They look like more than scouts to me,’ Tukul said.
‘Their land is bordered by Forn Forest to the east, and the Desolation to the north. Nowhere is safe in these Banished Lands, but here least of all.’ Nevertheless Meical frowned as the riders approached, his own hand straying to the hilt of his sword.
As they approached, the riders gripped their spears, bringing them lower. Not committed to the charge yet, but prepared for it. Tukul felt a detached respect flicker to life. Their horses were bred for war, tall, big-boned yet with a rare grace to them, long, thick manes streaming, some plaited with leather.
The first rider raised his spear, and reined in his mount before Meical. He took his helmet off and hung it from his saddle, his men lining up behind him.
‘Well met, Meical. Father said to look for you.’
Meical stepped forward and gripped the rider’s wrist. ‘And you have found me, Wulf. Well met.’
‘And your companions – they have the look of those who were with you, all those years ago.’
‘You have a good memory, Wulf – you were only a bairn.’
‘Eleven summers – and I’ll never forget the day I saw you all. The horses!’
‘Are you riding my horses?’ Tukul asked, stepping forward.
‘Not yours exactly,’ Wulf said, turning his gaze upon Tukul. ‘But bred from them. My father says he had your permission.’
‘Aye, that’s true,’ Tukul said, moving towards him, holding his hand out for Wulf’s mount to smell, murmuring softly as he ran fingers down the animal’s muscled chest. ‘Your father has done well.’
‘You are not the only one who thinks so. Our horses are sought by many, both north and south,’ Wulf said, sitting straighter.
‘Come,’ Meical said. ‘I’ll be happier talking horse trade with a cup in my hand and my backside in a comfortable seat. We’ve walked a long way.’
‘Of course,’ Wulf said. ‘We shall escort you home.’
With that they set off, the riders spreading around them, a protective hand.