Into Forbidden Lands

They had camped near Aspelant so it was not long before they reined in outside Cedral’s house with a thunder of hooves and a billowing cloud of dust.

Argolan yelled orders.

“Grifor, get up on the roof and be the lookout. The rest of you, down to the boats! Turn them over and drag them into the water. Keilon, do what you can to turn the odds in our favour!”

Cedral appeared at the door.

“What yer back fer?” he asked, alarm in his eyes.

“We are taking your boats,” Malco informed him. “Here’s your gold, twenty gold coins apiece. Forty in total.”

“What!? We said one ’undred!” the man cried.

Malco walked right up to him, glaring, just inches from the man’s face.

“You will take this and be happy!”

“Shieldarm!” The call came from Grifor. “I see them. They have reached the clearing where we were camped.”

“Ye can’t do this!” Cedral said, clutching at Malco’s vest.

The Blade looked down at the man’s hand.

“If you do not let go, I will take your hand as well as your boats.”

Cedral’s fingers loosened and Malco turned away.

“Faster with those boats!” Argolan yelled. “Riders, unpack the horses. Chosen, take what you need!”

They rallied on the narrow beach and the Riders, with the aid of the Shakim, pushed the heavy boats into the water and began to throw supplies into them.

“All the food and water you can lay your hands on,” bellowed Argolan.

Illiom unpacked what she could from Black Lightning and dumped it into the nearest boat. He whinnied and looked at her as though he understood what was happening.

“Argolan!” Keilon called out.

But the Shieldarm was running toward the boats along with the rest, shouting orders.

“Malco, tell the Shakim to take the horses and flee inland, now! Everyone else, into the boats!”

“Argolan!” Keilon yelled again, desperately.

The Shieldarm, already climbing into the boat, wheeled around.

“Keilon? What are you doing? Get in the boat!”

But the conjurer’s face was as pale as snow.

“I cannot!” he screamed. “Something is blocking me! I cannot move!”

In that moment Z’essh appeared before Illiom, drawing her attention.

“I come with you.”

Grifor ran up, screaming out, “Cast off! Cast off!”

Malco, at the helm of the nearest boat, called out to the Shakim.

“Go now, flee! May your Gods be with you.”

Z’essh picked Illiom up and dumped her unceremoniously into the boat. She fell awkwardly, the boat rocking beneath her as more people climbed on board.

It was bedlam.

They could hear more shouting coming from the riverbank.

Illiom caught a glimpse of the last of the Shakim galloping up the embankment at the southern end of the beach, even as a horde of creatures stormed in from the north.

They were not just soldiers this time.

Keilon screamed.

“No, no! Do not leave.”

Pell started to get out of the boat.

“Pell, stop!” Argolan commanded. “You will never make it.”

The Shieldarm stared hard at Illiom.

Illiom understood.

Fear choked her.

“You are the only one who can do it,” Tarmel encouraged.

She looked to where the conjurer stood frozen, the horde rushing hungrily towards him.

She had no time to think.

She snatched up her bow, drew an arrow and notched it.

The song of the bow rang true almost instantly.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she willed them away. She could not afford to be blinded by grief.

Keilon now stood screaming as the horde bore down upon him.

“I am so sorry, Keilon,” she whispered.

And released her arrow.

The conjurer was instantly silenced – scant moments before his body was swarmed by the attacking monstrosities.

Despite the Riders’ efforts the boats pulled away agonisingly slowly. The creatures stormed after them, but stopped short at the water’s edge.

Illiom was relieved, but also disturbed.

What stopped them?

They were a nightmare collection: some human, many not. Others were a grotesque meld of human and monster. She saw Skeet and Kresh, but also forms she had not seen before. Some wore armour, but many did not. One man, tied and bloody, teetered in his saddle.

“Oh no,” Illiom whispered, her voice thick with shock.

She grabbed at Tarmel’s arm.

“They have captured Maest,” she said. “That is how they found us.”

She wanted to put an arrow into the villager, but a moment later he was hidden by the throng.

One particularly large man, with a single horn protruding from his helmet, drew her attention. He was obviously the leader, for the orders he barked out were followed with alacrity.

He sent a group of his minions south, after the fleeing Shakim, before turning his attention to the two boats.

There was something disturbingly familiar about him.

Then the man yelled out again and the sound of his voice triggered Illiom’s memory.

She was overwhelmed by the same dread she had experienced at their first encounter.

This was the man who had quarrelled with Menphan Tarn, when Tarmel had first brought her to Kuon. It was Queen Eranel’s brother, the man who had brought the taint back from Kroen.

Wardmaster Crelor.

Illiom stared at him in disbelief.

Sitting high upon his horse, he suddenly turned towards her, lifted his face to the sky and laughed.

“Illiom!” Tarmel cried out in warning, then slammed his weight into her, toppling her even as the first arrows rained down upon the boat. She screamed in pain as her left hand was impaled to the gunwale.

Someone cried out from the second vessel, so it seemed that at least one other of their party had been wounded.

Tarmel swore and rose to attend to her hand, but Illiom grabbed him by his vest collar and pulled him back down.

“No! Wait!” she insisted forcefully. Pressing her lips against his, she repeated, “Wait, please … just wait.”

“But your hand…”

“I know … but wait, please!”

She held his eyes, not wanting to think about the pain. He nodded reluctantly.

“It was Crelor,” she said.

He stared blankly at her.

“On the shore, leading all those men...”

“What?” He frowned, trying to make sense of what she was saying. “Are you sure? The Queen’s brother?”

“I have no doubt. I know it was him.”

The onslaught seemed to have ceased.

She raised herself up enough to see that the arrows now fell well short of their mark, vanishing harmlessly into the murky waters.

They were out of range.

Tarmel inspected Illiom’s hand.

“Any wounded?” Argolan’s voice rang out.

“Illiom,” answered Zoran.

“Bad?”

“No, but of course it is never good,” he added with an apologetic glance at Illiom. “And you?”

“Dreel. Arrow in the neck. Azulya is tending to him as best she can, but...” Argolan said, shaking her head. Illiom understood.

“This is going to hurt, Illiom,” Tarmel said, distracting her. “I am sorry.”

The only way he could remove the arrow was by working it back and forth to dislodge it. Every tiny movement was agonising. She could not stifle her screams of pain nor hold back the flow of tears.

In the end Tarmel, aided by Pell, pulled the arrow by the shaft until it finally came loose.

Illiom cradled her pierced hand while Tarmel tore off his sleeve and stemmed the copious bleeding by bandaging it.

She turned her face away to stare at the shore. The beach was deserted once more.

Had all of Crelor’s forces launched themselves in pursuit of the Shakim, or were they contriving some way to follow them downriver? Illiom found herself praying for the latter – she wanted the tribals and the horses to be safe.

Seeing Crelor had shaken Illiom to her core.

Why did the man affect her so? What was this power he seemed to have over her? Why was she so terrified of him?

These thoughts, alongside the realisation that, from here on, they would be forced to travel on foot and would have to carry everything they needed, drained what little strength she had left. She felt like curling up into a ball and disappearing. Shrugging off the pall that had overcome her, she turned determinedly towards their destination.

The western bank was still not in sight, but the shore they had just left was slowly fading, veiled by the mist that hovered over the river.

She looked towards the other boat. Malco, Grifor, Argolan and Pell were working the oars, and they were about a hundred spans ahead.

Something caught Illiom’s eye; she could see a shadow trailing behind the boat.

“What is that?”

Tarmel followed her gaze.

Suddenly - whatever it was – leapt out of the water and latched onto the lip of the gunwale. It was long, grey and serpent-like, and none of the rowers had seen it.

Tarmel jumped to his feet.

“Argolan! Behind you! BEHIND YOU!”

A sudden flurry of activity followed and the boat lost some momentum as the Riders sprang into action. Illiom saw the flash of steel slicing repeatedly through the air as several more creatures clamped onto the boat, which heaved violently. Argolan slashed at them as she ran backwards and forwards.

Illiom felt a sensation creeping up her spine.

She spun around, but was hit by a force so strong that it flung her to her knees.

Blade in hand, Tarmel leapt past her, slashing at what looked like a tentacle thicker than her arm. With a final blow, her Rider severed it and the rest of the creature slithered back into the water with a roar of pain.

Something hit the boat hard and lifted it a full span into the air. The boat slammed back down into the water only to be pounded twice more in rapid succession.

They struggled back to their feet just as five more tentacles came lashing over the side, one landing heavily on Scald. To Illiom’s horror, a talon within its soft membrane tore into Scald’s shoulder as it crushed him against the gunwale.

Scald screamed in agony, but mercifully fell unconscious.

With a cry of unspeakable rage, Zoran ran to Scald’s side, hacking at the tentacle with his axe. At the third blow it released Scald and vanished over the side. Tarmel, Zoran, and the two tribals worked together to dispatch the remaining tentacles, and kept watch for any signs of renewed attack.

The hull continued to be buffeted for a short while, but the blows became weaker and soon stopped altogether.

Tarmel knelt beside Illiom, touching the side of her head gingerly.

“Are you alright, my love?”

She nodded, even though his gentle touch caused her some pain. “How are the others?”

Tarmel looked over to the other boat.

“Much as we are, adrift and vigilant.”

Illiom pulled herself to her feet and made her way to Scald. The Chosen remained unconscious and it was hard to see the extent of his wounds for all the mucous-like muck that soaked his garments.

“We must tie the boats together,” Argolan shouted. “Does anyone have any rope?”

Pell held up two coils. Bringing the boats alongside each other, they wove the ropes through the oar locks and bound the vessels together.

“I do not know if this will make us more stable, but it should make it harder for those creatures to capsize us if they attack again.”

The Shieldarm straightened.

“We are adrift, and this will not do. The current is slow and it is bearing us downstream, but we must make for the farther shore. I do not want to still be drifting down this river when the sun sets.”

She paused to think for a moment, then nodded.

“This should work. If we take up the oars, three to each side, we should be able to make good headway. The rest of us will need to tend to the wounded and keep watch.”

They paddled steadily for the remainder of the day, but by sunset they could still only just glimpse the western bank ahead. The world fell into darkness, precipitating a renewed spate of attacks.

Illiom sparked her werelight, and its brilliance illuminated the vessels and the surrounding waters. To everyone’s relief, the tentacles immediately submerged.

Encouraged, Illiom sent her light plunging into the waters and positioned it just beneath the boats.

It was an interminable night for her.

Everyone else slept, except for Tarmel, who insisted on staying awake with her. Illiom protested mildly, but she was quietly grateful for his support. It made the ordeal considerably more endurable.

The ever-growing distance between her and Crelor was reassuring. The prospect of facing the Werewood was less daunting than the thought of another encounter with Queen Eranel’s brother.

Sometime in the middle of the night, a faint glow appeared in the east. Sudra rose, but she was in her waning phase and only a slender sickle of her form was visible.

She was high overhead when Iod rose and Illiom and Tarmel finally slept.

When she awoke, she was disoriented.

Tarmel was at the oars, working hard with the rest to keep the vessels moving forward. She remembered her hand then and raised it to her face, flexing the fingers. Unsurprisingly, she removed the bandage to reveal a completely healed hand.

She looked over to where Scald lay, snoring softly, his countenance unmarred by pain.

Glancing over at the western bank, she was rewarded by the sight of a lush tangle of impenetrable green. She watched without apprehension as the Werewood drifted slowly past.

“How is Dreel?” she asked, scanning the joined boats until she saw him. The dwarf was lying near the prow, the stump of an arrow still protruding from his neck.

Tarmel turned at the sound of Illiom’s voice, but it was Azulya who answered her.

“He lives, but I do not know for how long. I dare not remove the arrow. It may be the only thing still keeping him alive.”

“He has not awoken at all,” added Kassargan sorrowfully.

Illiom slumped, not knowing what to say. The cost, in pain and suffering and lost lives, was taking its toll.

Everyone but the Chosen was paying a high price on this quest. Even though she had recently died, and had suffered a severe injury only a few hours ago - as had Scald - they were both now completely healed.

The fact that the Chosen had the ability to heal themselves made it feel all the more unfair and cruel when others suffered or lost their lives.

This journey is changing us so much. Will we even recognise ourselves when it is all over?

Breakfast was uninspiring: cold meat and hard bread, but it helped to assuage their hunger.

A large flock of birds swooped down low to skim over the river.

As they passed, black fish with fins that flapped like wings leapt out of the water. Each snatched a bird out of the air, falling back into the water with its prey thrashing in its mouth.

“Did you see that?” asked Malco with a snort of disgust. “What kind of a river is this?”

“The river is not at fault,” Kassargan said softly. “Something has perverted and corrupted it. The abominations in its waters are not natural.”

“What about the forest?” Scald asked. “Are you sensing anything about it?”

The descrier sat quietly for a time, her face turned towards the western bank. She shook her head.

“Not from here. Maybe when we are in it.”

Scald shuddered.

“I hope that by then it will not be too late.”

The boats were drifting near the bank. The forest was silent and they heard nothing beyond the soft splash of the oars as they entered the water.

“There! That must be the tributary that we saw on the map.” Argolan pointed towards a sudden widening in the river.

“Turn the boats into it and we will see how we fare against the current.”

The Riders complied.

Gradually the boats turned and, while they made some headway, it soon became obvious that their speed was greatly reduced.

“Try and get closer to the left bank,” the Shieldarm instructed.

The trees on the riverbank seemed stunted, but revealed an intricate root system. Just above the water line some wickedly sharp roots effectively foiled easy access.

However, being so much closer now to the bank allowed Kassargan to glean a little of the forest’s disposition.

“It is not tainted,” she announced with certainty. “There is no feeling of corruption here, but I sense an uncompromising will.”

Her brow knitted with concentration.

“This forest has suffered and has steeled itself against those who might bring harm. I … there is something else. I can sense it, but I have no name for it, as it is completely unlike anything I have ever experienced.”

For much of that day they crawled up the tributary, penetrating deeper into the domain of the Werewood.

Illiom knew she could not remain awake a second night, and was relieved when Argolan pressed to find a landing before darkness set in.

Fortune finally smiled upon them an hour before sunset. They came upon a stream that spilled into the river and, upon closer inspection, they discovered that silt and debris had formed a shoal and here they forced the boats aground.

Illiom saw that the trees had grown a canopy over the stream, creating what looked like a tunnel into the forest. She was not the only one to recognise its potential.

“This is likely the best access to the Werewood that we are going to find,” Azulya said.

“Just as well we do not have horses,” Malco mused.

“Everyone out,” Argolan ordered. “We will secure the boats here in case we need them when we come back.”

When we come back… Illiom heard the Shieldarm’s words echo in her mind. Funny that she had never given a thought to their coming back.

Illiom dropped over the side and landed waist-deep in a hollow. The water was icy.

They hoisted the boats as far as they could onto the sandbank, until the prows were concealed by the vegetation. Then they secured them to nearby tree trunks with ropes. With that done, everyone climbed back in to huddle there for the night.

The soft splashing against the hull, the quiet bubbling of the stream, and Dreel’s occasional moans, were the only sounds in the night.

When Illiom let her werelight fade, the silence seemed louder and somehow more menacing.

Illiom huddled close to Tarmel, and could tell by his breathing that he too was awake.

She dozed fitfully through most of the night until sometime in the early hours Sudra rose to cast her feeble light upon them.

She heard some rustling then and sat up to find Azulya hovering over the dwarf. She went over to her as quietly as she could.

“Is everything all right?” she whispered.

Illiom could not see her friend’s eyes in the pale moonlight; nevertheless, she sensed the answer before it was spoken.

“He is dead, Illiom.”

After a long moment she returned to her roll and Tarmel gathered her once more into his embrace.

Dawn was a sombre experience, as the rest became aware that Dreel had passed away during the night.

With no place to bury him, they eventually decided to sacrifice one of the boats. They laid him out, severed all of its tethers and, after a moment of silence, pushed the boat out, setting it adrift. They watched for a while as the current took the boat away, towards the Thel Drus.

Then they shouldered their packs, bedrolls and weapons and set off to follow the stream into the Werewood.

They trudged through the shallow water for what seemed a long time. The sky became all but obscured by the canopy, which turned daylight a dim green. The stream underfoot was clear and clean, and Illiom found the water to be the sweetest she had tasted since leaving Altra, but their passage was also marked by unpleasant things. The smell of damp decay dominated the air and, from time to time, other noxious vapours took her breath away.

They pressed on, unable to find anywhere dry to stop and rest. Progress was slow, for the stream was full of obstacles. They had to struggle through long strands of pale, wet moss that hung from the trees like heavy drapes. Fallen limbs in varied stages of decay littered the uneven bed, and cloying tracts of mud sucked at their feet, making every step laboured.

Eventually they came across a path that intersected the stream and stretched out straight as an arrow in both directions.

“Can anyone tell which direction is which?” Argolan asked softly. The Shieldarm, like the rest, seemed reluctant to disturb the eerie silence that dominated this forest.

“Yes,” Kassargan said, and pointed to the left. “If we go that way we will still be heading roughly west.”

They clambered out of the stream and gratefully collapsed upon dry land.

They rested awhile until Argolan suggested they move on.

The path, unlike the stream bed, was entirely free of obstacles. It was clear of debris and its floor was covered in moss, soft and spongy underfoot. Their progress was now effortless and rapid.

Illiom began to feel buoyant and hopeful once more, and she saw that the others too were positively affected by this boon. Only one question remained, for this path could not have occurred naturally. Who had shaped it?

Darkness crept up on them so unobtrusively that Illiom only noticed it when she found it difficult to see. With the aid of her light, they ate a cold meal before bedding down for the night.

She dreamed that she and other mysterious companions were being set tasks that she alone was unable to fulfil. Illiom blundered through the dream, weighed down by her own ineptness and constant failure, consumed by feelings of worthlessness.

Once during the night, she started awake, listening, the darkness around her crouched like a predator, watching, waiting…

She lay still and silent until she no longer felt threatened, then surrendered to sleep once more.

They travelled on for days, always following the same path; for no other presented itself, nor did they come across any other signs of life. They became used to the scents, the silence and the semi-darkness of the Werewood.

The path rose and fell, clinging to steep embankments or descending into deep ravines, but the direction remained true as it continued through the heavily canopied forest.

It was always cold with little variation apart from sporadic showers that spattered down through their woven green ceiling.

The question of who or what had shaped the path remained uppermost in Illiom’s mind and was aggravated by the resolute silence that had settled over the group.

It was late in the afternoon of the sixth day when the path suddenly spilled them into a clearing. For the first time since they left the river, they felt the welcome warmth of the sun upon their faces as they gazed up at the wide open sky.

As the party fanned out, released now from the shadowy constriction of the wood, Illiom felt elated.

A clean, scented breeze scattered red and gold leaves, and the group whooped and laughed with relief and joy.

“This is where the path ends,” Kassargan announced.

Their exuberance quelled, several in the party looked around, hoping to prove the descrier wrong.

“The only way out is the way we came in,” she proclaimed with finality.

Malco turned on her with a snarl.

“And you could not even foresee this?”

“Apparently not,” she replied serenely.

They spread out to inspect the limits of the clearing, but were soon forced to confirm Kassargan’s statement.

Pell offered his assessment.

“The forest is very dense here. If we were to try to hack our way through this tangle, we would be lucky to cover even a quarter of a league a day.”

Argolan nodded pensively, then turned to Kassargan.

“Are you able to scry for another path? If we know that there is one nearby then hacking through the forest might not be such a bad idea.”

Kassargan shook her head.

“I can try, but this forest continues to be ambiguous. One thing I can say with absolute clarity is that hacking our way through would be a really bad idea.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Pell.

Kassargan shook her head.

“The forest is likely to fight back.”

Scald was about to say something, but Azulya spoke first.

“Well, whatever we do, we cannot go back. We know exactly where that leads.”

“Ah, yes! Back to the river, and now there is only one boat,” Malco cut in sharply. “No matter what we do, we always come to a dead end.”

He spat on the ground.

“What is wrong with you?” Scald asked, mildly enough. “We have always found a way around every problem so far – you must be blind not to see that.”

“Actually, more often than not, I would say that solutions have found us,” Sereth observed.

Elan looked up at the sky.

“Maybe we should focus on what is immediately before us. We have found a clearing…”

“Oh, come now,” Malco interrupted. “We have found nothing! It is as clear as daylight that we have been led here.”

“Regardless, the fact is that we are in a clearing. It is nearly dusk, so let us camp, eat and rest. Tomorrow we will turn our attention to…”

“Like anything is going to be different tomorrow.”

Elan walked up to Malco and slapped his face.

“What did you do that for?” he asked, more bewildered than angry.

“You have been asking for that for a long time, Malco,” she said. Then, turning away, she distanced herself from the group.

“What is wrong with her?” the Blade asked, rubbing the side of his face.

“Cannot imagine,” Scald said, before going after the priestess.

They set up camp in the middle of the clearing and shared a cold supper.

With Iod gone, Sudra’s crescent, high in the western sky, dominated the heavens. Her waxing presence was so calming that Illiom found herself undisturbed by her bickering companions.

They bedded soon afterwards.

Illiom lay in Tarmel’s arms, content to feel his warm breath upon her neck. In that moment she wished for nothing more.

Morning brought fresh challenges.

Illiom awoke to the murmur of voices. The light was wan, for Iod had not yet risen above the trees. Tarmel was gone from her side and Illiom sat up with a yawn.

“What is happening?” she asked.

“Well, a few things,” Sereth offered. “To begin with there is no longer any trace of the path that led us here yesterday. And then … well, just look at the trees.”

Her heart sank.

The trees looked taller and seemed to crowd in closer than they had the night before. It was as though they had crept up on the party and now loomed menacingly over them.

But there was worse yet.

All the trees at the clearing’s edge had somehow formed roots and branches overnight, ominously shaped into crude weapons. Sharp-tipped spears, barbed with thorns, were now aimed at the group.

“And yet, I still sense no threat from the wood,” Kassargan said, frowning in bewilderment.

Illiom glanced over at Malco, expecting a reaction to the descrier’s words, but the Blade seemed to have exhausted his aggravation. He simply stared dejectedly at the wall of warrior-trees that now menaced them.

“I tried to scry a path out last night, but could not sense one,” the descrier continued. “That does not mean much though, because I could not even sense the one we took to get here. I am not able to distinguish different features in this forest.”

Argolan looked hard at the encircling trees.

“Regardless, as far as I am concerned, this is an act of aggression. It is a threat.”

“Maybe you are right,” the descrier shrugged in reply. “But I still sense no violence directed towards us. Maybe we are just being cautioned to wait…”

“Maybe, but wait for what?”

“And for how long?” Sereth added.

Argolan advised rationing their food until they found a way through. So, after a meagre breakfast, Illiom walked along the clearing’s perimeter, brushing the occasional spear carefully with her fingertips.

Tarmel followed a little behind.

“What do you feel, Tarmel? Does this Werewood wish to harm us?”

“No,” he answered, and after a few moments added, “But it seems incredibly adept at protecting itself.”

“Do you think it capable of actually hurting us though?”

He nodded.

“I do, and I also sense it has more secrets in store, just as we do. Best we not antagonise it.”

The day passed slowly and though they all watched the wood, nothing stirred, nothing changed and nothing came for them.

They waited for three days.

The Riders spent all their time tending their weapons, as though readying for battle. They took no action against the wood, and no action was taken against them.

A growing sense of doom lodged in Illiom’s heart. The wait was taking its toll on them. Tension grew, as tempers flared and barbed words found their mark.

Azulya patiently attempted to soothe frayed nerves and resolve squabbles, but even she grew weary.

On the fourth night something startled Illiom awake.

She raised herself onto her elbows, straining to listen. The camp was still and the forest around them was as silently vigilant as always. The moon had long retired and darkness reigned. She sparked her werelight and froze.

Though her glow was soft, it was enough to reflect myriad pairs of eyes watching from the deeper shadows of the surrounding wood. She stared back at them in silence for a time, unable to move.

Some of the eyes stared, gaze fixed upon the party, while others moved about, circling the clearing. She took in a deep breath and willed herself calm.

Despite all the movement, not even a whisper of noise reached her ears: no rustling of leaves, no snapping of twigs. No sound at all. This unsettled her more than anything else.

She considered waking Tarmel and the others, but then decided to continue watching. Eventually she grew tired and, extinguishing her werelight, lay back down again.

Snuggling into Tarmel, she listened to the silence until sleep reclaimed her.

Morning arrived and the camp stirred slowly awake. Illiom knew at once that something was up, but she did not move until Tarmel gave her shoulder a small, urgent squeeze.

“Illiom.”

She opened her eyes and immediately looked towards the perimeter. At first she saw nothing, and then they became visible.

Hard to distinguish from the various hues of the forest behind, a host of creatures stood at the very edge of the clearing, between them and the Werewood.

Human in appearance and slender, they stood almost twice the height of the humans. Their faces were smooth, while the eyes - pale green in colour – were all iris. Their limbs were long and their skin was the colour of new leaves.

They were naked and unadorned, with subtle attributes of both male and female. Their features were androgynous and, though fey and wild, they were breathtakingly beautiful.

They carried weapons: bows and staves, and some sort of blade that seemed to be fashioned from stone. They held these loosely, in a relaxed and non-threatening way.

For a time, no one spoke or moved. The members of the party inched closer together, cautiously inspecting the host before them for any sign of aggression.

Illiom saw Pell’s hand move towards his sword, but Argolan shook her head slowly and he desisted.

Then, with a startling sound, the forest beings spoke.

Humans follow. Woedim lead.

It took a moment for Illiom to realise that all the creatures had spoken as one. One sound, precise in tone, volume and nuance.

Azulya took a step forward.

“You lead, we follow.”

For once the blue Chosen did not look out of place, addressing this host of green forest creatures.

Blue one speaks for one or for all?

It was a puzzling question, but Azulya took it in her stride.

“I speak for one and for all.”

As if this was what they had been waiting to hear, the creatures at the south-west end of the clearing turned to face the wood. A dozen of them moved forward and the forest parted before them.

The party gaped.

A broad passage opened up in what had previously been an impenetrable tangle.

The remainder of the Woedim stood where they were, apparently waiting for Illiom and her companions to follow.

Gathering up their packs, they fell in behind the Woedim.

Argolan turned to the descrier.

“Kassargan, can you tell me anything that might be useful?”

The descrier did not reply immediately.

“I do not know if it is of use or not, but these creatures are one with the forest.”

“What do you mean?”

“I cannot distinguish any difference between them and the Werewood. They are not separate, individual beings, they are the forest.”

Argolan mulled that over for a moment.

“Is that all you have to tell me?”

“For now, yes.”

When the light began to fail, the Woedim halted.

The forest receded, opening up a space much the same size as the clearing where they had camped the previous night.

The Woedim moved to the perimeter of the clearing and then did something extraordinary. About half of their number settled on the ground, closed their eyes and became completely still. The subtle protuberance in their groin – now revealed to be a root - grew downwards until it penetrated the soil. The rest stood silently alongside their companions, like sentries on watch.

After a time, the astonished humans tore their gaze away from the Woedim and unpacked their food and bedrolls, taking sustenance and rest.

Illiom and Tarmel sat together for a while in the encroaching darkness, before bedding down for the night. Enveloped in the forest’s watchful silence, they fell into a deep sleep.