My shout echoed dimly among the trees, as if choked out by the grey mist that had been rising just as the sun had been dwindling away in the west. And as I sadly expected, no answer came.
“A shot in the dark,” I thought. For who could have heard me? What sort of fool would dare tread away from the safety of the King’s-Road, to wander heedlessly into the heart of the woods – those very woods that the locals knew as Mórtov-Drinn, “the Forest of Darkened Blood”, where death had met innumerable men, women and children across ages of abominable rituals? The answer sprang into my mind, lashing at my conscience: for I, Yriaen Wigávra, was that fool.
I who, to gain a few days on my journey to the mighty kingdom of Tahaulbac for the Winter’s Eve feast, had decided to cut through the woods instead of following the winding road that avoided it all together. I, who merely needed to walk southwards until I met the Féadinn river, which I would cross easily as the waters were low at this time of year, and then join the King’s-Road again. I who, as I crossed ponds of muddied waters, turned around fallen trunks and walked through thorn-bushes, had lost all sense of direction among the trees. And how could one go southwards when these same trees, forming a great dome of leaves, hid the heavens from my sight, blocking even the light of the sun?
I dismounted, letting my horse feed upon the dry grass. Pulling my lute from my saddle-bag, I tried singing an old drinking tune that had brought me fame in all the taverns of the far north. Yet the more I sang, the lonelier I felt. In place of cheers and hurrahs, I only heard the echoes of my own voice, and the song of an early owl. A feeling of ridicule passed over me; for an instant, the tall, twisted tree-trunks, now darkened by the light of the dying sun, appeared as cruel, grinning giants, mocking my dismay.
I walked back to my wearied horse, who had started grazing, and patted his ash-grey flank: “at least you never lose your sense of priorities, Wadra!”. His only reply was a contented snort – though I noticed his ears twitched as if he still sensed some unseen menace. I loosened the heavy saddlebags off his back, and fumbled in them to find some black bread, a piece of biscuit, and one last strip of dried pork. Sitting down with my back against a tree, I rested my wearied legs and munched on the last vestiges of my previous meals.
The last mouthfuls of biscuit, though harsh and dry as I swallowed them, replenished my strength somewhat: and even as the reddened sun was nigh entirely blotted out by the trees, hope arose in my heart. No, this would not be the place where Yriaen Wigávra, prince of all bards and bard to a few princes, would meet his end!
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