Into The Woods
The roaring of the wind lessened as they passed under the boughs of the trees, the air now close about them. A lightly trod trail, used by countless generations of hunters and foragers who had come and gone before them, disappeared deeper into the forest, snaking between the gnarled oaks, silver birch trees and through the dense undergrowth. It had rained the night before and now and then the sun broke through the cloud cover above, shining down through the naked branches and briefly catching the carpet of ferns and brambles and dry brown leaves, causing them to glisten silver in the low autumn light.
Farin fidgeted with his reins as he rode next to Jotir, trying to soak everything in.
“Again, Farin; what is the Old Wood?” Jotir asked. Farin replied immediately, repeating by rote what he had been taught.
“It is the wealth of the Southlands, where we get our dyes, our furs, our medicines, like the Sarif nut which- ”
“Good,” Jotir interrupted with a wave of his hand, “clear you listened to your parents. What else?”
“It is also the sorrow of the Southlands,” Farin replied, uneasy as his gaze passed over the dense undergrowth on either side of them. “Many of our men have died here; to great boars, bears, the Waterhounds, even to some creatures we have no names for...”
“Correct again. Look at me Farin.” Farin snapped his gaze away from thickets and trees and obediently focused on Jotir’s weathered face. “This is your first new lesson. You must hold both of these truths tightly, in balance. Don’t let one drown out the other. Know why we are here, know what we face, and you will return home with more wealth than sorrow.” Farin nodded in reply.
He suddenly felt acutely aware of the sword now buckled at his side, the strange newness of its weight and presence there. He wondered if he would have to use it. He prayed silently to Elru Windfather that if the moment came, he would not fail.
The Old Wood changed the deeper they went. The broad forest floor began to descend sharply and they followed the path as it snaked back and forth down towards the sound of rushing water and the chirping of birdsong. The wind which blew uninhibited all across the eastern sea and the Southland flats grew even less here, the slopes behind them breaking its power and offering a rare reprieve. The air grew warmer the lower they went and they soon removed their thick woollen cloaks, strapping them to the side of their saddlebags.
Eventually the ground levelled out once more and Balan drew them to a halt, some hundred paces from the river which was now visible through the trees. There they dismounted.
Farin watched the men carefully; they never took eyes off their surroundings. Not Balan as he strung his bow, nor Jotir as he tightened the straps on his leather armour. Lord Rane stood on a rock and scanned the woods around them, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword and the other holding some rough hessian sacks.
“Hand on sword, Farin,” Jotir said, nodding towards Lord Rane as he tied their horses to a nearby branch, “down in these valleys, always keep one hand on your sword.” Farin obeyed, copying Jotir’s ready posture, left hand on the pommel of his sword hilt and right arm free to balance as they made their way over the moss coated roots and granite boulders, down towards the river's edge.