Though the rain had passed hours ago, the trees dripped, creating an ominous whisper among the freshly fallen autumn leaves. The loam gave up a fecund aroma--a primal breath as old as the land itself. In his fifty-three years, Oxal had intruded beneath these boughs only twice. This time felt no more familiar or welcome. The Forest of the Old Ones did not lightly tolerate the presence of humans, certainly not a company of fifty armed soldiers, some with axes.
The rider ahead tugged his beard, nervously eyeing a raven that watched from a tall, leafless spar. Saddle leather creaked as he reined back and leaned close to Oxal.
"This is a fool's quest," he murmured.
Oxal raised an eyebrow. "Yet here you are, Yram. Are you calling yourself a fool?"
Yram scowled and nudged his mount back into formation.
Oxal regretted his curtness. Yram's skepticism was warranted. Other men--good men--had failed at this search. Yet the pikeman should not have spoken so. It was disrespectful of the lord who led the quest. Oxal would not be party to such criticisms. He considered it vital to behave as a proper soldier, playing the role right down to the ancient practice of going beardless so that an enemy would have less to seize during combat--though Ayana teased him with spousal goodwill that he shaved only to hide the grey in his whiskers.
The company halted as they came to a large meadow. Here the woodland presented a choice of obvious paths--either along the stream that fed the expanse of peat, or over a hill strewn with rock outcroppings.
Oxal favored the former for its flatness, its proximity to water, its promise of fresh game for the night's cookfires. The scree draping the hill could slide underhoof.
At the head of the procession, a tall figure in blue and gold dismounted. Oxal had never been one to admire the physiques of other males, but he did so now. Prince Rahnnic radiated the lithe, angular beauty of the Arith. In an ordinary human, his aspect might be called delicate, but in him the smooth complexion and subdued musculature somehow conveyed the impression of virility and strength.
Yet this prince was a stranger, unproven in many ways. Handsomeness mattered little here. If Rahnnic could not determine which route to take from the meadow, he had no business leading a mission into the forest.
Oxal watched keenly as Rahnnic knelt and lifted a handful of soil. Sniffing it deeply, the Arith royal scanned the treetops. He tilted his head, as if listening. Finally he began to walk. Stopping periodically, he repeated his odd ceremony until he had wound past both the stream and the hill and come to stand across the meadow next to a dense thicket. Three pikemen and the standard bearer clung to his heels, guarding him vigilantly.
With sudden confidence the prince waved for the remainder of the column to join him.
The main knot of riders started forward, tracing their lord's route along the fringe of the clearing. But the rider just ahead of Yram chose to cut straight across the meadow. Yram, Oxal, and the rest turned as well.
Halfway across, the hair on the nape of Oxal's neck began to stiffen. The grass, toughened by a long dry summer, gave good purchase for the horses' hooves, yet as a mass it seemed to wobble, as if the layer of turf were suspended over liquid.
Prince Rahnnic turned from his examination of the forest and saw his riders in the open. Shock blanked his features. "Go back!" he shouted.
The echo had not yet faded as the ground gave way beneath five of the horses.
Oxal's mount dropped from under him. Boggy soil poured in from every side, submerging the animal and burying Oxal to his shoulders. Caught like the victim of an avalanche, only a desperate surge of strength freed his arms. From the waist down, his body was trapped.
Enveloped in the muck, his mount thrashed frantically. Just in front of Oxal's the ground trembled. Oxal dug quickly, uncovering the gelding's face. The beast snorted, eyes rolling in terror.
"Easy, easy," Oxal murmured, knowing that if the horse struggled too much, it would die. Broad, gentle swimming motions would keep them from sinking further, but rapid wiggling would draw them under.
Oxal had cared for his roan since it had been a day-old colt. Though terrified, it obeyed him and grew calm. Only then did Oxal have the chance to look about him.
Yram and his mount were nowhere to be seen. Of the other victims, the head of one companion remained above the surface.
Ropes landed among the stricken warriors. Oxal grabbed one. Meanwhile from the periphery of the meadow unmounted men, their armor and heavy gear shucked, crawled across the uncollapsed area with digging implements. Valiantly they dug where their comrades had vanished, trying to create breathing funnels.
Prince Rahnnic sat cross-legged, entering into a spellcaster's trance. Oxal wasn't certain what sort of magic could help--perhaps an enchantment to harden the ground--but he did know it would be too late. Sorcery was a sluggish affair; otherwise soldiers would be obsolete.
Before the spell took effect, the diggers uncovered Yram's upper body. He had suffocated.
)
