They say no army has ever set foot beneath the Shadeweald's impenetrable canopy. That spirits and demons of the old world hid amongst its shadows, filled with malice towards those who walked beneath the sun. Not to mention the wailing ghosts of those who ignored the warnings of wiser men. What army would ever allow their commanders to risk even a single night in such a dark, uninviting place. Better to take the longer road, and for once the weary soldiers would not begrudge the extra miles.
Some storytellers, the most honest, perhaps, will admit that the empire of old may have dared it. Many centuries ago, before it crumbled to ruin and dust. So said the tales, at any rate. But no matter. What did ancient bravado mean to the lesser people living alongside its ruins. What the empire had once dared meant little to the lesser men following in its wake.
It was, perhaps, these very rumors that drove the raiders into forest. Surely, they thought, even the most relentless pursuer would blanch at following them.
They thought wrong.
Twenty some mounted soldiers, it must be admitted, do not make an army. But when you are only three afoot, twenty armed horsemen is as bad as a thousand.
This should have been a quick snatch and grab, as the raiders' people were accustomed. The border was long and undermanned. A small force could easily get in and take what they wanted before anyone noticed. By the time anyone even started to track them, they should have been halfway back to home and safety.
Luck had not been on their side, though the trip had started promising enough. Young and inexperienced, the trio had been more than eager to bring back a good take. Something big. Something that would make their fortunes and win the interest of the village girls. When they discovered a richly appointed lodge nestled deep in the woods, they each said a small prayer of thanksgiving to the great spirit of daring for blessing their hunt.
The few terrified servants had run screaming at the sight of the sight of three large men, with their savage looking axes and long wild hair drawn back in a warrior's knot.
A mistake, leaving witnesses, much less allowing them to escape. Had there been more than three, they might have considered taking some back as captives. The servants had been comely enough, to be sure. But there were only the three, and letting them run had seemed a minor detail at the time. Besides, the obvious terror gratified the young men's egos. It let them feel fierce and grown without the effort and unpleasantness of actually using the weapons they had spent their youth learning. Anyways, with the servants gone, the house was ripe for plundering.
Three bulging sacks stuffed with gold and silver should be more than enough to justify straying from the main party. Precious metals would solve a lot of problems, come to think of it, including the frustrations any young man experiences while trying to court. Especially one who is untried and unblooded. Things would change when they got back. Even once the communal share was handed out, each of the boys would be more than enough left over to be generous. Their leader's thoughts had already turned towards a fair freckled face, and the smooth bosom below it. A gold necklace, perhaps, would win enough favor for him to discover whether the freckles continued down under her clothing.
He would find out, he'd been certain, once they made it home.
If
they made it home.
The boys had not counted on Marshal Rosalyn Emory, or her hand picked unit of border scouts. While the rest of her forces drove off the larger raiding party, she dedicated herself to tracking down the group who had dared raid the Duke of Ambrose's newest hunting lodge.
It was the principle of the thing, she told herself. What would people think if they allowed raiders to attack with impunity? What could possibly be more brazen than stealing from the greatest, most noble man in the entire kingdom? Why, if they could attack him, those wretches would dare anything.
It was not to be permitted, and soon she would create an example of what happens when you crossed your betters.
There was little time to waste. The fugitives were almost past the border by the time she set out, but the river was wide and there were few places where a group could safely pass without a boat. She may not have been able to catch them before they slipped across, but she could at least cut them off from their kinsmen, not to mention an easy route home.
Marshal Emory had rarely been ranged far into the wildlands, and never with so few behind her, but her pursuit was relentless. Chasing their quarry, the group passed through half a dozen of the fractured, quarrelsome tribes without allowing time for even the briefest of challenges. It was frightening, daring the wildlands with only a small scout patrol, but exhilarating nonetheless. A heady mix of danger, righteousness, and excitement.
Her group was the pride of her border guards. A hand picked unit with some of the best scouts and skirmishers the kingdom had to offer. Herself aside, it was still a mixed group, with over half the horses carrying female riders. It was something she'd seen over and over again. Put a girl on a horse, and many of the body's limitations were negated. There was nobody Rosalyn would rather be with, save for her patron, Lord William Ambrose. But of course, he was busy at court, and in any case they dared not risk him past the border.
They were nearing the end of their first day in the saddle when her second found the first discarded sacks. The young woman had gathered up the scattered contents, and brought it to her captain.
If anything, it was surprising that the goods had not been abandoned sooner. In fact, Rosalyn had considered splitting off a couple riders to look for the stolen items, just in case they had been missed during the pursuit.
"Amateurs," said the fiery haired lieutenant. Even in the fading light, her lips were red as the bright hair currently tied back beneath the soldier's helm. Was that natural, or had she sought an alchemist to redden them more permanently. Rosalyn licked her lips, wondering if she would look more appealing after such a treatment. Something to seek out later, perhaps.
"They'd have to be," Rosayln said, "or they'd have known to leave His Lordship's belongings in peace."
Kira, her second, nodded immediately, every bit as incensed as she was. Like many of Rosalyn's other officers, this one had been personally handpicked by Lord William. Though only a middling rider amongst this elite company, her devotion to duty was unquestionable, and Rosalyn was glad to have her. Especially on the longer patrols, where the girl's sleek curves and tight flesh helped warm many an otherwise lonely night.
Despite their inexperience, the raiders were on familiar ground once they passed the river, and made good time despite being on foot. Even so, their pursuers were mounted, and this chase was nearing its end. Then the tracks did the unthinkable, and veered into the trees.
At first they had thought it a ruse. A quick foray along the edges to throw off pursuit. But soon it became clear that the raiders had fled deeper into the woods.
The men grumbled, but Rosalyn trusted them to follow orders. It helped that most of the unit had met their patron in person. They understood how important it was not to let him down. The group may not have been an army, but for the first time in recorded history her kingdom's soldiers stepped under those legend shrouded branches.
From the first, it was clear they had stepped beyond their long familiar world, into one that defied all expectations. Colors, smells, sounds, nothing was like any forest they had ever seen. Even the blackest parts of the primordial Direwood were still
normal
, but not here.
Birds cried out as they rode past, their shrill calls echoing amongst the trees. At least, Rosalyn hoped they were birds. Their calls were like nothing she had ever heard, and she saw nothing amongst the branches.
Worse, even the plants moved.
One of their scouts had stopped for a closer look at the trail, when a flowery vine began to uncurl from its tree trunk embrace. Slowly, it began to reach for her. The bright crimson flower, which had so recently looked up at the narrow streams of sunlight piercing the canopy overhead, began a languorous turn towards the dismounted rider. It was decided, after that point, that perhaps the tracks didn't have to be
quite
