He was suddenly and awfully and painfully awake.
It seemed as if the noises of the air and the glimmer of the moonlight on blades of grass and the small flecks of glowing embers were all powerfully strong in his eyes and ears and mind. He could even smell sharply. Everything smelled: the wet night-earth, the grass, the rot of leaves, the damp of the cold dark air, the ashy smell of burnt embers. It was as if he had come awake into a world that was more detailed and louder than he remembered. He looked around, confused. No one else was about. The fire had died down.
“Hello?” he said, tentative, soft, but it sounded like a scream to him. What’s wrong with me? Either the poison had done something to him, or Caewen’s witch-charming had. He paused a moment to think: how had Caewen worked magic on him? Wasn’t he supposed to be near-immune to spells, what with his lack-of-a-name and the bag of leech eyes? He groped at his neck and found the bag was not there. Looking around, he found it sitting a small distance away. He wondered if he should take it back and put it around his neck once more? After a moment’s consideration he decided not to.
He’d ask her about it.
For now, he just wanted to find everyone. And tell them.
About the shadow-creature.
About the man on the hill, and the white ghaists.
Glancing around at the dark-infested trees, the moonlight shapes and puddles of light, he wondered again: where is everyone? There was a camp, well set-up. A fire, burned down to embers but recently raked and heaped into piles for cooking. But Caewen and Dapple and Fleat were gone. They wouldn’t leave him alone and unconscious, would they?
Cautiously, he climbed to his feet. His head felt dizzy. He nearly fell over again, and had to catch himself. Listening now, he thought he could hear a low rise and fall of voices, though they seemed far away and not familiar. He had to turn his head this way and that to get a sense of their direction. His deaf ear was still deaf, it seemed.
At first he walked hunched over, following the noise of voices, but then, deciding that even this was risky if there were enemies about, the boy found a line of scrub and bracken, and then got down on his hands and knees, so that he might creep very low to the ground. With all the twisted trees and big rocks left and right, it would be hard to tell a lurking person from the fanciful shadows cast by the landscape. But at least he could try to move about sneakily too.
After a little progress, the noise of voices grew in loudness. The boy was able to make out that they were men, gruff sounding and tired. They didn’t sound like they were ready for a fight or even excited, so he hoped that maybe things were safe after all. Perhaps some shepherds or travelling white-smiths had chanced by? Maybe Caewen and the others were talking to them quietly and there was no danger? He paused a moment. There was a faint smell of cooking meat too. Maybe they were all sharing a meal?
He soon spied a glow of light ahead, gleaming through a haze of ferns of tussocky clumps. There were deep shadows spread all over the ground here because of the tangled trees, so he decided to risk crawling forward a bit farther. As he pushed through the ferns, the boy came across the top of a small ridge, and looking down discovered a hollow below him. In it was a camp. There was a bonfire roaring, piled high with timber. And yet, despite the huge fire there were only a few men standing about or sitting on logs. They were dressed in mail and greasy grey leathers, and they had the unnaturally thin, drawn and pallid look that was typical of Sorthelandmen. Ash-blond hair that looked like dirty gold matted their heads. Their expressions were sour and they were muttering to each other in a bickering sort of way. There were some hares, skinned, gutted and spitted on long sticks. They were cooking roughly, splitting open with juices and steaming blood. The boy felt a moment of panic when he saw the Sorthemen. But when he looked around, he did not see Caewen, Dapplegrim or Fleat anywhere nearby. He had been worried that perhaps they might have been captured.
Just then a silent black shape passed against the cloud-and-starry sky, curled a long, low curve and came towards him. One of the men looked up and said, “There’s that owl again. What’s it at then?”
“Nothing. Just an owl. Shut your jaw, Crue. We is supposed to be roving isn’t we? Roving is quiet work. What if there are spies about? Filthy Brae-men or worse? Eh?”
The one called Crue hunched his shoulders and said, “Stop your own jabbering then. What does it matter anyway? No spies out here.”
“That’s not what the captain thinks. Not what His Glory the Prince reckons. All the witching-men keep on talking about visions of spies, warnings of omens, murderers, assassins. Someone or something is coming this way–you bet it, you can–and we’ll not be the company to let them past unawares. Not if you want to keep your skin.” He snuffed, loudly. “And besides, old Morair might be doing the rounds.”
“Old Morair, old fool,” snarled the first soldier, Crue. “Why I’ve a mind–” but he trailed off.
“You’ve a mind to what? Put a sword to him and challenge? You?”
Crue hunched his mailed shoulders. “It’d be a promotion, wouldn’t it? I wouldn’t mind being a captain, now that I think of it.”
This drew the attention and cold gazes of a few of the other men, who had until now been silent.
“Well?” said Crue. “None of you like him, neither. He’s as cruel and nasty as they come. I’d be a better captain. You can’t deny that.” He threw a big piece of wood at the fire rather than into it, sending burning logs rolling out like some sort of omen of spreading war, spilling hot embers out upon the ground and singing the grass.
“Can’t say as I’d stop you,” ventured one of the others.
“But can’t say as I’d help you, neither,” added another solider. “Sure as you like, have your go at him, and if you get to be captain, well… then all and good. But if the fight turns against you, its Captain Morair I’ll be cheering for, happy and loud so as he can hear me well-truly.”
“I wouldn’t expect no less,” muttered Crue, “nor, no more.”
While all of this was going on the black winged shadow in the sky had been circling high up above. It passed over where the boy was hiding, and did a small twist in the air, curled back and stooped. If the soldiers noticed it at, all perhaps they thought the owl had simply seen a mouse and was descending on prey. Instead, as soon as it landed–hidden behind the trees and shadows–the owl burst out of its skin of feathers and a naked, brown-skinned boy tumbled into the grass. “Ouch,” he said in a low voice, then added, “What in the great green weald of the earth are you doing?”