After an hour, Fleat returned with news that the lands were clear of patrols and hunters.
For now at least.
Finally, at around mid-morning, Caewen, woke. She was bleary, slow to move, and clearly still suffering from the previous days’ exhaustions. At first, barely willing to leave her bedroll, she made her way to the fire’s side, and sat herself there, exhausted, wrapped in a blanket. The moth-eaten edges of the wool hung around her like a canopy of dead leaves on a winter wood. She made no particular signs of activity past accepting a cup of recently brewed tea.
Dapplegrim moved to be closer to her, but said nothing.
The shadow had not returned.
The morning stretched on.
The boy could feel nervousness building, and a growing sense of urgency. They needed to leave these woods while it was still safe to do so. It wouldn’t be long before Sorthemen–or worse–followed their trail and found them. And the sun was reaching its pale gold rays towards noon. Dapplegrim said gently, “We should be moving. We were lucky to have no scarle creeping about these woods last night, but we cannot be sure of that again. We need to move, and be swift and careful about it too.”
“We must wait for the fetch,” said Caewen, rather hollowly.
“Where is the little mischief-spright?” said Dapple, looking around suddenly, twitching his ears. It seemed that he had momentarily forgotten about the shadow-thing, and maybe now, he even hoped that the shadow-demon might be permanently lost in the woods.
But Caewen waved a hand. The gesture was weak, almost fey. “He is returning. I can sense him…” and she closed her eyes. “Out near the edges of the woods. I don’t know why. Maybe he was keeping watch?”
“If so, then he’s keeping watch for his own reasons,” replied Dapple, “and I’d wager selfish ones at that.”
“True,” she said. “Yes. Very likely so.” She stood slowly, and once she was standing, Caewen looked around. She rolled her shoulders. “I feel as if I have been a long while asleep. My thoughts have been bleak, and my dreams shadowy. But…”
“But?” said Dapplegrim, nosing nearer to her.
“But I feel better too. Clearer. More alert. I needed sleep, I suppose.” She picked up her things, including the leather pouch she had emptied a couple days earlier to make a home for the shadow-thing. “Here, Fetch” she opened it and the mink-like shape jumped out of a nearby tree, and flowed into the bag, filling it with thick shadows. All the while, Dapplegrim watched this and his mistrust towards the shadow-fetch grew to be palpable.
“Hurm. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Making a bad bargain with Mannagarm’s fetch is as foolish a thing as you’ve ever done Caewen.”
“Tssssch,” answered a whisperous little voice from the pouch.
Caewen just smiled and shrugged as if to say, but what can one do?
The boy didn’t trust the strange little demoniac thing himself–and he had grown more mistrustful after seeing the fight in the woods. But, he suspected from the way Dapplegrim glared, that the horse would outright kill the creature, if given half a chance–assuming it could be killed by hoof or tooth. Of that, the boy was not at all sure.
They left the small wooded vale and ascended upwards, passing among the bent trees, and in and out of their cool shadows. The sun felt as if it was getting weaker. They were far north now, and sooner or later, the sun would sink to the horizon, eventually to vanish. And yet, in this wilderness, untouched by necromantic princes and wintery kings, the air under the trees remained pleasant: it was green and gold, tinted by sunlight that shone between leaves; as they climbed, the air grew a little brighter as the trees grew thinner. About an hour after noon, they came to a wide open place, where the hillsides were steep but also thickly green with grass. There were standing stones here: huge, rough-cut and looming. They were ancient looking edifices, tilted and slumped by age. The boy looked over the upland meadow, wondering if there were some elder presence or earth-wight here, but he felt no prickling feeling of anything watching them. The cold wind tore at the grasses and made wave-patterns. The stones stood silent.
Above them and to the north, the mountains rose so dizzyingly high that they seemed to threaten to topple over. The travellers weren’t far from the treeline now. The air was acquiring a bitter edge to it.
Caewen and Dapplegrim were the first to enter the grassy area over-stood by stones. The two of them merely looked about, and at length Dapplegrim said, “A thing of power once dwelled here and was worshipped, but it is dead now. This place is safe, though the air tastes sad.”
“That’s true,” added Fleat.
They looked at him.
“Remember this is my homeland, and I’ve flown up and down the spines of the mounts many times. He waved a hand behind them, at the wide valley they’d come through, with its ruins of the dead fane-folk. “The lands hereabouts are called the Griefwalds, and I know them well, leastways from the air. I’ve glided over this place many times. This is Dead God Hill. I don’t know for whom it was named, or when the god died, or how. But that is the name of the place.”
Caewen looked at him, then turned her attention to the northwest where the Dragon Gates of Sortheland stood: just barely visible, as black and forbidding as clouds of storm come down to earth. There were smudges of grey spread on the plains, speckled with orange lights: soldiers and watchfires. The distance was so great that whole camped armies were barely a few tiny scratches of colour at the feet of the great gates. “We cannot go by the Great North Road. The way is guarded. Fleat, you’ve flown back and forth around here? Are there passes, or other ways besides the gates?”
“Yes, a few passes, though I don’t know if they are watched. I may have to do me some flapping and gliding to find one that seems more empty. But I can find us a pass for you if you want one, yes I can.”
“We do. Aye,” said Caewen. “That would be a help. I don’t much want to try scaling snowy peaks.”
“And I don’t know if I could,” added Dapplegrim, some of his old humour back in his voice.
Fleat peeled his clothing off, shook himself three times: feathers sprouted, and his eyes grew larger and more round, his mouth contorted, and he was a great owl. With a single flap he was airborne and away. His shadow carried over the emerald grass, slipping over one of the larger standing stones as he went.
They sat down in the long cool grass and watched him flap away. Caewen and Dapplegrim talked quietly to each other–too softly even for the boy to hear unless he were to go over and sit right next to them–and he had a feeling it was a private conversation. He did not feel at all drowsy and the wind chasing over the rank grass was too chill to leave him in much comfort sitting any way other than huddled. He remembered his book, took it out and looked at the first story again. He felt a moment of trepidation as he opened the cover. Perhaps he had dreamed it all? That seemed so much more likely than having acquired mysteriously the power to read an old book of tales. But no. He found he could read the letters clear as if they were being whispered in his ear. It was a beautiful story, and the words were lyrical and he was transported into the tale.
“What a wonderful thing,” he said to himself, quietly, as he read and reread the story, over and over. “Who’d ever have though such magic existed in the world?”