cursed section.
Finally, they topped a rise, and downslope ahead stood a tangled and twisted wood, with barren, shattered, stark trees clawing at a drab, overcast sky. All was black and white and gray, no color whatsoever in the land. Even the evergreens were blasted and dead, needles gone, bleak branches broken and hanging lifeless. And there at the verge of this drear and stricken place, the Sprite flashed ahead and took up station on an ice-laden boulder and, with its face twisted in dread, it frantically gestured for Borel to stop, signing that peril lay in the desolate snarl.
Borel signalled that he and the Wolves knew the hazard of this part of the ’Wood, and trotted past the terrified Sprite and into the appalling blight.
Among the twisted trees they went, did Borel and the pack, Wolves running to the fore and flank and aft—Slate and Dark in the lead, Render and Trot to the left, Shank and Loll on the right, Blue-eye bringing up the rear. And all about was gloom and desolation and chill, a grim and silent wood. And now and again one Wolf or another would pause and raise a nose in the air, seeking the scent of peril in the surround, and then lope forward to take station again.
On they went into the fading day, the sky seeming even more dismal in this dreadful demesne. Embedded in ice and snow and looming all ’round were harsh gray rock and jagged crags and stripped, barren trees—nought but cracked and splintered and tangled wood—and clawlike branches seemed to reach out to grasp, as if clutching at these insolent travellers who dared to journey within. Yet neither Borel nor the Wolves paid heed as misshapen boughs reached forth with their fingers of twisted twigs as the day drew down toward eve.
And a candlemark or so ere sunset, Slate in the lead trotted free of the tangle, followed by Dark; and then Borel and the flankers—Render and Trot, Shank and Loll—broke out of the snarl, followed at last by Blue-eye.
And just beyond the border awaiting them in an icicle dangling from the limb of an evergreen was an Ice-Sprite. And when Borel had emerged from the gnarl, relief flooded the Sprite’s face. It was the Sprite who had accompanied the prince to the opposite side of the blight, and even though terrified, it had waited for them to safely emerge. All the other Sprites had long ago abandoned them, though somewhere farther on, somewhere beyond the reach of the cursed section, they would take up the run again.
Borel signed his thanks to the Sprite, and then—looking first left and then right—he turned leftward and trotted parallel to the tangle.
A horrified look on its face, once more the Sprite flashed ahead, this time to a frozen mere. And it signalled to the prince that menace lay to the fore, for in the near distance sat a small cottage of rough fieldstone, its roof tattered thatch.
Borel paused, and at a growled word, the pack paused as well. As he strung his bow, Borel studied the meager cote, one room at the most. There was no smoke coming from the chimney, and the air was silent.
Still the Sprite frantically gestured. Borel then signalled he knew of the peril and knew what he was doing, and, nocking an arrow, he started toward the dwelling—Hradian’s abode—the Wolves yet arrayed to the fore and flank and aft.
The Sprite accompanied them no farther, so strong was its dread, yet Borel and the Wolves went on.
The sun sank lower in the sky.
And then they came to the cote and quietly circled ’round.
There was a single door facing the blighted wood, with a window to either side, and one in the rear as well. Yet the windows were covered with scraped and oiled hide and did not permit Borel to see within.
He looked to Slate and growled a word. A rumble came in response.
No fresh scent; all was old.
Borel stepped to the door. It was latched, yet a simple pull of the string snicked it open. Borel drew his bow to the full, then kicked the door wide on its leather hinges and stood
Finally, they topped a rise, and downslope ahead stood a tangled and twisted wood, with barren, shattered, stark trees clawing at a drab, overcast sky. All was black and white and gray, no color whatsoever in the land. Even the evergreens were blasted and dead, needles gone, bleak branches broken and hanging lifeless. And there at the verge of this drear and stricken place, the Sprite flashed ahead and took up station on an ice-laden boulder and, with its face twisted in dread, it frantically gestured for Borel to stop, signing that peril lay in the desolate snarl.
Borel signalled that he and the Wolves knew the hazard of this part of the ’Wood, and trotted past the terrified Sprite and into the appalling blight.
Among the twisted trees they went, did Borel and the pack, Wolves running to the fore and flank and aft—Slate and Dark in the lead, Render and Trot to the left, Shank and Loll on the right, Blue-eye bringing up the rear. And all about was gloom and desolation and chill, a grim and silent wood. And now and again one Wolf or another would pause and raise a nose in the air, seeking the scent of peril in the surround, and then lope forward to take station again.
On they went into the fading day, the sky seeming even more dismal in this dreadful demesne. Embedded in ice and snow and looming all ’round were harsh gray rock and jagged crags and stripped, barren trees—nought but cracked and splintered and tangled wood—and clawlike branches seemed to reach out to grasp, as if clutching at these insolent travellers who dared to journey within. Yet neither Borel nor the Wolves paid heed as misshapen boughs reached forth with their fingers of twisted twigs as the day drew down toward eve.
And a candlemark or so ere sunset, Slate in the lead trotted free of the tangle, followed by Dark; and then Borel and the flankers—Render and Trot, Shank and Loll—broke out of the snarl, followed at last by Blue-eye.
And just beyond the border awaiting them in an icicle dangling from the limb of an evergreen was an Ice-Sprite. And when Borel had emerged from the gnarl, relief flooded the Sprite’s face. It was the Sprite who had accompanied the prince to the opposite side of the blight, and even though terrified, it had waited for them to safely emerge. All the other Sprites had long ago abandoned them, though somewhere farther on, somewhere beyond the reach of the cursed section, they would take up the run again.
Borel signed his thanks to the Sprite, and then—looking first left and then right—he turned leftward and trotted parallel to the tangle.
A horrified look on its face, once more the Sprite flashed ahead, this time to a frozen mere. And it signalled to the prince that menace lay to the fore, for in the near distance sat a small cottage of rough fieldstone, its roof tattered thatch.
Borel paused, and at a growled word, the pack paused as well. As he strung his bow, Borel studied the meager cote, one room at the most. There was no smoke coming from the chimney, and the air was silent.
Still the Sprite frantically gestured. Borel then signalled he knew of the peril and knew what he was doing, and, nocking an arrow, he started toward the dwelling—Hradian’s abode—the Wolves yet arrayed to the fore and flank and aft.
The Sprite accompanied them no farther, so strong was its dread, yet Borel and the Wolves went on.
The sun sank lower in the sky.
And then they came to the cote and quietly circled ’round.
There was a single door facing the blighted wood, with a window to either side, and one in the rear as well. Yet the windows were covered with scraped and oiled hide and did not permit Borel to see within.
He looked to Slate and growled a word. A rumble came in response.
No fresh scent; all was old.
Borel stepped to the door. It was latched, yet a simple pull of the string snicked it open. Borel drew his bow to the full, then kicked the door wide on its leather hinges and stood
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