Winter Wood by Steve Augarde

name – Pegs – but I never saw nor heard the like of you before. Nor ever read of such a creature in our almanacs. What
are
you?’
    I am a traveller. A wayfarer. I am one who began a journey long ago, yet failed to reach its end. I was upon this earth before, Tadgemole, though never in this place. We live and die and are born to live again. And across the reach of time we live still, in so many other lives that truly we are all but one. One life in many forms. I am here to finish the journey that I once began, and to that same early purpose: to bring my fellow travellers home.
    â€˜Home? To Elysse?’
    Aye, to Elysse.
    â€˜Then you believe that Elysse exists.’
    Look upon me, Tadgemole. Am I of this world, do you think? Are you? Or any trapped in these woods?
    â€˜No, we are none of us of this world. You are a believer, then, and so a rarer creature than even you seem. But if the Orbis were here now, we should still be as far from Elysse as ever. Perhaps you haveforgotten this, or never knew it, but without the Touchstone the Orbis has no power. And now the Stone may depart these woods yet again.’
    If the Orbis were found, Tadgemole, then I would bring you the Stone.
    â€˜You would bring it to me? How? Why? The Stone is in Maglin’s keeping.’
    Maglin has no faith in the Touchstone, nor the Orbis, nor in Elysse itself. He believes only in the strength of his own arm – and that strength is fading. So let us be joined together in this, you and I alone. Help me to find the Orbis, and I will keep my promise. I will bring the Stone to you, and it shall rest in your hand, not Maglin’s.
    â€˜Ha. We may all make idle promises, Pegs. But come. Follow me into the warmth of our chambers, and you shall at least tell me what you want of me.’ Tadgemole led the way across the broad expanse of the main cave, and beckoned Pegs into the side passage that would take them down to the inner chambers. The lavender lamps threw wild shadows across the roughly pitted walls of the tunnel as they entered.
    Henty emerged from her hiding place to watch them go, listening as the distant
tink-tink
of hammered metal sounded an echo to the fading footsteps of the winged horse.
    In a daze she wandered over to the main cave entrance, her woollen shawl wrapped tight about her shoulders as she stared out into the misty night.
    The Ickri were leaving. Of all the words that Pegshad spoken, these were the only ones that held any meaning for her.
Not this day, perhaps, nor the morrow, but within a moon
 . . .
    Within a moon the Ickri would be gone, and so Little-Marten would be gone with them. He would have no choice but to follow his own tribe. And now that he and she had been forbidden to meet, there might be no chance to speak before parting. Parting! She could never bear it. The thought of it choked her, plunged her into deep black waters so that she could scarcely breathe.
    Why
was this happening? What harm was there in her and Little-Marten being together, and by what right were they torn apart? What did it matter that they were of different tribes? When Little-Marten had first come to the caves – seeking refuge from Scurl – her father had been kind to him, and had taken him in. And when Little-Marten had brought her back safe from the lands of the Gorji, her father had been grateful. But now that the two of them wished to wed, everything had changed, and her father would have none of it. ’Twas one thing, he said, to shelter an Ickri from his own murdering kind, but no daughter of his could ever be wed to a heathen. How she hated him for that!
    Perhaps she should go now, at this very moment. Perhaps she should defy her father, and run from here, and seek out Little-Marten, and . . .
    â€˜Henty? Be that you?’
    Henty turned towards the dim light of the cave.
    It was Pank, the young tinsy-smith, walking towardsher. Lately he seemed to be at her back whenever she