Cempa crouched by a mangled corpse, a moist, macabre mound glistening in the midday sun. The whole troop surrounded him.

“Who’s this poor bugger?” said Cempa.

“I hope I don’t go that way,” said Clæfre.

Milde sniffed, “Gods that’s gross.”

Cempa poked through the remains, “Quiet.”

He drew his sæx and lifted the corpse’s clothing with the tip of the blad. Little flesh remained. “The body’s been fed on multiple times by different sized animals, but I’ve no idea what killed him.” He stared at Mésia, but she shook her head and turned away.

“Examine the area, Cempa,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“Yes, Sir.”

The yellow grass surrounding the body was crushed in a wide, irregular circle and the dry ground was baked hard. Amid the lighter tones of parched vegetation, were several splashes of dark brown. Each revealed more scattered, canine-scored bones. The worst was a tiny lump of maggot-eyed meat tangled between broken poles and bright green and yellow fabric.

Cempa returned, “Another two adult bodies and a baby, Sir. A few animal remains, probably goats, and a wrecked tent, looked Síðian. Whatever killed them was strong, with massive claws and teeth.”

“Thank you, Cempa,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “We can take the time to bury them.”

Cempa and the troop covered the four bodies and trashed trinkets with the ragged tent, and buried everything beneath a pile of rocks. No one said a word, their expressions stiff and pensive.

Thank the Gods that wasn’t me.

The troop departed.

Around five o’clock, Mésia led the troop under a large outcrop of rock, fifty by twenty feet. A herd of deer clustered around a small pond, two-hundred yards away. They ignored the soldiers and continued to drink.

“Don’t touch the water,” said Mésia. “The animals shit in it.”

Cempa dropped his pack and rolled his shoulders. The sense of lightness was fabulous. He sagged against the cool rock, dizzy with relief. He shivered as the rock absorbed his excess heat.

“What about the horses and mules?” said Péton. “Can they drink the water?”

“Let them decide for themselves,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “Give them a little water from our barrels and hobble them near the waterhole, if they want more, and think it’s fine, they’ll drink it. Milde and Clæfre, see if you can take down a deer or two, take a little pressure off our supplies.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Clæfre.

Leth rolled out of his saddle and lay on the ground exhausted. He waved his arms in protest as Anggret licked his face.

“Blegh! Get back, foul beast,” said Leth, wiping horse gloop from his face.

Cempa chuckled, “Did you notice anything unusual while we were moving?”

Leth sat up, “I kept an eye on the Wúduwésten. Weard was right, it’s unusually vibrant. The closer we get, the more magic I see. I can’t believe no one’s noticed it before.”

“How many Drýmenn go on long walks?” said Péton. He heaved a water barrel off the shuffling pack mule, “Can’t imagine there’s many.”

“Fair point,” said Leth. “They are usually stuffy old men or crinkled crones. I’ve never met one my age.”

“I spotted a settlement south of us,” said Cempa, “must’ve been huge for me to see it from so far. Maybe it has something to do with the odd magic.”

Mésia joined them in the cool shadow of the rock, “I went there once. It’s an ancient, empty city of decaying mud walls and choking dust. I doubt it has anything to do with this mess.”

“I wonder what happened to the inhabitants,” said Leth

“I bet they lost a big fight,” said Cempa, “mud won’t stop a good catapult.”

Péton returned and pointed, “We should watch the entertainment.”

Milde and Clæfre had stripped off their armour and were creeping towards the oblivious deer. Fifteen feet from the closest animal, the sisters hurled their spears.

The herd scattered. Milde’s spear was off and cut a thin line along the deer’s back. It bleated, then Clæfre’s spear hit with a loud thunk. The animal stumbled, but continued running. The spear bounced along the ground as the deer bounded off.

How is it still so fast?

Milde sprinted for her missed spear. She grabbed it as she skidded past. Clæfre’s spear snagged on a rock and ripped free. The animal staggered. Milde yelled and hurled her spear almost fifty feet. It struck the animal in the neck.

Damn, that was a good throw.

Clæfre tackled the deer. It bucked and jumped as they wrestled. Finally it collapsed in submission. Clæfre drew her sæx and slit its throat.

The sisters hauled back their prize, grinning like wild maniacs. The remaining deer huddled a few hundred yards away, then returned as if nothing had happened.

“That was fun,” said Milde.

“Always wanted to try hunting,” said Clæfre.

“You do know we have crossbows right?” said Cempa.

“Who cares?” said Clæfre. “We already killed it.”

They dumped the carcass in front of Péton.

“I hope that wasn’t all the entertainment you had in mind,” said Milde.

Clæfre rolled her eyes.

“The war cry was a nice touch,” said Péton. “Very inspiring.”

“Thanks.”

“But perhaps: ‘Die, you flea-buggering hog!’ should be saved for something that understands you, much more intimidating.”

“Nah, it’s all about tone with animals,” said Clæfre, “imposes pack dominance.”

“Are you going to stand there like court ladies or are you going to help me skin this thing?” said Péton

“I’m better at skinny dipping,” said Milde.

“I wouldn’t call that a skill,” said Péton. He opened the belly, “More of a talent.”

Too much drivel! Abandoning the shade, Cempa circled the vast rock. The rock stuck out of the ground like a great thorn. Its surface was brittle and flaky, battered by cold winters, torrential rains, and fierce winds. Smooth, shiny patches covered the rock at different heights where animals had rubbed themselves against it.

He ambled to the water’s edge. The ground was softer and, amid the hoof marks and churned mud, was the print of a giant paw three times the size of his stretched out hand. Nine-inch claws had gouged savage lines in the damp earth.

Cempa tried to make an impression with his own foot, but even with his bulk, he could only make a shallow indent: the paw print was four inches deep. There’s no way Mésia has lived here for ten years and not seen one of these things. Cempa rushed back. Mésia was collecting dried dung for the campfire.

“Why do you avoid the forest?” said Cempa.

“Didn’t Hoff tell you? There’s no market for the timber.”

“There’s a paw print by the water that’s wider than the length of my arm.”

Mésia’s eyes widened.

“I’ve heard it described as creepy, disconcerting, and unpleasant,” said Cempa. “Weard, Milde, and Clæfre have seen the magic emanating from the Wúduwésten bend the reality of the homes you live in - phantom objects, new homes, and even the imitation of life. Your whole village is under threat yet you remain silent.” He grabbed Mésia's arms and shook her, “What are you hiding from us?”

Everyone was staring at him.

Mésia threw the dung at Cempa’s feet and slapped his arms away, “Do you have any idea what we’ve been through?”

“What are we getting into?” said Cempa. “What disaster are you forcing yourself, and us, to repeat?”

“How can I be sure you will believe me?” said Mésia. She bent and brushed her hands on the grass, “You’re strangers who’ve appeared from nowhere, offering aid for what seems like little more than honour and glory. Without a personal attachment, why would you help us?”

“Are you here to keep an eye on us?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“Nothing like that,” said Mésia. “I didn’t know Weard would be hurt. I’ve never seen something like that before.”

“What do you want?” said Cempa.

Mésia chewed her thumbnail, “I want you to stay with us, get to know the villagers, and help us because you want to, not because you were ordered.”

“Mrs Tessel,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “I’m leading this expedition to gain a favour from the King and to assist an old friend. These men and women are here because I pay them to be. Helping your village, although it gives me, and perhaps all of us great pleasure, is merely a lucky consequence of our own goals. No matter how much we come to know and like you, it will never be more than this. We have a task before us and I intend to see it through to the end. If you have anything else to tell us, now is the time.”

Mésia slumped, “Then what about my home, my life, my-” she began to cry.

Cempa felt a little guilty, but if that’s what it took to reveal any possible threats, he wasn’t going to regret dragging the information from her.

Clæfre gave Mésia a hug, “We’re not trying to be cruel, only truthful, so why don’t you do the same?” Mésia sniffed and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

“Come on,” said Clæfre. “We’re helping you anyway, so what’s the fuss?”

Mésia swallowed, “We used to keep a permanent logging camp, harvesting the forest for timber to build our homes, and make charcoal to cook with. Approximately thirty people from the village stayed in the Wúduwésten all year round.”

Cempa folded his arms and frowned.

Mésia retreated several steps, “After three years or so, the wood cutters’ behaviour changed. They started suffering from paranoia, erratic, angry outbursts, and delusions. We thought the isolation was getting to them.” She took a few steady breaths, “After another year, the wood cutters bodies changed. Their limbs elongated and their bodies grew. The cutters complained about the pain. Those who tried to leave died within weeks. After a while, they stopped coming back to the village, even though staying made it worse, and we stopped visiting. That was five years ago.”

“And you built your homes with this stuff?” said Cempa.

“We did, thinking nothing of it at the time, and afterwards we had to live somewhere. No one else changed, so we let it be.”

“How tall did they get?” said Milde.

“Nine, maybe ten feet. You’d have to ask Hoff. He was the last one to visit.”

“Your children,” said Péton. “They lived at the logging camp, didn’t they?”

Mésia nodded.

Shit.