The chill lifted a bit and Hannah urged her horse on again. If the forest of ghosts was the only way, then that was that; she would just have to fight to maintain her composure in front of the three men. She would go where they went, face what they faced and come through the forest ready for Welstar Palace. It was not a comforting thought: out of the frying pan and directly into Hell, but the displaced law student forced thoughts of Welstar Palace and all its nightmares from her mind: that was for another day.
The sun rising caressed her face and she squinted into the early rays to make out the lengthening foothills stretching towards the Ravenian Sea. The hard, flat farming land they had passed through had softened into green and brown folds, bending the landscape into ridges and smooth swells as it climbed towards the still invisible Pragan peaks. It was morning, and Hannah thought that ought to mean something significant; she had survived another night. On the run in a foreign world, she had made it to another dawn.
Hannah was embarrassed at how much she had taken for granted, like sleeping beneath a down comforter, an expensive one, in her own bed, the most comfortable place in the world to sleep – certainly better than the stacked logs and overturned rocks she had been using for the past several months. And she had pillows, glorious pillows, three of them. Imagine that; three pillows for one person, what luxury. Would she get back and be able to fall asleep in her own bed again? And would she wake with the opportunity to ignore the dawn or, better yet, to sleep right through it and welcome the day a few hours later?
As the sun exorcised the stubborn chill that had sneaked into her body, Hannah knew they would reach the forest of ghosts before the sun had passed overhead, and she would find the answers.
Alen suddenly tugged on his own reins, then dismounted with the agility of a man many Twinmoons his junior. If alcohol had ever impaired his physical, cognitive and mystical abilities, there had been no sign. He rode tall in the saddle and didn’t appear to be suffering any back pain; he didn’t complain of saddle soreness, of cramps, or any of the long list of ailments that had been irritating Hannah since she agreed to tackle this journey. He hadn’t been drinking much, either – a few swallows around the fire each evening, a morning mouthful or two to wash out the overnight bitterness: that was it.
Hannah was proud of Alen and confident – more confident, anyway – that he might actually succeed in sending her back to Denver. His face had regained some colour, and she thought the former Larion Senator was feeling a renewed sense of mystical strength as long-untapped reserves of magic bubbled to life.
Alen had loosened his reins as Hoyt had dismounted, and indicated Churn and Hannah should do the same. He got some long leather straps from his saddlebag.
‘What now?’ she asked.
‘Take one of these and thread it through your reins, then form a loop, like this.’ Alen demonstrated by turning the leather strip back on itself and knotting it tightly several times. ‘Then we’ll clip yours to Churn’s, his to Hoyt’s, and Hoyt’s to mine.’
Through the loop in his own reins, Alen drew a length of heavy twine which he knotted to the back of Hoyt’s tunic belt, tugging on it sharply several times to ensure it would not come loose.
‘There we are,’ he said. ‘Now, run your hand through the loop in your reins.’
Hannah did so, feeling the leather slide up her forearm and expose pale flesh beneath her tunic. ‘What if it’s not-’ she began.
‘Tight enough?’ The old magician read her mind. ‘Then unhook it, tighten the loop and try again, or use another strap to fix it to the wrist of your tunic. The horses shouldn’t spook in the forest, and assuming Hoyt manages to lead them, they can drag the rest of us along until we clear the far edge.’
Hoyt asked, ‘How will I know when we get there?’
‘I imagine it will be when we stop raving,’ Alen replied, cheerily.
Hannah used another length of leather to tie herself securely to the chain of reins linking the four horses. As brave as she was determined to be, she was not taking any chances. One glance at Churn assured her that the burly mute wasn’t leaving his life to the fates either. She smiled at the sight of his massive forearm, as big around as one of her calves, looped several times in whatever loose string, rope, leather, even cloth Churn could find; wide-eyed, he stared back at her, looking as desperate for an alternative as she had been only a few minutes before.
At least I’m not the only one terrified, Hannah thought, wincing at what she could only imagine the silent Pragan might experience at the hands of the haunted forest.
‘Sorry, Churn. But I think we just have to do this,’ she whispered.
Signing slowly so Hannah could understand, he said, ‘I don’t want to go in,’ in exaggerated gestures.
‘Neither do I, my friend, but drinks are on me when we get to the other side,’ Hannah said softly.
‘Make it six, and I’ll follow you anywhere.’
She laughed: she understood that! ‘Done. Six it is.’
It would be impossible for them to ride like this, Hannah thought, wondering why Alen had insisted they link their mounts together so soon. As he double-checked the knots on the sacks, she asked, ‘Why are we going on foot now? Shouldn’t we ride until we get to the forest itself?’
Alen motioned towards a stand of white birch trees, their paper bark peeling in the autumn chill. The grove rained a cloudburst of tiny leaves with each gentle gust of wind that blew through the foothills. There, half-buried beneath a mound of yellow leaves was what remained of a traveller: man or woman, Hannah couldn’t tell. Seated against a tree trunk, it looked like the figure had expired right there, legs crossed as if relaxing in the shade with a cold beer and a good book; there were no signs of struggle. The dusty grey cadaver was little more than a mummified husk; it looked like a statue. Hannah thought that if she wandered close enough, she might be able to read a bronze plaque, set with mortar into a carved piece of granite, Sunday Afternoon by Michael Adams.
‘Good God, look at it,’ she whispered. ‘It died right there, sitting there.’ Except for the few funerals of friends’ grandparents, and the man Churn had killed while saving her life, Hannah had never seen a dead body up close, certainly not one who had died while wasting away an afternoon beneath a favourite backyard tree.
‘What is this place, Alen?’ she whispered as her eyes moved from the dead body to the old Larion Senator. ‘What are we doing here?’
Alen smiled, summoning as much confidence as he could. ‘We are taking the first of several difficult steps to send you home. So please, tie that loop tight and walk beside your horse. Let him lead you, and I will see you on the other side.’ The old man brushed a strand of hair away from Hannah’s forehead, then grabbed the wineskin Hoyt and Churn had been passing between them and took a gulp.
‘All right Hoyt,’ he said, wiping his mouth, ‘straight north, all day, all night – however long it takes, do not stop.’
‘Right.’ Hoyt rubbed his palms on his leggings.
‘Do you remember the words?’ Alen had taught him a minor spell, something simple to dull his mind slightly and to keep his own memories from swirling about in his head like targets in an enchanted carnival shooting gallery.
‘Yes.’
‘Right then, lead on.’ Alen looped his hand through the knot in his horse’s reins and twisted it several times until it was tight about his wrist.