Quinn Wyndham lived in the village of Glint. He was 17 years old, with long dark hair, dark blue eyes and a dark complexion. He had drifted from job to job since he was 12, none of them able to hold his interest for very long. Now, his parents were fed up and they had told him to either get a job or get out of their house. So, Quinn had taken a job as a messenger. His first assignment was to deliver a letter from Glint to the town of Hart's Hill, through the Grimmwood.
And so, wearing borrowed armor and armed with a couple of daggers and a shortsword, the letter tucked safely into his pack, Quinn Wyndham set out on his adventure.
* * *
The walk from Glint to the edge of the Grimmwood took about four hours. Most of it was uphill as Glint was near the coast.
It was easy to tell when he had reached the Grimmwood. The dirt road, wide enough for two carts to pass one another, vanished between dark trees. As Quinn drew nearer, he saw that the trees appeared to have frightening faces growing out of their trunks. The tree limbs stirred in the breeze, as if trying to grasp Quinn as he drew near. Drawing a deep breath, Quinn screwed his courage to the sticking place, and stepped into the Grimmwood.
* * *
After an hour in the Grimmwood Quinn was feeling more at ease. He'd heard the stories about this place. Growing up in Glint, it was impossible not to hear them. But the forest didn't seem that different from any other wood he'd visited. The trees were tall and, past the forest's edges, had a comforting lack of scary faces. Animals moved through the brush. The birds....
For the first time, Quinn realized that the birds had gone silent. That, in fact, the entire forest seemed to have gone silent. He stopped walking and, nervously, looked around himself.
It's almost like the Grimmwood is holding its breath, thought Quinn.
And then he heared something moving through the brush. Moving closer. Something that clicked and clacked, like the sound of dice being shaken in a cup.
Instinctively, Quinn gripped the hilt of his blade and turned in a circle. Part of his mind was yelling at him to take cover, to hide, but Quinn knew that if he did that then he might as well give up now because he would never make it to Hart Hill.
He turned, slowly, and spotted two flickering lights in the distance. At first, he thought that they were lanterns, but as they moved closer, accompanied by the click-clack sounds, soon Quinn could see that they were not lanterns.
The yellow light poured out of the empty, bone sockets of a monster. It stood about as tall as Quinn himself, but lacked all flesh. The creature was skeletal, made entirely of bones bound together with glowing copper wire. With every step it took, its wired bones clicked and shifted against each other, creating the distinctive sound that gave this creature its name: rattlebones.
It moved toward Quinn at a steady pace, and as it did Quinn saw that, instead of hands, the creature's limbs ended in rusty shortswords.
Quinn drew a breath and unsheathed his own shortsword. The hilt felt hot and sweaty in his hands and he thought back to the long hours on the village green, being forced to practice by Master Galt.
The rattlebones bore down on Quinn.
Some part of Quinn's mind was screaming at him that he should have run. Quinn willed that part to shut up, and stepped forward, swinging his blade at the skeleton.
The blade slammed into bone. Sparks flew upon contact between the steel and the bones. One of the creature's arm bones splintered, and it rocked backwards on its bony heels.
Quinn thought that he might have had a chance, but then the rattlebones lunged forward with its sword-hands. The blades skittered across Quinn's chest, scraping against his third-hand leather armor, glancing off of his right arm. It tore through his shirt-sleeve, seared across his arm. Quinn hissed and danced back, more on instinct than anything else.
He retaliated, slamming his blade into the rattlebones' ribs. They popped and cracked like brittle sticks and the weird sulfurous light in its eyes flickered for just a moment, but it seemed to recover.
It stepped away from Quinn, circled him. Quinn turned to follow it, hoping to anticipate its attack, but the rattlebones was fiendishly quick. It lunged forward, moving in a blur. Quinn felt the blade-hands rake across his thigh and arm. Grunting, he staggered back.
You should have run and hidden, the traitorous part of his brain whispered.
"No," growled Quinn, and lunged at the rattlebones.
But the creature turned, batted Quinn's sword away, before striking again. To his own amazement, Quinn blocked the rattlebones' strikes. The first he slapped away, the second he blocked, although its rusty blade did prick his neck.
Grunting, Quinn pushed the monster away and swung wildly, desperately. His shortsword smashed through the monster's ribs, tore through the dreadful thing's spine. As it pierced the yellowed bones and copper wiring binding the rattlebones together, a shower of sparks exploded from the severed spine. The lights, glowing in the rattlebones' empty eye-sockets, vanished and it collapsed to the road.
Quinn stared at it, breathing heavily, his pulse pounding in his ears. He expected the creature to rise, to strike at him again, but that did not happen.
After a few moments, he realized that the birds were singing again. That the forest around him seemed to be breathing, having released its held breath.
Well, mused Quinn, kicking at the rattlebones' sword-hands. I guess I won.
So thinking, he staggered off of the road, and sat with his back against a tree. He watched the rattlebones, lying in the dust, just in case. But the wind felt nice against his cheeks and the forest canopy parted for a moment, letting warm sunlight touch his face. A moment later, Quinn was fast asleep.
He woke hours later, to his chagrin. His limbs were stiff, his wounds untended. The rattlebones was still lying where it fell.
Quinn cleaned his wounds as best he could, then walked over to the skeleton-creature. Methodically, he kicked its skull in and then stomped all of its bones. Just in case. Then, he drug it off the road, to lie against the tree trunk that he had slept beneath.
He considered taking its sword-hands, but the blades were somehow fused with the bones and Quinn couldn't think what he would do with them besides throw them in the woods. In the end, he shrugged and glanced at the sky.
He had a few hours before sunset, and miles to go yet before he reached Hart Hill. Shouldering his pack, he walked deeper into the Grimmwood.
The road was wide and clear of debris. Quinn made good time, although he paid more attention to the birds. But they seemed oblivious to any danger, twittering away at each other, flying between trees. After a couple of hours, Quinn did encounter the ripe, rich smell of rotting flesh.
He spotted a dark, reptilian body, about the size of a sheep, lying still among the trees. Whatever it was, it seemed quite dead. Quinn moved to the edge of the road and squinted, but decided not to investigate further. Because what if, whatever it was, wasn't really dead? Or worse? What if it was dead, but rose from the ground and attacked? His encounter with the rattlebones was still fresh in his mind.
Quinn walked on, until his legs started to tremble. He knew he would not make it to Hart Hill today, but he had hoped to make it deeper into the Grimmwood before he had to stop for the night.
He stopped and stepped, cautiously, off of the road. There were tall, strange trees nearby with a patch of rough earth between them, almost bereft of grass. He decided that this spot would do for his campsite, and settled himself for the night.
He gathered wood for a fire, and enough to keep it going, hopefully, through the night. Then, as the sun set and the Grimmwood grew dark, Quinn Wyndham settled himself against a tree. He ate some food from his pack, and sat, watching his fire, until his eyelids grew leaden.
Having layed out his bedroll, Quinn threw more wood on the fire, and then settled down for the night. Sleep came to him quickly, and he dreamed that he and the rattlebones were sparring on the village green under the critical gaze of Master Galt.
* * * * *
Quinn woke the next morning, only vaguely remembering his dreams. He pissed on the ashes of his campfire, packed his things and continued on his way to Hart Hill.
The Grimmwood seemed more natural now than it had when Quinn first entered its shadows. He set a steady pace along the road, stopping when he felt tired.
A couple of hours later, Quinn encountered a stranger. The young man was dressed in the shapeless brown habit of a Church acolyte. He was sitting on the side of the road, munching contentedly on bread and cheese when he saw Quinn.
"Good morning," the acolyte said, warily.
"And to you," said Quinn. "Are you traveling to Hart Hill?"
The acolyte shook his head. His hair was dark blonde, cropped close to his skull. "No. Glint. How is the road behind you?"
"Safer now than it was, I think," said Quinn. "May I join you?"
The acolyte nodded, and Quinn stepped off the road and sank, gratefully, into the long grass. He was very aware of the acolyte watching him with cautious interest.
"My name is Peppin of the Order of St. Edgar in Stonemark."
"I'm Quinn Wyndham, a Messenger from Glint."
"You said something about the road behind you being safer?"
Quinn nodded and recounted his encounter with the rattlebones. Peppin's eyes were wide when he finished.
"That was very brave of you to fight it," said the acolyte. "I think most folk would have fled. I know that I would have."
"I probably should have," said Quinn. He showed Peppin his torn shirtsleeve. "At the least, I wouldn't have ripped my shirt."
"That's nothing a needle and thread can't mend," said the acolyte. "I suppose that I've been fortunate. I haven't encountered anything dangerous on my travels."
"So the road behind you is good?"
Peppin nodded. He and Quinn spent the next hour or so sharing a meal and talking to one another. Peppin, who had made the trip through the Grimmwood before offered some advice.
"If you run into any more rattlebones, my friend, you don't have to fight them. If you remain still and don't move, they'll walk right past you. They're blind as a bat and only attack creatures that move."
"I didn't know that," admitted Quinn. "Thank you."
Peppin smiled and struggled into his backpack. It was larger and looked heavier than Quinn's own. He wondered, mildly, what the acolyte was doing, heading to Glint? But he didn't want to be nosy, so did not ask questions. They stood, said their farewells, and continued on their separate ways.
An hour later, Quinn spotted something lying alongside the road. Bored, he went to investigate, and, to his surprise, discovered the object was a child's toy. It was a wooden top, its once bright paint now faded by time and elements to a dreary gray. Experimentally, Quinn tried to see if it still worked, but it did not. He left it where he'd found it, and continued on his way, wondering idly what had happened to the toy's owner? Had the child lost it while traveling this road? Had the little one been heartbroken? Or indifferent? Maybe the top hadn't been left, but deliberately abandoned?
Quinn continued along the road, but as he progressed deeper through the Grimmwood, he noticed that it seemed to be changing. The forest trees were growing closer together here, the canopy overhead thicker and heavier than it had been. Along some parts of the road, the sun did not penetrate at all, creating patches of darkness that made Quinn uneasy.
The day was getting along and he hoped that the forest would open up again before sunset. He did not think that he wanted to spend the night in this particular part of the Grimmwood. For that reason, he pushed on, not pausing at sunset, but walking along in the growing gloom.
Quinn was just starting to regret his decision to not stop, when he rounded a curve in the road and saw the distinct glow of a campfire just ahead. He adjusted his backpack and approached warily.
"Hello?" Quinn called. "Is anyone there?"
"Who's that?" a gruff voice demanded from the shadows. "Who's there? Be warned. I'm armed."
Quinn raised his hands and remained where he stood.
"I mean no harm, stranger. I'm merely a traveler, heading to Hart Hill. My name is Quinn Wyndham. I'm a Messenger from Glint."
There was a pause before the voice spoke again.
"Come closer then, into the light. Let me take a look at you."
Slowly, hands still held up and away from his sword, Quinn approached the fire. As he did, he saw a figure standing on the other side. He had an impression of height, but that was all he could make out. Aside from the crossbow leveled directly at him, held in strong, white hands.
"You don't look like a bandit," said the stranger.
"I'm not," said Quinn. "I promise."
The stranger snorted and lowered the crossbow. "Well, what's life without risk? Eh? Come. Sit by the fire."
Quinn stepped forward, and, as he did so, he realized that the person holding the crossbow was a woman. She was tall, almost six feet, he estimated, wearing a tattered cloak and a wide-brimmed slouch hat jammed onto her head. As he settled himself, cautiously, by the fire, the woman adjusted the brim of the hat and Quinn saw her face: round and freckled, with eyes the color of a cloudy gray sky and a wide expressive mouth.
"My name is Celesse, stranger," said the woman. Her voice was deep, but had a friendlier tone to it. "Celesse Orman, from Hart Hill."
"A pleasure to meet you, ma'am," said Quinn. "Thanks for not shooting me."
Celesse snorted and moved the crossbow to the side. She was sitting on a log. It looked as if she had been in the middle of preparing her supper when Quinn had come upon her.
"It can be dangerous traveling this road," said the woman. She nodded at his sword. "You know how to use that, boy? Or is it just for show?"
"I can use it," said Quinn, and thought about telling her about his fight with the rattlebones, but Celesse just nodded.
"Good. You have food? I don't have much, but I can share if need be."
"No, I'm good. Thank you."
She grunted and went about preparing her meal, which consisted of dumping a packet of something dry into a small pot of water and shoving it into the fire.
"So, you're a Messenger."
"Yes, ma'am."
"That must be tiring."
"This is my first time," admitted Quinn.
Celesse grunted. She stirred her pot and Quinn saw that she wore thick brass rings on her fingers. He dreaded to think what it would be like to get punched by her.
"I travel this road more often than I'd like," said Celesse. "I got a sister in Glint who married a drunken layabout. I have to go check up on her at least once a month."
"What's your sister's name? Maybe I know her."
"Pallas. Her no-account husband is Gallo Fabian."
"Is he a laborer, in Master Fichard's warehouse?" asked Quinn.
"You know him?" Celesse asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
"No. Glint is small, but it's not that small. If you don't own a business or a farm, you probably work for Master Fichard."
Celesse nodded. "That's where he works. When he isn't there, he's at the tavern, drinking up the day's wages. Shiftless dog."
Quinn didn't know how to respond to that, so he changed the subject. "Are you married?"
"Nope," said Celesse. "Never saw the need. There's nothing a man could do for me that I couldn't do for myself. What about you? Got a wife?"
"No. It's just me. And my folks, I suppose."
"Enjoy them while you got them, boy. My ma and pa died a while back and there's not a week goes by I don't miss them."
Quinn shifted, slipping out of his backpack. He opened it and pulled out his bedroll and his rations for the day.
"So, what do you do in Hart Hill, ma'am?"
"I run a shop."
"You're a merchant?"
She nodded. "Born and bred. Orman's Emporium, on Goose Street. Swing by when you get to town. Take a look around."
"What do you sell?"
"Little bit of everything," said Celesse. "Fabric and nails. Perfume and pitch. If I don't have it, I can get it or send you somewhere else to find it."
"You must be pretty successful if you can afford to close up shop to travel to Glint."
"I don't close up shop. I let my staff run the place."
"You must trust them a lot."
"I do. No point working with people you don't trust."
She grew silent as she pulled her pot out of the fire and peered into it. Celesse wrinkled her nose and put it aside to cool.
"Who are you delivering your message to? If you don't mind me asking."
"Mrs. Eugenia Marcus on Elk Street."
"Don't know her, but Elk Street is nice. You ever been to Hart Hill before, boy?"
"No, ma'am."
"Elk Street is where the hoity-toity rich folk live." Celesse rolled her eyes. "And not one of those folks is worth two coppers, as far as I'm concerned. Never done an honest bit of work in their lives."
"It must be nice to be rich though," said Quinn. "To not have to work like a dog all day."
"I'd be bored out of my mind," said Celesse. "Most of those folks are. I think that's why they're always having fancy parties and plotting against each other. I guess it gives them something to do with their time."
Quinn shrugged and tucked into his meager meal. For a while the camp site was quiet as he and Celesse ate their meals. Afterward, they chatted for a while, about Hart Hill and Glint. Eventually, Celesse began to yawn.
"Well, that's it, boy. I'm going to get some sleep. Wake me up in a few hours and I'll take over the watch."
Quinn nodded, unaware that he'd volunteered to man the first watch or that they were even doing watches. He supposed, however, that it made sense.
Celesse lay down on her bedroll, her back to the fire. Soon, the quite campsite was disturbed by the saw-like sounds of her snoring.
Quinn tried not to laugh. He turned his own back on the fire and peered into the Grimmwood, his shortsword close to hand.
* * * * *
Morning came, heralded by the shrill songs of unpleasant birds and a gravelly, unfamiliar voice raised in song.
Quinn rolled out of his bedroll, and sat up. "Miss Orman?"
"Here," said the big woman. She was moving about the campsite, packing up her things.
"Who's singing?" asked Quinn.
"Don't know," said Celesse. "But they can't carry a tune worth a goddamn."
Silently, Quinn agreed. He walked into the woods to relieve himself, then returned to the campsite and began packing up his own things.
By the time he had slipped on his backpack, Celesse had jammed on her hat and drawn her tattered cloak around her shoulders. She didn't have a pack, just a sort of fabric bag. She tucked her crossbow out of sight, beneath the cloak.
"Well, we're burning daylight, boy," she rumbled. "Best be off. I don't like the look of that sky. You get to Hart Hill, don't forget to go by my shop."
"Yes, ma'am," said Quinn. "I hope things are okay with your sister."
"Thank you," said Celesse.
They ambled to the road's edge, just in time to see the singer come into view. It was a woman, walking in the direction of Glint. She was old, gray-white hair spilling out from underneath a blue headscarf. She wore a long-sleeved white shirt and dark trousers rolled up to her knees. Her feet were bare and as she drew nearer they could see that her skin was brown as a berry. Big golden hoop earrings flashed from her ears and she carried a sack over one shoulder.
"Ahoy, there!" shouted the woman. Her voice was like gravel in a clay bowl. "A choice mornin' to ya, fellow wayfarers!"
"Good morning," called Quinn.
Celesse did the same, eyeing the newcomer with interest.
The old woman stopped in front of them and stood there, grinning at them.
"Been walkin' all night!" she crowed. "Thought I'd be through this damn wood by now! How much further to Glint?"
"Not much further," said Quinn. "Maybe a day and a half from here."
"Bother!" The woman scowled. "I'm supposed to be in Edgewater Bay by tomorrow morning!"
"You're not going to make it," said Celesse, bluntly.
"Well, damn! I'll miss my ship!"
"You're a sailor?" asked Quinn.
The old woman grinned, revealing a mouth full of crooked white teeth. "Ingrid Rawson, at your service! Been sailin' the sea for over forty years, girl and woman!" Her smile slid away, replaced by a grimace. "I was supposed to sail out aboard the Snapdragon tomorrow. Guess that won't be happenin'!"
"Not even if you walked all night," said Celesse. "Edgewater Bay is two days from Glint, at least."
"Ah well!" Ingrid shrugged her skinny shoulders. "I'll find a berth somewhere!" She eyed them. "Either of you headin' toward Glint?"
"I am," said Celesse, cautiously.
"Mind if I keep you company, misses? Only, I ain't real happy walkin' through these gloomy woods by myself." Ingrid frowned. "All these trees give me the heebie-jeebies!"
Celesse shrugged. "Why not? I could use the company myself. Like I say, this road isn't always safe."
"Great!" said Ingrid. "Let's set sail, misses!"
And she grinned, wide and bright, and started to amble down the road. Celesse glanced at the old lady, and then looked at Quinn with a pained expression.
"Hope to see you around, boy. Safe travels."
With that, she adjusted the big brim of her slouch hat and started walking after the old sailor-woman. Quinn watched them go, trying not to grin. Then he shook his head and started out on his own way.
* * * * *
The forest remained dark and gloomy as Quinn followed the road to Hart Hill. The morning was uneventful. Hours passed and nothing of any interest happened until he rounded a curve in the road and spotted something peculiar.
There was the stump of a tree, near the road. Resting on the stump was something white and pink. As Quinn drew nearer, curious, despite himself, he saw that the object was a sea shell.
It was larger than his hand and just sitting on the stump, as if someone had left it there while they skipped off into the woods.
He thought of the old sailor-gal, Ingrid Rawson. Could she have left the shell? It seemed plausible, at least.
Curious, Quinn picked up the shell. It was heavier than he'd expected and smooth as glass. The shell had a beautiful luster to it, even in the dim light that managed to penetrate the canopy in this part of the Grimmwood.
On impulse, Quinn placed the shell against his ear and blinked. He moved it away, frowning, then, carefully, placed it against his ear again.
He heard singing, coming from the shell. It was a woman's voice and she was singing some pretty, wordless song that Quinn didn't know.
This was unusual.
Quinn had been to the seashore. He had collected sea shells. He knew that if you pressed them against your ear, you didn't hear singing. You heard the dull echo of the sea's roar.
But this....this was not natural.
"I should put this back where I found it," he said aloud.
"I really should leave it here," said Quinn, slipping his pack off of his back. "Really."
Sighing resignedly, Quinn slid the shell into his backpack, then put it back on and continued down the road.
* * * * *
Time passed. The forest remained weirdly oppressive, the sun unable to fully penetrate the thick canopy. What light did manage to penetrate was filtered and turned greenish by the leaves and vegetation. Occasionally, the wind would stir the branches, allowing a brilliant flash of true sunlight to happen and Quinn found himself looking forward, eagerly, to those moments.
Around mid-afternoon, he encountered a cart, heading in the direction of Glint. The cart was drawn by two large, gray horses. A fat old man sat on the buckboard, holding the reins in his hands. He had a finely shaved silver-white beard, sharp black eyes that swept over Quinn with cool calculation, and dark brown skin. His clothing was shabby, but Quinn noticed that the man wore a gold chain, tucked into his shirt.
Accompanying the cart were five armed guards. One was seated on the buckboard next to the driver, the other four plodding along on foot around the cart. They looked at Quinn with unabashed curiosity, but said nothing.
Quinn nodded at the little group, but did not speak. He pushed on, hoping that he would soon enter some less gloomy part of the forest.
* * * * *
The weather, which had been pleasant, began to change. The soft breeze became a strong wind, whipping the tree limbs into a frenzy and a misty rain began to fall. There were wildflowers now, growing in bright patches alongside the road. Little explosions of color that broke up the glistening, green monotony of the Grimmwood.
The wind continued to tear at the forest canopy, and the rain was now pouring down in thick sheets.
"Oh to hell with this," declared Quinn, and stepped off the road, to shelter beneath one of the tall trees. He hunkered down between its prodigious roots, wrapped his arms around his knees and wished that he had thought to pack a cloak.
As it was, it looked as if it was going to be a miserable night.
Given the weather, he thought, briefly, about continuing along the road. But the road was rapidly turning into a muddy quagmire. He didn't relish the thought of slogging through it.
No, Quinn decided. I'll stay here, out of the wind and the worst of the rain.
Hopefully, it would be better tomorrow.
* * * * *
By morning, the worst of the storm seemed to have passed. The wind had died away, and the rain had been reduced to a miserable drizzle rather than a deluge. Quinn was soaked to his skin, and feeling miserable. He checked that the letter in his pack was dry, then pulled on his backpack and headed out. With any luck, he would clear the Grimmwood today and reach Hart Hill by nightfall.
The wide dirt road was a gloppy red mess and it was easier for Quinn to walk along the edge that on the actual road. He thought about the cart he had passed yesterday and wondered how those folks had fared overnight? And Celesse and Indra?
After a few hours, the rain stopped and the forest began to dry out. Ahead of him, Quinn saw an unexpected sight: a gigantic tree with a massive tunnel cut through it so that the road could simply pass through it. He regretted now that he hadn't pressed on last night. At least the tree-tunnel would have offered greater protection from the storm.
The forest canopy began to thin out past the giant tree. Sunlight poured through the branches. Steam rose from the damp earth.
Quinn spotted a faded poster, nailed to a tree. He stopped to study it.
The poster was very old. Worn. Tattered. Faded. But he could still read it. It was a wanted poster, offering a reward of 40g for the head of Indara the Bandit Queen.
Quinn continued on his way, wondering if anyone had ever collected the reward? Or had the Bandit Queen quietly retired with all of her ill-gotten gains, to live out her golden years in comfort? Or maybe she'd met her doom, been caught and hung by the neck from some gallows somewhere?
It was a grim thought but it distracted Quinn from his muddy feet and grumbling belly, as he marched beside the road through the Grimmwood.
The afternoon wore on. The air grew hot and muggy. Around Quinn, the landscape changed as well. The earth had become swampy and the air reeked of wet, rotting things. It was difficult to tell where the muddy road ended and the swampy ground began. Quinn gave up trying to avoid the mud and marched along the center of the wide road.
After a couple more hours, the swampy land had given way to solid earth and the forest seemed more open and bright. Quinn could smell damp grass. The sun was starting to sink beneath the horizon and he started looking for a place to camp for the night. He found a spot and was pleased to discover a babbling freshwater brook nearby.
He tried starting a campfire, but all the wood was still too damp to burn. Resigned, Quinn shrugged and set out his bedroll on the driest patch of grass he could find. He dug out the last of his meager rations and ate them, watching the light fade and the moon climb into the sky. Eventually, he pulled his blanket around himself and drifted to sleep.
* * * * *
Quinton woke up the next morning, achy and tired. He packed his things together and pulled his pack onto his back. His feet ached. His belly was empty. He looked forward to getting to Hart Hill today, delivering the letter, getting a meal and finding somewhere to sleep. And if he had the time, he'd even find Goose Street and check out Orman's Emporium. He wondered. If he mentioned that he sort of knew the owner, would they give him a deal on a cloak? Somehow, Quinn doubted it.
* * * * *
He strode along the road. This morning's weather was pleasant, especially after the last few days. There was a soft breeze and the air was cool and dry. Around him, the Grimmwood grew thinner and thinner and then, rounding a bend in the road, the Grimmwood ended.
Startled, Quinn turned and saw that the trees on this side also had frightening faces. Curious, he approached one and saw that the faces actually seemed to be growing out of the trees. He wondered how that had happened? Some wizard's spell? Some kind of curse? A warning to stay away from the forest itself?
He shook his head and turned his back on the trees and the Grimmwood. Returning to the road, he spotted a young fellow approaching. Even from this distance, Quinn could spot the traveling pack strapped to the man's back. As he drew nearer, Quinn saw that the man was young and clean-shaven, curly fair hair tucked beneath an ill-fitting cap, dark brown eyes moving nervously over the Grimmwood's border trees.
"Good morning," said Quinn, taking the chance to stop and rest his aching legs.
The young man stopped and Quinn realized that the fellow was probably about his age.
"Good morning. Have you come through the Grimmwood, fellow?"
"I have," said Quinn.
"Was it as frightening as they say?"
"It had its moments," admitted Quinn. "But it wasn't all bad. I met other travelers and saw some things that I wouldn't normally see."
The youth frowned. "But there were monsters?"
"Well," admitted Quinn, "one monster. A rattlebones."
The young man went pale. "Really?"
"It's all right," said Quinn. He introduced himself. "If you meet a rattlebones, just stay still until they pass. They don't bother things that don't move."
"I'll try to remember that," said the youth. "I'm Hans, by the way. Hans Potterson."
"You're going to Glint?"
"Near there," said Hans. "My uncle's farm."
His eyes darted to the forest again, nervously.
"Well, I'd better get going."
"Hey," said Quinn, "it's not as bad as you think it's going to be."
"I suppose I'll find out," said Hans.
He gave a wan smile to Quinn, adjusted his heavy pack, and started down the road, into the forest.
Quinn watched him vanish into the Grimmwood's shadows, then turned and started walking. After the last few days, it felt odd to be walking in open air, past farmers' fields. The land rolled gently, and the road snaked around hills, branching off toward mysterious destinations.
Maybe I'll find out where they go someday, thought Quinn.
There was more traffic on the road the closer he got to Hart Hill. At one point, he was offered a ride on the back of a farmer's wagon and happily accepted the offer. That was how he arrived at Hart Hill, riding in the back of a wagon, among bushel baskets filled with early spring vegetables.
