"You know, these lands were inhabited once," he commented as he watched the men rifle roughly through his possessions that were still on Yern's back. “Druums we call them now, which translates to fools in some of the older tongues. Ancient blood rituals conducted over this soil steeped it with great power that made many a king and lord hungry to possess it. Battles were fought by the hundreds, which of course only succeeded in enriching the magic of the land. In the end, the land was so powerful that those battles that took place had cataclysmic effects on any who lived here. In turn, it wiped out entire civilizations with a destructive force that we can only imagine these days."
The brigands paused in their looting and turned to look at him. There weren't too many folk who understood the history of the Woodlands. While there were numerous legends, few took the actual archaeological evidence into account.
"Those sacrifices are why the things that grow here are so hostile, as I am sure you have noticed," Turvall continued, his gaze fixed on the earth as he scrawled markings idly into the packed dirt of the path. "Even those who survived the mass extinction were marked, unable to return to civilization and forced to live out their lives in eternal exile in these woods. Hence the name. Fools they were and fools they remain. As the legend goes, all those who enter here are equally fools. They could simply be inane rantings of storytellers attempting to earn their keep but in the end, there is a seed of truth mixed in. You men, for instance."
The leader walked closer to him, took the spear from his man's hand, and pointed it belligerently at him. "What’ya rambling about, old'un? I'd ask if you've been drinking but you don't have any spirits in your packs."
"Not anymore," Turvall answered with a smirk and continued to draw in the dirt, although his fingers worked a little faster now. "But there are lessons to be learned from all parables. In this case, the lesson is quite simple. Do not underestimate the old, unarmed man who dares to walk in these woodlands on his own."
The brigand narrowed his eyes and inched the spearhead toward his victim’s neck. His murderous intent was visible in his jaundiced brown eyes, but he stopped short of the violent act and focused on the ground that began to roil under his feet.
A hand reached through it and caught his ankle like a vice. He screamed in panic and tried to pull away but only succeeded in tripping when his feet tangled. The hold on his leg remained and he fell heavily, and it was quickly joined by a dozen others that stretched through the earth, found his neck, arms, and legs, and dragged him down.
The air suddenly filled with the stench of rotting flesh as hands erupted from the soil around the other brigands. Before any of them could fully grasp their danger, the grasping fingers took hold and yanked them off their feet.
"What the fuck?"
"Magic! Dark ma—" The crossbowman's voice was cut off when a spear punched through his chest. A body had joined a pair of hands on the surface.
The holes made by the ghastly appendages were not large enough for the men to pass through intact, which resulted in bones breaking and more screams as they were hauled under the soil.
Another body crawled to the surface. What was left of it was mostly bone and what little flesh was driving it was taken from the creatures that had died in the area. This left it stinking of rotting flesh from which small, matted traces of fur protruded incongruously. The two beings on the surface retrieved the weapons dropped by the men and used them.
Those who were still alive shrieked, no longer able to vocalize words but only to reveal their sheer, unadulterated terror before their throats were slit. More blood splashed the earth and soaked quickly into it to vanish almost instantly.
The screams eventually stopped and the bodies finally disappeared, leaving a few of their weapons, an old sandal, and a couple of leather caps that had fallen in the struggle.
One of the monsters found the fallen scroll and Turvall's walking stick and shambled slowly to where he was seated. The decay had greater effect now and its legs and arms rapidly lost whatever power was behind it. The creature dropped the two items on the ground before it disintegrated and turned to dust that was indistinguishable from that which covered the path.
The only sign that remained of their presence was the foul stench of rotting meat, which would pass in a couple of days.
Turvall picked the scroll up first, tucked it into his coat pocket, and retrieved his walking stick. This, together with the tree behind him, helped him to regain his feet as he looked at his companion.
The donkey ignored him and continued to graze placidly, unaffected by the sudden and rather violent disappearance of their attackers.
"Of course, you wouldn't care," Turvall muttered and rubbed his sore knees. "You would have lived either way, at least until the dead bastard scum got hungry and decided to eat your stringy meat. Never mind that. We continue. Perhaps my next offer will be better."
The donkey snorted and shook his head but fell into step behind him again.
Chapter Two
In a forest as densely packed as the Druums Woodland, it was quite clear when one began to approach the perimeter. The trees began to thin, which allowed more sunlight to filter through the leaves and made it a brighter walk.
The old man's knees and ankles continued to tell him that it was time to settle into a pleasant life of retirement in a location where there was enough civilization to protect him from the elements. But it was still a pleasant walk. Admittedly, it wasn’t the kind he made very often—not these days—and it was enjoyable despite the aches and pains that came with his age.
Turvall could see the edge of the forest ahead and he realized that his step had become a little more sprightly. Too much time spent in the murk and shadow of the woodland had left him desperate for clear sunlight. Of course, he would grow tired of it a few hours later, but it would be nice to feel the sun on his cheeks again, especially as the cool temperatures seemed to make things ache that hadn't ached in years.
As the trees cleared, he needed to shield his eyes and allow them to adjust to the sudden brilliance. It was only a couple of hours past midday by the looks of it, which meant there would be a few hours of light before he needed to stop to set up camp.
When his eyes did adjust, he froze in mid-step and stared ahead with a puzzled expression that brought his bushy eyebrows down over his eyes.
"Who in the fiery godsforsken hell would try to farm this close to the Woodland?" he asked aloud.
Yern simply snorted, made no attempt to guess, and instead, chose to nibble the fresh green grass that grew beyond the tree line.
Nothing about the scene suggested an answer. A rough house made from hewn wood stood near a barn of similar construction. Beside the outbuilding, a few acres of open land had been cleared of grass and brushes to reveal rich, dark earth that had been tilled in anticipation of a crop being planted.
A man stood in the distance with his horse, but he could make no further details out.
"He is either an idiot or someone comfortable with violence." He answered his earlier question and patted Yern’s rump. "I suppose we should find out what kind of man would risk taking up farming this close to the forest."
There was nothing left to do but continue on the path that would lead him directly to the barn since the rich earth meant the grass grew thick and tall. Walking through it would be almost impossible. They continued with no attempt at haste before Turvall turned aside and walked over the soft, tilled earth.