From the start, Walter had taken a liking to me. And when he invited us to stay after our deliveries, I always had a hard time saying no, especially because his daughters provided us a meal and were amusing company. I expected Walter hoped we might take an interest in his pretty girls, as they were of marriageable age. But little did he know marriage was the last thing on our minds.
Even so, we usually lingered in Birchwood well into the evening. And by the time we left, we’d lost valuable hours to secure game that could last us through the week. Part of me argued that we deserved one day of pleasure after being exposed to such toil and peril all week long.
Furthermore, Jorg never complained. He seemed to have a merry time right along with me, so much so I sometimes forgot he was my scribe sent along by the Lagting to record my daily activities and give them a firsthand account of everything I said and did during my Testing.
Jorg was but a few years older than my twenty-one years. We’d become fast friends, and I no longer thought about the fact I was royalty and he wasn’t. It was easy to forget since we were both living in such wretched poverty together. In addition, Jorg spoke the language of the Great Isle flawlessly because he’d lived in Warwick for most of his childhood, until his father, one of Queen Margery’s courtiers, had sought sanctuary in Scania.
Jorg didn’t reminisce about his childhood other than to say his father hadn’t been able to stomach the queen’s cruelty, nor had he been able to support her with a good conscience. As a result, he’d made a bold move in escaping from the country with his family. At the time, Jorg had been a squire, working toward becoming an elite knight. Although Scania didn’t have the same elite regiments that existed on the Great Isle, Jorg’s father had found a Scanian knight willing to finish preparing him for knighthood.
Now, as we traversed through the forest, Jorg took the lead, his training lending him a keen eye that would alert us to danger. Our empty stomachs prodded us onward. When we reached the woodland near the ravine, we had to wind our way through particularly heavy shrubs. The rushing of rapids beckoned to us. As we broke into the river clearing, morning sunshine poured over my head, warming me and making me pause to take in the grandeur of the rocky cliffs and magnificent river.
For the beginning of September, the water level was diminished from what it had been in early summer. Because of its remote location, few people fished this far inland. Thus we always had success netting carp and trout, and we’d also found crayfish, which were small but edible.
I dug my fishing gear from my bag, eager to sate my appetite. Then I tossed the sack into a tall cluster of woodrushes only to have squeals erupt—the angry squeals of a boar that didn’t appreciate being disturbed.
I threw down my gear, and with a burst of energy borne from fear, I sprinted along the riverbed, keeping to the cleared area for ease of escaping. I leapt over brush and rocks and splashed in the shallow water.
Even so, the boar’s enraged squeals resounded much too close to my heels.
“Run faster!” Jorg shouted from where he stood upstream.
I was tempted to respond sarcastically and thank him for his astute advice. But I was too focused on staying one step ahead of the boar. I unsheathed my sword and held it in one hand, while pulling my axe out of my belt with the other. I took a backhand swing at the creature and managed to make it stumble over loose rocks in the river, slowing it a little.
I used the moment to push myself harder, scanning the steep cliffs for a place I might escape. Covered by thick vines and brush, the rocky surface was twice as high as the thick walls of a castle, impenetrable and unable to be scaled—at least not by natural means alone.
As the squeal sounded nearer again, my gasping breath and lagging speed warned me I couldn’t keep going indefinitely. I was too tired from the short night and weak from hunger and needed to find a hiding place, somewhere I could rest until the boar lost interest or my scent—whichever came first.
The thick brush against the cliff would conceal me better than the more open riverbank on the opposite side. As I rounded a bend, I made a quick turn and hacked at the ivy and hawthorn, clearing an opening. I pushed through until I felt the uneven granite of the cliff. Even then, I chopped branches out of the way and worked my way farther down the river.
At the snorting and squealing a mere dozen paces away, I held myself motionless, praying the creature would give up the chase and move on. The irony of my situation wasn’t lost on me. Under normal circumstances, I should be the one cornering the boar—along with the others of a hunting party. But then, in coming to Inglewood Forest for my Testing, everything familiar and comfortable had been turned upside down.
My only hope was that Jorg was aiding me by pursuing the boar with the intent of killing it for a feast of our own. If I could distract it, he might be able to get close enough to slay it before it slashed him.
With a fresh spurt of energy, I sliced my axe into the thick vegetation, piling it up and making a barricade. I worked swiftly and expertly, the mound growing. As the boar caught a fresh whiff of me and barreled toward me, I dove over the heap.
I tucked myself as I landed, expecting to roll into the base of the cliff. Instead, I found myself tumbling down into a cavern. As I cascaded to a stop, I scrambled to my knees, on the alert for a basilisk. Scant light made it past the layer of shrubs covering the opening, but it was enough for me to see the cave was low, hardly big enough for a man to sit without bumping his head.
Strangely, the cavern seemed to extend backward into the cliff. Keeping my weapons at the ready, I crouched low and crept through the passageway. I was surprised when it widened, allowing me to partially rise and leading me uphill. Natural light filtered through the tunnel, so much so that I suspected I was approaching another opening.
I scrambled up the last of the incline to find a layer of thick vines shielding the exit, preventing me from viewing what lay beyond. Cautiously, I used the tip of my knife to peel back the curtain of vegetation until I was able to peer through.
More of the same overgrown woodland lay beyond. Naught was unusual or different about the landscape than the rest of Inglewood Forest. Nevertheless, as I crept from the cave, my senses were on high alert.
Could I really even call it a cave? It felt more like a long-forgotten, secret passageway through the ravine. And if it was a secret passageway, did something in this area need to be kept secret?
As I straightened and took in my surroundings, the thrill of adventure lured me as it always did. A small jaunt through this new part of the forest wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it? I needn’t worry about Jorg. He’d pick up on my trail and catch up to me in no time.
I found a slight deer path that seemed to have some use and followed it. Perhaps I’d find castle ruins. Or what if a dragon, like in stories of old, lived in the area? Maybe I’d find an ancient treasure.
More likely there was nothing. Even so, anticipation led me farther from the ravine than I knew I should go. Though I kept a lookout for the dead, barren areas that signaled a basilisk, the forest was as lush and fertile as I imagined the Garden of Eden had been.
Occasional sunlight pierced the covering of oak, birch, and hazel. A slight breeze rattled the branches, and while the leaves hadn’t yet begun to shed the green from summer and don the color of autumn, the cooler nights of late meant the change would begin erelong.