The Gate under the Moon Chapter 3.

Chapter 3:

 

On to Stump.

 

Colonel Smike returned sooner than Sophrayni expected, riding at a brisk trot with two packhorses behind him.

“The king sends his blessing,” he said as he dismounted. “And his orders. I am to accompany you, whether you like it or not.”

Sophrayni smiled faintly. “I expected as much. And no doubt you will be sending reports back to him.”

Smike grinned. “There’s not much point in having a good messenger system if it isn’t used. And he does like to know what’s going on in his kingdom.”

They set off at once, following the narrow track that wound through the Dark Forest toward Stump. The morning light filtered through the branches in pale, uncertain shafts, as though even the sun was hesitant today.

For a while they rode in silence. The Forest was unusually quiet. No birdsong. No rustling in the undergrowth. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

They had barely ridden a mile when Sophrayni signalled for a halt. The wind rattled the dry leaves, sounding more like winter than autumn.

“At this pace, we will never reach Stump in time,” she said. “We cannot rely on ordinary speed.”

Smike gave her a sideways look, his breath misting faintly in the chill. “You’re thinking of using magic.”

“I am,” she admitted. “Though it will take more effort than usual. There seems to be something wrong with magic at the moment.”

Smike didn’t argue. A distant crow called, harsh and lonely in the thinning light. “Do what you must.”

Sophrayni spoke the old words. Normally, the spell was a marvel of grace: the horses would lunge into a supernatural gallop, covering miles in minutes while remaining as fresh as if they had merely walked a garden path.

This time, the magic dragged like wet wool.

The air turned thick as mud. The horses surged forward, but the speed was jagged and uneven. Instead of a smooth, effortless glide, the world moved in violent, shivering jolts.

Sophrayni clenched her jaw and pushed harder.

But it was still not smooth. It stuttered, as though the spell were catching on unseen thorns.

Smike gripped his saddle. “Is it supposed to feel like this?”

“No,” Sophrayni said through her teeth. “It is not.”

The magic held, barely, and the trees blurred past them in long green streaks. What should have taken an hour took minutes, but by the time the spell released them, Sophrayni was pale and breathing hard.

Smike steadied her horse. “You all right?”

“Yes,” she said, though her voice was thin. “But that should not have taken so much out of me.”

She looked back along the path they had travelled. The Forest behind them seemed darker, as though the shadows had thickened in their wake.

“That,” she murmured, “is another sign.”

Smike nodded grimly. “Then Rembrien was right. Time is short.”

At last Smike spoke. “You never did tell me who Rembrien is.”

Sophrayni kept her gaze on the path. “Very well. Rembrien… is difficult to explain. He is not a wizard. He is not a hermit, though he lives alone. He is not a scholar, though he knows more than any book ever written.”

Smike raised an eyebrow. “That clears nothing up.”

“Sorry,” smiled Sophrayni. “I don’t know that much myself. None of the witches before me ever met him, so there is nothing in any of the Diaries about him. And I don’t think he has had much to do with humans either, so there is no mention of him in any of the histories or story books.”

“A real mystery man , that is, if he is a man,” said Smike.

Sophrayni answered slowly. “I am not sure what he is. He may be the same as the Fire Demon and the Ice Queen, who knows. All I can tell you is what he told me when I met him. He said he was made from the magic left over when this world was created. He is the guardian of a gate, like the one near my cottage. He made a garden around the gate and that is where he has always lived. About the only other thing I know is that he does not do magic, and magic does not work inside his garden, and I don’t think he can actually leave it.”

Smike shifted in his saddle. “And he tends it alone?”

“He must. There is no one else in the garden but him.”

They rode on, hooves thudding softly on the mossy ground.

“So,” Smike said at last, “why does he need you?”

Sophrayni’s expression darkened. “Because something is happening that he cannot mend. Something that needs doing quickly. He said that time is short , the Fire Demon said it, the Ice Queen too, and the Queen of the Dragons.”

Smike let out a slow breath. “And he wants you to help him fix it.”

“No,” Sophrayni said, her voice hard. “If he only needed help, he would have sent a different message. You don’t call the Witch of the Dark Forest to help you mend something or fill a hole. You call her when you’ve realised the hole is all that’s left.”

She looked ahead, toward the distant rise of the hill.

“He needs me because whatever is wrong… is beyond his reach. Remember that he cannot leave the garden, so whatever is happening must be happening in the world, not in his garden.”

Smike considered this in silence. The horses’ hooves beat a steady rhythm, but the land around them felt anything but steady.

“At least we know one thing,” he said at last. “Whatever’s happening, it’s happening out here.”

“Yes,” Sophrayni murmured. “And it is spreading. My cottage roof, the candle, the world resisting my spell. These are not coincidences.”

Smike glanced at her. “Do you think it’s connected to the unicorn’s horn failing in Stump?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But magic rarely fails in only one place. It frays like cloth , one loose thread, then another.”

They rode on, the path narrowing as the trees pressed closer. A squirrel darted across the track, then stopped abruptly, staring at them with wide, unblinking eyes. It didn’t move until they had passed.

Smike shivered. “Even the animals are acting strangely.”

“Yes,” Sophrayni said softly. “The world feels… unsettled.”

For a moment neither spoke. The only sound was the creak of leather and the steady breathing of the horses.

Then Sophrayni added, almost to herself, “If Rembrien cannot leave his garden, and he cannot mend the damage, then what we are facing is not something the world has ever seen.”

Smike tightened his grip on the reins. “Then we’d best reach him before it is too late to do anything about it, whatever it is.”

Sophrayni nodded, urging her horse forward. “Before it is too late.” She sighed. “I wonder if I will ever be allowed to sit in the cottage and do nothing instead of chasing around all over the world putting things to rights.”

Colonel Smike laughed. “You would be bored in a week,” he said. He looked at the road beneath his horse’s hooves. “It seems very odd to see it moving away as fast as that. What happens when we reach a town?”

“If the magic is working properly, we will speed through without being seen. You might see houses for a few seconds, but that’s all.”

By midday the chill had deepened, the kind that crept through cloak and leather and settled in the bones. The pale sun hung low, offering little warmth, and the air carried the dry scent of fallen leaves crushed under hoof.

Sophrayni had been working the magic in small, careful pulses all morning. It was exhausting work, timing her will to counteract the jagged, stuttering rhythm of the spell. Each pulse acted like a buffer, smoothing out the violent jolts before they could unseat the riders, but each nudge met a strange resistance. It felt like pushing against a door someone held shut from the other side.

Smike watched her, noting the way her knuckles whitened with every rhythmic breath. “Still fighting it?”

Her breath came shorter now. A faint tremor ran through her fingers as she reined in her horse.

“We need to stop,” she said, her voice thinner than she intended.

Smike turned in the saddle. His horse snorted, mist rising from its nostrils in the cold air. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” She pressed a hand to her temple, steadying herself. “Just tired. The world is resisting me harder than I expected. Every time I reach the magic, it pushes back.”

A gust of wind rattled through the branches overhead, sending a flurry of yellow leaves tumbling across the road.

Smike studied her face, his brow furrowed and his mouth set in a tight line. He didn’t try to hide his worry. He could see the strain in the way she held her breath and the paleness of her skin.

“Then we stop,” he said firmly. “The magic is fighting you, and you’re wearing yourself down to the marrow. We’ll go at a walk.”

She nodded, too tired to argue.

They dismounted beneath a stand of beech trees, their copper leaves whispering overhead. She sank onto a fallen log, closing her eyes as she tried to steady her breathing.

Smike crouched beside her. “Will you be able to continue?”

“Yes,” she said, though she didn’t open her eyes. “But not yet. I need a moment. I know now why Calizone did not use this magic on her journeys. It is hard work.”

He didn’t question that. He simply stood guard, watching the empty road, listening to the rustle of autumn around them.

He sat down next to her. “How about something to eat? I had the palace kitchen make us some picnic‑style food. I know I could use something.”

She opened her eyes at that, the corners softening despite her fatigue. “Food would help,” she admitted. “Magic burns through strength faster than people think.”

Smike was already unfastening the leather satchel tied behind his saddle. “That’s why I asked the kitchen for something sensible,” he said, pulling out a wrapped bundle. “Bread, cheese, cold chicken. Apples too , the cook said they’re from the first autumn picking.”

He handed her a slice of bread and cheese. The smell alone steadied her more than she expected. She took a slow bite, grateful for something that didn’t hum or resist , something that was just bread, just cheese, and entirely silent.

He handed over a flask and she drank from it. She coughed. “That’s not water,” she said.

He laughed. “No, definitely not , but it does lift the spirit.”

The breeze shifted, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke from some distant farmstead. Overhead, a few leaves drifted down, twisting in the slight breeze.

Smike ate quickly, efficiently, as soldiers did. “You should finish all of that,” he said without looking at her. “If the world’s pushing back, you’ll need every scrap of strength.”

She smiled faintly. “You sound like my mother.”

“Your mother wasn’t responsible for getting you safely to Stump,” he replied, brushing crumbs from his gloves. “I am.”

She didn’t argue. The truth of it settled between them like another fallen leaf.

For a few quiet minutes they ate in companionable silence, the horses cropping at the sparse grass nearby, their breath rising in pale plumes. The sun hung low for midday, its light already thinning, as though autumn were stealing hours from the day.

When she finished the last bite, she flexed her fingers again. The tremor had eased, but the resistance was still there , a pressure at the edge of her senses, like a door waiting to be forced.

“I think I can try again,” she said softly.

Smike rose at once, tightening his saddle straps. “Then we move when you’re ready.”

She stood up, drawing in the sharp, cold air until her lungs ached. The bread and ale had done their work; the dizziness from the magic had faded into a dull, manageable throb.

“Let’s go,” she said, pulling her gloves tight.

They mounted their horses and turned back onto the road. There were no more whispers, only the rhythmic crunch of hooves on dry, frozen leaves and the occasional snap of a branch in the wind.

The afternoon disappeared into a grey blur as they pushed on. By the time the sun began to dip behind the jagged treeline, the cold had turned vicious. The small pulses of magic Sophrayni used to steady their pace had left her with a deep, hollow ache in her temples.

The road curved, and the inn revealed itself the way good inns do , not suddenly, but as a warm glow between the trees. A lantern swung above a weathered sign, its paint long faded but still just legible in the failing light. Smoke drifted from the chimney, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and a savoury stew that made Sophrayni’s stomach tighten.

Smike reined in first, his breath a thick cloud in the twilight. He gave a low whistle of relief.

“Just what we need,” he said, his voice raspy from the wind. “The horses could do with a rest, and I wouldn’t mind a floor that stays still for a few hours.”

Sophrayni looked at the warm windows. She felt the urge to push on, but the horses were dark with sweat despite the chill, and her own grip on the magic was fraying.

“We stop here,” she agreed, her voice stiff. “But only until first light. If the magic is this difficult to hold now, I don’t want to find out what it’s like to steer in the dark.”

She slid down from her saddle with a groan she didn’t bother to hide.

“If they have hot water, I might cry,” she muttered.

Smike grinned. “If they have ale, I might.”

They led the horses to the small stable yard, where a sleepy stable boy blinked at them as though travellers were a rare species. Smike handed over a coin and a few quiet instructions about feed and brushing down , the sort of thing a Forester knows without thinking.

Inside, the inn was warm. A fire crackled in the hearth. A few locals hunched over their mugs, glancing up with the mild curiosity of people who don’t get many strangers.

The innkeeper was a broad woman with sleeves rolled to her elbows.

“Rooms?” she asked. “Food? Baths?”

Sophrayni nodded to all three at once.

“In that order,” she said. “Please.”

Smike added, “And a jug of your best ale.”

The innkeeper snorted. “Best? You’ll get what’s on tap, Forester.”

Smike only smiled. “That’ll do.”

The food was good and filling. After the meal, Sophrayni allowed herself to be shown to her room, where a maid had filled a tub with hot water.

Smike asked the innkeeper for writing materials and wrote a quick report. “Not that there is much to report,” he thought. “How do I say that we covered a huge distance at tremendous speed?”

He folded the paper and handed it to the innkeeper. “Please give that to the King’s messenger to be delivered to the palace.” Then he too went to bed.

They ate breakfast early and prepared to leave. The innkeeper waved away Sophrayni’s attempt to pay. She stood on the doorstep and watched as they rode away.

“Hot bath, good food, comfortable bed,” said Sophrayni. “And nothing to pay.”

“Good ale too,” said Smike with a laugh. “It shows what travelling with a Colonel in the King’s Foresters gets you.”

Sophrayni laughed. “And I thought it was because she recognised the Witch of the Dark Forest.”

Smike nearly choked. “If she’d recognised that, she’d have bolted the door and pretended the place was full.”

Sophrayni gave him a sideways look, amused. “You Foresters have such faith in people.”

“I have faith in people,” Smike said. “It’s witches I’m wary of.”

Sophrayni did not answer that. She merely increased their speed gently along the road.