Into the wood

INTO THE WOOD

He came to the inn by the ford at the dying of the light. The innkeeper
eyed him as he rode into the yard - his leather tunic sewn with brass
rings, his fine woollen cloak, and the long sword that hung at his side
- and came forward, wiping her hands on her apron.

"What does my lord require?"

"Food. And ale."

Breccan tossed her the reins and strode into the inn, pausing in the
doorway to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The only light was
a sullen glow from the hearth at the centre of the room, where turves
smouldered under a blackened pot. Smoke swirled, catching in his
throat, before rising to find its way out through the thatch. Rough
wooden benches were ranged round the walls. The traveler sat,
stretching out his long legs. He leaned back against the wall and
closed his eyes.

The entry of the woman roused him. She ladled some stew from the pot
into a wooden bowl and brought it to him, with a hunk of bread. He ate
quickly, scooping up the meat with his fingers and using the bread to
soak up the gravy. By the time the time she had filled a jug from the
cask in the corner he was all but finished. He unhooked his drinking
horn from his belt and held it out.

"My lord has come far," she said as she poured the ale. It was a
statement, not a question.

"Do I look so travel-worn?"

"The eagle has flown a long way from its mountains."

He started, and touched the tattoo on his cheek. "You have seen this
before?"

"I have seen them all. They come, and they go, and they never come
back."

"But recently, at the turn of the year? A man of the eagle tribe, who
looked like me?"

"I don't remember. But then, not all stop at my inn." She refilled his
drinking horn. "Will my lord stay the night?"

"Where does the road lead?"

"Nowhere. Into the wood."

He frowned, considering.

"You'll not find it, blundering around in the dark," she said.

"You know what I seek?"

She smiled, showing broken, discoloured teeth. For all that, she was
still a handsome woman, with only a touch of grey in her dark
hair.

"What they all seek. Fame, fortune, love."

"I will stay here tonight."

His bed was built into the far wall, of round stones from the river,
and filled with last years heather, dry and springy. After a while she
joined him.

He woke in the darkness before dawn. The bed beside him was empty.
Before rising, he lay for a moment listening to her moving about the
room.

She served him bread fresh from the bake stone.

"Stay here for a while," she said. "It would be good to have a man
about the place again. Why should the dragon have you all? Why not one
for me?"

He laughed. "I will find no fame or fortune at an inn."

"Nor in the wood," she said.

Two doves flew over his head as he forded the river. Mist lay thick on
the ground. The wood, when first he entered it, was mainly birch and
rowan, interspersed with clumps of gorse and bracken nearly up to his
horses shoulder. The faint track wound through brambles, whose ripe
fruit he gathered as he passed. The sun rose, burning away the mist and
turning the leaves gold.

As he journeyed the birchwood gave way to beech, and then to fir. He
rode in a purple twilight. Strange fungal growths erupted from the
ground, scarlet and leprous white. No birds sang. All trace of a path
had vanished, but the ground sloped gently upwards. He felt, without
knowing why, that he must keep on uphill.

He came at last to a stream, which had cut a narrow, fern-filled
channel. He detected a trace of woodsmoke on the wind, and turned
upstream. A little way further on he came to a tumbledown shack. An old
woman stood in the doorway, as if waiting, but as he approached she
turned abruptly and went inside. He tethered his horse to a nearby bush
and followed.

Inside, the hut was so thick with smoke he could scarcely make out the
form of the old woman as she stirred something over the fire. He wiped
his streaming eyes, and stared. The cauldron was bronze, and big enough
to grace a king's hall.

"Are you hungry, young man?" the crone asked.

Yes, he was hungry. It must be well past noon. He squatted on the
ground while she filled a bowl.

"Is it far?" he asked when he had finished eating.

"Near enough. You'll be there by nightfall, or before."

"Do many come this way?"

"There are always fools in the world. Go back."

"I cannot," he said quietly. "I have sworn."

She laughed, her mouth a black cavern in which a few teeth still
lingered, small and black as raisins.

"You want the treasure then, and the maiden? Like all the others. Much
good it did them."

"I seek news of one who passed this way a while ago. A young man, with
the mark of the eagle. A man who looked like me."

She came closer, peering, and he saw the blue film on her eyes. "They
are all the same to me. Have you teeth, young man? The dragon has a
tooth, a sharp one."

Breccan drew his sword, the bronze blade gleaming in the firelight. She
felt the edge.

"Sharp enough. Maybe. Go back."

"I am a warrior," he said. "I must go on, or be shamed."

He left her then, pausing only to drink from the stream before
following its course. A crow flew overhead, showing the way. The
undergrowth was thicker here. He led his horse upwards, through
brambles and stinging nettles. The stream became a rivulet as the path
grew steeper.

The shadows were lengthening before he came to the end of the wood. He
had reached a palisade of stakes driven into ground, many crowned with
skulls. Some were mere bone, on others traces of their tribal mark were
still just visible on the withered flesh. There were none he
recognised. The empty eyesockets watched him as he passed through the
gate.

Beyond was a gently sloping space of short grass. Above him on the
ridge was a long mound, with a doorway at one end formed of three great
stones. Within was darkness.

But he had no eyes for the mound, because before the doorway a spring
bubbled out of the ground, feeding the stream, and beside it grew an
apple tree. He could see fruit glowing red among the leaves. Two doves
fluttered among its branches, and on the topmost twig a crow perched.
Under the tree sat the maiden.

She was beautiful, young and slender and perfect, with flowers in her
hair. She was all he had ever dreamed she might be. She smiled at him
as he approached over the grass.

"Welcome," she said. "Who do you seek?"

"You," he whispered. "All my life."

"I am the Bride of the Dragon. Go back before it is too late."

"I cannot."

"Then you must conquer him, or die." She rose to her feet.

"Wait. I follow another - a man of my tribe, bearing my face. Has any
such been here?"

"Many come here. Does it matter?"

He looked at her. "No. What must I do?"

She reached into the branches of the tree and took down a helmet which
hung there.

"Wear this, it will protect you. Then take this cup and fill it from
the spring. Throw the water on the threshold of the hollow hill. He
will come."

Breccan tied his horse to the tree, then put on the helmet. It covered
his face except for a narrow slit. He drew his sword, then took the cup
from her and dashed water on the threshold stone.

The dragon was on him almost before he could turn, attacking out of the
sunset, flaming red. He fell back before the onslaught. The dragon was
two-legged, covered in bronze scales. A painted mask covered his head
and shoulders, and he wielded a great bronze sword, longer and heavier
than Breccan's own. He attacked furiously, it was as much as Breccan
could do to hold him off, he was being driven back to the edge of the
wood. He blinked the sweat from his eyes. He could hardly breathe
inside the heavy helmet.

The other was also tiring. The dragon mask was hampering him as much as
the helmet did Breccan. His attack faltered and Breccan pressed
forward. They circled, each trying to get between the other and the
setting sun. In desperation Breccan tore the helmet from his head,
gulping air. The dragon was a dark shape against the sunset. Breccan
raised his sword and charged again - only to meet no resistance. The
dragon stood frozen, and in that instant the point of Breccan's sword
took him in the throat.

He fell. The dragon mask came free and rolled away, and Breccan saw the
face of his enemy. It was his own.

He fell on his knees, weeping. His brother opened his eyes and strove
to speak, but blood choked him. He stretched out a hand towards the
maiden.

"Kill . . . " he whispered, and died.

Breccan rose sword in hand and strode towards the tree where the maiden
waited.

"Why? He was my brother, my twin. All these months I have followed his
trail. For this."

He raised his sword. The maiden only smiled. With a cry he threw the
sword down and fled into the wood. All was thick darkness. Brambles
clawed at him, branches whipped his face. He crawled on his knees like
an animal. Wood spirits tweaked his hair and whispered in his ears,
strange lights danced before him. After an immeasurable time he burst
again out of the wood. Moonlight silvered the grass, and by the tree
the Maiden waited.

"Come," she said, and led him into the hill. She showed him where the
treasure lay, in the furthermost chamber: a great heap of weapons, of
golden cups and silver chains, of jeweled brooches, necklaces, arm
rings, all twisted, broken. She showed him the hole in the roof through
which all these offerings had been dropped. A few stars shone in the
night sky. Then she took him to their bed under the apple tree.

In the morning the Crone brought them food, fine wheaten bread and
honeycomb, milk and mead. They sat under the apple tree and ate. After,
he donned the mask of the Dragon, and went into the mound. And
waited.