CHAPTER 2.05 – THORNWOOD: I
The morning passed quickly but smoothly. Hugo slept late thanks to the quiet, shaded underground hideaway in which they had spent the night. Found himself to be fully awake as soon as he emerged from the piled furs serving as their bedding. The hidey-hole was a perfect storage for supplies, no doubt verging on uncomfortably cold on even the warmest days.
He was the last to rise, Anuk having maybe grabbed some shuteye while he had been scouting the Rams’ fort. Seemed Thae and Rian rose at a similar hour, the former to pray or meditate, the latter to hunt the woods around them. Part of Hugo’s final rousing had been the delicious smells penetrating from upstairs.
-x-
One fine breakfast later, with plentiful leftovers for lunch on the move, and by mid-morning they were setting off north-easterly towards Thornwood. Hugo had the vaguest idea of the place, primarily as a hub for mobile traders. They seemed to serve every village, hamlet or scattering of homes across miles of otherwise untamed forest. The geography bothered him, though. He couldn’t imagine any world in which Thornwood, by proximity alone before even considering the reach of their network, wasn’t in the pocket of the bandits.
As they set off, Rian abandoning his home of a decade or more without visible regret, he felt loath to voice his doubts. Why add to the man’s concerns? Thae, effortlessly navigating social quandaries, voiced Hugo’s concern as Rian gruffly announced their destination was only a few hours away. And that their progress would be faster the closer they approached, thanks to well-worn traders’ tracks.
“So close to the Iron Rams, Rian? Should we be worried about spies, or of word of our visit returning to the bandits?” Hearing his concerns given space in another’s head, Hugo blurted “…and so soon after their money went missing?” He was uncertain whether or not he should feel insulted as a low chuckle emanated from deep within the big man’s beard.
Judging by Rian’s amused response, Thornwood needed the Rams far less than the bandits might need the trading post. That made some sense to the halfling. Certainly, the bandit camp would have been close to self-sufficient, but they’d have some need to trade for rarities, luxuries or finely crafted items. Anuk, ever the realist, suggested the Rams should simply have taken control of the town. She too was silenced by Rian’s laughter, her mood darkening even as the big man promised she would soon understand why the bandits would have been mad to even try such a thing.
Rankled as he might be by the unfathomable amusement they were providing their guide, Hugo did realise they were all speaking of the bandits in past tense. In his shifting assessment of risks to their wellbeing, the Rams no longer seemed to carry the weight of individuals such as Perasta, Rian’s bogeyman Nevin, or…
He steers away from uncomfortable thoughts as he realises they are already on a wagon track. Or possibly, they have been since leaving the stockade. Can’t imagine the place was ever the cause of heavy traffic. Rian appears relaxed but attentive, at least indicating they aren’t in imminent danger of ambush. Three’s twitching nose appears as Hugo cuts into one of the woodsman’s apples, tiny claws emerging to grab the squirrel’s share as, for the first time in days, Hugo realises he feels that they might simply be wandering, neither chasing nor being chased.
-x-
As Rian announces they’re a mile out from Thornwood, Hugo blinks himself back to alertness. Seems forest plodding has become routine to the point he’s no longer scanning for roots or other hazards. Three, emboldened to the possibilities of forest travel by Thaesurala’s grove, now tends to scamper off for into the trees for hours at a time, Hugo occasionally seeing a flash of red fur to indicate the wee man’s checking in. But as a buck to the trend, he’s increasingly catching sight of the squirrel, static, nose twitching in the direction Rian’s leading them. A portrait of confusion at best, fear at worst. Seeming to read his mind, their guide stops them, advises them to proceed single file and in the centre of the cart tracks. Rian’s eyes are hard, diamond focused, and yet Hugo spies no fear to them.
He nearly shits himself as, lost in staring through the big man’s back for clues, Three lands on his shoulder and scurries under his cloak. He feels Thae gently grab his shoulder, the eternal rearguard soothing him as he worries he might have made a fright noise. Thankfully, he only saw Anuk’s head twitch ahead of him, rather than her turning to mock or berate him. He feels sufficiently unmanned without her scorn.
-x-
The change is shocking, both in speed and contrast. From walking between regular trees and undergrowth, they transition into a knotted, viny…mess of an environment. The image summoned into Hugo’s head is from fairy stories, some monarch’s daughter struck by unnatural slumber, a curse that somehow drowns the kingdom in thorns. Particularly since they moved from ‘normal forest’ into this nightmare across what could have been a line drawn on the ground. And from traces of illumination penetrating the canopy of the REAL forest, the gnarled, twisted vines contrive to block out almost all light.
Hugo’s noted that his companions have altered their progress along the clear, cleared, path. They’re now clustered much closer together, movements precise. Hearteningly, they seem to be taking one another’s presence as support. It helps that the thorns bristling from the vines have an uncomfortably bony look to them, that the points appear slightly moist, a greenish liquid suspended in tips so narrow they’re glassy, translucent. Rian added to their discomfort, cautioning that the barbs contain a weak toxin. Insufficient to kill an adult unless they contrived to be pierced by a ridiculous number of the spikes, but even a single prick would leave behind a reddened, maddeningly itchy welt on an unwary victim.
The mystery of Rian’s amusement is solved, at least. Any force mad enough to attack the settlement would be bottlenecked along these tunnels at the four cardinal points of the thornfield. Bereft of cover, hemmed in by painful and demoralising walls. Rian names the vines as ‘Ironthorns’, hellacious to cut through even without such an action raining down spikes from above. And, an upside to the merchants here serving every forest community, Thornwood is not only profitable, but beloved by every populace to whom they make existence sustainable. At the very least, more luxurious and enjoyable. Attackers would be demoralised and demonised in equal measure.
-x-
Hugo’s mind’s spinning with questions before they emerge into Thornwood proper. Few regarding defensibility, having negotiated half a mile or so of approach through a narrow channel hacked out of the suffocating vines. No, his queries were more related to how any community could exist here. He was already suffering in the oppressiveness of the gloom, claustrophobia aggravated by the profusion of needles pointed at him.
And then, from one step to another, they not only emerge into the space of a village, but the shadow is transformed into light. It’s shocking, disabling even. He sees his friends reel as their corneas, previously straining for scraps of light, are assaulted by pure, clear daylight. He might have expected Thae and Anuk to weather the transition better than himself and Rian, given their superior vision in low light, but if anything, they’re hit worse. Anuk heaves, liquid noises as she clears her throat several times, face ducked as she controls her gorge.
Rian had attempted to warn them of this, but his standard reticence seemed even more acute describing the supernatural effect. Plus, Hugo could swear the man was beginning to vocalise just as they had hit the invisible threshold. Must be easier to judge proximity to the barrier if one makes the trek weekly. Turned out their solution, of Hugo enchanting Thae’s shield and his own sneaklight with the song of light, had been anticipated by the settlement’s architects. The enchantment had winked out a good quarter mile back, Hugo’s attempts to re-establish the illumination for naught, fizzling like Anuk’s piqued attempts to blast holes into the thorn ceiling.
Hugo was already awed by the tapestry of conjoined, apparently permanent, magical (or anti-magical) effects even before their attempts to light torches were quashed. As they pause, Anuk wiping her mouth and giving a brisk nod to Rian, the big man’s hand on her shoulder as she had woozed, Hugo looks behind them and reels further. The bright light into which they have stepped extrudes into the thorned tunnel from which they emerged. From this side of a circumference of tiny red runes glowing even in this light. And another string of the web falls into place in his mind. The town had a one-way window into the darkness afflicting anyone approaching.
They’re standing under a perfect dome cut out from the all-encompassing thorn knots. Closer to, he can perceive both vines and thorns terminating, cauterised by an invisible force. Such chaotic nature corralled into a perfect geometrical shape as though a gargantuan globe was buried below them, only the merest cap protruding above the soil. Gargantuan indeed, as by his reckon the traders’ town might be a mile or so in diameter. The power, the expense of it, the ingenuity of their existence and protection sewn so tightly together, humble Hugo’s understanding of magic’s weave. And that’s without him contemplating the sunlight seeming to radiate from the dome itself.
He’s shaken from his sensory overload when a pair of armoured, beweaponed individuals address them. Or rather, address Rian. The weapons aren’t drawn, but the woman’s voice radiates concern. “You’re out of your usual routine, Rian. And who are these?” The woman and her silent companion look strong, alert, apparently unconcerned of any danger his group might present. Hugo calculates the sightlines into their vine tunnel from the town and quickly spies at least three archers covering them. His law with his clique: for the ones you see, assume at least as many you didn’t. Of course.
With limited avenues of approach and the town’s ingenious unidirectional vision it would be simple to co-ordinate defences with even a small force. And if Hugo had significant resources and access to powerful sorceries, he’d ensure some sort of scrying or alarm spell warned the place of anyone stepping foot into the far ends of the thorn passageways. He wonders: could the whole, hideous, thorn clump be designed, some mad merchant’s dream for a strongbox in which to reside?
Rian raises his hands, indicating he’s no threat. “We’ve news you might not know. For free. And we need to talk about some of yer routes.” The woman’s expression doesn’t change, but her hand moves to the pommel of her sword. That rumbling voice, the terse tone isn’t doing them any favours. Hugo’s mind’s racing, still shaking off the shocking last step into sunlight as he scrambles to find words to defuse the situation. But then the woodsman blurts “I’m givin’ my stockade to Helen if she wants it.”
The woman’s face softens immediately; she absently waves an all-clear to the archers. Concern replaces her suspicion as she muses “You’ll be wanting to meet with the council, then. We can try for tonight but no promises.” Her previously severe appearance melts further as some mischief creeps in. “Helen, eh? Polly’ll be heartbroken.”
Rian stands rigid, visible portions of his skin reddening as the guard gives him a tight smile and she briefly touches his forearm. The gesture’s clear, they’re friendly but she doesn’t trust their acquaintance enough that her joke wouldn’t be taken as insult. Hugo’s mind spins again, this time with surprise that the hermit, the wild man with bones in his beard, should have a life. Hell, maybe even a social life somehow sustained by his halting, lacking interpersonal skills. Two friends named? One suggestively? He sees a visceral reaction to the vignette in Anuk’s face which he puts down to her general misanthropy. Thae, he can see, is working hard to supress similar intrigue to his own, the cleric masking it behind good manners.
Thankfully, the big man’s social awkwardness covers both Thae’s and his own failed attempts to ignore the interaction as he leans into the guard and gruffly spells out the broad strokes of their suspicions surrounding the Iron Rams. Hugo’s embarrassment (never his strong suit anyway) is further quelled by the widening of the guard’s eyes at the news.
As his attention is drawn back to the uncanniness of the trading town, Hugo suspects they may have their audience with ‘the council’ sooner rather than later.
