“Looking back, Appleford was nowhere remarkable, but on that summer’s morning it seemed like a paradise.

  “It was a decent size, larger than my village and better built. The houses were low and small, but in good repair, the thatched roofs were neat and tended to by a skilled thatcher, and the main street of the village was covered in a loose gravel which must have been a blessing in wet weather.

  “A small castle stood on a minor bluff to the south of the village, on my right as I approached. The southern and eastern sides of that bluff were fairly steep: not cliff faces by any means, but requiring effort to walk up. Their natural features seemed to have been enhanced here and there by cuts into the hillside that were then shored up by stone walls. These had been left to grow overgrown with moss and lichen in the last few years, so looked strangely organic. The northern and western slopes of this bluff were more gentle, and the houses of the village of Appleford had begun to creep closer to the castle’s walls than was perhaps wise. These walls were stone and crenellated, but not especially high. There was only one tower, the main building of the castle which faced the forest, but the wall jutted out either side of the castle gates in a way that mimicked a gatehouse.

  “The village itself was bustling, but slightly subdued, people working to set things back to rights after what seemed to have been a celebration the previous night. Long trestle tables set out between village and castle were being disassembled, empty barrels rolled back down to be cleaned and dogs were picking at the detritus of the previous evening’s food. In a cleared area almost exactly halfway between castle and village stood the enormous decapitated head of the Boar. Nobody was approaching it, but some wag had climbed atop it to fashion an approximation of a hat from a cloak and washtub. This lent the head an air of provincial geniality that felt odd.

  “Several of the villagers were moving slowly and carefully, likely the worse the wear from the previous night’s revelry. It was no surprise that I had almost reached the village by the time they noticed me.

  “Conscious that I had been travelling in the Copperwood for around two weeks, more than half of it by myself, I had made an effort with my appearance. I had washed the worst of the muck away as best I could in a small stream, brushed the rest of my clothes and tied the nettle-stem string I had made into something like a belt around my waist. Nevertheless, when the first few villagers saw me, they stood and stared for a moment. That reaction I had expected: it wasn’t normal for a ragged man to come out of the forest, half-damp and carrying an unsheathed sword.

  “What happened next took me by surprise, however. I would have expected some of the children to have turned and ran to their parents, but not for almost every single villager to turn and sprint for the castle. Not just the children, but their parents, and even some of the more elderly turned and hobbled up the hill as quickly as possible.

  “Three of the villagers stood their ground. Two men picked up staves, and an athletic looking woman took up a wooden plank that had been used for a low bench and hefted it menacingly. She moved to stand between me and her neighbours running for the castle, one of the men moving to her side. The other began to advance on me.

  “I had been wondering what to do with Petrosk. The obvious thing would have been to wrap the blade up in some cloth, or try to loop it through my belt. But my belt was an improvised thing at best. I was thankful it was staying in one piece just cinched lightly around my waist and had no illusions that it would hold up the sword any longer than if I had just let go of Petrosk in mid air. The sharpness of the blade also led me to believe that it would cut its way through anything it was wrapped up in. I had few enough clothes on me that I wanted to reduce any of them to rags for no purpose. Instead, I had resorted to carrying the blade reversed, point down and back, believing it to be the least hostile position.

  “On seeing the reaction of the villagers, I realised I had made a mistake.

  “Carefully, keeping eye-contact with the man approaching me, I lay Petrosk flat on the floor and stood upright, hands wide open and empty. I took two steps away from it, and tried a friendly smile.

  “‘Hello,’ I croaked, voice coming out as a dry whisper. I swallowed and tried again.

  “Or tried to.

  “The man with the staff swung one end at my head. I ducked out of the way easily enough, but it had been a blow with intent behind it. I put a little space between myself and the man, dodging one of the ends thrust towards me. My assailant’s face was red and contorted with anger, his lips in a snarl. He was in his thirties, broad shouldered but with enough of a gut that I suspected he drank more than was good for him. His swings were heavy and uncoordinated, but they seemed relentless.

  “I wasn’t sure what would happen when I reached Appleford. It hadn’t been this.

  “‘Wait,’ I tried, forcing a smile to my face as I moved back before his onslaught again and again. He didn’t wait, taking two hands to the end of the staff and bringing it around in a wild arc that would have had Torrea laughing in despair.

  “‘Listen...’ but he wouldn’t.

  “‘Stop!’ I shouted, and he did pause for just a moment, before raising the staff above his head and swinging it down like a man cutting logs. I had all the time in the world to move to one side. When I saw that he had unbalanced himself, I grabbed him by the sleeve and scruff of his neck and threw him down the hill.

  “I hadn’t reckoned with the magic helping me, and I threw him a bit harder and further than I had expected. He stumbled, dropped the staff, tripped over it, and ended up sprawled on the grass a couple of feet from a handful of stacked stools. I bent down, picked up his staff, and threw it back to where he had picked it up.

  “‘Now will you listen?!’ I asked, crossly, and heard chuckling from above me. The two other villagers who had barred the path up to the castle had not been overly dismayed by my defeat of their fellow. The grip on their own makeshift weapons had loosened, and the woman’s face had softened considerably. The man was outright laughing.

  “They weren’t alone between me and the castle gates any more. The villagers had all streamed through the open gateway by now, but I could see a few spearmen in partially laced up gambesons hurrying outside, one helmetless, another pausing to adjust the strap of his round shield. Ahead of them strode a large man with a black beard, who I thought was probably the huntmaster. But racing in front of all of them, and nearly at the two chuckling villagers was a figure I definitely recognised.

  “‘Gwilm!’ I began to walk up the slope towards him. The two villagers tensed at my movement, but the hunter brushed past the two of them.

  “‘Where have you been? I was searching through the Copperwood for days looking for any trace of you!’ By now he had reached me, and was grasping me by the arms. ‘God’s Love, Ulthunc, but you’re a state to look at! Lord Gerrint’s men said you had been fey-touched...’ His eyes narrowed at me, and he gave my arm a pinch. ‘Still flesh and blood, I see!’ His face cleared a little, but I could sense an underlying nervousness. It only increased as I took my time to answer him, but then his attention snapped over my shoulder.

  “I think he half pushed me to one side, and that was why the rock only took a glancing blow off the back of my head. Still, it was enough to drop me to my hands and knees, head swimming. I heard another crack, and the man who had attacked me previously was laid out next to me, rock falling from his hand. When Gwilm helped me up, the knuckles on his right hand were split and weeping blood.

  “‘Bloody lunatic!’ he grumbled, but quietly as the huntmaster had reached us. He stood there in silence, arms folded, looking down on us while the spearmen assembled into some form of line behind him.

  “‘Ulthunc of Consfoot, come with us to make your explanation before Lord Gerrint.’

  “We were stood in the Great Hall of the castle. More accurately, I was stood in the Great Hall. Around me, hundreds of pairs of eyes watched inquisitively, and hundreds of pairs of ears listened attentively as I told my tale.

  “I exaggerate a little. Hundreds of pairs of ears listened attentively, but the eyes constantly drifted from me, to Petrosk. It was set on a low trestle table at the edge of the dais, two spearmen either side of it. What to do with it had been the source of some consternation. Obviously I couldn’t carry it. There weren’t quite laws about peasants carrying swords around, because swords are expensive and peasants are poor, but it wasn’t a normal thing.

  “Coupled to that was the fact that, aside from Gwilm, every person there treated me as if I were a bearer of the plague. Fey-touched, and they had no desire to spread that touch. Similarly, most had little desire to touch Petrosk (although a few eyed it avariciously), and it was only after I had placed it on a plank that the two villagers who had not attacked me would agree to carry it up to the castle.

  “It wasn’t a large castle. I’ve mentioned the single great tower facing the Copperwood. Attached to that ran the castle’s Great Hall. Great Hall probably gives you a false impression. If you remember, this was only a small castle, and its hall backed onto the central tower, with one of the external walls acting as its rear wall. The other walls were wooden, and the ceiling was quite low. All the walls were bare, lacking even plaster or a whitewash. Aside from the raised dais where Lord Gerrint was sat, the whole hall could easily be imagined to be a particularly sturdy barn if it were in a different place. The entirety of the population of Appleford could fit inside, but with Lord Gerrint’s retainers there, together with the clear six feet of space around me, they were squashed tight.

  “Lord Gerrint was sat on a fancy chair at the very centre of the dais, his chin resting on his hand. I noticed him absent-mindedly rubbing his thumb on the hairs of his beard as he listened to me and I fancy that his grey eyes were the only ones in the hall that did not move to the sword as I spoke. On either side of him sat the huntmaster, Cellin, who shifted position regularly in his own chair as if eager to stand up and pace about, and Sir Alnier. For all that we were in his home, the knight looked very ill at ease. Although his clothes were all clean and unstained, his face was pale and his moustache seemed to droop far more miserably than when I had last seen him. He also shifted his weight in his chair, although I think primarily from discomfort. Whether the discomfort was physical or otherwise, I wouldn’t like to guess.

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  “When I had finished recounting my story there was a hush in the hall. When Lord Gerrint eventually broke the silence his softly-spoken words filled the room.

  “‘A remarkable tale, Ulthunc of Consfoot. But one that is given credence by the facts. You left my camp without being seen, and without gathering your items. You have returned with a quite... unusual sword. And it is quite clear that you are not the same man that you were when we first met.’

  “There was the sound of several dozen stifled gasps, of scores of people shuffling backwards, of a pair of muffled grunts as somebody tripped over his neighbour’s feet. The circle of clear space around me expanded by a foot, except for Gwilm, bless him, who remained exactly where he was stood.

  “‘It is a pity that there is no magic user or learned cleric in Appleford to look into what has happened to you.’ He tapped his chin twice, stood up (both the huntmaster and Sir Alnier quickly rising to their feet behind him), and walked over to Petrosk. He reached out his hand over the hilt, but kept his eyes on me all the time.

  “‘Tell me, what would you do if I were to claim this sword for myself?’

  “I opened my mouth to reply that he could take the sword and be welcome to it, but stopped myself. The grey eyes regarded me steadily. I thought Lord Gerrint was not a fool, and he deserved an honest answer. First I had to work out what that answer would be.

  “‘My lord, my first thought was that it would be a great burden from my shoulders if you did. But, if I’m to be truthful, my lord, it seems like there would be something not quite right in it. I don’t know if it’s not right for you, or for me, or for the sword. I think I wouldn’t try to stop you from taking it, but I don’t know if it would do any good if you did.’

  “I felt my shoulders slump. Lord Gerrint had offered me a way out of my predicament, a way to take the magic away, and I had rejected it. Yet I suspected it hadn’t truly been a way out at all: could even Lord Gerrint command whatever this enchantment was to leave me?

  “‘Thank you for answering me honestly.’ I felt a little shock at his polite response, but not as much as I felt I should. Lord Gerrint was correct: I had changed. But he was continuing to speak, and I could interrogate my feelings some other time. ‘Has anybody else touched this sword?’

  “‘No, my lord.’

  “‘Then I think it would be for the best if you locked it in Sir Alnier’s weapon’s chest for the night. Huntmaster Cellin will take the keys. In the morning, we can then verify another part of your story before we head out for Seffick. I am told that there is an enchanter there who could have a look at this blade of yours.’

  “Lord Gerrint lowered his hand and stepped back from the sword. He beckoned me forwards, and I cautiously stepped forwards and picked up the sword. I swear I heard one of the two swordsman inhale sharply, but Lord Gerrint nodded at me, then strode up the three stone steps into the tower itself, pulling Huntmaster Cellin and Sir Alnier along in his wake. I followed, the two spearmen behind me.

  “The hall rose in a hubbub of noise as we left, muffled by the closing of the heavy door. We moved through a small antechamber that seemed to have holes in its ceiling, then a small hall with a collection of the personal belongings of Lord Gerrint’s followers pushed against the walls, and up two flights of a spiral staircase. We climbed slowly, held up by the panting, desperate bulk of Sir Alnier, and by the time we had reached the bedchamber at the top, Lord Gerrint was already there, waiting by the open door.

  “The two spearmen remained at the door, but the huntmaster quickly ushered me in and out. I had only a glimpse of thick wall hangings, a heavy rug on the floor and a frankly too large bed before I was back out in the stairwell and Lord Gerrint was speaking.

  “‘Huntmaster Cellin holds the key to the chest. I have the key to the door. Let us see the power of this sword come morning.’

  “That was it. The two spearmen started to walk me down the stairs, but they stopped me at the first landing. I looked at them, but they just indicated the closed doorway.

  “‘There’s somebody here for you to see.’

  “The room beyond the doorway was probably about the same basic size as the bedchamber above and small hall below, but divided up into smaller spaces by wooden partitions. Those furthest from the stairwell seemed larger and had their own closed doors, but the closer ones had only makeshift curtains for privacy.

  “One of the spearmen looked at me expectantly while the other trotted down the stairs.

  “‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

  “As he spoke, I realised that his face did seem a little familiar. He wasn’t one of Lord Gerrint’s men, but on his gambeson he wore a blue badge displaying Sir Alnier’s white bird.

  “‘You were on the expedition...’ I hazarded, but the way his face relaxed slightly told me I was right. ‘You stayed with Sir Alnier while the serjeant led the rest of us into the Copperwood...’

  “By now he was nodding.

  “‘A bit annoyed at the time, what with being left behind on guard duty,’ I got the impression he had almost said another word rather than ‘guard,’ ‘But seeing what happened to the rest of you, I think I was lucky. Course, it didn’t feel like it when we set out on our great hunts from the tent. Never once set off before late afternoon, and didn’t cover more than two miles any how. I was fair relieved when Sir Alnier declared we had probably scared the Boar away after five days, or else it wasn’t coming our way anyway. Then back out the woods, pick up the other tent, and back to Applewood at a leisurely pace. I was going mad with boredom, but then we gets back and Lord Gerrint’s already here with that massive Boar’s head and I decide boredom’s not so bad.’

  “He gave a massive exhale, looked around himself, then lowered his voice.

  “‘That thing scared me to the bones, and that’s with it dead. I feel I owe you for making sure it never got here. Sir Alnier, though, I don’t know if he’s more scared of what the Boar could’ve done, or what my Lord Gerrint might do to him now that he’s found out about how he did his hunting.’ He looked nervous at talking about his knight in this way, but I could see there was very little respect left for him any more.

  “‘Thank you, but I can’t really say you owe me much. We all did our part: I just happened to be there to strike the final blow. The person who deserves the most thanks is you serjeant... Did... did they find any of the rest of us?’

  “The man’s face looked grave. ‘From what Jerrol could say... well, better you hear it from her.’

  “He looked behind me. I turned and saw that the curtain of one of the partitions had been opened. In that small cubicle, a heavily salved and bandaged Jerrol lay atop a straw pallet. If I hadn’t seen him the day after the death of the Boar, I’d have said he looked terrible. As I had done so, he looked much improved. His skin seemed raw and peeling, but soothed by medicine, and it was at least recognisably skin. His two hands were heavily wrapped in bandages. But he seemed terribly thin and I couldn’t imagine him ever walking again.

  “I didn’t spend too long looking at him, because there at the curtain stood Dorcae. She seemed thinner, paler, her cheeks drawn in and her eyes a little puffy, but I had barely time to register her presence before she slowly stepped towards me and wrapped me in a hug.

  “It was strange. A week ago, I’d have been thrilled to receive a hug from Dorcae. That day, it was like a hug from any other person I was a friend to. Welcome, certainly, and it was a relief to see her, but my stomach failed to do any sudden movements and my heart failed to beat faster. I embraced her, in turn and felt her body shaking slightly.

  “Behind us, the guard made his excuses and politely left.

  “We stood like that for quite a while, Dorcae quietly sobbing into my chest while I desperately hoped that the occasional back rubs and soothing noises were the right way to soothe her. Eventually, though, she began to tell me what had happened to them while I was gone.

  “Gwilm, it appeared, had been a true hero. It had been three days until Lord Gerrint’s party had arrived and during that time the hunter had provided food, shelter and fire for Dorcae and Jerrol. Beyond that, he had helped to look after the injured Jerrol while Dorcae slept and generally supported her through her nursing.

  “That had been the tricky part. Neither of them really had really known how to deal with Jerrol’s injuries. Looking through the possessions of the rest of the party, which Gwilm had brought down to the Mere on the second day, they had found a small jar of salve in Galad’s pack. It probably wasn’t intended for burns, but it seemed to help when they gently rubbed it into Jerrol’s damaged chest and neck. Unfortunately it hadn’t lasted long.

  “It was only when Lord Gerrint and his retainers arrived, two days hard journeying after I had left them, that Gwilm revealed he had found Shev’s body on the shore of the Mere whilst hunting. It didn’t seem as if the Boar had killed him, but rather that the boy had drowned in the Mere trying to escape. Gwilm had found no sign of any other survivors.

  “Lord Gerrint had sent a small detachment ahead to Appleford, so Dorcae hadn’t been there for the beheading of the Boar’s corpse. She had received a shock when she had first emerged from the castle and seen it, but had spent most of the time since arriving at Appleford by Jerrol’s bedside. There had been a day when the former man-at-arms grew almost lucid and talked of the fight against the Boar. It wasn’t clear, but it sounded like the serjeant had been killed soon after the Boar was woken. Torrea and he had tried to hold it back for a little while the others began to run for the Mere, but they’d been scattered by the Boar within moments. Jerrol had begun to weep at that point in his story, and soon lapsed back into unconsciousness.

  “‘He says... the healer says it’s just a matter of time now. There’s not much we can do.’ Dorcae stifled a sob once more. ‘When we were out in the Copperwood, before... well, Jerrol, he used to tell me about Appleford. Said he’d bring me back here and set me up as his wife. The serjeant would be sure to let him, he said, once he’d killed... he’d killed...’ She dissolved into tears again.

  “I told her, as we sat either side of Jerrol’s bed, of what had happened to me. Of the crystal, and the sword. Dorcae nodded blankly, but I don’t think she took any of it in. I could have made up anything, and she wouldn’t have reacted.

  “Later, she slipped away to fetch some food and have a break and I found myself alone with Jerrol. His breathing was laboured, rasping in and out. I found myself talking to him about all sorts of things: about the Boar, the woods, what I’d thought of him, what I’d felt for Dorcae. How all of that had changed. About my village, and how much I wanted to go back. That I was worried I never would be able to again. How I wasn’t sure who I was any more.

  “I’ll give him his due, he didn’t interrupt once. And I got the strangest feeling that he’d heard every word, even though he didn’t move except to suck in ragged breath after ragged breath, then force them out again in defiance of his wounds.

  “That night, I slept in the great hall of the castle, wrapped in my own cloak that Gwilm had returned to me. The restitution of my belongings, that I’d thought lost and scattered throughout the Copperwood, was oddly reassuring, as were the sounds of a dozen other men snoring into the night.

  “I woke once, when a silently weeping Dorcae came and lay down between Gwilm and me. We both muttered our sympathy, but I was soon asleep again. But not before noticing that I once again had Petrosk lying next to me.”

  The sadness in Ulthunc’s voice as he recalled the death of somebody whom he had known for a few days, hadn’t liked much and had died centuries since, surprised Konstans. This was Ulthunc the Slayer. A man who had waded through the blood of armies and monsters. This much grief over the memory of one man’s death made it clear why he could never bring himself to look at the carving of the Battle of the Golden River.

  Ulthunc continued on, his dry voice somehow filled with the humanity of his living self.

  “There was a bit of a stir when everybody awoke and found the sword by my side. Lord Gerrint even raised an eyebrow when told about Petrosk’s presence there and seemed all the more determined to depart for Seffick at once. It was to his credit that we waited until after the burial of poor Jerrol, but we were on the road before the grave had finished being filled in.

  “Dorcae and Gwilm travelled with me, which I had expected, but I was surprised to see the dejected form of Sir Alnier balanced upon a sturdy horse behind Lord Gerrint and...”

  At that moment, the door behind Konstans’ back twitched. He felt an irresistible push as the doors began to slowly swing shut. He sprang to his feet, picking up his pack and carrying it from the tomb.

  Alberic and the Professor looked around as their guide called out to them: “Time’s up! Leave the tomb now, or get trapped inside!”