It had taken most of the season to get the stead ready. Week after week, raft after raft, supplies had been brought in to repair the run-down farm buildings and stockade. Labourers had been hired to help with the more difficult parts of the repairs, and herdsmen had been consulted on what livestock to keep.
Between the three of them they had spent all their time organising the repairs and trying to source raw materials to make a living on the Frog River – some 50km upstream from the safety of Hazard Fort, but little more than 500 yards from the haunted Spider Woods.
Cleombrotus and Darkos were in Hazard Fort, haggling with tradesmen and livestock holders for a fair price, whilst Grant stayed at the stead to oversee the works on repairing the stead. A cool and refreshing breeze blew in through the valley between the Rockwood and Tobros mountains, cooling itself on the snowy peeks and rolling down through the Frog River gorge. It was early morning and Grant sat beside the river, smoking a pipe and frying a thick piece of ham for his breakfast. He forked the meat, flipping it over in the pan, before taking a mouthful of milk. It was a good morning. A calm and peaceful morning that beguiled the old Tarshite warrior – for this was still Dorastor and damnable horrors called this place home.
‘McKiieellsoon…’
Grant looked up. Was this a voice, or just the sound of the wind as it caught the leaves in the trees, as it whistled across the rocks, of this dangerous river valley?
‘McKiieellssoon…’
He heard the voice again. Grant stood up, and picked up his spear, looking around for who spoke the haunting words.
‘McKiieellssoon…’ Barely a whisper, more a rasp. Grant could see the workmen as they continued their graft on the stockade surrounding the new farm. The two goats they had brought with them ate their oats and drank water from a bowl.
And then, squinting his eyes as he looked into the sun, he saw on the opposite bank of the river two dragonewts, bedecked in yellow, green and red feather cloaks, flint swords held aloft and leading two large flightless birds.
‘McKiieellsoon…’ they lisped.
Both apprehensive and excited to be hailed by the newts, and with his spear still in hand, he waded across the river to make his way to the two lizard warriors.
These had been the same ones they had met on their way to Old Wolf Fort, and it was still clear in Grant’s mind that they had been hunting humans on that occasion.
‘Welcome,’ said Grant. ‘It is good to meet with you again. What can we help you with?’
The two warrior newts stood still, their tongues flicking out to taste the winds.
‘The waters weep,’ they finally said. ‘Our sacred lakes are hollow and empty. We fear Death has been to them. You have said you wanted to help us, and so we ask for that help. Near the human settlement of Dorasta Shrine is the hill of Dorasta’s Dugge. And in the leeside of that hill is a spring that holds sacred meaning to us. But we can not visit there, for the humans there are suspicious and would do us harm. Maybe you could travel there, and see what ails our sacred spring?’
The taste of adventure had always been a keen ally. And one that had, on occasion, nearly been his downfall. But Grant was of the old hills of Tarsh, of the far horizon, of the lone wolves of the steppes. He could never resist the excitement.
* * * * *
Dorasta Shrine had proved to be more a small settlement that a single building, sited in the shadow of a large cliff known as the Cleft of Dorasta. And no one visited there. Tales of ancient powers and madmen had kept the fields and farms safe from attack. And so the tracks and bridleways of Dorasta Shrine had existed for as long as anyone could remember, protected by the earth priestesses, and diabolic rumour.
Dorasta’s Dugge was easy enough to find – a low hill just to the north of the town, and around its base lay a green wood; and it was somewhere in the forest that the dragonewt lake was known to be. As a warrior and a healer, Grant entered the woods, spear held firmly in his hands and his crested bronze helm clasped tightly over his head.
* * * * *
‘Pray, sir, weep not for me’, said the naiad. ‘My life is now lost.’
Grant knelt over the brutalised body of the young lady of the lake. He had found her beside the water – grievous wounds marking her naked body. The lake itself had turned black and lay stagnant and rotten. Grant tried to tend to her, but the blows to her body had been deep and the bandages he carried would not stop the bleeding. And he knew not the magics to heal a lady of the lake.
‘What happened here?’ he asked.
The naiad gave a cough, blood speckling Grant’s arm as he tried to support her. ‘It was one of the Hellwood elves. He came here, dressed entirely in black. He hid his face in shadows, but his soul burnt with evil. He came here meaning nothing but malice, and when I tried to stop him, he cut me down, before poisoning my lake and the souls of all who make it home. It is for those you could kindly shed a tear.’
‘Where can I find the elf who has done this?’ asked Grant.
The naiad winced as the pain bit into her body before she could answer the question. ‘I could not say where he can be found. But I know that deep in these woods is to be found the Glade of Spring, and if you could take a drop of its water and let it fall in my lake then it would clean the stain and then the animals and spirits who live here would not suffer as I do.’
And having spoken her words, the naiad died and withered in Grant’s arms.
* * * * *
‘You are not allowed to be here! Go away! Go away! No strangers allowed, I’m afraid!’
Grant stood beside the spring. He looked around. It was situated in a hollow in the woods – chalk cliffs running all the way around the edge with trees, bracken, vines and branches making the going difficult. In the middle was a clean blue pool of water that trickled down the chalk cliffs. The voice that had spoken to him came from the opposite side, but he could not see the speaker, who must have been hidden in the undergrowth.
‘Where are you?’ called Grant. ‘Show yourself. I mean no harm.’
‘I’m sorry,’ came the voice again, ‘but you are not allowed here. Now begone or…or…or you will come to harm!’
Grant stood there, thinking a bit, as he leant on his stout spear. He pushed back his helm and rubbed the sweat from his forehead.
‘What are you scared of?’ he asked.
‘Me!? Scared!? Ooo…you are the one who should be scared! Now, get away from here, or else there will be a great gnashing of teeth. And very sharp and very nasty teeth they are too!’
‘But I need to come nearer, because I need to take some of the water to help save the lake of a young naiad who has been killed. It is for her needs I come here,’ explained Grant, still unable to see who spoke to him. ‘Why don’t you show yourself?’
‘Oh, I’m not scared of you. No, no. Me, I’m not scared.’
‘But can you help me? Can you help the dying wishes of the lady of the lake?’
Then Grant saw some movement on the opposite side of the spring. Nothing definite, nothing with any real form, but a large dark mass moving among the bushes and bracken.
‘A young naiad, you say?’ said the voice, although this time both curious and, Grant thought, sounding sad at the same time.
‘A naiad, yes. I’m am sorry to say that she is dead. She was slain by an elf.’
‘But an elf would not do that.’
‘She said a terrible and dark elf came by and poisoned her lake and took his sword to her.’
There was no reply to this, and no movement either.
‘Here is what I will do, then,’ came an answer, finally. ‘I will let you take some of my water if you can pass a test of Wit, Whim and Will. What do you say?’
‘What are these test you talk about?’
‘Will you take them?’ asked a sly and curious voice.
‘Aye,’ said Grant. ‘Aye, that I will.’
There was a chuckle, before the speaker carried on. ‘Well, then. My first test is a test of Wit. Here is my riddle, and you must answer if before you can continue to the next test.’
Thinking he would be there some time, Grant laid down his spear, found a log to sit on, took off his helmet and took a drink of wine from the skin he kept across his shoulder.
‘Now then,’ said the hidden speaker. ’When young, I am sweet in the sun. When middle-aged, I make you gay. When old, I am valued more than ever. What am I?’
Grant wiped his mouth and thought a while. Nothing came to mind.
‘Can you ask me another?’
The speaker laughed. ‘No, no! You must answer my riddle.’ He laughed again. ‘See, I knew I would beat you!’
Grant sighed and ran through the riddle once more in his head. ‘I cannot get this!’ he called out.
There was only laughter in response.
Grant took another swig from his wine skin, rubbed his head and thought some more.
Ah, he thought. He had in his hand the half-full wineskin and he thought again on the riddle.
‘Wine!’ he called out. ‘Your answer is wine!’ And he waved the skin aloft to celebrate his success.
‘Ho ho! That it is! And now is my test of Whim.’
‘What do I have to do for that?’ asked Grant.
‘What do you have to do? Well, I tell you what. You have to do whatever takes my whim!’ Pleased with himself, he gave another chuckle.
Grant braced himself for this next task.
‘So…’ began the anticipated request,’…what is a real name?’
‘A what?’ asked Grant.
‘A real name. What is a real name?’
‘What do you mean, ‘a real name’?’
‘That is my question, and you must answer how you think best!’
‘A real name…’ pondered Grant. ‘A real name…Well,’ he said, ‘My name is Grant McKielson, and that is a real name.’
‘Correct!’
‘Pah! This is getting silly,’ said Grant, but still relieved to have answered correctly.
‘This just leaves the test of Will. Are you ready for that?’
Grant stood up, defiant and brave. ‘Come on then, give me your test of Will!’
‘It is this.You may take the water if you Will! But, but, but, be warned! If you take the water, there will come a day when your first-born son is called upon to pay a very heavy price! Choose! Will you or Won't you!’
Grant thought for just a few moments and then called out his answer. ‘This is both a dangerous and fatalistic world. I cannot be the one to account for the fate and destiny of my children. Aye. Aye, I Will take the water and let Fate play its part!’
Thereupon he emptied out his wineskin, stepped up to the edge of the spring and filled the bottle with its water so that he may keep his vow to the murdered nymph.
‘Thank you, whoever you may be,’ said Grant aloud. ‘I am sure this will prove most useful.’
Back at the lake of the dead naiad Grant undid the cork from his wineskin and, after saying a brief prayer to the soul of the poor creature, he poured the water into the lake and watched in amazement how, almost instantly, the water cleared itself and the lilies in the rushes bloomed bright and breezy. ‘Alas, for the death of that poor naiad,’ spoke Grant, and then made his way back to Hazard Fort.
* * * * *
Cleombrotus and Darkos both finished their ales and laid them down hard on the table of the Taxman’s Rest as they listened to Grant tell them what he had been doing. It had been a long afternoon in the tavern and there was still more work to be done to have the stead ready.
‘What an elaborate tale,’ commented Darkos.
Cleombrotus laughed. ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘So, my friend, is that your excuse for not getting that stockade finished?’
Grant sank his ale and looked deep into the eyes of his two smirking companions.
‘Bollocks to the pair of you,’ he said.