Narenhior was slow to answer. His slender fingers caressed the smooth map's face, tracing the edge of the woods until its tip ended on the mark that was Arcath.

"I have traveled over a thousand leagues through mountain, valley, and forest. Meeting many beasts and creatures along the way, I still confess I know not what plagues you." 

Endel crossed his arms and grunted with a dark smirk on his bearded face. If the moonwalker noticed, he ignored the Watchman. 

"But for all the years we have traveled, every problem has a solution apart from procrastinating. Your tales have not dissuaded my determination to enter the wood. If you are truly in search of your solution, it may dwell where we will travel." 

Another grunt escaped Endel's now-frowning lips. "Procrastinating? It has been our blood that has kept his wall for as long as any can remember," he growled, his bulky arm pointing out of the Strongfast. "And we are not the one who claims to have fled from his problems for the last ten years." 

"Choose your next words wisely, Humans of Arcath," Narenhior murmured, his hands slipping familiarly into the handle of the dragon dagger that pinned the map to the table. 

"Fesfir, let our anxiousness not be mistaken for friendlessness," the nameless elf beside Narenhior whispered. 

The elven lord lowered his gaze to his companion. His hand slipped off the dagger. "As you say, Tarlon." 

The moonwalker bowed his head before continuing. "Our journey as been far long than a simple flight from a distant home. Our numbers were once strong, a nation displaced. But in the south there is a fair amount less honor and a fair amount more treachery. Three times we settled ourselves amid kingdoms only to find their blades soon brandished against us. Jealousy festered toward us and mistrust followed our footsteps. 

"Our tales of the Far South will be foreign and meaningless to you, but even after crossing the land of Varalon, which lies not ten leagues from here, we again faced betrayal. A range of peaks known as High Mountains, or Tegonoragoth by its inhabitants, forms a clear barrier between the plains of the lower lands and the stout fields of the North. Here we were welcomed by a Stoutfolk that claimed himself lord of the rocks."

"A Dwarf?" Emereld inquired. 

"So he called himself," Tarlon scoffed. "We were welcomed to a great cave that cowered in the roots of the peaks and given a bare tunnel to rest. It was not a fortnight before deceit had bred a rift between our people."

"What manner of deceit?" Endel challenged. "The Dwarves are a crude kin but always as sure as  stone in the few instances we have had chance to meet them."

"Then appreciate your few instances have not been more," Narenhior answered. "Our weapons were stolen in the night. Our children went missing in the depths of their spiraling dungeons. Our women were taken away to a place unbeknownst to us. They were cruel jailmasters, always with axes and chains surveying our every word and deed." 

"When we at last confronted their leader, nothing but hostility answered our questions," Tarlon added in a softer tone. "Nearly half our former number fell in the pits of their hills trying to escape."

"So you see," Narenhior breathed perniciously, eyeing Endel, "that we are not ones to flee from our problems. It took seventy souls of the Stoutfolk to drive us from their dungeons. Our absence was bought in death, not cowardice." 

"And there is nowhere else you will harbor?" Emereld replied. He gestured to a another mark on the map, some distance to the left of Arcath beside the swooping ink strokes of a river. "Our manuscripts speak of an Elven land to the west. Would they not have mercy on your folk?" 

"Mercy is a gift rarely given and even more rarely worth accepting," Narenhior answered. "I have no interest in any other kingdom or land. Our people will not rest until it settles its own." He waved his hand over the map. "Will you tell us nothing of Astfall then? Perhaps our time would be better spent there, as it seems to be the only place our opinions and fates are one and the same."

"So be it," Emereld surrendered. "Is there anything you wish to hear first?" 

"How deep is it?" 

"We have only ever traveled as deep as sixty miles." Endel pointed to a star on the map, only about a quarter of the distance into the area marked as forest. "Here is the Column of Rheum - the furthest point our riders have ever reached. While impossible to tell, we expect that it extends many hundreds of miles deeper."

"Column?" Narenhior inquired. 

"A ancient ruin," the Watchman explained. "They litter the woods. Our riders use them as landmarks as the stars are invisible beneath Astfall."

The elf nodded, pursing his lips as he examined the map. "Do there seem to be any pattern to the disappearances of your men? A nest or a cave that might house the supposed beast." 

"Nothing. They have fallen as deep into the wood as the Column and as near to our wall as Astfall's very edge." 

"Why have you only ventured as far as this column?" Tarlon murmured. 

"That deep in the woods it would take a full day to return on horseback. Any deeper in and one would have to make camp at least once before returning - a more than likely fatal event." 

"Is there any stretch of ground unsearched between the column and the city?" 

"Not a single acre has gone undisturbed," Endel replied. "The wolf packs gather and move with the seasons, but we are yet to find anything that might cause what we have seen." 

Aster had heard well enough the whisperings of the rangers. True, every acre had been searched. Word among the rangers was, however, that the acres had minds of their own. The runes would remain - chunks of lichen-clad testaments to wars long-fought and kingdoms since doomed - while the land beneath them would shift like water on the sea. Sometime here, sometimes there, the Groves would seem ten miles away today yet a full ride's tomorrow. The Column's the only one that doesn't move, he remembered Uncle Pheor saying so many years ago. That's the real reason they use it as the North border.  

"Then it stands to reason this beast dwells beyond this column," Narenhior reasoned.

"Perhaps," Endel confessed. "But our company is too small to risk such a venture. Hope of victory is too small to justify it." 

"My company adds one hundreds swords to yours," the moonwalker retorted without raising his gaze from the map. "How many men do you pledge necessary for a war party like this?" 

"We have never ventured with more than twenty at a time, oft far less. Two hundred riders would seem a force mighty to behold."

"Mighty indeed," Tarlon commented, "and large enough to set anything in the wood on alert. Two hundred is no war party. It is very nearly an army." 

Emereld smiled humorlessly. "All the more fitting to conquer a wood." 

The silver-haired elf contemplated in silence. At last he nodded. "Right you are. If parties as small as your five are not spared death, there is no sense in hoping we will find protection in small numbers." His fingers traced the ink marks. "Sixty miles through dense trees is no small feat for a supply wagon or caravan. Can the wilds support such a party without bringing our own provisions?" 

"There is food, though it will hardly be fine dining. Deer, rabbits, and smaller game fill the foliage. Mushrooms and herbs can be found by the watchful eye."

A pale grin crossed the elf's face like a scar. "All we are accustom to. It seems this march is well on its way." 

"So it is. If I am not mistaken, the sun hangs high in the sky and midday meal is prepared. Would you dine with us in the square - you and your company?" 

Whether Narenhior was unsettled by the sudden change in topic or the kindness in Emereld's offer Aster could not decide. Be it either, the moonwalker's face became conflicted. 

"It would be our honor," he finally murmured. 

"Very well," Emereld bowed. "Our cooks have been preparing a feast of roast game for much of the morn. These Watchmen would be more than willing to escort you." The old man gestured a wizened hand toward the wolf-pelted men around him. 

"Will you not accompany us?" Talon started. 

"In time. "Emereld smiled, though Aster thought he say the expression die in the white of the man's eyes. "An old man takes far more time to travel than the fleet feet of moonwalker."

The elves hesitated only a breath before allowing themselves to be escorted out by the Watchmen around them. 

The eyes of the chamber followed their armored chestplates until the light of the Strongfast's door had appeared and died again, signalling their absence. 

Emereld cleared his face of pleasantries. "Captains, what say you?" 

Surprisingly, Endel was not the first to speak. A short, stout man with a beard to match tossed the head of his pelt from his brow and stepped forward. "It is folly to do as they say. We have seen what the wood holds. Er, at the very least, what it can do. To send another hundred men to their graves is a waste simply to humor a wayfarer." 

"I agree," urged another with a beak-like knows and hollow eyes. "We have not the rangers for such a venture and Watchmen belong on the wall, not the wood." 

"In sentiment, I agree." It was not like Endel to hesitate, Aster knew, but his voice threatened to fragment with the emotion. "To send another hundred men into the godless country is a chance that even the damnedest gambler would hesitate to bet on. Yet another part of me questions if the only folly in this plan is that which we bring ourselves." 

"It is not like you to skirt an opinion," Emereld remarked. "Say what you have to say." 

"Men should be sent. At least a hundred - perhaps more. The walls of Arcath are stout and have held for so long only the Moon as seen its birth. This is an opportunity too great to pass up." 

"And of this moonwalker?" questioned another Watchman. "What credence should we give a wayfarer of a foreign land who comes with an army ushering us to a fight a foe he does not know?"

Aster found himself agreeing with the man. Just because it wears a wolf's skin doesn't mean it's a foe, he thought, eyeing the Watchmen. And just because it carries a sword does not mean its a friend. 

Endel crossed his arms. "We have no reason to mistrust him. If he is a foe, all the better that our host march beside him. If a friend, all the better again. He knows nothing of our country nor the woods outside it - we have little to fear." 

"The question remaining is who is sent? If it pleases you," Emereld addressed Endel, "I would have your men head this party. Rangers are fleet-footed and knowledgeable but lack the ire and scars of battle."

"My Watch is small. Our numbers already struggle to keep the gates, though your request is an honor.  I will lead the war party, but do our finest warriors remain or ride with me?" 

"Two at least," the Watchman beside Aster suddenly barked, "can ride with you, Captain."

"Indeed," Endel scorned. His blackened eyes glowered where Aster and Castleia stood. "Any venture into the woods is a likely death sentence - and you've made it clear enough that you are incapable at the wall. May as well put your axes to use before the end." 

"What's the meaning of this? Who are these two?" Emereld stroked his beard, eyes flickering between the monstrous Captain of the Watch and the two battered children held captive. 

"No one, Mir. Two incompetent initiates to the Watch. Failed to make it a single season." 

Emereld nodded his trust in the captain's judgment. As the company began shuffling toward the portals of the Strongfast, Aster felt his throat tighten more surely even than the Watchman's hand around his arm. Even is nose caught its breath against the wafting of sizzling meet from the distant square. 

So we're going into the wood after all, he brooded. And Endel will see to it we don't get out.