The next few days were, indeed, toilsome. Restag still ached from his wounds, and though Witheric had recovered from his fever and the cut to his hand was healing well, the stab wound in his right arm began hurting again. They had not changed the bandages for days, due to their low supplies and health. When they removed the cloth to examine the wound, the scabs pulled away painfully, and it reeked of infection. Restag’s spare shirt was soon torn and wrapped around Witheric’s arm and its owner’s own wounds, along with a simple salve made from foraged herbs. Witheric had also found, to both of their concern, that when he was tying on Restag’s bandages, his injured hand’s grip was weaker and shakier than before. Whether that had come before or after the infection, or even if it was a result of his self-inflicted wound, neither knew. He tried to recall if the shakiness had been present before their confrontation with the water sprite, but all he could remember was pain and exhaustion.

Added to that, and unbeknownst to Witheric, ever since tending to Witheric after the attack, Restag felt weaker and feverish, though never enough for his friend to notice. When he was searching for herbs for Witheric’s arm, he had found a few to reduce his fever, at least during the day. At night, however, when the effects wore off, he tossed and turned restlessly with fever, and he woke up feeling as if he had barely slept at all. He knew, at some point, he would have to tell his friend, but for now, the thanesman kept the pain to himself, unwilling to add another worry to the long list they shared.

Chief among those being the discovery of tracks much like they had seen before their ill-fated visit to the Reinor. It seemed that they were, indeed, traveling along the hunters’ trail. What was worse, the tracks they found now were clearly fresh and they discovered the identity of the hunted.

Witheric stared, wide-eyed and pale at the three, long claw marks in the trunk of a thick oak, along with a forth mark at the back, the gashes reaching multiple rings-deep into the wood. Similar marks could be seen on other trees, as well as signs of wanton destruction across the earth and undergrowth, such as branches as thick as Witheric’s arms brutally snapped off their trees and brush ripped up from the roots. Witheric breathed out the words, “Halsk spare us! They’re hunting a wudwyrm!”

Restag nodded, clenching his fists to stop their trembling. No wonder he hadn’t been able to find out what the hunters were pursuing. He had been focusing on the ground while what they had been tracking had been traveling through the treetops. Searching now through the leafless branches, he said, “It must be a boon-hunt, probably for a thane’s son.”

“Why, by all that in Dar’s domain, would a thane risk his son hunting a creature straight from Halsk?” gasped Witheric.

Finding nothing with his Sight and feeling only dread for it, Restag said, “I can only speak from hear-say, but if what I say is true-speech, it is not the father but the son who buys the risk. Among some of the tribes, if a son of lesser right desires to be thane, he may request a boon-hunt to prove himself worthy of the thanes-seat. He presents the trial to his father, and if the trial is deemed thane-worthy, he is given the chance to prove that the fates stand with him, not his brother.”

“But to hunt a wudwyrm for something like your father’s seat, one would have to be possessed by the Fae Madness!”

“Perhaps, or perhaps it is only madness to those who never wanted such a thing,” said Restag, and Witheric flushed with shame, for he understood the double meaning of Restag’s words. Eventually, the shield-man sighed and said, “We mustn’t stay here. We are where we are, and they are where they are, and may we two never meet.”

Witheric nodded mutely as he followed his friend.

They traveled swiftly and wordlessly the rest of that morning and into the early afternoon. The air grew colder, and the wind brushed dried leaves around their legs like the scratching of claws on rock. Or scales on scales. They shared the thought, but neither dared speak it, for fear that in naming the thing they might summon it. Afternoon came, and the sky clouded over, draping the air itself in a dull gray. Witheric began shivering terribly, prompting Restag to ask, “What is it? Is your fever...?”

Witheric shook his head. “Something else,” he said. “Something in the air, it isn’t quite right.”

The words made the hair on the back of Restag’s neck prickle, and he looked around, focusing his senses on the world around them. Witheric was right. There was a strange energy to the air, something akin to the air around Witheric when he used his fairy blood, something like…. Restag’s eyes darted to the trees, searching the dead boughs. There was magic in the air, powerful magic. Of what kind, he didn’t know, but he knew it was there, drifting through the air like smoke, trying to ensnare them. Even so, he did not see anything in the trees above them. He was considering using his Sight when, out of the corner of his eye, a thick branch moved as if blown by the wind. In the wrong direction. He had just enough time to warn Witheric before the branch suddenly leapt from the tree, landing where the two had just been standing in a hissing, growling mass of scales and claws and fangs.