I remember well the suffocating feeling of that place, the oppressive hatefulness that seemed to radiate from it
I remember that just as I remember the sounds of the screams of those who wandered too far away
For when a man—or men—enters the Black Woods, there is always a price
A price those men paid that day.
A price, the gods help me, that I pay still.
—Balus Camin, veteran of the Fey Wars in interview with Exiled Historian to the Crown Petran Quinn
Mortals had named the Black Woods, given it a title which brought so many negative connotations, but while it was perhaps unkind, it was also accurate. By the time they reached the nearest trees on the outskirts of the forest, the snow had begun to fall again, thicker and heavier than ever, and it was all Cutter could do to see the ground at his feet with each step he took.
The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees in the last hour, and he felt the frost gathering on his eyelashes when he blinked, felt, too, his muscles beginning to grow cold and stiff despite their fast pace. He hesitated at the border, gazing about at the trees. This close, the air of menace they possessed had not vanished but instead had grown stronger, yet it was not the feeling in the present, not the present at all, in fact, which caused him to hesitate.
Instead, it was the past, a past full of memories which he felt looming close, whispering in his ear. He remembered coming here the last time, a very different man than he was now, remembered laughing at the fear on the faces of his comrades just as he remembered, when he’d left, promising himself that he would never return. And not just himself, but many others. But if life had taught him anything it was that the world loved nothing more than to mock a man’s promises, particularly those promises he makes to himself.
He stepped into the Black Woods.
It was an easy thing, so very easy. But then, so was sticking your foot into a bear trap. It was always the getting out that presented a problem.
After a time, he did not hear the boy’s footsteps behind him, nor his flagging breath, and he turned to see that he had stopped just inside the boundary of the forest and was now staring back at the snowy plain behind them. Already, the thickly-falling snow had obscured their footsteps completely, so that they might have never come at all.
He knew well the feeling men had when entering the Black Woods, the abstract fear, as if they had just traveled down the gullet of some great beast, for he had seen that fear etched into the faces of his companions so many years ago. Had seen it, but had not felt it for himself, for the man he had been knew no fear, only hunger, no worry, only bloodlust. He walked back to where the lad stood.
Here, beneath the boughs of the thick trees with their limbs which seemed to twist as they reached in all directions, as if meaning to swallow the entire world, the curtain of falling snow had vanished, caught up above in the forest’s mantle. So then, he could see clearly the emotions twisting the boy’s features, a mixture of fear and grief and anger and finally, resignation.
He said nothing as they stood there, for there was nothing he could say. He had never been good with words, had been good at very few things, in fact. Only the one. Finally, the boy turned to him. No tears in his eyes, as Cutter had expected, and he couldn’t decide if that were a good thing or not. He was growing, then, had grown much in the last two days and, unfortunately, the world had a way of shaping a man that was akin to a blacksmith shaping metal. Turning him into a weapon or into a useless scrap to be discarded as if of no use.
The boy met his eyes then turned once more to stare at the frozen wilderness beyond the forest’s borders. Was it sadness in his eyes? Sadness for what he left behind? Or was it something else?
“It…seems so far away,” the boy said.
“Yes.”
“It’s as if…as if it’s a world away.”
In many ways, Cutter thought it was. After all, he had been here before, knew that the magic of the Fey was thickest here, in their sacred place, a place seemingly made to ensnare any who dared enter without invitation. A place where danger lurked around every corner and where a man could not trust the things he saw or heard, could not even trust that, should he turn to look behind him, the path on which he had trod would remain. When last Cutter had come, he had come with fifty other men, all brave, skilled warriors.
In the end, though, it had only been him, his brother, Commander Malex, and less than half a dozen others who had stumbled out once more. The Black Woods took their price—that much of the stories, at least, he knew to be true. Still, telling the boy as much would do no good, would only frighten him more, so he grunted. “Come—the storm is growing worse. We must find shelter and soon, or we will die.”
The boy turned back to him and hesitated, perhaps deciding if dying was the better course. Certainly, it was the easier, for to live, Cutter knew, was to feel pain. In the end, though, the boy only nodded, saying nothing.
Cutter understood that too. After all, the world being what it was, what could a man say? What answer could he give? He could do nothing but walk the path before him. “Come,” he said, “this way.”
The air felt thick around them, oppressive, and each step Cutter took felt as if it was in the face of a high wind, one that pressed against him,
