Winter. The age old enemy, which brings the cold, the dark, and the lack.
Darian had a list of the things he hated. Of threats that hurt the people he cared for. Winter was near the top. Above the bandits who waylaid caravans on the roads out from the dale. Above the goblins who rushed the village fences when they grew brave enough. Above the cowards who fled in times of need.
Near the top, but not quite. For what he hated most was the Weald.
Not so much the woodland itself; though, it was coming close, he thought. Rather, the monsters that lived within it. The creatures. The fauna. Beasties. Wildlings. They came in all manner. Wee fluttering devils who wielded thorns like knives. Demonic trees which trundled forth and hurled boulders. And other types and sizes in between, each a more imminent threat than the last.
Each denying the village what it needed. Timbers. Fibers. Berries, mushrooms, nuts, seeds, herbs. Food. Water.
Medicine.
All of it in the Weald, and none of it reachable. Any men and women who would try gather some meagerly amounts were met with those miserable monsters. The villagers learned long ago not to enter the Weald. How long, Darian couldn't say. Not months. Not even years. Much longer than that. Years and years, if not decades, of needless hunger, sickness, and death.
But not anymore, thought Darian.
It was merchants who would save them, he had wagered. Traveling merchants. Who brought with them all manner of goods. So he saved what he could. What precious gems he found on his patrol routes. Chunks of stone with hints of gold in them. Fine pelts from deer. All to trade. To buy, from the merchants.
From one merchant he bought what he would soon realize is the the greatest weapon of all. A bestiary. Knowledge of all manner of monsters, including those Darian knew were the very same as those in the Weald. He learned their fears. Their weaknesses.
From the second he purchased the iron helmet. And from the third, the chest-plate. From the fourth and fifth, the blade, shield, gauntlets, leggings, boots. All bought, he possessed a complete set of iron armor and weaponry.
It was well worth his effort. An investment, he thought. One that paid off, at least at first.
Armored in iron, was able to walk safely into the Weald.
He became a moving, gray metal statue. The symbol of the village's progress. Of its potential, he thought, as he trundled through the mosaic of colours. The Weald was even more alien than he could have ever anticipated. Its trees, leaves, flowers, insects, birds or something like them. All oddly shaped, slanted, too different, far too different than what any reasonable man might think to find, he thought.
They all buzzed and glowed and moved around him. Moved away, he noticed. The flutterers, the strange animals, even the trees avoided him. Split their own bark, it seemed to him, as though to lean away. As though he was toxic. Aye, that's right, thought Darian. I'm toxic. Get away from me, and I might not hurt you.
But he knew it wasn't him they feared. It was his armor. His weapon. His shield. The bestiary was right, he thought.
They all feared his iron.
. . .
"Well? Will you admit it?" insisted Muriel.
She flapped her wool blanket at his face, jolting Darian from his quiet recollection.
"The medicine. You found it in the Weald. Admit it!" the old woman pressed.
She was right. Of course she was. He found the medicine in the Weald. Where else to find such disturbing things? Such vexing flowers and daunting leaves? At some point medicine becomes indistinguishable from poison, thought Darian.
He wasn't sure whether he should tell her. Her eyes were like fireflies, flickering and dancing. For a moment, Darian thought she seemed twenty summers younger. The very thought of the Weald obviously excited her. A misguided fascination, he thought. Still, seeing her this way brought him some comfort. Even as she started striking him with her straw pillow. She was stronger than she looked. She was getting better already.
If he had but a few more moments with her (truly, thinking back, it was a matter of moments), he might have told her. In retrospect, he was sure of it. If only to see her happy for a little while longer.
"Stay here," he instead warned, after his eyes rose to peer through the window.
Darian's attention was locked. Even far away, he could see it.
Muriel murmured something, said something, asked something. But Darian didn't entirely hear her. His helmet was already on and blade in hand. He was already out the door and walking quickly. He had other priorities. Urgent priorities. One urgent priority in particular.
He was on an intercept course.
Hurrying in a perfect and straight line, the very same path and opposite the trajectory of the gold and scarlet silhouette ambling out of the Weald's edge, toward him. Toward Muriel's cottage.
