“Well, well.” Rand made no attempt to hide his relief. “This path is so worn it could lead to a privy. Let us hope the birds have had enough privacy to breed.”

They hadn’t gone far when they realized the deception. The wood, which had appeared inconsequential without, was a world of foliage, rustlings, and shadows within. Trees loomed miles above their heads. The horses stumbled over roots and tripped through bracken. The original path had somehow vanished; when they looked back, they couldn’t tell where they’d been. The distress of the men was obvious. Rand the Rash looked for the break of light he’d seen. Fulcruchen did his best to maintain a bored expression.

            The King’s mount stumbled over a hidden root and went down on one knee. Rand tumbled to the ground and rose, cursing. Drawing his sword, he began to slash blindly. The ivy, heavy as fabric, fell in a wide swath and exposed a path on the other side.

            “Saar’s Bones!” shouted Anjhest.

            The men stared.

            The King walked through the opening and stamped his foot on well packed earth. 

            “In all likelihood,” observed Fulcruchen. “We’ll be led straight to the robber’s den.”

            “Adventure at last!” Creath, riding from the rear, brandished his sword. A pair of leather gloves attached to his belt came loose and went sailing through the air, landing in a prickly bush. He didn’t retrieve them, but spurred his horse until he was abreast of the King. 

            The path was broad enough for two and the party set off at a lively pace. After a bit, they halted to rest and water their horses at a small stream. Sometime later, they stopped to water them again. It was now well into the afternoon.

            “This is a dammed long path,” remarked Dinnisee. “I’ll be glad to see the end of it.”

            “I agree,” said Gerlatch. “As of this moment, I’d divide my lands to be at home and at table.”

            “Silence,” growled the King and would have said more but Creath interrupted with a strangled shout.

            “What is it, man?” asked Dinnisee. He looked in the direction he was pointing. “A ghost?”

            “No, my gloves!” said Creath, pointing. “Those are the gloves I dropped!”

            Fulcruchen walked over to the prickly bush and picked them off. Then, he walked to Creath and held them forth. 

            “Take them.”            

“You don’t understand,” Creath shook his head. “I dropped them this morning, after the King cut through the green.” 

This Textured Darkness, @joanspilman, 2023