The Seer laughed, not entirely without mirth. “That’s what you say. In any event, I charge you to leave his place before further harm is done.”

“We’re here to capture the three- spotted falcon,” said Rand. “Dead or alive.”

Something dangerous flickered in the Seer’s gray eyes.

“No blood must be spilled in the Eld Forest.” 

“Step aside, sirrah,” declared the King, raising his brow. “Before I put an arrow through your heart.”

Rand pulled back on the arrow. The Gibbor raised his hand and a harsh, guttural language burst from his throat. The air about them came alive with strange sounds. Rand’s arrow flew only a few feet, then both bow and arrow fell to the ground. He tried to dismount only to find he couldn’t move. He looked at his nobles. They too were struggling against invisible holds, astride their mounts. 

The forest grew loud, mocking. Currents of air, some cold, some warm as breath, streamed through the air. 

“What mischief is this?” Rand roared. “I am the High King of Casoria! How dare you work your foul magic on me!”

“What seems to you foul is really fortuitous,” the Seer replied. “Were you to actually spill blood in the Eld Forest, more than mischief would ensue. Go home at once.”

“You cannot order me! You cannot order a King!”

“Then say I begged. Say I begged you to go home to your court, your castle and your walled city and never enter the Sacred Forest again. Go!”

It was the last time the Gibbor would speak to them in speech they could understand. Again, the strange language, only sharper, full of command. The horses awoke and pricked their ears. The pack ponies were the first to break, scattering nets and wineskins. The horses followed, snorting, jostling one another to get ahead. The nobles swayed in their saddles, bobbing and bound.

They were able to dismount on the outskirts of Nails Bottom, which was three miles past Saundry, where they’d camped the first night. In the morning, they awoke to find their mounts had vanished, and they began their return on foot. Some miles later, they accosted a farmer driving a wagon loaded with pigs and tossed the swine out. The men surveyed the filthy wagon bed with misgivings.

            “This is not a gentlemanly conveyance,” protested Fulcruchen.

            “Get in,” said Creath, through gritted teeth.

            In accordance with the clomping of the horses’ hooves, the farmer breathed. “Pigs . . . pigs.”