Full darkness closed over Hushwood, wrapping the subalpine ridge in cold, mountain silence. Inside the sunken access trench of the old charcoal condensing kiln, the wind dropped to a faint murmur against the drystone wall.
A small, carefully shielded fire of seasoned charcoal burned without smoke in a hollowed-out hearth stone. It cast a warm amber glow across the four travelers and their guest. Paxa Sel passed around wooden mugs of hot pine-needle tea brewed with wild mint and dried elderberries from her medical stores, the steam rising fragrant and sweet in the frosty air.
Forester Bram wrapped both scarred hands around his steaming mug, blowing gently across the surface before taking a long, appreciative sip. Paxa had cleaned his forearm with warm elderberry wash, dressed the ragged drawknife gouge with marigold balm. Then he bound it neatly in white linen. The relief in the forester’s stance was evident as he leaned his broad shoulders against the brickwork.
“Three weeks ago,” Bram began, his voice heavy with the quiet rage of a craftsman whose life’s work had been desecrated, “a company of forty Cairn Host soldiers marched up the timber road from Brackenford. They had three baggage wagons, sixty mules. An older map maker with a gray beard and a brass sighting case—the one your guide calls Ulvan Dret.”
