Arthurian Cultivation

It was a week later and we were on the road, heading towards the Oak, our path permitting a single important diversion. The plans had been made swiftly. We had a heading and needed only to catch the wind.

Between the song and Kay’s memory we were able to puzzle out that we didn’t have to bow to the Oak until we were much closer. With that crisis resolved we’d agreed on a plan to investigate this strange healer.

We hadn’t wasted time and had set out later that day. We didn’t want to lose out to the cultists, and so had begun our journey with great haste. The shift in focus to direct action had invigorated the Order, and everyone was dedicated to our new task.

There had been lots of debate on what to do next once I finished the poem. The general tone circled a single point.

Were we actually going to go to the Folly?

The discussion jumped back and forth. Sure, going there was a good way to uncover this Merlin character. It was also an exceptional way to die. We had two nature glamour users in our group, which made us slightly better suited to such an excursion.

The second obvious option was not to go into the ancient murder forest, and instead set a trap for Merlin. Get someone to issue a bounty for healing and lure him out. The main issue with that was the cultists were about, and if they realised what we were doing they might work out who we were hunting and where to find him.

Never assume your enemy is less intelligent than you. Even if they are brainwashed cultists.

The argument on what to do paused, though, when a simple factor was pointed out.

We had to go and check if we were right first.

So we’d set out. Frustratingly, we’d decided to leave behind our horses. While I’d have loved to have ridden Elphin, I didn’t want him facing certain death if we did end up in the Folly. As a simple fae beast with a touch of cultivation he’d be no match for the things inside.

That and the mounting snow were making even a fae beast’s progress slow once you left the established paths.

None of us were pleased. It slowed us down, but good mounts were hard to find, and wasting such a resource couldn’t be accepted. Marek had agreed to escort the horses out of the mountains for us, the powerful Iron-rank witch more than enough to handle most threats as long as he managed to avoid the cultists.

It also helped us lay a false trail. We had no doubt the cultists’ attention was on us.

Rowena had long departed to remove the Book from the mountains. Though she promised to return, staying hidden but close enough that we could call for her aid should the divine cultivators deploy a saint themselves.

Considering the threat of the Green Knight, I couldn’t help but admire her dedication to the cause.

Book and horses safe. We’d left behind Corbinec and its vicious King. He sent us off with nothing but a vicious reminder to see Merlin dead. He’d stomped back into his ancient castle to fester and wait for news.

Now a week into travel, with the snow falling on me and the mud working its way into every crevice and cranny, I was a little less enthusiastic. Still, I remained in good spirits as I could finally play something on my lute. It wasn’t anything complicated, and I got clumsy if I played too long, but it soothed my soul.

I really hated that poison priest. While the muscles and tendons in my arm had come together, there was still a tension, a certain stickiness in how my fingers moved. The last dregs of lingering invasive glamour fouling my recovery. A wound like this would normally have sealed up in a few days with a brew or two to help.

Bastard.

We’d spent our days heading towards the densest grouping of suspicious activity. The snow was falling, the passes were getting clogged. As an Albion man I was unused to such frequent snows so early, and wrapped myself up in my cape. I was most grateful that my bardic outfit sensed my distaste for the weather and grew a fur trim one night.

Our target was the Kingdom of Gorre. The place was an oddity. King Bademagus was a just and surprisingly noble ruler, but struggled to fully control his lands, which lent a certain lawlessness to his domain. The land was full of small valleys and ancient forests, and bordered the sprawling Swamp of Scorn. All were dense with hiding places and escape routes that made it attractive to various ne’er-do-wells. Thrice in the last few months we’d chased bandits back to bases in its craggy edges.

That gave us an advantage. Bademagus adored us. Not only did we live up to ideals he held close to his chest, but we had the power to back them up. He’d entertained us at his court twice and both times his welcome had impressed us with his generosity.

We easily created a cover of hunting down an elusive gang of bandits that had been preying on the local area. Splitting up into groups of at least three, we hoped that by moving quickly and keeping a close watch we might avoid unfavourable encounters with the cultists.

Lance helped us keep in touch, using her dream glamour to communicate between our separate groups. We knew the others were closing in on their target. We’d also been informed by Tristan and Maeve that their sources had heard tales of cultists moving rapidly and openly across the lands. The news was a little delayed, but they’d been seen heading towards Corbinec and were likely there, or past it by now. Possibly mere days behind us.

They’d gained mounts from somewhere and were eating up the distance between us, making use of the well-travelled roads that made the city such an important trading hub.

We hoped that by making our exit so public they wouldn’t bother the people of the city. We’d even directed one of the other cohorts in our Order to swing past Corbinec in the following weeks to check in on its people.

We all felt the pressure. Yes, we were on a hunt, but now it felt like the cultists were nipping at our heels. We couldn’t afford to give up on our target, nor did we want them to catch up. Not until we knew more about their numbers.

It didn’t help that the lands slowed us and made seeking out Merlin a chore. There were plenty of ways to move through the lands unseen. Add to that the snow had already started to fall thickly, and in another month or so the towns beyond Gorre’s capital would be all but unreachable to mortals due to the snow.

It made sense that the conman had preyed on the rich and powerful of the nation. Gorre, despite its failings, was probably the third wealthiest of all the kingdoms in the mountains. It sat as a central trading hub for all the other kingdoms and was a crucial stopover for caravans that came across the mountains.

We had four distinct leads to look into, three requests for medical aid that were rapidly withdrawn, and a final request to hunt down a “hunchbacked sage whose healing was nought but a momentary succour that drained the life from my beloved”. That edict was from one of the minor lords who ruled over the cluster of towns closest to the Folly.

That was the one Sephy, Bors and I were looking into.

We trudged along a winding, uneven path. I strummed a short song, circulating warm smoke around my fingers to help fight off the cold. As a cultivator at Iron, I was far more resilient than I had been last year when Maeve had chased me through the snow. The cold didn’t sap my strength or cause me to shiver and shrink, and yet it was as if my body remembered such unpleasantness with such clarity that it felt the need to wrap up.

“Who are these bandits we’re pretending to look for again?” Bors asked when I finished the little ditty I’d been plucking. In an attempt to hide our motivations we’d declared we were just seeking bandits in the area. Gorre was full of such issues, and it made for a good cover.

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“The Green Foot bandits,” Sephy muttered. She was looking over her shoulder at the Folly. It was distracting being so close to it. The vast oak whose green leaves stood in stark contrast to the grey sky and white earth.

Sephy was in a better mood. She felt that such a place made sense to the prophecy. We’d only been allowed to know a fraction, but I had to admit that the Folly was a good fit for: Look to the place forsaken by the eyes of traitors and dutiful alike.

I joined her in looking up at the tree.

The oak was deceptively huge. Even the trees of the fae realm where I’d found Sephy couldn’t compare. At this distance it looked like a very large tree, a trick of perspective, as one’s mind couldn’t easily accept its true size. It was only when you noticed the tiny pines that sat at the very edge of its canopy, each a mere smudge of green, that you realised the tree’s shadow could easily have covered a city like Corbinec.

No snow sat beneath its boughs. The land was green and healthy, where it wasn’t overtaken by roots taller than houses. A haze hung over the space, a shifting mist of glamour that made picking out anything too specific impossible, but even then I got the distinct sense of movement. Perhaps the walking trees Kay mentioned.

“Why are bandits so colour-themed? We’ve had the Red Hands, the White Skulls, the Black Sleeves?” Bors asked, adjusting his cloak to better guard against the snow.

“It’s cheap and stands out. Makes it so they can pick out each other in a group,” Sephy replied. She was pensive and short on words. I could only imagine the thoughts in her head as she closed in on something her family had built its very identity around.

“Do you think they name themselves? Or do other people do it? Like they see them with green socks on and shout, oh no! It’s the green socks!”

“I feel like it just happens. Why do you ask?” I replied to Bors.

“Well there’s a guy up on that hill, curled up into a ball hiding in the bushes with green socks on but brown boots, and I was wondering if he was one of them,” Bors said, his voice pitched low, his look casual and his subtle gesture concealed as he fiddled with his outfit.

Carefully I turned to look, trying to act natural. I couldn’t see anything. It was only as I turned back to question him that I saw he was playing with a chunk of crystal that he held up to his eye like he was examining it.

Recently Bors had been playing with shaping crystals to take advantage of the same principles mortals used to make telescopes, to allow him to see further. How a prepared force had easily overcome his tremor sense had rattled him.

It seemed it was already paying dividends.

“Eurgh, don’t tell me we found them this easily. It’ll undermine our entire reason to be here,” Sephy muttered. We were all professional enough not to look at the hill that Bors had hinted at. I debated spreading my smoke that far but the winds were blowing the wrong way. Pushing against them was possible but could easily be noticed.

“Maybe he just has green socks?”

“He looks like a hunter, or scout. Might just be wary of us?” Bors replied, again trusting the wind to help hide our voices.

“Well we’re not getting close to him without spooking him. Maybe we just go past and then follow him to wherever he goes?” I offered.

“Taliesin is the stealthiest of us and I’m against sending him alone after them. Not with how many swords he’s been attracting lately,” Bors said, and I saw Sephy stiffen. Since my poisoning she’d been a little overprotective. I could see she didn’t want me going out alone.

“I’m also not a woodsman. I should be able to hide from a mortal, but even a Wood or Bronze cultivator would be able to suss me out right away. Still, I don’t sense any power off him.”

“I really don’t want to find these bandits right now. We’re not too far from the lord’s manor. Curse them, the reports never said anything about them being this close!”

“Maybe he just has green socks. Either way we can’t really be thinking of letting him go. He might be a bandit, and I know we’re after the Grail and all, but leaving scum like them to roam the hills isn’t right.”

“Why don’t you go talk to him, Taliesin? He’s not Iron, and with us two behind you he won’t be able to do anything,” Bors continued, ignoring the faint scowl from my beloved.

“Well, as you asked so nicely,” I replied.

Hunter had been keeping low since the bend in the path, crouched in the bracken with his bow held tight and his breath measured out one careful draw at a time. There had been the sound of armour on the wind earlier, too many for a single man, and folk said the Green Foot bastards had taken to wearing armour now. Bandit scum. Hunter had no interest in testing the truth of it. So he’d hidden himself away, able to watch as a strange group of three walked up.

He was patiently waiting for them to pass. They’d slipped from his view, and while he wanted to move to follow them, he knew that was foolish. Better to not make a sound. Become nothing more than another part of the forest.

So when the voice came, calm as you like, from no more than a spear’s length away, he nearly soiled himself.

“Hello there, friend.” The voice was friendly and warm, out of place on this cold hill.

Hunter came up with a knife in hand, raised before his wits caught up, words tumbling out of him in a rush. By the Unseelie, the man was a cultivator. No way he could have got this close without being one. His parents hadn’t been the most imaginative souls when they’d named him. He was Hunter by name and nature, and he could sense when he was outmatched.

“I’m sorry, milord, I’m Hunter, the hunter. From a long line of hunters. I didn’t mean to spy on you, I was just trying to…” he stammered apologies, explaining himself as best he could.

“Be calm. If you’re what you say you are, you have nothing to fear from us.” The grey-eyed man in the odd outfit of red and black explained.

The two others joined them on the hill. Neither spoke. They just watched quietly. The man, Taliesin he introduced himself as, asked him about the bandits and he bristled despite himself. Green Foot filth. He spat on the ground when he said their name and told them what they’d done to his cousin’s boy. Why were they asking about them?

That was when one of them, the tall titan of a man, pointed at his legs.

“Your socks,” the man said, as if that explained anything.

Hunter glanced down, baffled. Did the cultivator want his lucky socks? His ma had knitted them before she passed, worn thin and dark as old moss. He tried to explain, but the bard only nodded along, still smiling. Pale grey eyes, black hair tied neatly back, and a smile that lingered a heartbeat too long, like he found the whole world quietly amusing.

Hunter started to sweat. What was going on? Who were they? He knew better than to get involved in cultivator business.

“Oh, I should introduce the others. This is Sir Bors, and Sir Persephone of the Order of the Round Table. We’re here to kill some bandits.”

The Round Table.

Hunter laughed, nerves unwinding. He wasn’t going to die. He’d heard the stories, of course. It seemed everyone had. Knights who followed where the Winding Path had failed and cleaned up what it left behind. Monsters, curses, things better left unnamed.

He offered his help straight away. What else could he do? Mortals like him didn’t get chances like this twice.

They asked about Rivermouth and he told them the truth. He knew a route that could get them there quickly, though there was a problem. Old Stonepaw.

Even saying the name dried his mouth. The beast had never been this bold before. Used to leave folk be if they kept their distance. But things had changed. Everything had. Big beast, earth-touched, with a taste for horseflesh. Quiet folk could slip past, but not a group like this.

One of the knights, Bors, grinned at that. A proper grin, the sort Hunter had seen on lads heading into a tourney, not men thinking of dying. He asked if Stonepaw was truly a problem.

Hunter told him what he knew. The guards who knew such things called it Bronze rank, maybe pushing higher. The lord had spoken of sending men, but there were always other worries. And Stonepaw was… well. Big.

The big one, Bors, just smiled wider. He pointed out he was also big.

Hunter followed because he didn’t know how not to. He led them through the trees up trails that had overgrown as the other beasts had started to avoid the area. He hoped that maybe the beast was away hunting. Perhaps they’d slip by unnoticed.

Of course they were not so lucky. Just as he passed the long ridge, as he could feel them leaving the edge of the territory, the bear found them. Roaring, it charged up the hill.

For the second time that day Hunter nearly soiled himself.

Old Stonepaw was larger than he’d ever imagined, the earth itself clinging to him like armour. Stone crawled over fur, plates knitting together until the beast looked less like an animal and more like a walking hill. Every step dragged the ground with it, the clearing warping under its weight.

And Sir Bors walked out to meet him alone.

Hunter stood rooted beside the others, heart hammering, watching what felt less like a fight and more like something out of a story, where knights of yore did battle with fae.

The bear struck and the ground rose and broke and folded, and Bors moved. Not fast in the way of panic, but clean. Precise. He didn’t shout. He didn’t strain. He stepped where the earth wasn’t, cut where the stone was weakest. Each motion small and deliberate, like he was correcting a mistake rather than fighting for his life.

Hunter realised then that the knight was holding back. The beast, the monster of nightmares, was just a hunt to this man.

When it ended, it ended quietly. A single moment where the earth seemed to hold its breath, a spike of earth shot up under the beast’s chin. The earth breathed out. Stonepaw fell, and the land around him settled as if relieved.

No cheer went up. No triumph.

Sir Bors only exhaled, looking almost disappointed.

Hunter found his voice again after that, though it shook. He thanked them, all of them, and said Stonepaw had been mighty indeed. They spoke of gifting the pelt to his lord, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

He nodded along, desperate to get his duty done. Still staring at where the bear had fallen, trying to understand how people could walk through the world carrying that kind of power and still smile, still joke, still notice a hunter’s socks.

He didn’t think they ever realised he’d thought them bandits at first.

And he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he would never forget what he’d seen. Then he smiled.

Those Green Foot bandits wouldn’t know what hit them.