Chapter I: The North Grove
Duncan Tuttle departed the castle at twilight, the gloom obscuring his movements through the Ironwood. In the distance, he heard the howl of a Direwolf; the Autumn winds sweeping up the sound and carrying it to Duncan's ears.
He scuttled between tree trunks and hopped over streams, the extra weight of the corpse he carried in his arms preventing him from moving with much of any haste.
He had wrapped the body of the deceased Lord Ethan in a garment of silk which was now wet with the young Forrester boy's blood. Following Lord Ramsay Snow's leaving, Duncan had offered the grieving Lady Elissa to bury her son in the Ironwood, where he and his siblings had spent so many happier days of their childhood; the childhood that had been cut so tremendously short by the War of the Five Kings.
However, the former Castellan of Ironrath had no intention of burying the little Lord.
Not this night.
I only hope that I am not too late, Duncan thought, pushing through tree branches and immersing himself further and further into the dark mists of the Ironwood. House Forrester has lost enough good men in this senseless war as it is. I shall not let it lose another.
By the time he'd finished climbing the following hill, the sheer exhaustion had brought him to his knees. He felt as though he'd been running for hours. I'm far from the man I'd been in my youth, the weariness made him realise.
Before him, the trees had opened up to reveal complete darkness. Duncan pressed his head against Ethan's and whispered a prayer to the Old Gods of the Forest; the only Gods in his eyes.
Seconds passed, and the clouds parted to reveal the moon; a shining beacon in an ocean of black. When Duncan saw the reflection of the moon in a pool mere feet ahead of him, he knew he had arrived. The North Grove, he thought. Praise the Gods.
The North Grove, and the powers it beheld, were mere legend amongst House Forrester. Only Duncan and a handful of others, the late Lord Gregor Forrester being amongst them, knew that there was any truth to this legend.
The North Grove must never be lost. Those had been Gregor the Good's dying words. Now, and only now, did Duncan Tuttle understand why.
Carrying Ethan's body in his arms, Duncan approached the pool. Looking down at his reflection, he was struck by the transparency of the water. It gave away no hints of dirt, moss or grime, as though something was keeping it cleansed. That was when he also noticed the steam rising from the pool.
Steeping into the spring, the hot water filled his fur boots. With Winter so imminent, Duncan suspected the spring's waters were remained heated by some force of magic. But that was all it was: a suspicion.
By the time he'd trundled to the centre of the spring, Duncan was up to his waist in warm waters. He lied the body on the surface of the pool and unwrapped the layer of silk he had dressed it in until it was exposed to the warm waters of the North Grove.
After throwing the bloody silk aside, Duncan took handfuls of spring water and drizzled it gently across Lord Ethan's face. The spring water trickled down the boy's cheeks like hot tears.
"Please, my lord," Duncan pleaded as he sprinkled hot water across the young Lord's face. "Please, come back to us."
Lord Ethan's body remained as stiff and cold as it had been when Duncan had taken it from Ironrath's hall. There was no life left within the boy.
Duncan bowed his head and closed his eyes. He began to whisper another prayer to the Old Gods of the Forest. They had been kind to Duncan earlier when they had shown him the path to the North Grove, perhaps they would be as kind to him now and would, through the power of the spring's enchanted waters, restore life to the dead boy.
Duncan Tuttle opened his eyes. Seconds later, Lord Ethan did so too.
END OF CHAPTER ONE.
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