Preface to Smaed’s Story
Most diaries, or journals, are written in the first person. The reason I have not done so here, at least to start with, requires some explanation. When I first began writing my story down I knew nothing of my elven father, nor even who my mother was. My parentage was entirely human - so I understood.

I was but 15 years old in 346 SR, a young trainee Guardsman of the Yew Militia and had much to do in Stonekeep that left little time for writing. So I kept hasty notes and was aided by a scribe in Empath Abbey called Conrad, who had befriended me, and who kindly offered to write final drafts. He wrote Part 1 in the third person and I had not the heart to ask him to rewrite it in the first person. So to keep the style consistent I continued writing in the third person. In truth, I find that this served me well. giving me a certain distance to the material, fostering greater objectivity, even though at times it felt somewhat strained. Only after learning of my elven heritage and then at last embracing it did I find my true self and switch to the first person.

At one point in the original entries - Part 21 in fact - I had changed from the old reckoning we used in Leafsta and that we used to call Leafsta Reckoning to Stratics Reckoning. In this version I have converted all dates to Stratics Reckoning.

It is here, in my beloved Norse Forest, in the magical Village of Silverleaf where my father lives and where on the headland my cottage is built that my heart ever dwells.

I will add to these pages as and when it seems appropriate.

Smaed Fretting "Halfelven"
Empath Abbey, January 352 SR

Part 1

Stonekeep, Spring 346 SR
From Trainee to Footman and Smaed’s first furlough

The sea mist had hung between the trees, clinging to everything with its chilly embrace. This far north spring came late and the har off the cold sea could always be seen offshore, sometimes drifting far inland, though rarely this far.

Smaed sheathed his sword and removed his coif before entering the beautiful stone church in the small town of Stonekeep, home of the Yew Militia. The church was empty in the early morn of this, his first day of furlough. He walked down the aisle to the alter, bowed to the ankh on it, sat on the front pew and made his devotions.

He was to depart on the long and dangerous journey to Trinsic to visit his foster-family. There spring was already well-advanced, and at the end of his long journey he looked forward to some late spring warm sunshine, and, of course, time with Aunt Angst and cousin Jern. He was making his last devotions in the church he so loved. After his aum’n had echoed away into the arched vaults, he sat in quiet contemplation for a while.

He remembered the day he left Trinsic to join the Yew Militia. His cousin and foster-brother Jern had returned from the Norse Forest where he had found that Leafsta, their home village, was no more, their families disappeared without trace. Jern it had been who had discovered on the return journey the small military town of Stonekeep.

Smaed had been horrified at the fate of Leafsta and the loss of his beloved mother, father, sister and brother. Why, oh why, didn’t the villagers explore more widely and learn of the existence of the Militia!? As Aunt Agnes had explained, our elders’ strategy had been to lie low and rely on our own strong walls. We didn’t even have any rangers to speak of, and those we had only patrolled for the most part the forests near the village. What naive fools we had been…

Smaed had decided there and then that he would go to Stonekeep and sign on. He would train as a ranger - a waywatcher as he later learned the militia called their rangers - and patrol the ways of the forest. It was too late to save Leafsta but he would do his bit to see that the remaining local villages remained safe. And, he swore bitterly, woe betide those who had done this darstardly deed should he ever find out who they were...

The Yew Militia had been a tough school for a green and very young trainee. Only 15 when he had turned up at Stonekeep in , he had lied about his age, so they would allow him to take the king’s shilling. But his first months had been a total shock. He had come with no martial skills at all and quickly noted that every other trainee starting around the same time as he did had at least average competence with a weapon, commonly the shortbow. Worse, he stumbled over his feet a lot trying to get in line, much to the officers’ exasperation, and he was often tongue-tied and so thought of as somewhat withdrawn. He was better now, but still not as competent as most beginner trainees.

Being in the militia had been hugely challenging and he learned to overcome his fear of orcs, swampmonsters, liches, and the denizens of many a dungeon on the patrols he was ordered to join. Close-order formation-fighting was much harder than it looked. He still felt bewildered by the speed at which he was expected to act and react, he still hacked wildly, wounding his comrades in his haste, and was too slow by far to give first aid to those fighting by his side. The frustration of his officers was sometimes apparent.

The militia men and women were tough and simple soldiers, many with backgrounds they never talked about and most were hard drinkers. But though they had no time for wastrels, they had seemingly limitless patience with the recruits. The soldiery of Stonekeep was the salt of the earth, hearts of oak some called them – or as he thought of them – “hearts of yew”, a wood equally tough and even more long-lived.

It was true that a few were bullies, but many were good and loyal comrades. He was particularly thankful to his mentor, Hans Yreap, and Hans’ sister Elisabeth who had both taken him under their respective wings. And now Smaed was in his seventeenth year and already hardened enough to be promoted to a lowly footman.

More of a surprise to Smaed was the existence of several settlements in these vast forests. The most important was the Abbey which, apart from being both a house of healing and a hospice, provided within its walls banking and provisoner services. He had made some friends there among the scribes and healers, notably the scribe Conrad who helped him pen his messages. It was also well-defended.

But there were also several other forest settlements apart from the abandoned town of Yew in the middle of the swamp. Underhill was one, where the racially diverse shirefolk lived, but also Kallahar, home of the Celtic tribe, and others he had but heard of, like Silverleaf and a small pixie settlement somewhere in the forest. Smaed identified with these simple but tough country folk: he saw them as the bearers of the pioneering settler tradition that Leafsta had been part of, and felt fiercely protective of them.

Smaed sighed and rose from the churchbench. He bowed to the altar, then turned and walked back up the aisle, dropped a handful of coins into the offerings chest by the west door and walked out into the pale morning sunlight that was rapidly dispersing the mist. He checked his backpack once more and donned his coif. Taking a last glance at the tavern opposite, he looked down the road. A grin spread across his face. Then lustily singing "Are ye goin' to Trinsic Fayre" he set off at a swinging pace, towards the Crossroads of Yew and the highway south.

Part 2

By ship to Trinsic: Spring 346 SR
Just as he was leaving Stonekeep behind him, Smaed met a trainee hurrying the other way. From her he learned that militiaman Hans Yreap was sailing shortly for Trinsic from his berth by Empath Abbey to buy ale and wine for the militia stores.

This was too good an opportunity to miss. Apart from being Smaed’s mentor, Hans was a keen sailor and even before he joined the Militia's Naval Division as a rookie corsair he owned a sailing ship. Smaed leapt at the chance to sail with Hans and into the bargain to save several wearisome days on the road.

So without further thought he turned about and went to the abbey at the appointed time, finding several militia men and women already gathered there and about to leave. Smaed smiled to himself. There was always much activity in the Militia and unexpected opportunities such as this turned up from time to time. Adaptability was the key…

Hans was a skilled navigator and Smaed was thrilled by this his first experience of sailing. Smaed knew nought of ships, though he could see it had one large mainsail, but in chatting to the tillerman before they cast off, he explained to Smaed this was single-masted and square-rigged.

Despite the cold, Smaed stood at the prow, revelling in the wind and sea spray and the rolling and pitching of this obviously lively vessel. About halfway to Trinsic a ship with a dragon prow passed by them that Smaed recognised as a viking warship from an old folktale his mother Millie used to tell him about life in the Norse Isles. They also saw schools of dolphins and once in his exposed place at the prow, Smaed was attacked by a sea monster, his life only saved by Hans’ quick reactions and healing skills.

The weather became noticably milder as they sailed south and soon the ramparts of Trinsic became visible on the horizon. This voyage had been an adventure to remember for life. It was too late to go to Delver’s Croft that day as darkness was falling. So waving farewell to his comrades, Smaed went to the nearby Rusty Anchor Inn to spend the night, going on the next morning to the croft.

Part 3

Delver’s Croft, near Trinsic, Spring 346 SR

Days of sun and rest and picnics under the palm trees

The meeting with his aunt and cousin the following day was far earlier than Smaed could have hoped: going by sea had saved him much time. Smaed slept like a log and was woken late by the sunshine streaming in through the window and the scent wafting in from the yellow honeysuckle vine on the croft’s south-facing wall. It was already warm. He got up and peered out on the small vegetable and herb garden. The dew was glistening on the vine, the tulips in full bloom and the cherry trees in blossom. He could hear a cockrel crowing, welcoming in the day, a blackbird in song and a cuckoo call mingled with more distant birdsong. Soon the swallows would be arriving…

Smaed smiled. He was again struck by what a different climate it was here from the Norse Forest. When he had left Stonekeep the first signs of spring had barely begun, beyond the swelling of buds on the trees that awoke the earliest of them after their winter sleep. Spring came to Yew both late and suddenly, as soon as the ocean fog-banks had dispersed. And then it turned quickly into full summer.

So spring was the season when the contrast between the climates of Trinsic and Yew was at its greatest. And a little further south from Delver’s Croft was the subtropical Hidden Valley with its palm trees and exotic birdlife. And beyond that was the steaming jungle with its wild growth of strange tropical plants, gorillas, alligators, giant serpents and many other strange creatures.

The days passed in luxurious rest. Often he would accompanied Jern on his mining trips to the Hidden Valley. But while Jern mined, Smaed would sit under a palm tree and doze, feeling the warm sun on his eyelids. He could hear the rhythmic sound of Jern’s pick as he mined ore in the hills a short distance away, alternating with the sound of ore being shovelled and by the occasional whinneying of Jern’s packhorse, Spark.

Other days they all three shared a picnic in the Hidden Valley, sitting on a blanket under their favourite palm tree, the food and beer laid out before them, laughing and joking. Smaed was having a wonderful time. Pampered by Aunt Agnes, he had put on weight. Jern didn’t even let him fetch water and chop wood. So he had just sat in the sun and done nothing, letting the calusses on his swordhand begin to soften.

Part 4

Delver’s Croft, near Trinsic, Early Summer 346 SR

A shock discovery

The days slipped quickly by and soon it was time to return to Stonekeep. Smaed was reluctant to leave and became more so as first the days, then the weeks, slipped by. But he knew he must return. Time is its own healer and Smaed found he was becoming increasingly restless in the last few days. It was nice to be pampered and to share time with his foster-family but he was starting to feel a bit bored, the road called him and he felt it was high time to go home to Stonekeep and the Norse Forest, however much he was held here. After several postponements of his departure he was by now quite looking forward to getting back to soldiering, feeling renewed and invigorated.

The day came for Smaed to leave. He had already said farewell when Aunt Angst and cousin Jern left at the crack of dawn for their days work: Aunt Angst to the river to wash, beat and dry clothes and Jern for a day’s work mining, smelting and smithing.

The leave-taking had been hard for them both. Aunt because she had come to love him like a mother in the years since they arrived in Trinsic together from Leafsta, and Jern because he had always been close to his older foster-brother, and, Smaed suspected, because Jern was suffering from the home-longing for the lands of his birth.

He went round the croft for a last check to make sure he had not left anything behind. He noticed he seemed to have misplaced the book of the laws of war that militia carried and it didn’t turn up after rummaging through his pack. So he searched more carefully, even turning over a pile of papers belonging to Aunt Angst on the kitchen desk.

It was whilst doing this that he laid his hand to a formal-looking piece of vellum that would change his life forever. It mentioned his name and looked like a will. Smaed picked it up and scanned it quickly, then gasped aloud. Hardly believing his eyes, he read it again but this time carefully:

Feeling weak-legged, he sat down hard on the nearest chair, jaw slack and eyes unseeing. How could this be? His father and mother were Smaed and Millie Fretting, and they clearly loved him dearly. He was even named after his father…

Part 5
Delver’s Croft, Early Summer 346 SR

Confronting the truth

Smaed’s shock turned quickly to a rising anger. Why hadn’t his aunt - no his mother - not told him as soon as they knew that it was unlikely that his parents - no his foster-parents - had survived the end of Leafsta? How dare she keep from him this knowledge! Did Agnes not love him as a son? But yes, she gave every impression that she did…

He got up and paced angrily round the room like a caged lion. He must confront her, and get from her the full truth: especially who his father was! And he would go down to the river immediately to do so.

He strode out of the door, hot with his fury. But then he stopped abruptly, realising that he knew not where to go. Just here at Trinsic there were numerous rivers and streams and many different places on each to which she could have gone to do the washing. She would need to find somewhere accessible that had smooth rocks against which to beat the washing and lay it out to dry. He realised he could walk all day and not find her…

His fury cooled to an icy anger and he went back inside, slamming the door behind him so that the croft shook. He needed to think. And as he sat alone in the croft and tried to gather his thoughts he began to wonder who Talis was. Wasn’t the ranger who escorted them from Leafsta to Trinsic called Talis? Could he even be Smaed’s father? Or just a messenger for his mother? He needed to find out more.

His eyes narrowed as an idea took form in his mind. He would search the house to see if he could find some other information. Aye, she kept a diary, did she not! So he began to conduct a systematic search of the croft.

There were piles of papers and books everywhere – as one would expect a bard such as his mother to have. It did not take too long before he unearthed several books each, marked “My Personal Diary: private and confidential”. Smaed experienced a twinge of conscience to be prying into his aunt’s – mother’s – private papers. But he had a right to know his origins!

Taking them to the table, his hands trembling with anticipation, he sat down and began to read, starting with the diary headed “Spring 328 to Spring 329”, 328 being the year of his birth. With butterflies in his stomach he began to read:

Then he continued reading:

Smaed understood immediately why Millie let him go with Agnes. Knowing that Smaed was Agnes’ son would have been enough for her to offer this. No foster-mother could deny the birthmother her own natural son to go with her to safety.

The last line on the last page of the book remained incomplete, and no doubt continued in the next diary. But his search was over. He now knew the given name of his father, and where to search for him: on the north coast of the Norse Forest. More important, he knew that his father was an elf, and so he himself was half-elven. Smaed closed his eyes and began to absorb what he had here learned. His world was shaken to its very foundations.

Part 6

Delver’s Croft, Early Summer 346 SR

Decisions

Smaed now had some decisions to make. He had first to decide whether he should stay until his mother returned so he could confront her, and perhaps find out more about his father and his parents’ plans. The alternative would be to leave immediately for the Norse Forest and begin the seach for his father. He decided he would do the latter.

Later he would regret that he had not waited: he would only have lost a day and would have been able to at least bring the issue out in the open with his mother and perhaps also learn exactly where to find his father. But he had already said goodbye once and he was still angry with her and it gave him some satisfaction to leave her in the dark just as she had left him in the dark. He would do this alone!

And what should he do about his service in the Militia? Officially, elves were treated by the militia as lesser beings, inherently evil, and to be shunned. The soldier-priests of the Militia openly preached this in church. He remembered well, as a sixteen year-old, the first sunday service he attended at Stonekeep Church, listening to a long rant against elves. Even at the time he felt this was somehow strange. All that hate from a priest in a church!

Yet he also knew that elvish settlements were never attacked by the Militia in the way some orc settlements were: at least not that he was aware of. He had taken part himself in patrols against the orc fort.

He also knew that some of the villages the militia defended and had concourse with contained a variety of non-human races, including elves. Underhill, home of the Shirefolk was one such multi-racial community. And even though mingling with the Shirefolk was frowned upon by some of the officers, a number of militiamen did so anyway: as, indeed, he had done. He well remembered an entertainment competiton in Underhill that he had taken part in.

And had he not himself – without his officers’ permission- sought out the elves who call themselves the Guardians of the Forest to seek ways to heal the Yew Swamp and return it to the beauty of days of yore? They had spurned his appeal for help and escorted him off their land: so strong was their suspicion of the Militia.

But the crux of the matter for Smaed was the fact that to his knowledge there were no elven or half-elven militiamen or militiawomen. Some may well be half-elven like himself, keeping their race secret and passing as human. Without realising it at the time he himself had passed as human for two years. But now that he knew he had elven blood in his veins, would he want to live with the official suspicion of - and hostility towards - elves and could he from now on sit through sermons preaching hate? He didn’t think so: he couldn’t be true to himself if he did. No, it wouldn’t do. With a heavy heart he realised that he would have to resign from the militia.

Smaed prepared to leave as soon as possible. It remained only for him to copy his mother’s dairy into a book of his own, so he had the evidence he needed, and replace the original diary where he had found it. Having done this, he took one last look round the croft where as a child he had spent many happy times, walked out the door and the older but wiser Smaed began the trek north.

Part 7
Stonekeep, Midsummer’s Day 346 SR

Smaed Halfelven Resigns from the Militia

It had been a long and wearisome journey. Smaed had stopped off at the bank in Britain to collect his civies and change into them and had packed his militia gear in a bag, together with a note to say he was resigning.

He arrived at Stonekeep in the small hours. At this time of night at these latitudes it never became completely dark in the middle of summer. But dusk lasted several hours, and it was not much short of complete darkness, so he had kept his lantern lit. Stonekeep was quiet, no-one was around. Now all that remained was to find a place in the town where he could deposit the bag of gear containing his resignation notice.

Easier said than done! Everywhere – the Citadel, workshop, tavern - chests were locked down and secure. He couldn’t drop the bag into them!. He even tried the chest in Stonekeep Church where he had dropped a few coins in the past. It wouldn’t take a bag.

Frustrated, he returned to the Citadel. Near the locked office where he had originally signed on he took the note out and left it on a table, together with his militiaman badge. He doubted they would still be there when next someone came in, but his resignation was done. The bag he kept, so that if one day he should meet a member of the militia he could hand over the equipment.

He payed one final visit to the church, and stood at the west end of the ailse, drinking in the peace and silence of this beautiful building. But he could not bring himself to pray. With a sigh he went out into the night air. He had changed much since he had last been here. He took one last look at the town he had spent two years of his life in, casting an especially longing glance at The King's Deer Tavern opposite. Then resolutely facing north, Smaed Halfelven took the road to the Abbey.

Part 8
Empath Abbey, late Summer 346 SR

Smaed begins the search for his father

Smaed was familiar with the way from Stonekeep to the abbey: he had made the journey often as a militiaman. It was dangerous and mostly pathless: a stinking swamp where monsters lay in wait beyond his ability to defeat. He arrived safely, but bemired and exhausted.

He rested up for a couple of weeks, staying in a room of the abbey hospice, checking his equipment, replenishing his supplies, studying books in the abbey library, and above all making enquiries as to where he might find his father. The abbey itself was on the north coast, so from here he had to decide whether go west or northeast. He had once been on a militia patrol west of the abbey to the Courts of Justice, but had never explored the coasts, so he had no idea which way to go. He decided to talk to the monks. There was an off-chance that Talis was known here, though Smaed doubted that. There was a greater than off-chance that someone in the abbey would know of the existence and location of nearby elven villages.

So he sought out his old friend Conrad the scribe, but for the first two days could see him nowhere. Then on the third day he was out taking the fresh brine-laden air, and wandered into the vinyard, and there he saw Conrad working in the fields. This was a busy time just before the harvest and the grapes hung almost ripe on the vines.

They greeted each other warmly. When Smaed had been a militiaman, Conrad had helped him to compose messages, while Smaed had each time given Conrad a handful of coins as an expression of gratitude. These Conrad thankfully took on behalf of the abbey: they were always welcome, he said. Gradually they had become friends, telling each other of their backgrounds and finding comfort and understanding in each other’s company.

Conrad had lived at Empath all his life. He had been brought there as a foundling and had never been beyond its precincts. So like most reclusive monks he knew little about what lay along the coasts. There were some monks, like the purser and cellerer who had extensive abbey business contacts beyond the walls. There was also, of course, the abbott himself who travelled widely for meetings and for political consultations with kings and rulers as well as abbotts, bishops and other senior churchmen. But Smaed didn’t feel he could approach such busy and important monks about the whereabouts of an elf, or with asking mere directions, and anyway they were quite likely not to know anything of small coastal elven communities.

Conrad suggested that Smaed talk to the banker in case Talis had been born nearby and so had his bankbox founded here and if that failed ask the tillermen of the sailing ships that were often moored here. There was some trade along the coasts and they might know something, or at least of where to inquire. Smaed felt encouraged by these suggestions.

He tried the banker first. Randolph consulted his ledger, but could find no Talis among his local-born bank-box holders. So Smaed went to the three ships that happened to be that day moored at the abbey and in turn asked the tillers if they knew where there might be found nearby elven settlements. The first two knew nothing, but the third said that she knew there were elven villages some way towards the north.

Smaed decided to leave the next day and travel northeast along the coast to look for elven settlements. But he was disheartened by the fact that there was no Talis born locally with a bankbox and had begun to realise that finding a ranger called Talis, or someone who knew of him, might not be as easy as he first thought. He groaned inwardly and began to wish he had waited for his mother. As was apparent from her diary she clearly knew where to find him…

Part 9
Empath Abbey, early Autumn 346 SR

Smaed searches for elven settlements

He had been planning to leave the next morning, but when he woke the weather was threatening. From his abbey hospice room he could see lowering clouds moving in from the sea, and the air had a rainy smell to it. After he had broken his fast heavy drops of rain were beginning to fall, and soon it was raining steadily under a dark and unbroken cloud-cover that had rapidly moved in. So he delayed his departure.

It was just as well he did, because it gave him a chance to make more enquiries, stopping people who entered the abbey and asking if they knew of any elven settlements nearby.

What he learned gave him important additional pieces of the puzzle and put new heart in him. All the evidence pointed to elven settlements to the east, and four were mentioned: the Guardians of the Forest who lived east of the Moongate (and with whom Smaed had dealings when he had been in the militia), Silverleaf on the coast, the Wildwood Elves and the Elves of Andune, both nearby Silverleaf.

The morning Smaed finally left, the sun shone in a sky of intense blue above hurrying clouds. Sniffing the air, it felt cold and fresh, and adjusting his pack, he looked forward to his coastal hike. Turning left outside the abbey main doors, he kept close to the walls until he reached the sea. The land was open greensward here and sloped gently down to the beach. It was muddy after the heavy rains. Then he began to walk north following the coastline. A few stunted trees dotted the coastline, all leaning inland to avoid the wind.

Once beyond the cleared land round the abbey, it became more noticeable that autumn was setting in and that the autumn colours would not be long delayed. It was still not cold, but the last of the fragrant rosehip blooms had wilted, leaving the sour fruits beginning to ripen. On the rowan trees the tight clusters of berries wet-gleamed a bright red. The foliage of some birch trees already showed patches of bright yellow so that when the sun caught the leaves they glistened in the breeze like showers of gold coins.

The coast here was flat with the grass fading into sand dunes. But as Smaed walked north the coast became undulating and the grass became short and cropped, and also somewhat drier. He was soon walking along the top of white chalk cliffs, looking down at the gulls circling and crying far below him, and inland he could see an occasional building. The short grass made the going easy, but the coast became increasingly indented, with bays and headlands becoming more prominent,forcing him down into the bays then up to the next headland.

To start with he followed the line of the coast, which meant that he didn’t get far from the abbey. Progress was made even slower with all the detours he made to visit those few inland buildings that he could see, and laboriously check each house sign for some sign of elven occupation. But soon the headlands became so prominent that he took short cuts across their base. By dusk he made camp at the base of the longest and narrowest headland yet, from the end of which he could see the abbey, as the crow flies, seemingly only a few miles away in the clear autumn air.

Next day was more cloudy but also milder. He ate a loaf of bread and set off early. Now he began to detour further inland whenever he saw houses in order to check their names and see if they may indicate elven owners, before returning to the coastal track. But found nothing obviously elven, and the house-owners were nowhere in sight.

All this meant that progress was painfully slow. After what seemed weeks of this careful exploration he estimated he was only about a long day’s travel in a straight line cross-country to the abbey.

By now the autumn colours were in their full glory: the birches giant flaming torches of yellow and orange, the rowans afire with red. Inland, sheltered from the sea, the edge of the Deep Forest contained chestnut and sycamore that were a blaze of colour.

But the days were now preceptible shortening and another autumn storm was fast approaching, visible as a dark unbroken cover of clouds far out to sea but moving perceptibly closer. And the wind was rising. Curbing his frustration, Smaed realised that it might be wise to return to the abbey and abandon the search until spring. He would make more enquiries and take up the hunt from this headland in the spring.

Part 10
Empath Abbey, late autumn 346 to spring 347

A long illness and the return of the ague

Arriving back at Empath Abbey in that late autumn of the year 346, frozen and soaked, Smaed fell ill with an acute attack of the chills. He developed a fever and a hacking cough deep in his chest. But he was well-tended by the abbey healers, and came especially to appreciate the ministrations of Jena, who gave him healing potions of fever-reducing hot herb-infusions – of slippery elm bark, lobelia and hyssop - and laved his chest with steaming potions of elderberry and blue vervain.

By the end of autumn, the worst was over and he gradually recovered. But that december he suffered a recurrence of the ague that he had contracted from swamp midges the previous summer while hunting boglings for the bounty on their heads to replenish his empty purse. As a result, he spent his 19th birthday with acute shivering and in a delirious fever - - but recovered by the spring, having spent the winter indoors building up his strength.

Winter that year was unusually harsh, even by Norse Forest standards, with howling blizzards raging out of the north and deep drifting snow. Packs of wolves crossed the frozen swamps from the east and hunted up to the abbey walls, keeping the guards busy. Sensible folk stayed indoors in a winter that in local folklore came to be known as The Wolfwinter.

Part 11
Empath Abbey Spring 347 SR

Smaed sets out north again

The offshore ice still covered the sea and so the early spring har had lingered long after the cold winter. Spring had indeed been late in starting that year but eventually it had come – and did so with a rush - as was often so in these high latitudes. Though the nights were still cold, day by day sunrise came noticeably earlier and set later as the sun climbed ever higher into the sky. Then a day came when it suddenly became summerwarm and buds began to swell, and a green shimmer of new growth began to blanket the ground only recently bared by the melting snow, as if in haste to cover its nakedness.

In the sunny forest glades the yellow coltsfoot peeked between the last rapidly dwindling patches of snow, and swathes of white and blue wood anenome carpeted the forest floor. Birdsong filled the woods and a green shimmer of new leaf decked the trees. The last of the spring and the first of the summer arrivals of migrant sea birds, including the arctic tern, were in evidence, gulls nesting on the cliffs were beginning hatchings and the last formations of geese could be seen winging southwards. Soon the swallows – whose graceful aerobatics Smaed loved to watch - would arrive...

Impatient to resume his search, Smaed wasted no time in travelling to the point where last autumn he had turned back. But this proved harder than he expected. The ground was waterlogged from the melting snow so he had to detour round large pools. Streams that he could cross easily in the autumn were swollen by meltwater and in spate, tumbling noisily over the clifftop, so he was often force to detour far upstream to find safe places to cross. All this, together with the mud, made progress slow.

He had no idea how far away the elven communities were that he sought, but he planned to follow the coast until it began to trend east - as he understood from the maps he had examined that it did. Then, if he had still not found an elven settlement he would shift his search inland, returning to the abbey on an inland course parallel to the coast. He fervently hoped that such a long journey and tedious search would prove not to be necessary.

Part 12
North coast, late spring 347

Smaed pushes further along the coast

Because of the spring mires and floods it took Smaed two days to cover the same ground that he had covered in one long day in the dry autumn conditions. By late afternoon of the second day he had reached the top of the prominent headland where last autumn he had turned back. From here he could see some way north. Scattered homesteads continued to be evident, either unoccupied or its residents unwilling to show themselves, while inland the forest continued deep and dark.

Making camp in a grove by a small stream, the next morning he awoke to a light drizzle. A pair of ospreys were nesting in a tall scots pine nearby. Quickly packing his gear he pushed on, down from the headland and along the low clifftops to its north. As he descended, the ground again became sodden with meltwater, some in giant pools that he had to detour widely around. But by then the sun had come out and the sea breeze had freshened, and the air became crystal clear.

After an hour or so of slow progress the coastal track began again to climb. The ground became drier and soon he had reached the top of another headland that seemed to be even higher and longer than the first.

From here he could see far, and in the clear air everything seemed deceptively near and in sharp outline so he had a good view north. He could see that the coastal track dropped rapidly to a lower coastline. He was looking down onto what was clearly a little visited part of the coast.

Here, to Smaed’s astonishment, the cliffs were alive with noisome seabirds. Herring gulls, black-back gulls, kittiwakes, fulmars and puffins seemed to jostle for living space and fill the air, calling and circling, riding the cliff-face upcurrents. Cormorants stood on the beach drying their wings. A large bird of prey, probably a sea-eagle soared, circling on motionless wings on the high airs offshore.

Looking inland, he could see that settlements were becoming noticeably fewer this far from the abbey, and the forest to his east grew ever deeper and nearer, as if eager to invade and colonise the clifftops. The cliffs here were coursed by icy meltwater cascades, sparkling in the sunlight as they tumbled over the cliffs in long falls.

Smaed ate a meat pie lunch from his pack then began the descent down the north flank of the headland, along the coastal track. He was now entering a remote and sparsely-populated region of the Deep Forest.

The track here became less good and the lower he went the more muddy and mired it became, making progress difficult. The sun was already low and would soon be setting in the sea, progress became increasingly slow and Smaed was tired, his strength still not fully recovered after his winter illness. He began to keep an eye open for a suitable place to camp for his third night in the wilderness.