The two fenmen rode on through the deep woods for a while until the paths grew narrow, then dismounted and led the horses on foot to keep them from stumbling. The stream hummed and trilled beside them, its banks swollen with meltwater that had run down from the moors. A few wardstones dotted the banks, moss growing in the cracks of their runes and symbols carved on them, and the great overgrown trunks of fallen trees lay great as bridges over the river.

‘Thought I saw a unicorn, last I walked here,’ one mused, as they passed over a narrow stretch of river. ‘T'was long dead, but the bones were still there.’

‘Tha's too deep in the cups,' his companion curtly replied. ‘There's not been unicorns here for years. They're long gone — if ever they truly were here.’