Ranger of Mearcholt

The wayrunner had been tired, but not tired only. His steps were halting and unsure. A broken branch told where he had tripped upon the earth and reached to catch himself. Had he moved at night then? There would have been but little moonlight here beneath the leaves, it could be so...

Holdric felt a nudge in his side, Eahstann pointed on to Kenndric. The Huntslaed signed back the message-Ghaestling. Chased by one.

Holdric knows the wild as no other. Raised to the work by his Ollda Kenndric, he has honed his craft over long seasons alone in the wild.

Now at last Holdric is old enough to join his Ollda's band. The time of his first ranging has come, and soon he will be one of those few to cross the river into the Mearcholt beyond.

Mearcholt, wilderness of tree and stone rolling north for leagues uncounted. Place of things not spoken of by firelight. Where fates tangle on the wind, and things both seen and unseen make their home. Where graves of men lie unnumbered, unmarked and unpitied.

Something moves now in that far wood. Something that means to end even what little Holdric has left.

And only he can stop it.