When morning came, the events of the previous night had been largely forgotten. Arroc apologised to Naomi and tugged his trophy cords at her, and the black girl forgave him, saying that it would be easy to draw the wrong conclusions from a few half heard comments. Thomas racked his brain to remember his strange dream, which he felt was important in some way, but eventually gave up and studied his spellbook. They ate a bite of breakfast, packed away their sleeping blankets and set off.

     “So," said Dennis. "The Vale of Thorns. Where is it and how do we get there?"

     “I know the place,” said Teasel. “It’s about seventy miles east of here and some of the country in between is pretty rough. It’ll be slow going. We could probably save a bit of time by taking a detour south, through the Red Forest.”

     “How long would it take?” asked Thomas.

     “Four days by the detour. Five days at least by the direct route.”

     “Then I vote we take the detour,” said the wizard. “Every day might count.”

     “Okay,” agreed Shaun, seeing the others nodding as well. “South it is.”

     Teasel led them over to the southern slopes of the valley, therefore, and when they’d gone a couple of miles further she led them up a narrow trail so rough and overgrown that the others would never have seen it. The trail wound its way up the rocky, boulder strewn ridge, across a saddleback and down the other side, into another valley that ran away to the southeast. Mountains reared up around them to left and right, but ahead of them the horizon was lower, telling them that they were close to the edge of the mountain range.

      The day went uneventfully, as did the one after that. At the end of the second day they finally left the mountains behind and descended into the woodlands that were the outermost fringe of Fengalla Forest. Further south, the overhead canopy became so dense that almost no light reached the ground and the only things that grew there were the giant fungi that lived on the constant shower of dead leaves falling from above. Here, though, the forest was less dense and enough light reached the ground to permit the growth of a wide variety of shrubby plants. Clinging, thorny vines running a few inches above the ground like tripwires made it almost impossible to walk in most directions, but some kind of grazing forest animal had left narrow tracks in the compacted leaf litter and they made good speed along these.

     “Why is it called the Red Forest?” asked Dennis, just to pass the time.

     “No idea,” replied the nome. “There’s a kind of deer with reddish brown fur, called the red deer not surprisingly, that lives around here, so maybe it’s named after them. Then again, this used to be part of the Kingdom of Kaldistein, the Kingdom that King Tornidol was King of. The first King, the one who saved it from chaos and ruin when it broke away from the Agglemonian Empire during the Fall, was called Humrold the Red. Maybe it’s named after him. Or maybe it was the battle of Lann Tos, after which, so it’s said, the ground was stained red with blood for weeks afterwards. Take your pick.”

     “I hope it’s the deer,” said Diana. “I like that one best.”

     Teasel laughed. “All right,” she said. “It’s settled. It’s named after the red deer.”

     They came to a river winding its lazy way through the forest and decided to make camp alongside it, all of them eager to have a bath in its sparkling, crystal clear waters and scrub away some of the grime they’d accumulated since leaving Noklin valley. Diana, Naomi and Teasel went first, while Shaun and Dennis kept guard over them, keeping their eyes carefully fixed on the surrounding forest and trying not to think of the naked beauties behind them. Arroc and Thomas, meanwhile, went off to scout the way ahead.

     It was growing dark as the trog and the wizard returned to the camp, walking casually and with not a worry in the world as they discussed what they’d seen, but as they came close to where they’d left the others they became aware that something was wrong. It was too quiet. Usually, the camp was full of chatter and gossip, the women with their heads together, whispering conspiratorially as they discussed old boyfriends in embarrassingly intimate detail, punctuated by the occasional sly giggle, while the men bragged about the adventures they’d had and the monsters they’d fought. Now, though, there was nothing but the whispering of the wind through the leaves above them and the crunching of dried leaves under their feet. They glanced at each other, a look of worry and fear on their faces, and the trog looked this way and that, scanning the darkness between the trees with his dark, shadowed eyes.

     “I can’t see them,” he muttered, his voice heavy with worry and concern. “I can’t see their body heat.”

     “Maybe we’re not close enough to the camp yet,” suggested the wizard, but there was a lump in his throat and a tremble in his stomach. He knew that if everything was as it should have been, they should have seen and heard the others long before.

     “We’re close enough,” said the trog. “Come on and keep quiet.”

     He moved forward again, but now he was creeping slowly and stealthily, as if he were entering a dragon’s lair. Behind him, Thomas could feel his whole body trembling with fear as the certainty grew that something terrible had happened while they’d been away. They’re dead, he told himself. We’ll enter the camp and there they’ll be. Scattered on the ground, hacked to pieces, blood seeping into the dry and dusty leaves. No, it’s not true! I won’t believe it! They had to leave in a hurry for some reason. They were attacked and they were forced to run away. They’ll be back soon, though, and we’ll all have a jolly good laugh about it. I won’t believe they’re dead! I won’t!

     When they finally entered the camp he was relieved to see that his worst fears had only been half realised. The camp was deserted, but there were no dead bodies. There were sleeping blankets, trail rations and items of spare clothing tossed in disarray all over the ground, and the fire had been kicked out.

     “Gods!” cried Thomas, trembling again but now in relief. “What happened? Where are they?”

     “I don’t think there's any blood,” said Arroc, examining the ground closely. “Although it's hard to say in Derrolight.” He looked up at the red sun, glooming down at them through gaps in the overhead canopy. “Either they were forced to flee or they were taken alive.”

     “Pray that it’s the first,” whispered the wizard. “They’ll be back soon. I know they will!”

     “Be on your guard,” warned the trog, still staring into the darkness surrounding the camp. “Whoever attacked them may still be around.”

     He’s right, thought the wizard, growing fearful again, and he brought the words of attack and defence spells to the front of his mind. But who could have done this? There wasn’t supposed to be anyone in this part of the forest for miles in all directions! Who could have done this?

     His question was answered by an arrow that came flying out of the night, striking Thomas in the side, just below the ribs. He fell to the ground with a cry of pain as more arrows followed, and Arroc charged into the forest with a roar of fury, heading in the direction from which the arrows were coming. The arrows stopped and the sounds of fighting came from the forest, Arroc’s battlecries rising above the higher pitch of human voices. Thomas climbed carefully to his feet and winced as he felt the arrow’s metal barbs grating against his bottommost rib. He felt around in his pouches for the components for his spells and staggered after the trog.

     By the time he got there, though, it was all over and Arroc was standing triumphantly over the bodies of two human archers, one dead and the other unconscious. It was hard to see in the almost complete darkness, but there was enough moonlight filtering through the overhead canopy for him to see the designs on their armour; the white-painted rib cages on their breastplates and the helmets shaped in the design of human skulls. His heart missed several beats as a new fear swept over him. “Oh no!” he gasped. “Shadowsoldiers!”

     Then they heard another movement behind them and they spun around, Arroc raising his scimitar and the wizard pointing his finger, the words of an attack spell on the very tip of his tongue. “No, it’s me!” they heard, though, and they relaxed at the sound of the familiar voice. “It’s me, Teasel!”

     “Where are the others?” demanded Arroc, lowering his weapon and running to her. She was bleeding from a scratch on her face, he saw, and her cheeks were stained with tears. “Did they get away?”

     “No,” replied the nome, sniffing back tears. “They got them. They just came out of nowhere! We had no warning at all! I was a few yards away looking for some herbs for dinner or they’d have gotten me as well. They didn’t have a chance. They were overpowered and tied up before they could even draw their weapons. They knew there were more of us somewhere because of the number of bedrolls and backpacks so they left a couple of archers waiting for you. I wanted to warn you but, but...” She burst into tears again, ashamed at herself for being too scared to call out.

     “It's okay,” said Thomas, giving her a hug. “We're safe. If you'd called out you’d probably only have gotten yourself killed.” Then he winced as the nome brushed against the protruding shaft of the arrow and she gasped in alarm when she saw he was injured.

     They moved away from the camp, in case there were any more Shadowsoldiers around, and settled down in a hollow left by the fall of a huge tree whose towering tangle of roots gave them some cover against searching eyes. Then Teasel set to work getting Thomas’s arrow out, sterilising her small knife by pouring the contents of a small bottle of Noklin whisky over it.

     "You're lucky it hit a rib," she said. "It stopped it from going in deeper. Even so, it’s barbed. It’ll have to be cut out. This may hurt a bit.”

     Thomas nodded and pulled up his shirt, exposing his midriff. Arroc  came up behind him, put his massively muscled arms around him and held him in a grip so tight that the wizard could hardly breathe. Teasel put a bit of wood in his mouth for him to bite on. “Ready?” she asked. Thomas nodded. “Okay. Here goes.”

     It took about five minutes, and Thomas experienced the greatest agony of his life. Despite all his willpower he struggled and cried out, and Arroc had to use all his strength to hold him still. Fortunately, though, the arrow hadn’t gone deep, having skidded off the rib and being deflected sideways to stay close under the skin. No muscles or vital organs had been damaged. Teasel then sewed him up with a length of catgut and told the trog to release him.

     Thomas fingered the wound gingerly, the pain still so great that his whole body was shivering with it, and he cursed the Beltharan High Command that hadn't let him keep his suit of moon trog glass ceramic armour. They'd taken them from all the Claimjumpers, supposedly for testing and evaluation, but also because people would have asked where they'd gotten them and they weren't ready to admit the existence of the moon trog race yet. The moon trogs gave them to us! he thought angrily. The bastards had no right to take them from us! If I'd been wearing it just now, that arrow would have bounced right off!

     “Ordinarily, I’d tell you to take it easy for a few days,” said the nome as she bandaged him with a blanket torn into strips, “but there’s no chance of that, is there?”

     “No chance at all,” replied the wizard as he adjusted his clothing and climbed unsteadily to his feet, Arroc lending him an arm to support him. “We’ve got to rescue the others, assuming they’re still alive.” Suddenly he started with horror and his face turned as pale as a ghost. “The scrolls!” he cried, his whole body trembling with fear. “Where are the scrolls?”

     He ran back to the camp, wincing with pain with every step, the others chasing after him, and they searched frantically through all the scattered blankets and belongings. It took Teasel and the trog just a few moments to ascertain that the scrolls were gone, but Thomas kept on searching with a mad desperation, looking in the same few places time and again as if they might suddenly miraculously appear.

     “They’re gone, lad,” said Arroc eventually, grabbing him by the elbow. “Face it, they’re gone!”

     “Gone!” gasped Thomas in a whisper, as if it were more terrible than could possibly be true. “The scrolls, taken by Shadowsoldiers! It couldn’t be worse! It couldn’t be worse!” He wiped a hand across a feverish brow. “I was so concerned with the others that I forgot all about the scrolls!” His face was a mask of terrible, horrified guilt.

     “It’s called getting your priorities right,” said the trog calmly. “People are more important than scrolls.”

     “Not these scrolls,” said the wizard, trembling with fear. “By the Gods, if you only knew! Taken by Shads! It couldn’t be worse!” He began gathering his belongings with frantic speed, making ready to depart. “Come on, it’s only been a short time. They must still be nearby. We can catch up with them.”

     “Not in this light,” pointed out Arroc. “Be too easy to miss signs in this light. We need full daylight.”

     “But your infravision...”

     “Lets me see warm things in the dark, like living bodies. I can’t see footprints and broken twigs by the light of the red sun any more than you can. We’ll have to wait until morning.”

     “And anyway, they go around in groups of a hundred,” added Teasel. “What can we do against that many even if we do find them?”

     “Actually, I don’t think there are that many,” replied Arroc. “They would have left more than two archers. Maybe most of them were killed in a previous battle, or they had to divide their forces or something.”

     “So let’s go!” repeated Thomas frantically. “If there’s that few of them we can take them!”

     “We’re not going anywhere until morning,” repeated Arroc insistently. “We need light ter follow their trail. Might as well get some sleep in the meantime.”

     “Sleep!” cried the wizard in outrage and disbelief. “How can we sleep knowing our friends might be being tortured to death at this very moment? And Di! What might they be doing to her? And Naomi! And the scrolls! They might be reading the scrolls at this very moment! Learning...” His voice broke off and he stared at them pleadingly, begging them to understand.

     “If there are shologs among them, there’s no immediate need ter worry about Shaun and Dennis,” said the trog. “They like ter make their victims last several days. And Naomi strikes me as a woman who can take care of herself.”

     “And Diana’s got her faith to cling to,” added Teasel. “She’ll endure anything they do to her. They’ll wait, Tom. They’ll have to wait. Trying to track them in darkness is foolishness. We'll get lost and we'll never find them, not even when the sun rises."

     Thomas knew it, and he nodded unhappily. His heart burned with worry for his friends and for the scrolls, but he knew there was nothing they could do until sunrise. He sat down with his back to a tree, therefore, and waited for the dawn, knowing that this would be the longest night of his life.