. . .

Vaenwode departs the ordinary paths. He travels a little ways into the Weave-wid, where the trees are as much stone as vegetable and wasps will lay their eggs in mammal flesh. He hears the drone of the wasps; he hides from them, pressing himself into the cracks of a great tree’s roots. When the air is silent he digs a nest for himself, a deep hiding place, easily covered by a stone.

He finishes his work. He mops his brow. He hears the drone of the wasps again.

He looks up.

He sights one, overhead. It is large as a horse, with wings like two great skiffs. He climbs the tree, a little ways. It is aware of him, he thinks. He gets close. He totters out on a limb, he balances awkwardly, he watches it fly past.

He hurls his spear.

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