The Count kicked the ashes of last night's fire disconsolately.

"It's a bad business - a very bad business indeed."

Watery sunlight poked long chilly fingers into the trees but did little to warm the harsh air that had arrived in the night on the back of the unnatural fog. It was perceptibly colder than yesterday. All the men were shivering and stamping as they sought to bring some order to the troubled camp. Peter's only consolation on this bleak morning was that the flu like symptoms which had disturbed his sleep had vanished with the mist. They too, it seemed, were a side effect of the inimical vapours.

They'd lost seven men altogether. The two sentries had been the first to die. Then a mist wolf had invaded one of the tents and killed three more soldiers in their sleep. The remaining two victims had died trying to reach the fire. It could have been much worse. If the alarm hadn't been raised so quickly the whole camp might have perished without a fight.

"Mist wolves kill from the inside," Cerylia explained to Peter. "They rely on the silencing effect of the fog to let them sneak up on their victims and an accompanying fever to weaken them. When they get close enough they can force a tendril of high density vapour down a person's throat. Then they drown them."

"Drown them?"

"Yes. They can control the precise location of the water vapour droplets inside their bodies and they lock each fine droplet over the sites of oxygen intake in the lungs. Technically, a victim is still breathing air but in reality their lungs aren't able to access it because the water in the mist has smothered them. So they literally drown in the mist."

Nice place this woodland, Peter thought, I wonder what else lives amongst these trees? He didn’t ask the question out loud in case he got an answer.

The death of the soldiers wasn't the only bad news. The mist wolves had other capabilities. Their body chemistry was predominantly water based but there were more complex areas of organic and inorganic acid vapours which drifted inside their anatomy. This was how they could deliver accelerated rusting of metals and it was also how they rotted the fibres in the ropes that had tethered the Kestervaals to trees at the edge of the camp. The giant beasts must have fled in panic into the forest, leaving the reduced force without pack animals and mounts on which to ride. Harry Hammond seemed almost as upset about the loss of his Kestervaal as he was about the death of the soldiers and the other Drovers were taking it badly as well. Luckily Sirius and Nebula had been tethered to trees at the other side of the camp and both horses, though plainly frightened by the night's events had suffered no harm and were still with them. If the company were to continue in reasonable order the horses would have to serve as beasts of burden. The Count and his councillor would be reduced to walking with the rest of the men.

But first there was the funeral ceremony to be arranged. The Count was determined to conduct it properly. One of their packs contained a full set of wood man's tools -  a variety of saws and axes which were intended for tree surgery, most of which could also double up as weapons. The Count instructed a team of three men to cut down one of the smaller trees, which overlooked the pool from a little way down slope. This was no easy task; the girth of the giant was a good twelve metres or so of exceptionally hard wood and it was over eighty metres tall. The circular power saws and pitching axes were designed for precisely this kind of job but they were seldom employed on trees of such stature. It took nearly an hour before the trunk lurched heavily in the direction of the carefully weakened guide cuts and then crashed loudly to the forest floor.

"I don't like it Tarragon," the Count said. "Your warding was supposed to protect us from this kind of attack. What went wrong?"

"They were just too powerful for my defences - broke clean through them in three places," the councillor answered.

"There's a lot of trouble in the woods these days," he continued. "Perhaps it's the gnomes? Someone is certainly stirring things up."

 The Count considered this.

"Mist wolves are rarely so organised in their attacks. Frightening off our animals looks suspiciously like planning. I don’t think this was a spontaneous attack."

Once the tree had been felled they set to work cutting it up into manageable logs which would be the bones of a substantial funeral pyre. It took the rest of the morning to finish the construction of the fire - a job which had to be done carefully so that the wood would catch the flames in exactly the right order, burning its way through the simple smaller branches, up through the thicker ones and on to the very thickest heart wood which was still bloody with ancient yellow sap and would require long heating to catch light. The enormous bonfire must be given its head but the Count had no wish to set the forest alight so it was constructed in the middle of the open space where the fallen tree had once stood. The Count had his men dig a wide shallow trench round the outside of the construction and link it via a narrow channel to the pool so that a rough and ready moat was formed which he judged sufficient to prevent the spread of the fire. Seven bodies were laid out reverentially at the top of the pyre then the Count gave the word and the blaze was brought to life with the aid of three Dragon Guns.

Tarragon had added certain substances into the interstices of the structure. Thick purple smoke began to billow into the spacious forest canopy as the Count spoke the ancient words of the ceremony of burning, lamenting the passing of the dead and commending them to the forest.

A'lekim now began a slow funeral dirge and one by one, the men fell into a circle and started to pace around the perimeter of the fire as it consumed their fallen comrades. They kept this respectful patrol up for fifteen minutes as the flames burned higher and hotter. Then, on the Count's orders, without looking back, they all turned away and resumed their march to the Temple.

It was a largely symbolic leave taking. Within half an hour they crossed a small ridge and arrived at a rare glade. The Count called a halt to the march so that the mid day meal could be consumed in peace.

"We caan't continue like this for too long," Harry said to the Count. "We're all caarying too much in our paacks."

"I know," the Count said shortly. "We won't."

Though Azbyc didn’t like to admit it, the loss of the Kestervaals was more of a blow to his expedition than the loss of the soldiers. Not knowing what to expect at the Temple, he wanted to arrive with a full complement of weapons, cooking utensils, tents and assorted tools. Despite what he had said to the men he feared they might need to set up camp for some time and wanted to be prepared for any eventuality. Even with Sirius and Nebula serving as beasts of burden, the troops were overloaded. At the same time the Count was anxious to reach the Temple quickly. Without the Kestervaals to carry them and their equipment they were reduced to a slow march and at this rate, accounting for the time lost to the attack, far from reaching the Temple by nightfall, they wouldn’t make it for another three days at least.

Behind them the smoke from the funeral pyre still stained the frigid air. He'd forgotten how cold it got this far north. Watching his men chew on marching rations, the Count considered the possibility of a scouting mission. There'd been no word from his favourite crow since they'd passed the Cross Roads. That was worrying. He had no idea what was happening at the Temple now. So perhaps if he took Sirius for a gallop ahead of the main force and left Tarragon in charge here…

"Hey - look what's coming!"

Wonder of wonders. Riding straight towards them up the road came the heavy white head of a Kestervaal. Mounted behind it, like a puppet propped on top, came a tiny figure with a human head and legs and arms, attached to a body no more than half a metre tall, dressed in a bright red jacket with green boots and a yellow cap complete with bells.

When he saw this, Peter's jaw fell open for a full ten seconds and then he had to try hard not to laugh. Here was a genuine, living, bona fide gnome, looking exactly like the garden variety cliché he was more accustomed to seeing serving time as pottery has beens in the stock piles of run down garden centres.

Behind the first gnome was a second and a third. Then as the Kestervaal lumbered to a stop, breath steaming and claws flexing idly in front of them, a whole row of gnomes came into view, treating the animal's broad back like some moving mountain.

The first gnome slid down.

"I am Yaskarrak," he said in a high pitched little voice. "Ring Leader of the Stone Circle Falls. I take it that you are our absentee landlord, Count Arcturus?

"It’s about time you got here! This creature is yours I believe. We've had several of them come rampaging through our woods in the night and we're rounding up the rest now. Try not to lose them again, will you? It's a bit of a nuisance having to calm them down and ride them back safely."

Even the normally loquacious Count was struck dumb for a moment by this speech.

"Thank you. It won’t happen again," he promised gravely. Then recovering himself slightly managed with a touch of his old asperity, "Though they are my woods, I think you'll find - not yours. The Owner has allotted the stewardship to one 'Count Arcturus' -  namely me. I don’t recall there being anything about a Ring Leader called Yaskarrak in the contract…"

"Well there would have been if the Owner had had any sense," Yaskarrak retorted unbowed.

"OK, OK," the Count laughed. "You've got your opinion but I've got the contract!"

The rest of the gnomes had dismounted now and were milling about between the men making disparaging remarks which weren't endearing them to the soldiers.

"Is this all you've brought? They're not up to much…"

"There is to be an Inter Ring convocation tomorrow morning to discuss the State of the Realm," Yaskarrak said. "R'eskyl'ah'in, himself will be present to guide our thoughts. I think it would be for the best if you were to attend. This situation is serious. We need to unite to resolve the problem."

The Count raised an eyebrow for Tarragon's benefit but the councillor just shrugged. The phrase, "What situation?", sprang to mind but he was sure he'd find out in due course. He had a dark intuition that the "situation" was linked to his own concerns over the Temple but exactly what was troubling the gnomes remained to be seen. In the meantime, best to let them think that he knew more than he did. They obviously had little enough respect for him already. No point in opening his mouth and letting that little evaporate.

"And where is this meeting to be held?"

"At the Stone Circle Falls Ring. It's five hours north of here as you would walk it and all but five minutes of that on the road."

"Very well. With your permission then we will camp by the road. I shall talk with R'eskyl'ah'in in the morning."

There was a soft whistling of breath from tiny lungs and all the gnomes stopped as if shocked.

"You will do no such thing! You may talk with the Ring Leaders and we will talk with R'eskyl'ah'in. It is not for you to disturb the ears of our great prophet!" Yaskarrak said

"But of course you may camp by the road," he continued in milder tones as though the offering of this concession was a great privilege.

The Count sighed. This was all most tiresome. Then he reminded himself that with luck the Kestervaals would soon be returned to them. It couldn’t do any harm to humour the pesky little gnomes until them. He waved his hands vaguely as though acknowledging a point too obvious to worry about.

"OK. Whatever you say. Lead on!"

Within an hour's march, Peter noticed that the trees had began to scale back to the dimensions he was used to. Larch trees and ornamental conifers of one sort and another seemed to predominate here and although there were dark purple toadstools amidst the fallen needles they were only a few centimetres high.

They were leaving the Fungal Regions. The reclaimed Kestervaal ambled slowly by their side, now fully laden with baggage and carrying the tribe of gnomes as well. It was in no hurry. One of the braver gnomes leant between its ears and proffered an apple, tossing it whole into the gaping jaws and scuttling back quickly with a muttered "tusk, tusk" when the animal crunched the dark red fruit noisily.

"Is she still there?" Cerylia asked, fretfully.

"Loud and clear," Peter answered. "Don’t worry, Eryndra isn’t far away now."

"But I am worried! Now that we're so close I don’t want to waste any more time. What if they leave the Realm? We might lose them. This is all taking much too long!"

"We're going as fast as we can," Peter pointed out.

"I know. I know…"

As much to change the subject as for any other reason Peter asked Cerylia if she had come across any gnomes before.

"Some," she said. "There's the odd Ring here and there spread all across the Temperate Realms. They're not very common though and they're hard to find - keep themselves to themselves according to received wisdom."

They were walking well behind the Kestervaal but Cerylia lowered her voice before continuing.

"To be honest they are something of a joke everywhere. That's why I laughed at the Count when he first mentioned gnomes. I shouldn’t have given in to my own stupid prejudices. I hadn't thought about it before but I suppose this might be their native Realm. There seem to be far more of them here than anywhere else I've ever heard of. "

Two of the gnomes had started a wrestling match on the back of the Kestervaal, cheered on by the others. A fall was inevitable on the rolling unstable platform and in seconds one of them tumbled to the ground accompanied by a round of high pitched jeers. He bounced rather hard on the packed earth at the side of the road and seemed dazed for a moment. Then he picked himself up and scuttled after the next man in line.

"Oy, you! Give us a lift up on your shoulder, will you?"

The startled soldier obliged and soon the defeated gnome was thumbing his nose and making rude gestures to the tribe capering on the Kestervaal. In their turn, the other gnomes returned their comrades insults with interest, blowing raspberries and firing off a fusillade of catcalls.

"A boisterous lot aren't they?" Peter observed wryly.

"Yeah, a real bundle of laughs," said the solder next to him in dark ill humour.

It began to drizzle -  half hearted, cold, mean and pessimistic -  and amidst the rain drops there were flakes of molten snow, adding the pure misery of sleet to their march.

They reached the glade where Yaskarrak suggested they camp about four hours later and without further incident. It was an open site on a gentle slope with running water from a small stream.  In contrast to the dark and lifeless forest floors of the Fungal Region the glade was stocked with a profusion of woodland plants which straggled on both sides of the road. Peter noticed that many of them had died back and already showed much more brown than green. Where the land around the Count's castle yielded a full measure of the bounty of Autumn, this land marked a later stage of the season - a time when dank days and sour little evenings are only brightened by the prospect of a warm fire - a time when grey clouds compete for dominance with dull brown death and the contrast and colour of evening leaches rapidly away with the light.

By the time the tents were erected and the fire coaxed reluctantly to life, they were in the midst of just such an Autumn evening. Grey smoke smelling pleasantly of pine resin and earth coughed up out of the smouldering heap of wood and seemed to spread into the sky as though it were contributing to the dull grey ceiling of clouds.

Tarragon had started to circle the camp when Yaskarrak tapped him on the knee.

"You won't have any trouble from mist wolves here", he said. "We have our own means of warning them away from the Ring of the Stone Circle Falls.

"It's not just mist wolves I'm worried about", Tarragon answered. "There are other things that walk these woods."

"That there are," Yaskarrak agreed, "but you're not going to stop any of those with that mumbo jumbo. Trust me on this."

"I'd rather trust my warding if you don’t mind," Tarragon said stiffly.

"Suit yourself but you're wasting your time."

The gnomes were in high spirits that evening. Several curious newcomers joined the band who'd travelled with the soldiers and soon their ranks had grown to around thirty individuals. They were close to home and the presence of their prophet seemed to be provoking a frenzy of energetic activity and bad behaviour. They reminded Peter of nothing so much as class of over excited five year olds, running and chasing round the camp, pulling one another's caps off, engaging in short lived fights, tumbling head over heels into the bracken and starting pine cone fights where they threw the hard wooden fruit in fearsome volleys across the camp fire. They were soon beginning to try the patience of the troops, apart from A'lekim who seemed to find their behaviour very comical. Only Yaskarrak retained any dignity, managing to calm his tribe down sufficiently to share a meal with the Count's force.

"The Inter Ring convocation starts early," Yaskarrak said in his piping little voice as he chewed on the tangy rabbit meat which flavoured the stew.

"Tomorrow, you must be ready in the hour before first light when I come for you. At the Stone Circle you must speak only when you are spoken to."

The Count accepted this all with patient good humour but underneath he was clearly irritated. His irritation was somewhat soothed, however, by the memory of the three additional Kestervaals which had been returned to the party before night fell. Four recovered, eight still missing. But now they'd lost seven men as well, they wouldn’t need all eight Kestervaals to continue in good order, he reflected soberly.

"How long will this convocation go on?" Cerylia asked Yaskarrak.

"As long as necessary," came the helpful reply. "It might last all day. There are a lot of Ring leaders who have to speak and all must be heard."

This didn’t make Cerylia any happier.

In the darkness of the tent she whispered to Peter.

"I don’t like waiting for this Inter Ring chit-chat but since it's going to happen I want to go. Harry's on the morning watch and he's charged with waking the Count and Tarragon. I've asked him to wake me as well. Do you want to come?"

"Of course I do," Peter said. "I feel the same as you. I don’t want to hang around this camp all day!"

To Peter, it seemed only a few moments since he had fallen asleep and then Cerylia was shaking him awake again. He must have slept heavily after the adventures of the night before and yesterday's long afternoon march. Since he'd been catapulted into this adventure, what with one thing and another he'd had a succession of disturbed nights. Either he'd been suffering from the anxiety and strangeness of his arrival, coupled with indigestion after a rich banquet, or he'd been finding he couldn’t sleep easily because he wasn't used to enduring the ground for a bed, or he'd been suffering from disturbing dreams brought on by the Recorder Token or finally, just when he was beginning to adjust to the outdoor lifestyle and toughen up a bit, he'd been getting caught up in a mist wolf attack.

Typical, he thought somewhat ruefully. My first decent night's sleep in the Autumn Country and I'm not going to get a lie in.

He dressed quickly and when he emerged from the tent it was to find that the sky had cleared completely. Amidst the brittle blue of the bowl of heaven a few stars still twinkled faintly but already there was a translucent glow which heralded the rising sun. It was bitterly cold. For a full ten seconds Peter did nothing but stamp and shiver some life into his bloodstream.

The Count and Tarragon were already up and waiting at the damped fire kept alight by the watch.

"Come on," Cerylia said.

Peter hurried after her as he saw the tiny figure of Yaskarrak emerge from the shadows into the fire light. Yaskarrak had seen them too.

"What's this?" he said indignantly. "I must speak with you privately Count! Lift me on your shoulder!"

The Count looked at Cerylia and Peter and frowned. He obviously wasn't pleased to see them. He did as the gnome bid him and was soon on the receiving end of some private monologue spoken quietly into his ear. When Yaskarrak was returned to the ground he glared at them, an expression of such obvious disapproval even the dim pre dawn light could not veil it.

"Sorry Cerylia," the Count said, "you aren't invited. In fact, neither of you can come. This is Autumn Country business. It's a residents only meeting, I'm afraid."

Yaskarrak nodded fiercely in confirmation.

The Count lent over and spoke in a low undertone for Cerylia's benefit.

"Rumplestiltskin doesn’t get on well with Agents and outsiders and I've been told that under no circumstances are you to attend. I'll have to comply with his wishes for now, so be a good girl and wait here."

Cerylia didn’t doubt that he was right but there was something infuriatingly patronising in the Count's voice, as if he were taking out his own frustrations with the gnomes on her. Maybe it was just that something which provoked Cerylia to go ahead with a desperate plan.

"We're wasting time!" she fumed to Peter as soon as the Count and his councillor, pacing with long strides behind the scuttling gnome, had left the glade and were out of earshot,. Despite her anger, Peter noticed that she kept to an early morning hissing whisper so as not to rouse the camp. As they spoke their breath clouded the brightening air.

 "I can't stand it any more! They'll be yapping on all day about their precious 'Autumn Country Business' and all the time who knows what's happening at the Temple. And who knows what's happening to Sunanon! It's alright for them! None of them care about him but me! I didn’t come here to sort out any 'Autumn Country Business'. I came here to rescue Sunanon, avenge the Stability Council and get our Token back!"

Peter had never seen her quite so upset and angry. She'd always been in perfect control of herself before.

"Yes, but this could be important," he offered cautiously. "I'm sure the Count wants to get to the Temple as soon as he can, but these gnomes might know something significant. And they are retrieving our Kestervaals. I don’t see how we can get there any quicker."

"Well I do!" Cerylia said furiously. "And I've had enough of this little band of merry men and their boorish leader. I came to the Autumn Country on my own and I can manage without them! I'm off. Are you coming?"

"Is that wise? I mean we don’t know what we'll find at the Temple. We may need the soldiers in case we run into trouble."

"I see," she said coldly. "Well if you want to throw in your lot with Count Arcturus, that's up to you of course."

"No. No. No. I didn't say that, did I? Of course I'm coming with you!  It's just that I get the impression it's a lot less than a day's ride but a full day's walk. I still think we might get to this infamous Temple quicker if we wait for the Count."

"Ah," Cerylia said, and despite her sour mood, she managed one of those smiles which did strange but wonderful things to Peter's insides.

"But I'm not intending to walk…"