The column rode on in silence for a time, the only sounds the muffled rhythm of hooves on the damp trail and the occasional creak of leather as a rider shifted in his saddle. Ahead of them, the lead handler's tracking hound moved with a low, purposeful gait, nose hovering just above the carpet of sword fern that brushed against its flanks.
The dog's path wandered slightly from side to side, crossing and recrossing its own path enough that its handler had to lengthen his stride to keep up without pulling the long leash taut.
The hound hadn't found anything yet, not truly, but something in its posture had changed since they'd entered the deeper forest. Its ears were forward, and its tail had stiffened into a slow, deliberate wag that Erling recognized from years of watching his own dogs work the grasslands back home.
The animal was reading the forest the way Erling read a room full of lords, sifting through a thousand competing scents to find the one trail that mattered.
