“Right. Onward then.”

Ogma wished me well and shifted back to Tír na nÓg, leaving me alone in the rain.

The horse snorted and looked at me uncertainly. I approached him calmly and petted his neck, slowly introducing my consciousness to his, so that he would pick up on my emotions and vice versa. What I got in response was much more than that.

"Oh, good," the horse said. "You’re one of them."

I was startled to hear his voice in my head. One of who?

"One of the humans who can hear me."

Where did you learn language?

"Goibhniu taught me."

It appeared that Ogma had taken my request quite literally; he’d not only gotten a kit from Goibhniu, but the smith god’s personal horse. And it was because of this experience that I began to teach my animal companions language from that time forward.

I am called Gawain, I said. Do you have a name?

"Apple Jack. Quite fond of apples, you know. I don’t suppose you have any?"

I checked the provisions and found a significant store of apples in one of the saddle bags. I removed one and offered it to Apple Jack.

"Thanks," he said, taking it from my fingers with his lips and then crunching down. "I think we’ll get along just fine. Just one more thing. When I smell things that scare me, you have to either kill them or let me run away. Because you heard that guy who brought me here. Since I’m a horse, I spook easily. Deal?"

Well, it depends on what scares you. I can’t commit to a blanket statement like that. What if you get scared by the scent of an attractive woman?

"I have been reliably informed that there are no attractive women outside of Ireland. If you see one here, then it must be a witch and you should either kill it or run away."

Goibhniu has trained you very well.

"He had a lot of apples to secure my attention."

I’ll bet he did. I threw my leg over Apple Jack, gathered the reins, and gave him a friendly slap or two on the neck. Let us sally forth, my good horse! Follow the road west. To danger and glory!

"Are those villages?"

Danger and glory? No. I was being dramatic.

"Please stop. That could get us in trouble."

Point taken.

We plodded forward because one does not trot, canter, or even manage a respectable walk in such weather. In less than a mile, however, the character of the rain changed. Instead of a proper downpour with respectable drops, it became a splattery, aggressive mist that couldn’t decide which direction to fall. It whipped me in the face from both directions and did its best to fall into my ears and leap up into my nostrils. It argued with cold, implacable determination that there was no clothing I could wear that would allow me to be even mildly comfortable. And something else happened in terms of pressure; my ears popped. We must be under the fog that Ogma had mentioned.

The temperature dropped as well and the trees along the road did not seem to be the sort that would hide a band of merry men. They rather offered a surplus of gloom and rot underneath their canopies. The sky was nothing but a diluted wash of ink, gray swirling brushstrokes of moisture. I felt miserable and unwelcome and began to wonder if I had made an imprudent decision. Apple Jack expressed similar sentiments. Repeatedly. We were slowly turning into frozen avatars of anxiety. Dreadsicles. Doompops.

The forest rustled at nightfall. Growls from predators and shrieks from prey were followed by cracks and wet squelching noises and very loud chewing sounds. I built us a makeshift shelter between two trees, binding fallen branches into a rough roof that bridged the gap and kept off the worst of the rain.

"Can you just go ahead and build me a stable?" Apple Jack asked. "Or how about surrounding us with a nice stockade?"

This will do just as well, I said, building a fire underneath the roof. I’ve asked the local elemental to keep the hungry animals at bay. Now all you have to worry about are unnatural predators.

"Hey, what? What kind of predators?"

Ghosts. Witches. Goblins. The usual.

"The usual?" Apple Jack tossed his head and stamped nervously. "Goblins are the usual here?"

Hey, calm down—

"That puny fire won’t protect me from goblins! Have you seen a goblin before, Gawain? Tiny eyes but large teeth and nostrils. They wear horsehide leather! ME-hide leather! Let’s get out of here!"

Settle down! There aren’t any goblins! I was only joking!

Apple Jack’s ears flattened against his head and he showed me his teeth. "You are NOT funny."

Sorry. I know it’s spooky out there but we’re not in terrible peril yet. I’m sure that’s a few days down the road at least.

"Still not funny."

I got him a couple of apples and a bag of oats to atone for my teasing and I spent some time brushing him down. I told him the legend of the Fine Filly Fionnait, the white mare of Munster, and that comforted him enough so that we could both get some sleep. Before shaking out my wet blanket, however, I spent a wee bit of time modifying the sole of my right boot. I cut a hole in it so that I would still be able to maintain contact with the earth and draw on its magic, but hopefully it would not be the sort of thing that people would notice or, failing that, remark upon.

The rain stopped sometime during our slumber, but promptly began again in the morning once we emerged from our temporary shelter.

"It’s a conspiracy," Apple Jack said. "They want mold to grow in my ears."

Who are they?

"Them."

Usually I’m the paranoid one.

"Why? You have a sword and opposable thumbs. I can only run away and look delicious to predators. Paranoia is my specialty."

I’m guessing you’re not Goibhniu’s war horse.

Aside from the rain and our collective fears, we had little to complain about that day. In the afternoon we chanced upon an inn with a stable and decided to call the day’s ride early. We weren’t in a terrible hurry and a bit of comfort would be welcome. After I’d put Apple Jack up in a nice stall with plenty of feed, it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen anyone taking the road out of the area. No one had passed me in either direction. Yet the stables were quite nearly full, which meant the inn—called the Silver Stallion, according to the shingle outside—must be packed with travelers. Perhaps they were all waiting for the rain to end?

No. That’s not what they were doing. I quickly discovered that the reason no one was leaving the area toward Gloucester was that they couldn’t.

“Here’s another one!” a salty old codger said when I walked in the door. “Welcome to hell, good sir.”

I quickly scanned the inn. It didn’t look hellish, nor did anyone’s body language suggest that they were going to give me hell. The customers simply looked depressed as they lounged at tables and benches with flagons of ale and stared at plates of half-eaten cheeses.

“Thank you,” I replied, keeping my voice low. “Why is this hell, though? I missed it.”

“We’re condemned to stay here for eternity,” the old man explained, “and it’s certainly not heaven.” Medieval logic.

“You can’t leave when you want?”

“Oh, sure, you can leave. But you’ll be back. Take the road toward Gloucester and you’ll find yourself right back here. I’ve gone to Gloucester three times now, only to arrive back at the Silver Sodding Stallion each time.”