Once they had left the valley of the River Grey and turned north, the crossing of the Narrow Plain that lay between the River Grey and the White River had been a trial of nerves in itself. The plain had been deathly quiet and watchful. Most held to the mistaken belief that the Narrow Plain was entirely a flat, fertile grassland like the Wide Plain to the south. But a good part of the plain was gently rolling hills of brown heather and wind-rattled bracken with dry brown leaves clinging, that
rose above low-lying lea and fen that were difficult to tell apart: one was easily traversed, the other a death-trap. The temptation was to keep to the low-lying areas, out of sight, but the risk, the time wasted finding safe passage through, was prohibitive.
They came unexpectedly upon a forested region two days before reaching the valley of the White River. Baldric cursed when he saw it, and muttered to an aide, "I know this forest! We have come too far west! This wood and undergrowth are dense, concealing, and trackless, which shall greatly slow our progress! We were to have come in sight of the White River today, but if I am not entirely out of reckoning, we will not encounter the river valley until four days hence!"
His aide frowned, considering the thick, bare forest, that lay stark and inscrutable across their path, like an upraised hand ordering them to halt. "I have never laid eyes upon trees packed so closely together! Will it be possible to forge our way through?"