West of the wildlands the heather foothills climb to old Thalrun ore country, a mine emptied by the Withering and, on the terraces above it, the village of Greyhearth, where returners have raised the first smoke in the high country in two centuries.
The mountains west of Willowdale were Thalrun country in the age of the Spreading Boughs, and the foothills still carry their work the way a face carries a life. A waystation camp shelters travelers where the trail steepens. The rite of gratitude stands carved over the mine mouth, cut by hands that thanked the stone before taking from it. When the Withering came, the Thalrun of the frontier workings made for the inner mountains, and for two hundred Turnings the galleries stood dark and the terraces stood empty.
They are not empty now. Returners have raised the village of Greyhearth on the old terraces, new roofs on old walls, a trading post, a hearth-hall with stew in the pot, and a smith working iron where iron was worked before. The mine itself is open again as a road, its timbered passages carrying the trail through the mountain’s base to the village stair. Greyhearth keeps a wall at the head of its terraces and a watchman at the gate, and the horn beside the gate has separate calls for wolves and for travelers.
Past the High Gate the pastures rise open and unfenced, and the wall exists for good reason. Wolves work the ridge line, eagles big enough to take lambs nest in the crags, and an old bear the shepherds name Arthen has made a den of a hut that once held one man and a dog. The village means to carry flocks on those benches again. The land has not yet agreed.
