Devlin's back straightened as he heard a faint sound.

Ears pricked, he listened. His journey had taken him into unfamiliar lands. Danger never felt too far away.

The source of the noise was hidden behind the brow of a small hill, but as Devlin crept closer, feet falling softly through thick grass, he sighed and let his muscles relax. The calming babble of a woodland brook was being carried up the hill by a cool breeze. It washed over Devlin, cleansing his mind of worry. Rejigging his pack, he rushed down the gentle slope towards the stream, eager to refill the water bottles that had remained dry for nearly two cycles of the moon. He knelt on a small rock and lowered his face to the surface of the water, breathing in its vitality.

The two days Devlin had spent battling against tree and brush were forgotten, much like his seemingly impossible quest to relocate the old road that cut through the forest from East to West.

The clearing around the brook carried a different aura - a calmness that fulfilled each living thing that gazed upon it. Looking up from the water's surface, Devlin noted that trees stood taller here and more proudly, allowing streams of light to illuminate the forest floor. Flowers, awash with colour, pushed back the murky brown haze between the brook and the distant, old road. Creatures, whose noises filled Devlin with suspicion and fear a day ago, now appeared as friends, singing a soft tune of comfort and warmth.

For the first time since Devlin had left his mother at the door of the inn, he felt at peace.

Devlin pressed his back against the thick trunk of a large tree, his heart pumping with the ferocity of a thousand horses, his breathing short and fast.

Surely by rushing through the forest, he had lost their trail.

Closing his eyes, Devlin thought of home. He pictured his mother, adding herbs to a boiling stew, humming a tune to bless the meal with good flavour. His father, bartering with a burly customer about the price of ale. His dog, Almiron, named in tribute to a king of old, sniffing at the tables of travellers enjoying a much-desired rest.

Memories of family calmed Devlin's breath, and, inhaling deeply, he mustered the courage to peek around the base of the tree. The scene that lay before him simultaneously stiffened his body yet set his mind racing.

Four men stood facing each other in a small clearing barely a stone's throw from Devlin's hiding place. Each man carried a lantern, the illumination casting a chilling light over their faces. Trees loomed ominously overhead, seemingly to catch details of the hushed whisperings taking place, reaching out with inquisitive shadows. The men appeared to be planning something important - of what, Devlin did not know.

One of the group, a gangly figure with what looked to be a knife stashed in his trousers, flashed an evil eye to the edge of the clearing, directly to where Devlin crouched, silently. An overwhelming urge to dive behind the base of the tree gripped the boy, but something stayed his move. The man wasn't looking at Devlin. He was gesturing to a small silhouette, curled up, unmoving, not five steps away.

For a minute, Devlin studied the creature, a fellow human by all accounts, diminutive in size, with long, fair hair and pale skin that seemed to glow in the lantern light. A short glance would give the impression that the creature was peacefully sleeping, but leather bonds at wrist and ankle told a different story. Devlin continued to gaze in quiet wonderment at the figure, when a sharp crack broke his trance.

The hunters were advancing to the position where he remained, unseen. Soon, their circle of light would reach him. At that point, escape would be futile.

He had to make a dash for it, now.

The knife-wielder crouched to examine his prey and Devlin spied his chance. Keeping low, he pushed against the base of his tree for leverage, and, without much concern for the rustling of surrounding brush, shot to the opposite side of the trunk.

"Well, well, well," said a voice, mocking in tone, "Looks like we've got two for the price of one, fellas...".

A stout man, broad in the shoulders, blocked Devlin's path. Before there was time to react, a twitch of the man's arm was followed by the whistle of a club and a crack of searing pain.

Devlin's legs crumpled. He lay, feeling consciousness drifting away.

The last sound he heard was the murderous whisper of wind as it disturbed the canopy above.

After that, all was still.

Matthew Slinn

1

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