The Halfling

Chapter 1

The sun had fallen when Samuel and Theresa found a path to hide from the outpour. It had been three days since they arrived at Thornwood. Here and there were glimpses of moving shadows, men, perhaps, who came from the South, with chains and whips, and dogheads for heads—those who once served darkness and now serve their own prideful evils.

But they did not act. Not yet, at least. They were determined to observe the two, study their every movement.

Once, they had encountered those Southerners, when they had reached a ford. The boy raised his staff, quickly casting a spell. However, as if it were only truly shadows, the figure disappeared into the murk of the forest, leaving not a trace of himself.

"They're dangerous," the boy gasped. "One wrong move on our part and we'll be skewered!"

"You don't have to remind me," Theresa grumbled.

Remembering it now produced a sick feeling in their stomachs, as if they'd vomit the little they had eaten over the past few days. Little, in point of fact, because they had chosen not to stop as much as they could, what with the Others ready to send them to their graves.

It was the last week of May and there were intimations of summer's dreadful, flesh-searing heat. Clouds then billowed, throwing daggerlike rain at them. And the greenery, superabundant, hardly helped them in the difficult hike.

Many a time did grouses paint their thoughts and hearts. They wished very much to have the comforts of a home: near a humming fire in the hearth, merrymaking and telling joyful stories.

And this was not the end of their mulling. They had been travelling for a little over two weeks now—with nothing to show for it.

Provisions were running out; the Foreigners were trailing them; and they were considerably tired, not even being bothered to hum a tune, something they had taken to in order to avoid thinking about the wizard's disappearance.

They stayed, for a moment, under a makeshift umbrella of leaves and fronds, the blades swaying and bowing as raindrops trickled on their surfaces.

Theresa watched the leaves. "Do you regret going on this journey?"

Samuel raised a brow. "Why are you asking this now?"

"Just curious." She sat up. "It's arduous, this trek through Thornwood. I can no more count how many times I'd been pricked and jostled by these bushes! And—"

The boy covered her mouth. He put a finger on his lips.

They watched the blades above them stir, dancing there and here, here and there, as the rain, piercing through the canopies, prattled. A mist blew, its clouds hiding the forest.

Footsteps snapped. A whisper then. "D'you seen them?"

"No. They may have escaped through Droin's Byway."

"Fools those two are!" laughed the first voice. "But that's impossible. Not entirely, course. Improbable I should say. Them kids haven't learnt lore—especially of the Southerners. Thinks we're barbarians when they are the barbaric ones. But, hark, all the more reason to be careful of that place. Sparrow, bring two men with you and wait by the Byway's cliff. Rest of you, with me. We'll scour the ends of these here woods—they can't have gotten far."

There was a soft hush then, as if someone were sweeping floorboards. Had they not heard the conversation, they would have thought it was wind blowing through land, not men searching for them.

Samuel turned to face Theresa. She was ghostly pale. He took her hand.

"We have to make a decision," he said, in a whisper. "Either we leave this place or stay, still as statues. Both are dangerous; both have a chance of meeting those ruffians."