I don’t want the chese, I just want to get out of the trap.
~Unknown
On the fourth day, halfway to Resthaven, the coach suddenly rattles to a halt. The coachman calls out for someone to get out of the path. Then, the most curious sound, and a horrible, gurgling scream... Ethlenden’s eyes widen, and he curses as he picks up a sword and steps out of the carriage, warning me to stay put.
Naturally, I don’t heed his words. Opening the hatch in the roof, I climb onto the top of the carriage, and gasp in horror. The coachman’s burned and mutilated body is on the seat, his face fixed into an expression of shock and horror. His glassy eyes stare up into the sky, and blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. There’s a smoking hole in his chest...oh, may the gods be watching...
I jerk my eyes from the gruesome sight. Four...creatures...stand in the middle of the road, shrouded in cloaks that shimmer with all the hues of shadows and darkness. Ethlenden stands between them and the carriage, holding the sword out in one hand. A ball of pale green fire rests in the other. I never knew he had magic...but there was so much he never told me.
“What do you want?” he demands of the creatures, his Elvish accent becoming more pronounced, yet his voice is clear and steady.
A hissing laughter erupts from the four, and one steps forward, holding out a thin, bony hand...with long, sharp claws at the end of each finger. “Give us the child, Elfling,” he hisses. “The child!”
Ethlenden doesn’t waver. “I do not know what you are talking about. Now kindly clear the road immediately. I am on a journey of great importance, and I do not appreciate this unseemly delay. I bid you good day, sirs.” The ball of fire in his left hand grows in size and intensity.
The creature spits scornfully. “Elfling, you are a fool. We can smell the child with you, we could smell her magic from miles off. She is with you, Elfling, and you will give her to us. Now.” The voice of the hideous thing is almost hypnotizing.
Ethlenden shakes off the silent spell it weaves and points the sword straight at the beast. “Begone, dark monster. Leave this place, and run back to your shadows, cringing away from the daylight. Leave!” And with the last word, he hurls the fire at the horrid monster.
The beast screams in pain, a terrible cry and pierces the brain and makes one want to scream as well. I double over on top of the carriage, covering my ears and trying not to cry out. When I look back up, the horrid creatures are swarming toward Ethlenden, claws extended and reaching. He draws back a step, then lunges with his blade at the first. But they are too many.
A horrible buzzing sound fills my ears, and everyone below suddenly seems to be moving so slowly, as though through water. Ethlenden’s guard slips for a moment, and a line of red appears on his left arm. Fire and ice blaze through me, forcing me to my feet, and a cry escapes my lips. Screaming in agony, my hand clenches in the air over my head, and when it opens again, it is covered with black fur, wickedly sharp claws protruding. I fall to my hands and knees...but no, I’m on all four feet, my tail (my tail? the hazy thought runs through my head. What tail?) lashing the air, a snarl rumbling deep within me. I leap off the carriage, a sound somewhere between a roar and a scream rending the air.
Glorying in the fear that I can smell from the creatures, I slash around wildly, yet every movement feels liquid, graceful, as though the fight is a dance. A deadly one, at that. But something is very, very wrong about it. After a few minutes, I realize what.
Six unmoving bodies are littered around me, yet it is still four monsters that I face. And, if I pay attention, I can hear and smell more approaching. I back up, slowly, my fur sticky with blood, and the white-hot rage filling my mind. Suddenly, I crouch, then leap over the monsters and head down the road at a run. As I go, I hear the cry of an Elf as he is cut down, and to my surprise, I fall to the ground, scraping my hands and tearing my trousers as I do so.
Hands? Trousers? I’ve shifted back from the shock, and suddenly I feel weak. My head throbs unmercifully, and I’m wet and sticky with red-black, foul-smelling blood. But I know I’m still in danger, very much danger, and so I pick myself up and start running again. My breath rasps in and out of my lungs, more painful every moment, and my legs feel as though they’ll give out beneath me any moment. But fear keeps me on my feet, sends me running at my fastest down that road, although I know that surely flight, in this frail body, is hopeless. But the fear holds me to my course.
Suddenly, a black form lands in front of me. Unable to stop my forward momentum, I crash into the monster, then make a desperate attempt to reverse my direction, but a cold hand fastens tightly onto my wrist. I scream, the cold biting through me, chilling me to my bones, freezing my mind. With a strength born of final need, I snatch out a knife and slash at the hand holding me. A cry of agony, and I’m free. I dash off the road and into the woods.
The sounds of pursuit fade behind me, and I slow, then stop, puzzled. If they went to all that fuss to find me, why are they giving up so easily? I look back, then turn around. A shadowed form stands before my eyes. The sound of my own scream haunts me as the world turns white...red...black...