Sometimes, all you have the power to do…is watch.

She looks up into my eyes, reaches her hand around my neck and firmly pulls me closer. Leaning in, she closes her eyes and gently presses her soft lips to…

Help me.

…my cheek.

Her lips are warm and soft, but I don’t get a chance to regret the loss. The voice drifts down the hallway and I hear it through more than just my ears. I hear it through my skin.

Help me, please.

It only takes me a fraction of a millisecond to decide how to respond.

I drop the girl onto the floor.

My whole world starts spinning and I try to find where the voice is coming from.

“Did you year that?” I ask.

“What?” the girl grunts. She looks up at me quite miffed. I don’t think she feels like kissing me anymore.

They are coming.

I spin on my heels.

It is coming from everywhere.

Soft. Clear. Scared.

It’s a child.

Oh, please give me enough time to figure this out.

I already know the answer: not a chance.

The hiss from behind confirms it.

The girl jumps into my arms, her face contorted with terror.

“No!” she cries, “Don’t let them get me! PLEASE!!”

Hair rises on the back of my neck. It’s not her expression. It’s the scraping sound, echoing behind me, like animal claws against stone, that causes me to shudder. Turning, I see two more of the ghastly robes.

I yawn.

Oh look, the hoods are empty.

Hollow, vacant holes where faces should be. The shredded sleeves in place of hands of flesh, reach out. Like specters, they move slowly towards us, crawling on all four limbs, prowling along…

“Hey,” I yawn again, “can we move this along?”

“Jussst a boy. Jussst a CHILD.”

They pause…as if considering, swaying in the shadows. Watching me. The tops of the hoods roll forward, bend—skinless brows frowning at me. They look like badly made animatronics. Arching their backs, they change their positions, like beasts ready to pounce upon their prey.

My ears strain to pick up the child’s voice again, but there’s nothing. It’s gone.

“Go home or ssshe will…”

“Right,” I interrupt the voice pounding in my skull. Grabbing the girl, I pull her close, “Moving on.”

Focus. Useless shelf to my right, two wood crates and three full gunny sacks—probably grain, a pile of someones forgotten laundry. No help there. To my left, a stained glass window.

I hold the girl tightly to me, her head against my shoulder. She’s so warm. I feel my heart pounding in my chest.

Focus!

The creatures launch themselves, claws outstretched.

“Hold tight!” I yell, but she can’t hear me as I plunge through the glass.

The cold wind stings my flesh, the glass shards tear my cheek and forearm.

I’m all alone, again…and plummeting to my death.

The waves of the sea beckon as the rocky shore rushes up to meet me.

I’m not prepared for what comes next.

My body hits the rocks.

There’s no impact.

The landing is soft, smooth, and the rocks collapse beneath me.

I continue to sink, the rim of the stone above me, folding over my body.

…and I suffocate.

My arms flail about, but I can’t breathe. Pressure on my face holds me down.

Slivers of moonlight fell between the leaves of the trees, stabbing holes in the shadows along the ground. Wendell’s eyes flickered open, his hands clawing at his sides. His nostrils flared, pulling in air so fast it burned.

What was that!? he wondered, fighting the overwhelming panic of being buried alive.

A glimmer of movement caught his attention. Evans crept past, hunched low and moving slowly, as if to avoid being seen and heard.

Rolling over to his side, Wendell got up as quietly as he could and followed.

They had decided to forgo a fire, just in case the evil they had escaped, chose to follow. The blacksmith had suggested they wait another day before hunting, to place enough distance between them and the village.

It sounded to Wendell like they had not traveled far enough.

The ridge upon which they made their camp was thick with trees of the forest. A popular hunting ridge, Evan had said—a narrow notch between two mountains. The hunting trail allowed easy access for the horses, while providing cover to keep the beasts hidden.

The small valley below contained a farm.

Miriam had suggested that they descend and warn the family before they set up camp. Instead, they tied up the horses and took time to rest before venturing down into the valley. It was a good plan. A practical plan.

Now the farm burned.

Wendell could see a dozen or more figures, small, black silhouettes in front of the blazing hovel. There was no way to tell which was friend or foe, but one thing was certain—farmers aren’t usually in the habit of setting their own homes ablaze.

“We have to do something,” said Miriam.

“We will,” said Evan. “We’re leaving.”

His mother’s small hand, still wrapped in dirty rags, reached out and grasped his forearm. She looked at him pleadingly.

Evan could see the reflection of the moonlight in her tears. “What would you have me do, mother? Put the rest of us at risk?” He gently encased her hand with his own, then lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them tenderly. “Mother…right now I’m afraid my greatest responsibility is to ensure the safety of those around me.” There were no screams in the distance. No running or abrupt movements…and for a brief moment, Evan hoped, with all his heart, that the farm was deserted.

“What’s going on?” peeped Hiram.

Wendell had almost forgotten about the young boy. He was propped up against one of the trees, his face and shoulders hidden in shadow. Fortunately, Miriam had stopped worrying overly about him. She had been diligent in encouraging Wendell to lead Hiram’s horse, to sit next to him and to assist her in dressing the boys bandages.

How much does she actually know? He reached up and placed his hand over the Ithari, letting his fingers run along its edge under the cloth of his shirt. There were things she wasn’t telling him. Things that might be able to help him, surely. Wendell watch the young blacksmith make his way to the horses. As soon as he disappeared into shadow, he walked over to kneel next to Hiram and his mother.

“You’re just in time,” said Miriam. She gently unwrapped the bandages around Hiram’s chest and set them gently in Livi’s lap. The young girl sat silently, watching her mother perform the labor with skilled hands. “If you could please hold his shoulders and help him lean forward? We need to get the wound into the moonlight, so I can check its progress.”

Wendell wanted so badly to simply talk out loud and confront the woman about what she might know. What she might be able to tell him. How much can I say in front of Hiram? In front of Livi? Wendell looked at the boy, who still seem to be in a daze. Does it even matter that anyone knows? But he already knew the answer to that. Evan had already made his opinions known, and it would certainly be a bad idea to reveal too much to the young blacksmith. Livi, on the other hand, was as silent as the grave.

“Why…doesn’t Livi speak?” Wendell whispered to Miriam. He regretted the question as soon as he left his lips, but it was too late. Miriam’s countenance fell.

Fortunately, she forced herself to smile before Livi looked up at her. She reached out a hand and gently brushed her daughter’s knee. “She hasn’t spoken a word since her father died. She loved him very much.” Miriam took a deep breath and let it out slowly, “and he adored her.”

Hiram flinched as experienced fingers pushed and pulled at the wound, inspecting.

“Dearborn always wanted a daughter. Not that he didn’t adore his sons,” she leaned over and kissed Hiram on the crown of his head in motherly fashion, “but he felt the world was such a wicked place, that only a female soul could balance out the sorrow he experienced and saw in life.” She smiled to yourself, “I loved that about him.”

There were things about Miriam that reminded Wendell of his own family. The gentleness and compassion of his own mother.

It made his heart ache.

“So…what happened to Dearborn?”

Livi slid close to her mother and wrapped her arms tightly around Miriam’s forearm. She leaned her head against her mother’s shoulder.

“It’s something we do not speak of,” Miriam whispered. She patted her daughter’s hand, reassuringly.

Death and the loss of a loved one was not an easy subject, Wendell knew.

“We’ll put Livi and Hiram on the horses and lead them back down the path,” said Evan, coming to view. “We’ll have to backtrack, maybe an hour or two, but not more than that. But we’ll have to use other paths to avoid bumping into anyone else. We need to get away from the occupied valleys and farmsteads.”

“Hiram is doing better. We should be able to move faster,” added Miriam. “The bleeding has stopped and the wound is starting to scab over.”

“I do feel better,” mumbled Hiram, though he still looked pale, even in the dim light.

“How is that even possible?” asked Evan, ands he shot a wary glance at Wendell, “It hasn’t even been a full day since he was shot. He’s also been riding a horse the entire time!” His tone was suspicious, pointed.

Wendell could feel the cold stare, even though he couldn’t see the blacksmith’s face clearly. He did his best to ignore it.

The sound of a snapping branch echoed from between the trees.

Wendell stomach sank. He rolled to his knees, head jerking around, peering into the shadow where everything was hidden.

Miriam wrapped one arm around Hiram’s neck, leaning her body over him and pushed her daughter behind her.

Evan let go of the mares lead rope and slid his war hammer from under the bags draped across its back. “Stay here,” he whispered. Crouching low, he stepped cautiously towards the grove.

Wendell quietly rolled backwards onto his feet. He hunched over and followed behind the blacksmith. “I’m coming with you.” He didn’t have a weapon or shield, but they were in this together. There was no way Wendell was about to leave Evans back exposed.

The grove was nearly pitch black. Almost impossible to see and navigate with thick foliage overhead, blotting out the moonlight. It didn’t help being in the shadows of the great mountains, either. Wendell stayed a pace or two behind Evan, giving him enough room to maneuver and swing the hammer if he had to.

It wasn’t long before Wendell noticed the uncomfortable silence. The thick grass underfoot absorbed the sound of their steps. Except for their breathing, he heard nothing. Not even the sound of crickets.

That usually meant one thing.

Without indication or forewarning, Wendell felt the knife blade touch lightly against his throat. The cold metal startled him, but before he could jerk away, a heavy boot kicked him behind the knee. His legs collapsed, dropping him to the ground.

“That’s quite far enough,” whispered the voice, but it was not directed at Wendell. There was a tremor…maybe panic, perhaps excitement in the tone. “Turn around slowly, or your friend will breathe through a new hole.”

Evan stood upright. Lifting both hands outward, but keeping a firm grip on his weapon, he started to turn.

“Ah, ah, ah,” warned the voice, “set the hammer down…gently.”

“Not going to happen,” replied Evan coolly.

“I’m not kidding around,” said the voice somewhat nervously, “I’ll cut him, I swear it!”

Evan shrugged, “Then do it.”

Wendell tried not to shriek. W-what’s he playing at?! He could feel a vibration through the blade as the man’s hand started to tremble. He’s going to do it! He’s actually considering cutting my throat! But Wendell noticed something odd—he didn’t feel nervous. At all. Images and memories of wrestling with his father when he was younger came to mind. Being flipped forward onto the couch, when he would attack his dad in jest.

Exhaling slowly, Wendell reached up, grabbed the hand holding the knife and hugged it closely to his chest. The blade was pulled away from his throat. In the same instant, he stepped back into the attacker, and threw his head and shoulders down towards the ground.

There was a flinch, then a gasp, followed by squeak.

The short, chubby man, hit the ground with a loud grunt and a thud.

Evan rushed forward as Wendell released his grip and stumbled backwards. Woah—it…worked! Both of his hands frantically patted over the skin of his neck. Don’t be cut! Don’t be cut! But he didn’t feel any pain. Not even discomfort.

Wendell breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

Evan gripped the hammer, ready to strike as he mounted the little man’s chest. “Who are you!” he demanded, and he made a motion as if to hit him.

Chubby arms in a thin tunic covered face and head, “PLEASE!” he begged, “Don’t hit me! I didn’t mean any harm!!”

“Didn’t mean any harm? You had a knife at my friend’s neck!”

Wendell stopped his self check, “Heyyyyy…you told him he could cut me!”

Evan ignored him.

Wendell’s eyes were adjusting to the lack of light and he noticed the little man was looking about nervously. Wendell looked cautiously around them, but couldn’t see a soul. “I think he might have friends around here, Evan” he suggested.

“NO!” Blurted the man. “There’s no one here, I swear it!”

Evan got up and dragged the man to his feet by his collar, slamming his chest into a tree. He laid the handle of the hammer across the mans rounded shoulders.

“Daddy!” cried a little girl, popping up and dashing out of the shadows. She was hiding behind the thick shrubs growing between the trees along the hillside.

“Una,” snapped another, older child’s voice.

The man struggled against the blacksmith’s grip and wailed, “I told you girls to be silent!” He tried to look over his shoulder, pleadingly, “Please, I beg of you—don’t hurt my little girls! Take whatever you want, but don’t harm them!” He nodded down towards his vest, “I have silver! In my pocket—take it. Take it all! PLEASE!”

Evan leaned in close, “Keep your voice down!”

The man bit his lip and nodded vigorously.

Wendell watched the little girl cling to her father, holding the mans hand tightly to her face. A moment later a second child—older, taller, approached them at a walk. She looked between them cautiously.

“Evan,” said Wendell, “I think he believe’s WE are the creatures.”

“What?” the blacksmith immediately let go of the man.

Both children quickly huddled against their father, who wrapped his arms around them both. He whispered soothingly, “It will be all right. We’ll get through this.”

“Sir,” whispered Wendell, scratching the back of his neck, “is that your home that’s burning down there? Because we’re not with them. We’ve just escaped from an attack on our own village, a days ride south.” It almost startled Wendell, when he realized how natural it felt, to refer to himself as from Evan’s village.

“We need to go, Wendell,” grumbled Evan. “Once that farm is burned, they’re going to move on—and if we’re not gone, they’re going to find us.” He turned to leave.

Wendell ran up and quickly grabbed the blacksmith’s arm. “We have to take them with us. We can’t just leave them here, on their own.”

Evan scoffed, “He had a knife at your neck!”

“Yeah,” Wendell replied, “which you encouraged him to use! Come on—he thought I was a Vallen. Which I’m not, thank you very much.”

The blacksmith looked over at the little man, but his eyes lingered on the children.

“You said you had a responsibility to those around you,” reminded Wendell. He jabbed his thumb at the three huddled under the tree, “they’re around you.”

Evan growled.