Somewhere, in the thick underbrush of the forest, a twig snapped.

Snap.

Cringing slightly at the sound, Gareth’s hand instantly flew to the hilt of his sword. He listened intently as the cold autumn wind blew through the trees, creating a mysterious whispering sound. At another time, he might have loved to listen to it.

But not now.

He felt a muscle in his jaw twitch from the strain he was putting on his nerves, just because he’d heard something he couldn’t immediately identify.

Snap.

A scrawny white rabbit stiffly crawled out from under a bush, the light coming from the fire Gareth had lit casting shadows on it that made the animal look even worse. It looked diseased. Starved. Like it was seriously sick. The fur was matted, it had even had bald patches, and the ribs were clearly sticking out from under sagging skin.

The rabbit’s dried out pink nose twitched as it sniffed the air. It wasn’t aware that Gareth was present. Yet. But once the creature spotted the human, it froze, one paw raised off the ground, poised rather regally despite its ragged outside.

It sniffed the air once, twice. Then ran for it. A few twigs snapped at its departure, then all was still again.

“Look, Gareth, even a rag-doll of a rabbit has more pride then you do!” Gareth mocked himself, releasing the sword-hilt. He felt more relieved than he should have.

“Ready to fight, Gareth? Ready to face the fierce bunny rabbit? Watch out for the sharp teeth!”

Gareth’s tone was vicious as he patronized himself. Talking to himself had long become a habit, due to the lack of company. He only had his pack and his sword, and his own voice to keep him sane in his exile.

He stood up, stretching. He felt stiff from crouching; his bones and muscles seemed to have turned to stone in the cold wind. Walking around the fire a few times, he tried to rid himself of the heavy feeling. While doing that, he stared at the fire, getting lost in the swaying dance of the flames for a second.

Without really noticing it, his hand made its way to a small locket that hung around his neck. Calloused fingers rubbed over the delicate carvings as he tried to forget about the picture of the woman inside the locket. With one finger he snapped it open, then shifted his gaze from the fire to the ornate piece of jewelry on his hand.

Usually it comforted him to look at her like this . . . But it was different tonight. Tonight he was restless. There was something that made him uneasy.

A grim expression on his face, he snapped the locket shut, and determinedly stuffed it back inside his shirt. His long black hair, bound back with a leather string, stirred as the wind shifted, then freed itself of the confinement of what bound it together. Now the wind came from a different direction, and the trees whispered different stories to each other.

“The Fates are watching. Waiting for the right moment to strike.” Frowning, he lifted his face into the wind; chin high raised with defiance against invisible deities.

His defiance evaporated, turning into nervousness. Twitchier than before, he glanced around. But found nothing. “Stop being an idiot,” he told himself. “It’ll only make it worse.”

Another nervous glance around. “But I don’t like it.”

His gaze fixed on dancing lights in the distance. He knew he was somewhere in between St. Toby’s, and Giravendor, close to some village that wasn’t even on the maps. His hair blew into his face as the wind picked up.

Somewhat wryly he remember how the Nobles despised life that carried uncertainty, and thus retreated into their cities that floated high above the common life. The power to keep them in the air was extracted from whatever talented peasants they had managed to capture and enslave. They would remain up there for the rest of their lives, which turned out to be horribly short because the Nobles drained them of their powers.

Snap. Yet another twig broke in the underbrush. A bit more self-confident than the last time, Gareth tore his eyes from the lights of the houses in the village, and focused on his surroundings once again.

The wind had died down without forewarning, an eerie, thick silence replacing it. Gareth was sure that, if he’d wanted to, he could have sliced it with his sword and served it on a platter.

But his confidence died, slowly, like the fire, which was reducing itself to mere embers. Gareth strained to hear the sounds in the forest around him. But who-, or whatever, was stalking him now had realized he was aware of them.

Gripping the sheath oh his sword in one hand, and the hilt of the blade with the other, he drew his sword. He felt old scars from there the weapon had cut him open, blood trickling down the metal. But somehow, the familiar pain gave him comfort.

There was an odd, hissing sound. Gareth’s head jerked up as he tried to locate it. It came again, this time more coherent than the last.

“Gaaareeeeeeeethhh . . .”

Gareth jumped when he realized it was his name that was being called. The hissing was cold, deadly. It froze him, made his blood run cold. This was definitely no harmless, if diseased, forest creature. First of all, a normal animal couldn’t speak. And second, it would not know him by his name.

“Who are you?” he snarled back. He felt his body tense from instinct. Back somewhat bent, feet further apart, muscles ready to spring, he waited for an answer - if in form of words, or an attack, did not matter. The first blooms sprang from the seed called worry that had engrained itself in his mind by now.

No matter how much he had steeled himself against it, the first blow caught him by surprise. Cackling, his mysterious opponent launched itself from an overhead tree branch, landing on his back while lodging its claws deeply in Gareth’s shoulder. He yelped, trying to shake the thing off.

It jumped off on its own accord, though not without tearing deeper gashes and flesh from his back. It jumped back onto a branch, breaking into a mixture maniacal laughter and a wheezy cackling at the injury it had caused. Gareth, however, reached for his shoulder far calmer than he perhaps should have been.

In the light of the dying embers, he saw the thick crimson fluid that coated his fingers once he had pulled his hand back to inspect it. More curious than in pain or horror, he wiggled his fingers. ‘Hmm, blood . . .’ he thought with interest, as if he’d never seen it before.

He was more aware of what was going on than his opponent had anticipated. As the strange creature flew down from its perch once more to strike, Gareth sprang aside as best as he could. Not without the thing slashing at his arm, drawing more blood, but he had avoided more serious injury.

Grimly Gareth crouched, gripping his weapon with both hands, and waited. The creature just sat there, a dark silhouette against the light, unmoving. Gareth seized whatever little chance he saw, jumped forward, and struck at the beast.

For the first time, Gareth actually saw its face. The thing sneered as Gareth advanced. “Annabel wants youuu . . .” it hissed smoothly. “Yes, yoouuuuu . . .” It cackled, throwing its head back.

Gareth’s eyes widened, stopping his attack within inches of the thing. And stared.

He’d forgotten to listen to his fighting instincts. In his moment of stupor, the creature has gripped sword and wrenched it from his grip, powerful for such a small body. The blood had made Gareth’s hands slick. The sword was tossed aside as if it were worthless.

And Gareth suddenly found himself on his back, the surprisingly heavy little beast sitting on his chest. It was ugly, with gnarled limbs and a twisted complexion. Its face was within inches of his own.

“She knows youuu . . . She knows the darkness in youu . . .” it said in a singsong voice. Gareth tried hard not to choke at the stench of its breath. He gasped for air, the weight of the creature made it hard to draw air into his lungs.

“You belong with herrr . . .”

“Go away!” he managed. “If she wants me so badly -- then she’ll have to -- to get me herself!”

The beast’s black lips curled into a nasty little sneer, this time causing its ears to wiggle just like Gareth could make his do. “But you knooooow you want to coooome . . .”

Gareth barely managed to grasp at the dagger in his belt, but with a small light of hope dancing before his eyes, he drew the small blade. Just as the thing was raising its claws to attack again, he slammed the dagger home. It screeched, freezing in mid-motion. Dead eyes stared at nothing for a moment, then it fell off Gareth, turning into dust that the autumn wind briskly blew away, scattering it into every direction.

Shakily Gareth picked himself up of the ground. What a nightmare . . . His head was pounding, his chest was hurting from where the little beast had sat on. He stumbled a few steps, feeling foolish for acting as if he were drunk. Finally he managed to steady himself against a tree.

But only instants later his legs gave way under him, and he crumpled to the ground face first. The last dancing sparks of the remainder of a fire vanished as darkness enveloped him.