They waited until the travelers had passed the last of the trees before emerging from their hiding places and launching their attack. They scurried from the forest like massive ants, hands and feet slapping the ground, their movements so fluid that they seemed to flow. Ramus saw them first, a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. He shouted to Lulah. The Serian was standing a few steps ahead of him, horse reins in one hand, the other held up to shield her eyes as she looked at the view. For some reason, the gray people bypassed Ramus; it was Lulah they went for first.

He smelled them as they drifted by, like old, musty, forgotten things. Their long hair flowed behind them, and seen through its trailing strands, the forest lost all its color.

Lulah cried out, batting the first gray person aside and stepping back as she drew her sword. But there were too many and they were on her, sticking like mud, wrapping their arms and legs around her torso, knocking the sword from her hand and driving her to the ground. Her arm flashed out and one of the attackers screeched, a high keening cry that sent a shiver down Ramus's spine. Blood splashed the air—surprisingly red—and the thing fell away from Lulah, clasping a hand to a vibrant wound across its shoulder.

Lulah's screams changed from fear to pain, and Ramus wondered what they had done to her.

He looked back into the forest and saw more of the gray people coming at him. They emerged from the gloom between the trees, and then he realized that some were materializing from out of the trees themselves, parting from trunks like smoke taking shape and form.

Lulah's screams changed again. From fear to pain, and now from pain to wretchedness.

What are they doing to her? Ramus drew his knife and stepped forward, but then the gray people fell on him as well. He had imagined them as mere wraiths, but their weight surprised him, crushing him down and squeezing him inside. His head pulsed with pain, but what they sought existed far deeper.

Ramus felt the swell of old knowledge, much of it hidden away in the darkest corners of his mind, and at last he knew where Lulah's desolate scream had originated. He screamed as his own terrible memories rose.

His mother cries as he laughs at her, and it's a childhood wickedness he would never forget. She has had a hard life bringing him up on her own, every painful day etched in her face, and she nurses her bruised arm, loving him far too much to ever curse him for striking her. He is nine years old. He continues laughing, because to stop would be to allow access for the shame and shock pressing in from all around. She looks at him and loves him, and Ramus laughs some more.