Petronio leaned back against a support column, not joining in with the banter. He watched the ever-moving flow of Dendrans pouring across the boarded platform and carefully stubbed out the cheroot. Starting a forest fire was in no one’s best interests. Petronio debated whether he could be bothered to hang around any longer when a figure caught his eye. It was a Holly Woodsman with hood up and trailing cloak, purposefully crossing the square. Nothing unusual about that — except there was something in the way the Woodsman moved, appearing almost to glide, rather than stride. Then Petronio’s eyes traveled down to see not rough sandals but expensive, neat, fur-lined boots.

“Excuse me, lads. Gotta go.” Petronio didn’t bother to say thanks. He never did. The figure had already vanished from view. He ran across the square, not knowing quite why he wanted to follow. It was just instinct. Around a corner, the branch split. Left or right? Petronio sniffed the air like a hunter. A scent hung there. It seemed familiar. He veered right and followed the twisting branchway, trying not to run. Up ahead, the Woodsman came back into view, moving with the same intent pace. At each turning, the Woodsman took the fork that seemed to lead ever farther off the beaten track until even Petronio began to wonder where they were.

An old, weather-beaten sign warned that the way ahead was closed for repairs. The Woodsman ignored it, climbed nimbly over, and continued down the disused branch line. Petronio paused, his eyes nervously scanning the treescape. If he kept following now, it would be more than obvious. Up above, a couple of wild timber goats were perched on high branches that looked like they wouldn’t support a sparrow, let alone a cloven-hoofed mammal. The goats didn’t even bother looking at the stranger below, too busy grazing on the fungus blossom that covered the bark.

A sudden cry from farther along interrupted Petronio’s indecision, followed by a thud. Robbers? He doubted it. His father ran the protection rackets with an iron fist. Criminal free enterprise had been stamped out. Maybe it was the ravens. But whoever heard of a raven attacking a priest?

There was another cry, closer now. “Help!”

Instinct again. Petronio leapt over the warning sign and ran wildly down the line. The figure had collapsed. A horrible rattling sound was bubbling from the Woodsman’s throat. Only as Petronio drew closer did he remember where he’d first come across that scent.

“My … lady?”

“Help … need …” The fine, thin fingers with bright red nails were scrabbling toward a leather bag at her side.

The hood had fallen back, and he could see the woman’s face covered in a light sheen of sweat as her other hand clutched at her throat.

“What? I don’t understand what you —” But Petronio grabbed up the bag anyway.

“Quick … gas …”