Faabar’s huge silhouette led them, the great blade on his back gleaming sharply when he turned to check for signs of their quarry’s egress. Padric wished he could ask Rosheen for her Faery-fire, but knew it would only draw attention should something be waiting for them in the dark, so he followed blindly, his once sore feet numb from the knee deep water. He trusted Faabar had a reason for traveling in the stream and avoiding the banks.

They traveled in silence, stopping occasionally to let Faabar scout the woods to either side. With each foray the fomori was gone longer and longer, while Padric and the rest waited in the water. They waited now, growing more impatient with each long minute. Padric felt his body flagging while his mind grew more anxious. This trek through the dark was beginning to spark of madness and Padric could not help but recall the last night he spent with Rosheen on his back traveling through a darkened forest.

Faabar returned at last, moving low and careful. He rejoined them in the stream bed and motioned them to gather. His voice was a wet whisper in the dark.

“Follow me and move silently. Padric remove your pack. Deglan you will have to leave Bulge Eye here.”

Something in the warrior’s voice killed any complaint the gnome might have given. He kicked his mount over to the bank and dismounted. Padric followed close behind and dropped his pack near the toad. Rosheen took to the air once again.

“He will stay,” Deglan whispered, patting Bulge Eye’s lumpy head.

“Follow,” Faabar repeated. “Low and silent. Our lives depend upon it.”

Padric did as he was told, hunching low as he entered the woods, stepping softly as possible. Faabar led them through the trees, winding his way silently between the trunks. He seemed to go in random directions, never staying long on a straight path. Padric was surprised how silently the large warrior moved despite his size and his injured leg. The gnome crept just as quietly and Rosheen was smoke on the wind. Padric felt he was crashing through the forest, making a tumult of snapped twigs and fallen leaves. Our lives depend on it. Padric expected to die at any second with the noise his feet were making.

They came to a rise in the land, the trees marching dutifully up the slope. Faabar led them down a gully at the base of the rise for some time before stopping. He turned to face them and put his finger to his lips then pointed up the rise. Finally, he spread his fingers and pushed his splayed hand slowly towards the ground. Silence. Up the hill. Keep low. Padric nodded in the dark and swallowed his fluttering breath. They followed the fomori up the hill, three scared, blind goslings. Padric could see the lip of the rise ahead. The trees stood at the crest, black columns edged in the flickering burn of firelight. Padric’s mouth turned sour. More fires. More forest. More death.