with blood.
Hallia groaned again and pressed her face against my shoulder. “A deer, poor thing. How could anyone have done that?”
I merely held her, the image of the glowing leaf now replaced by the gruesome scene before us. In time, without looking back, we started to plod again. Once more, we heard nothing but silence apart from our own movements. But now it seemed clearly the silence of death.
We crossed a mound of peat, which jiggled with our every step, then entered the field of marsh grass surrounding the tilting tree. Stiff stalks brushed against our legs as we approached the tree itself. As Hallia leaned against its trunk, I stood beneath its twisted boughs, trying to find a path we could follow to the rise—and, I hoped, to relative safety. In time, I picked out a suitable route. Pushing aside some brittle grass that reached to my chest, I turned to Hallia.
Suddenly the sharp cry of the crane echoed across the swamp. It lifted off from its perch on the nearby boulder, slapping the fog with its broad, silvery wings. Puzzled at what could have frightened it, I scanned the grasses, but saw nothing. Hallia’s eyes told me that she, too, was puzzled, as well as frightened.
We stood rigid, listening. The beating of the crane’s wings slowly faded away, swallowed by the silence. Then . . . I thought I heard something else. Merely an echo of the bird’s flight? No, this sound seemed closer. Much closer. Rhythmic, like shallow, ragged breathing.
At that instant, something dropped out of the tree and thudded into my back. I fell face-first into the grasses, splattering mud in all directions. Before I could recover, I was tackled by a wiry form shrouded in a mass of torn robes. Over and over we rolled through the muck, each of us vying for control. The layers of tattered robes made my assailant hard to see—and even harder to grasp. At last, I felt my arm wrenched tightly behind my back. A strong hand clamped around my neck.
“Yield,” barked a voice, “if you prize your life at all.”
Sputtering from all the swamp water I had swallowed, I couldn’t respond. The attacker twisted my arm still harder, almost splitting my shoulder in two. Finally, I answered hoarsely, “I . . . ah! Yield.”
“Tell your companion to do the same,” he commanded.
Quick as a deer, Hallia leaped at us from the trunk of the tree. She plowed straight into our foe, sending him careening into the marsh grass. I jumped to my feet and ran to him. Instinctively, I reached for my sword, expecting to hear the ring of its magical blade. Finding it gone, I cringed, remembering—and drew my staff instead.
Brandishing the staff’s knobby handle over the huddled figure, I growled a command of my own. “Now,” I declared, “tell us your name.”
Hallia planted a bare foot on one of his legs to keep him from wriggling away. “And why you attacked us.”
From out of the mass of torn robes, a face slowly lifted. It was not, as I had expected, the face of a warrior goblin. Or that of a grizzled outlaw, bent on harm. No, this face was altogether different, and altogether surprising.
It was the face of a boy.
13: E CTOR
The boy stared at us, his face full of anguish. His cheeks, though smeared with mud, still showed a naturally ruddy complexion. Above his flinty blue eyes, yellow curls dangled—barely visible for all the twigs, bracken, and clumps of mud in his hair. His shredded robes hung from him like wilted petals, making him look like an elderly beggar. Yet he couldn’t have been older than twelve.
Still feeling the ache in my shoulder, I waved the staff angrily. “Your name.”
“It’s, well . . .” He paused, licking his lips. “Ector, sir.” Wriggling his leg under Hallia’s weight, he said, “And I didn’t mean to attack you.”
I bristled. “That’s a lie.”
“I, well . . . meant to attack. But not you.” He scratched his head, shaking loose a cluster of twigs, then gazed at me plaintively. “I didn’t
Hallia groaned again and pressed her face against my shoulder. “A deer, poor thing. How could anyone have done that?”
I merely held her, the image of the glowing leaf now replaced by the gruesome scene before us. In time, without looking back, we started to plod again. Once more, we heard nothing but silence apart from our own movements. But now it seemed clearly the silence of death.
We crossed a mound of peat, which jiggled with our every step, then entered the field of marsh grass surrounding the tilting tree. Stiff stalks brushed against our legs as we approached the tree itself. As Hallia leaned against its trunk, I stood beneath its twisted boughs, trying to find a path we could follow to the rise—and, I hoped, to relative safety. In time, I picked out a suitable route. Pushing aside some brittle grass that reached to my chest, I turned to Hallia.
Suddenly the sharp cry of the crane echoed across the swamp. It lifted off from its perch on the nearby boulder, slapping the fog with its broad, silvery wings. Puzzled at what could have frightened it, I scanned the grasses, but saw nothing. Hallia’s eyes told me that she, too, was puzzled, as well as frightened.
We stood rigid, listening. The beating of the crane’s wings slowly faded away, swallowed by the silence. Then . . . I thought I heard something else. Merely an echo of the bird’s flight? No, this sound seemed closer. Much closer. Rhythmic, like shallow, ragged breathing.
At that instant, something dropped out of the tree and thudded into my back. I fell face-first into the grasses, splattering mud in all directions. Before I could recover, I was tackled by a wiry form shrouded in a mass of torn robes. Over and over we rolled through the muck, each of us vying for control. The layers of tattered robes made my assailant hard to see—and even harder to grasp. At last, I felt my arm wrenched tightly behind my back. A strong hand clamped around my neck.
“Yield,” barked a voice, “if you prize your life at all.”
Sputtering from all the swamp water I had swallowed, I couldn’t respond. The attacker twisted my arm still harder, almost splitting my shoulder in two. Finally, I answered hoarsely, “I . . . ah! Yield.”
“Tell your companion to do the same,” he commanded.
Quick as a deer, Hallia leaped at us from the trunk of the tree. She plowed straight into our foe, sending him careening into the marsh grass. I jumped to my feet and ran to him. Instinctively, I reached for my sword, expecting to hear the ring of its magical blade. Finding it gone, I cringed, remembering—and drew my staff instead.
Brandishing the staff’s knobby handle over the huddled figure, I growled a command of my own. “Now,” I declared, “tell us your name.”
Hallia planted a bare foot on one of his legs to keep him from wriggling away. “And why you attacked us.”
From out of the mass of torn robes, a face slowly lifted. It was not, as I had expected, the face of a warrior goblin. Or that of a grizzled outlaw, bent on harm. No, this face was altogether different, and altogether surprising.
It was the face of a boy.
13: E CTOR
The boy stared at us, his face full of anguish. His cheeks, though smeared with mud, still showed a naturally ruddy complexion. Above his flinty blue eyes, yellow curls dangled—barely visible for all the twigs, bracken, and clumps of mud in his hair. His shredded robes hung from him like wilted petals, making him look like an elderly beggar. Yet he couldn’t have been older than twelve.
Still feeling the ache in my shoulder, I waved the staff angrily. “Your name.”
“It’s, well . . .” He paused, licking his lips. “Ector, sir.” Wriggling his leg under Hallia’s weight, he said, “And I didn’t mean to attack you.”
I bristled. “That’s a lie.”
“I, well . . . meant to attack. But not you.” He scratched his head, shaking loose a cluster of twigs, then gazed at me plaintively. “I didn’t
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