Helmold Brecht spurred his horse from a canter to a run.

  There would be time to relax later, when Aerin Morholt returned to fix this infernal situation. For now they rode hard, to make as much space as possible between themselves and the enemy.

  Night had fallen, but the road was blessedly open and easy to follow in the dark. The moons peeked through the clouds, their colors blending to cast an eerie violet glow on the road ahead as they raced on, the rhythmic pounding of hooves smothering the subtler sounds of the forest. Under normal circumstances Helmold might have enjoyed the scent of the cool night air, of damp earth and pine, but the dread-induced sharpness of his senses made everything around him feel like a threat.

  He thought he’d seen a flock of small birds behind him, led through the sky by a crow with red feathers.

  It was an unusual sight the first time he’d noticed it a few days ago.

  The second time it distressed him somewhat, but he blew it off.

  Now he was sure they were following them.

  His stomach still felt like it had turned to stone. His heart raced, and his senses of touch and sound felt too keen. Hyperactive. Aroused in the manner of a prey animal in flight.

  Helmold glanced to his side to see Aric Morholt riding next to him, his head low, his expression plain and unreadable. The lad’s resolve impressed and baffled him. He knew he was afraid. He’d seen it in the boy’s eyes. It seemed he was adept at shoving it down into his guts when he had to.

  Perhaps the boy had some spine after all.

  Not that he should have needed it.

  They had escaped! They were inches from victory!

  This was not fair…

  The road ahead stretched into the darkness, its end unseen. But it was the way they came to Beroh Keep in the first place, so Helmold recalled the lay of the land. It would continue on a gentle slope for some miles before crossing a small river at its lowest point, and then carrying on into the foothills. Towering pines flanked the road on either side, each tree standing a polite distance from its neighbors.

  Animals occasionally rustled in the underbrush, and the distant calls of night birds echoed through the trees. Each small sound struck Helmold’s ears like a dagger thrust, drawing panicked glances, making his heart beat faster.

  He could swear he heard the distant baying of hounds.

  They were getting closer. Barking and growling, calling to each other from either side of the road.

  Helmold closed his eyes. Shook his head.

  He wished ardently that his fearful mind wouldn’t attack itself so.

  There could be no hounds this close. They had a generous head start. And it would have taken time to dispatch hunting hounds in the first place, time he knew they instead spent on some daft spectator sport.

  They shouldn’t even know of their absence yet.

  He repeated all these things as he rode. Nevertheless, the sounds tormented him.

  Then his heart truly leapt.

  Because the sounds became sights.

  To the right of the road he spied the first one. A lean hunting hound, running with its head low and its eyes on Helmold and Aric. It was a sleek thing, with short red fur, a maw full of sharp white teeth, and yellow eyes that gleamed in the dark. The sight of those eyes stirred the fear already burning in his chest.

  There were more. Another behind the first. Then he heard the baying of more hounds on their opposite side. They were flanking them on the left and the right, coming up behind them at speed, gaining even though they were on horses and going at an all-out run.

  Helmold’s eyes grew wide. His heart pounded in his ears.

  “Hounds!” he called out to Aric.

  Aric glanced to the side, frowned, returned his attention to the path ahead. In a moment he spied a fork in the road before them, pointed at it.

  “There!” he called out.

  And when the fork came, Aric made a hard turn to the left.

  Helmold wanted to call out to him, call him a fool for veering from the path, but he wasn’t thinking clearly. He simply followed, fully aware this was not the correct route down to the foothills. But he’d rather be lost with a companion than be alone with the hounds.

  As Helmold veered onto the side path, his horse whining in protest as he jerked the reins, the red crow alighted on a low tree branch nearby and cawed at him.

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  The damned thing looked amused.

  Helmold snapped the reins, spurred the flanks of his horse as hard as he could. His legs felt stiff, tight, as if instinctively ready to run despite being mounted.

  These were Redmane’s minions. There was no question about it now. It wasn’t his fearful imagination, but that was small comfort. He wished these beasts were illusions born from madness instead.

  But he had many wishes he couldn’t fulfill.

  For one, he wished he were anywhere else.

  As the road narrowed and bent this way and that, zigzagging through the increasingly dense forest around him, he tried to take his mind somewhere pleasant. To think about a good day. Like his last day in Port Luck. He’d won enough hands of cards and tosses of the dice to come out ahead. The honey glazed boar was perfectly seasoned and so tender the meat fell from the bone, the rum was sweet and spicy and left him in a divine stupor, and the women were the finest young things his winnings could buy.

  That was a good day.

  He wanted to close his eyes and focus on all those magnificent flavors and textures, but alas, he had a frightened horse to steer through the night.

  As soon as he was out of this mess, he was riding straight back to Port Luck and never returning to the miserable north again. And if he should find Port Luck full of monsters, there would surely be some who drank rum, pimped whores and played dice games.

  With creatures as loathsome as Redmane about, it would only be fair.

  The darkness seemed to close in on him. Or perhaps it was simply the trees. There were more and more, with narrower trunks, and they crowded in close against the road. Not that it could be called a road anymore. More like a narrow hunter’s trail. He could hear the hoofbeats of Aric’s horse ahead of him, but the darkness prevented him from seeing how far ahead the lad was.

  No longer did he hear the snarling of hounds behind him, nor the sound of their paws churning the blanket of detritus on the forest floor. In fact he realized he heard nothing but his horse’s distressed chuffing and snorting as it ran, filled with as much fear as its rider.

  Despite that, Helmold couldn’t shake the constant and palpable sensation of being watched.

  Everything was too calm. Far too calm.

  They no longer rode down a slope, he noted. The terrain evened off, and at times it even felt as though they were climbing. His fearful ears and eyes were ready to dart toward even the slightest sound, but there were few. As if the normal life of the forest itself shrank in fear from the monstrous things in their midst.

  Just ahead he saw Aric slowing his horse down to a canter, and in a moment he had caught up with the lad.

  He looked afraid, but composed.

  Helmold looked away, again embarrassed that a boy could show valor where he could not.

  “It’s him, I fear,” he said to Aric, in a low voice.

  “Of course it is. We’re being hunted.”

  “What do we do?” he asked, and his ears burned when he heard the way his own voice shook.

  “It would be good if you had some useful Skills. Being that you’re Imbued.”

  “I’m a Tutelary,” he said. “I give sermons and Astral Communion and teach Professions. I’m… I am not made for this.”

  Aric slipped a long dagger from a sheath on his belt, held it close in one hand with his other on the reins. His eyes sweeping over the narrow path ahead with focus. Helmold stayed close and behind. Both of their horses slowed to a walk, both mounts breathing heavily, thankful for the respite.

  They came suddenly to the edge of a steep gully. He could hear a little river in motion beneath them, somewhere down in the darkness below. The path that led them here ended at an old suspension bridge constructed of rope and planks, large enough perhaps for the two of them to walk across on horseback, but only barely. Of greater concern was the bridge’s integrity. It looked old. Perhaps too frail to bear even one horse and rider.

  The caw-caw of a crow in the distance sounded too much like mocking laughter.

  Aric gave Helmold a sidelong glance, frowned as if realizing it would be stupid to ask the Imbued to go first, and then he lightly spurred his horse toward the bridge.

  He gripped the reins tightly, pulling his horse's head down to whisper calming words, and in answer the horse snorted, its breath visible in the cold air. Together the mount and rider stepped onto the bridge, the wooden planks immediately groaning under their weight.

  He paused, listening to the creaks, then proceeded, each step deliberate.

  The ropes holding the bridge swayed and creaked with each step. Aric kept his gaze fixed forward, his hand firm on the reins. The horse hesitated, hooves clattering against the wood, eyes wide and nostrils flared. Aric tugged gently, coaxing the animal forward.

  Midway across, the bridge sagged under their combined weight. Helmold couldn’t help but notice again the sound of water rushing by below them. Aric stopped, steadying the horse as it danced nervously. The dry, coarse fibers of the rope railings twisted, trying to pull apart from each other.

  Aric let his mount relax before trying to spur him on. When they made it a few paces past the midpoint, the horse sped up, then leaped onto solid ground, its body trembling. Aric patted its neck, his breath steady, his face set in a grim line as he turned to look back at Helmold, waiting for him to follow.

  Helmold's throat tightened as he approached the bridge. He gripped the reins, his knuckles white, his palms slick with sweat. The horse balked at the edge, its eyes rolling with fear. Helmold tugged harder, his movements jerky and unsure.

  The first step onto the bridge sent a shudder through the planks and Helmold alike. The way it swayed made his stomach twist. His horse snorted, hooves skittering on the wood. Helmold tried to whisper soothing words, but his voice shook, the sound thin and unconvincing.

  Each step was a battle. The bridge swayed violently, ropes groaning under the strain. The horse's ears pinned back, its body tense. Helmold felt every muscle in the animal coil with panic. He tried to steady it, but his own fear transmitted through the reins. He had no reassurances to give because he had none for himself.

  As it had for Aric and his mount, the bridge dipped ominously midway. Only worse this time. A plank began to split with a loud snap and the horse reared, nearly unseating Helmold. He clung to the saddle, his heart hammering against his ribs. They teetered on the edge of balance, the rushing water below a constant roar in his ears.

  Helmold forced his eyes forward, focusing on the far bank that seemed impossibly far away. The horse shuffled forward, each step precarious. The ropes creaked, fibers fraying, splinters from the planks prickling the air.

  He closed his eyes. Regulated his breathing. Forced his mind back to a happy place.

  Cards. Dice. Minstrels playing. Sweet roasted boar. Spicy rum. Pretty little whores.

  Nearing the end, the bridge continued to sag. The horse froze, trembling uncontrollably. Helmold felt the ropes give, the bridge swaying with a sinister creak. He pushed the horse, his voice a desperate whisper.

  With a final lurch they made it across. The horse stumbled onto solid ground, its sides heaving. Helmold let out a great breath of air he hadn’t even realized he was holding in. He glanced back at the treacherous bridge, watching it sway in the dark.

  Damn thing was a death trap.

  “Oh, thank the Nine,” he sighed.

  He heard a snarl.

  And then a great red hound lunged out of the dark.

  PATREON