Read Winterkill for Free Online

fortification—ever—crashes into me. My throat gets tight and I need to take a few deep breaths to stop my head from spinning.
    Think
.
Keep your head
.
Look around.
    Beyond the tree I spot a broken branch, as though an animal has crashed through. Further on are more branches that look disturbed, but not recent. They aren’t bleeding sap; they were broken long ago. I look off through the brush, following the swept-aside branches.
    It’s a path.
    The grasses underfoot are tamped down by . . . footsteps?
    But it can’t be a trail. Gatherers and trappers don’t come out this far anymore, haven’t for years. Any trails made by the first or second generation would be long overgrown.
    My heart races, but the little voice in my head slows me up. Could be an old trail, still used by animals. Deer? No. The branches are broken off too high for deer.
    Looks as though a person’s been through.
    All right. Think
.
    The right thing to do would be to return and tell Council. They might send a group of armed Watchers to come explore.
    But I can’t. I’m out too far: it’s Wayward, plain and simple. After last night, there’s no telling what Brother Stockham might decide about me. I have to turn around right now and keep quiet, or risk it alone.
    Takings in the daytime are rare.
    I listen to the woods again. There’s nothing but the tinkling of
les trembles
and the sparrow trill. But underneath it all the Lost People are calling to me, urging me forward.
    I’ll just follow it a little ways.
    I start in, moving as quiet as I’m able. The path is slight; I have to look careful. But I’m creeping forward so slow my eyes start to blur on the path. I look up to rest them, scanning the woods beyond, when a tree ahead of me shifts.
    I slow . . . Surely it was the breeze. The tree shifts again. I freeze.
    That tree has a right human-like form.
    I drop to a crouch behind a bush, my heart beating wild.
    Did they see me?
    There’s a silence, so I rise on my haunches, risk a glance around the brush. The figure is dressed in dark clothes, a bison-skin cloak with hood, their back to me. Whoever it is stands still, glancing about.
    I stay frozen, my breath caught.
    Then the figure moves to turn and I duck once more. This withering cranberry bush is scarce cover; I pray my clothing blends in with the gray and brown. The damp smell of rot reaches my nose. The figure’s head is turned to the ground, searching for something, the face hidden deep inside the hood.
    When it turns in my direction, I pull further behind the bush. Silent, I shift to my knees, bow my head, and cower small as I can.
    Twigs snap and the leaves rustle with footsteps—coming straight for my hiding place.
    My heart! It’s deafening, about to thump from my chest.
    If they find me, I’m in a heap of trouble. Unless . . .
    Unless it’s not someone from our settlement.
    Excitement shoots through my fear. It’s not possible. How could they survive out here?
    A thin fluting echoes through the forest. If it’s a birdcall, it’s no bird I know. It reminds me of the willow whistle some of the old men play. The rustling stops.
    I pull my head up, slow, slow . . . and risk another look through the brush. I can’t see proper, but the dark shape is about twenty strides from me now. They’re turning away once more—this time in the direction of the sound that’s trilling through the trees. They haven’t seen me after all. My tongue works to free itself from the roof of my mouth to wet my lips.
    My foot, crushed under my weight, hollers at me. I shift and rise ever so slight, to get a better view.
    The figure is standing sideways to me, the head tilted in a listening way. Looking for something. The hood falls back. Pale skin, chin-length dark hair . . .
    Brother Stockham.
    No stranger at all. For half an addled moment I want to