Read Dragonhammer: Volume I for Free Online Page A

and the season wax on, and they contrast sharply with the rocks that line the river sporadically.  Some trees stand apart from the main body of forest in a feeble attempt to gradually introduce the forest to the landscape.
    I’m not much of a hunter, so once we enter the forest, I follow Nathaniel and try not to make any noise.  He leads me for a little while without any luck, which isn’t really surprising because most of the good animals are towards the middle of the forest.  I snap a branch accidentally and he gives me a little glare.  I mouth, “Sorry,” to him, and we move on.
    We stay relatively close to the Fravora, but always keep in mind which direction we come from.  If we ever get lost, which has happened before, then all we need to do is find the river.  It’s our compass in this forest.
    Nathaniel, his bow strung, moves quieter and with more graceful, precise movements.  This suggests that he has seen something, so I copy him.
    Suddenly, in one motion, he draws an arrow, nocks it, and shoots it through the eye of an animal twenty yards away.
    The rabbit doesn’t so much as squeak.  It’s just a little one, but I’m a fan of rabbit stew and the fur usually sells alright.
    Nathaniel strings it to his backpack by the foot, and leads us deeper into the wood.
    The trees are getting taller, and soon they loom so high over me that I think they must be mountains.  I try to wrap my arms around one, but only come around about a quarter of the way.  The deciduous leaves block sunlight from the ground, so only pockets of the golden stuff make it to the dirt.  Normal pine trees seem to be a little jealous of the height of the enormous redwoods.
    Fallen pine needles, pinecones, and some rocks litter the ground.  Shrubs, ferns, and smaller trees provide cover for undersized animals, but Nathaniel can’t detect any.  When he does, it usually ends up startling him or getting away.
    We walk over a tree that must have died and rotted until it fell over.  Most of it remains intact, but parts of it are crumbling open to reveal the softening red insides of the gargantuan tree.
    Inside one of the rotting cracks in the tree, I hear buzzing.
    Both of us freeze.  Nathaniel looks at me and I whisper, “Dingflies.”
    Dingflies are ugly little insects that nest in colonies, like bees.  They have their own little society and act almost just like bees.  But they can’t defend themselves.
    Dingflies can’t bite.  They can’t sting.  They can’t scratch.  It’s pathetic really.  The worst they can do is buzz around your face and get into places they shouldn’t, which includes… well, never mind. 
    The little purple bugs are named because they look like flies, but also because of the sound their nest makes when you hit it.  Some use it as an instrument and have figured out how to fluctuate the tone produced, but nobody can figure out why it makes such a sound.
    The only reason we want to steer clear of them is because once they lock on to our food, they won’t let it get away until it’s gone or they’re dead.
    A few dingflies surface from the rotting tree, but we pass quietly and they leave us alone.
    After another two hours pass, I know that the rabbit was a lucky shot.  Nathaniel has missed two small mammals, one of them by a mile, and scared off another.  At the moment he’s on the trail of a deer, which we’re following intently.
    It’s no surprise that the trail is headed towards the river.  I’m glad because I want to take a break and splash my face a little, half hoping that we mysteriously lose the deer’s trail.
    Once we reach the river, Nathaniel has no idea where the deer has gone.  The river is wide at this point, and a rock outcrop juts about a quarter of the distance outward.  Rapids crash by just under the point, made all the more violent by more rocks and boulders sticking up out of the water.  A large log sticks out at an odd angle.  White water is everywhere.  There’s no