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choose our path and
turned my attention to the daunting task of hanging on.
    Smoke found a narrow, overgrown path,
and we followed it. I settled down in the saddle as low as
possible, leaning forward, almost to the point of lying down—which
I would have done, except for the heaving, powerful muscles that
rose and fell, making it impossible. I was always amazed at the
strength, speed, and endurance that Smoke possessed. It was
exhilarating to be on such a creature. To hear the rhythmic,
thumping sound that his hooves made, as they tore up the ground
beneath us, was intoxicating. We catapulted through the trees. As
long as I hung on, there really wasn’t much of a chance the
pursuing riders would catch us.
    After a long while, they seemed to have
come to the same conclusion. The crashing and cursing behind me
faded. Even in their numbers, they wouldn’t risk traveling very
deep into the woods at night. Too many things could go wrong and
one could easily get lost.
    Suddenly, there in the darkness, I
wondered if Thomas and Mr. Shepherd were right. Had the woods grown
dangerous over the last few years, particularly to the north? The
few who ventured there never returned—or at least that’s what the
rumors were.
    The direction I’m traveling,
I
thought glumly.
    I slowed Smoke’s gait to one he could
hold for some time. Putting miles between me and Syre still seemed
the best choice.
After all, they might decide to try again in
the morning.
    Dark shadows encroached all around us
as we traveled deeper and deeper into the woods. The trees grew
thicker and the path disappeared. A canopy of leaves blocked the
light of the moon and stars. Sinister branches reached out as if to
pull us into forbidden paths. An owl hooted somewhere, hidden in
the blackness. I was glad to have lost the riders, but a strange
part of me wished they were there; at least they were something
tangible I could fear. Now, before me stretched the unknown,
unending, ominous forest.
    After losing track of time and
distance, and no doubt completely lost, we burst into a small
clearing that was bathed in pale moonlight. I shivered. The
temperature had been dropping steadily as the night progressed, but
this felt unnaturally cold.
    A mist hung low over the ground,
swirling angrily behind us, as if disturbed from a deep slumber by
our mere presence. I slowed our pace and looked around. After a few
minutes, we stopped completely. Smoke’s breathing grew more
regular. Steam rose off his gigantic, sweating body; and puffs of
vapor shot out his nostrils. I strained my ears to listen…nothing.
Except for Smoke’s breathing, and the cold settling around us (if
there is such a sound), the woods were completely silent. Upon
realizing that I had been holding my breath, I slowly exhaled,
careful not to disturb the now sleeping mist.
    The forest sounds (or in this case, the
lack of them) could play tricks with the mind; but something didn’t
feel
right, and I decided now would be a good time to arm
myself. I looked at the musket strapped to the side of the saddle,
a tool that had a tremendous amount of power and distance; but
there were drawbacks to using it. For one, I wasn’t terribly fast
at reloading, and even worse was my marksmanship. Unless both the
target and I were stationary, the target had a very good chance of
surviving.
    Deciding against the musket, I turned
in the saddle and reached for my crossbow secured to the outside of
a pack. Unlike the musket, I was a much better shot with it and
could reload quickly. Quietly, with a few fluid movements, I strung
the bow. Any bow kept strung up for too long would eventually lose
its spring and would be worthless. However, a bow not strung up in
time of danger could lose its master—a situation I considered to be
infinitely worse. I strung it twice, because it was really two bows
mounted to the same stock, giving me the added advantage of an
extra shot. Its master began to relax, but only a
little.
    I gently squeezed