They had been running several minutes and Tildy had yet to catch a glimpse of their pursuers. There was no doubt in her mind what chased them. Bile rose in her throat, but she refused to let the sickness overcome her.

When the witch pointed to a low hillock crowned by a broken castle, however, it began to feel like they stood a chance. “The remains of Alarune, as it is known today,” her mother panted, her red face etched with exhaustion. “The King’s Dragonriders obliterated it an age ago after it fell to rebel Gingalins. Even so, some shelter remains, and the high ground gives us an advantage.”

Even now, she teaches, Tildy thought as rocks emerged beneath her feet. They had discovered an overgrown cobblestone road, and soon it led them amongst the broken grey stone that peppered the landscape like some Giant had thrown fistfuls of boulders. They ascended, Marklin in the lead, and discovered that the highgrasses masked the true size of the hillock.

“There,” gasped the witch as they passed the massive head of a statue. It lay partially buried, yet a person could have climbed into the figure’s mouth with room to spare. She led them to a broad crumbling wall where stood a small postern, the door to which had long since rotted away, and they deposited their packs. “We cannot outrun them. We shall make our stand here, if it comes to that. And if we must flee, this opening will slow them down as we make our way through the ruins and over the hill. But here,” she said, sitting down heavily and rubbing her bare feet, “I need to rest for a moment.”

* * * * *

Worried, Tildy studied her mother, who kept her face downcast. Marklin surveyed the grasslands of Hillsend. “Are they those Slither-things?” he asked between breaths.

The witch did not raise her head. “I have not espied them, but yes, I believe they are Tildeneth’s Eslavanaash.”

He nodded and spoke no response, but his fearful expression said plenty. Shading her eyes, Tildy thought how convenient her telescope might be, but the brass instrument lay discarded upon her bed in Dappledown.

“Now, listen to me,” the witch began. Tildy and Marklin leaned closer. “Of old, these creatures loyally served the Evershadow, which some name Delosh and others call the Warden of Lost Souls, among other names. They aided Its war upon mortals but have not been seen for three ages of Malthreare.” She looked at Tildy. “Twelve years ago, I suspected their return, but my fears were never confirmed. Such a thought was absurd, even in days like those.”

“But the Evershadow isn’t real,” Tildy said. “It’s a folk story, a cautionary tale to scare children. Young children,” she added.

The witch’s darkened face was nearly unrecognizable as she recalled some black memory. “Is it?”

Tildy shivered. This, more than anything she had heard, frightened her the most.

“They’ve been hiding for thousands of years?” Marklin asked, his voice a mixture of disbelief and wonder.

“And twelve years more, if my suspicions were correct. And to think they have returned for anything other than dark purpose is foolishness.” Her eyes lingered on Tildy.

“But why come back now?” Tildy asked.

The witch picked at a patch of dying grass and shook her head. “I believe they have received some sign from the Evershadow, or rather, they think they have. For what else would force them from their holes, having hidden in them for ten thousand years? I can think of no other answer, which makes me wonder if they are connected to my garden’s riddles, for ill or worse.” She looked intently at their faces. She must have seen that they understood, for she said, “We are not playing children’s games, though rumor of dark creatures had already told us that! But this enemy is far more dangerous than the Sarsenith.”

* * * * *

She struggled to her feet, digging in a pouch and wheezing. “Let me see your staff, lad.” When Marklin stepped forward and lowered it, she tied a jewel-beaded leather thong to one end, rings and bells tied and looped to it. “This charm will make the staff strike true, and soon it would appear,” she added, looking out over the plain. “There will be no need to return it to me.”

Marklin’s eyes reluctantly moved from the ornament to follow her gaze. “Thanks,” he said, as much dread in his voice as gratitude.

Tildy retrieved her sling. As she did, her other hand automatically dug into her bag of projectiles. Instead of the usual rounded rocks she retrieved from the river, she felt warm stones of similar shape and size. A gift from the Dryad?

“Tildeneth,” said the witch. Her serious tone pushed the stones from Tildy’s thoughts. “Your aim is hard and true, but there may come a time when rocks no longer serve your defense. Take this and keep it until I ask for its return.” From a dirty white cloth, she removed a dagger that gleamed like sunlight on water. No, more like water was trapped beneath the surface of the blade. Tildy recognized it as the weapon from the vision.

“I haven’t used one for anything but gardening and herbcraft,” she replied, accepting the weapon.

“May you still be able to say that after today,” her mother replied grimly. “I would have you leave us and fly to safety, but I know your mind.”

“Ho! They are coming,” cried Marklin, who stood resolute with staff at the ready.

The witch joined him, clutching her chest. “Eslavanaash.”

“Slither-withers,” said Tildy, standing between them. She tried to focus on their pursuers, not her mother’s struggling breaths.

* * * * *

The hunting pack skimmed toward them through the highgrass, a roiling mass of snakelike bodies sliding over and under each other as they came. It made counting them difficult, which was likely their intent. They all held spears, but their bows remained slung over their shoulders. With all the movement, aiming a stone would be impossible.

Marklin said, “I make out six heads, but cannot say for certain.” The witch took a few steps for a better look.

Like writhing entrails, the grotesque knot of bodies swirled closer. Tildy attempted to control her fear, despite waves of horror that sickened her. After stowing the dagger, her hand returned to the bag of slingstones, but her fingers only fidgeted, and she found she couldn’t get them to grasp anything.

A gentle hand touched her arm. She turned to see Marklin’s strained but resolute face. “We’ll be alright,” he said, barely controlling his own fear.

“How can you say that?” she whispered, staring down at his hand upon her tree-bark mottled skin.

“There’s something about her, isn’t there?” he said, jingling the witch’s charm. His mouth coaxed out a smile. “Much as it is with you.” Tildy wanted to smile as a worried sickness nearly overcame her. Was it a fear of the Slithers or her mother’s sudden weariness? Or was it simply the same old illness that always plagued her?

She nodded and finally clutched a stone. He nodded back. She felt better, though her stomach began to churn for another reason as she stared into his blue eyes.

An unusual warmth in her hand caused her to study the round white stone, upon which she saw fillenian etched in Faeish runes. The word was unfamiliar, but comfort radiated with the heat. Comfort, and a growing confidence.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, the Slither-withers had stopped advancing. One separated from the pack, which still slid and coiled upon itself, though in slower motion. The lone creature wore additional adornments, including a pack with a tall pole strapped to its back. Near the tip, a crimson pennant bearing foul black symbols fluttered in the wind. The creature’s twin tails swept behind it as it came, creating mesmerizing ripples in the highgrass.

The raspy voice of the Slither-wither leader called up the hill to them. “Swee wants sa miss,” it said, its words intermingled with hisses. “Swee chase sa smellsa miss.”

“What did it say?” Marklin asked.

The witch kept her eyes on the leader. “She says they want Tildeneth,” she said, frowning.

The color drained from Tildy’s face. “Me?” Was this retribution for helping the Fairy escape? Or did they know about her abilities?

“Swee wants sa miss!” the creature repeated, pointing its spear at her. “But swee can take sou alls!” It grabbed and shook a bandolier strapped across its chest, as though it had made an ultimatum. Tildy remembered that one of the Slither-withers in the forest wore something similar, but she couldn’t tell if this were the same creature.

Hissing louder, the others made threatening gestures with their weapons as they writhed behind their leader. A black arrow struck the ground at their feet, a ribbon tied near the feather fletchings. Tildy saw more unfamiliar symbols on the ribbon. “That’s a deadly warning if ever I saw one,” said Marklin. He stepped forward to stand between his companions and the creatures, his staff held high. The charm tinkled lightly.

Tildy heard the witch tut at the gesture, and she smiled. A curious sensation spread through her. But it wasn’t fear. She understood what the creature was saying – We want the miss­ – meaning Tildy herself, of course. She giggled.

Her companions gawked at her. She laughed again. “They sound ridiculous!”

“Tildeneth,” warned the witch with a wheeze, “this is hardly the time.”

With another laugh, Tildy flung a stone at the enemy leader, hitting her in the wide space between her eyes. The stone turned to dust upon impact and the creature sneezed as she fell, writhing and gnawing one of her tails in anger. This was far more exhilarating than anything she’d ever read! With a last protective look to her companions, she unfurled long, laced wings and took flight amongst a swarm of startled damselflies. “Let nothing happen to my mother!” she called back to Marklin, who gasped in astonishment as she flitted forward, her tightly curled hair bouncing above her eyes.

* * * * *

Enraged, the Slither-withers cursed in long hisses and gurgles, confused without their leader. One nocked an arrow, but hesitated to fire, its fangs glistening with fulvous venom. Both bow and arrow tumbled to the ground as Tildy’s stone broke its wrist with a puff of dust. She dove and whirled, dancing in the air. “The missss can sssting!” she cried, mocking them and flinging missile after missile like a starfall storm.

She was amazed by their agility as they dodged and feinted, but if they were nimble on the ground, she was swifter in the air. She twisted and looped, nearly every shot hitting the mark. Long hours of practice had made her highly skilled, but she wondered whether the rocks had some charm or spell upon them. Within a few minutes, most of the creatures had impact marks from her stones, and several wheezed angrily from clouds of white dust. It seemed only a blow to the head would knock them down, at least with her little sling. She delighted in their frustration and blood thundered through her veins. Her senses sharpened and she was aware of every sensation throughout her body.

Still, they did not advance, nor did they cast arrow or spear. Pondering this, she fitted another stone to her sling, nearly dropping both as she watched her skin fading back to its usual olive tones. Simultaneously, tingling sensations prickled her scalp, and she could feel her hair uncurling. While she followed the change down her legs, a gold glimmer from the ground caught her eye. Enthralled, she descended a few feet, staring down at a small chamber that nestled against a ruined outer fortification wall. Its dislodged ceiling slab revealed a small wedge of darkness, and within, a trickle of sunlight illuminated a secret treasure cache.

Before she could give it another thought, a cry from below brought her back to the battle. A single Slither-wither had advanced, but Marklin had placed himself in front of her mother as he fought back with his staff. Cursing with words that could spoil milk, Tildy fitted another stone into her sling, but it didn’t matter. He knocked the enemy’s spear away and sent the creature rolling back down the hill, twin tails windmilling through the highgrass. To her surprise, the others swarmed their comrade, beating it with the butt ends of their spears. Using this distraction, Tildy felled another creature with a stone to the top of its scaly head.

The Slithers had had enough. Dragging their wounded and senseless companions away with them, they retreated down the hill and back into the highgrasses of the prairie beyond. Tildy hovered above the scene until the knotted bodies disappeared. She landed beside a beaming Marklin and a much-recovered, but angry witch.

* * * * *

“That was brilliant!” gushed Marklin. “Mad, of course. And far scarier than anything I’ve ever done in my life, but the way you felled their leader and flew into the sky in that cloud of damselflies! ‘The miss can sting!’ Oh, what a song that would make.” The charm on the staff jingled merrily as he pantomimed the fight. “Then, I knocked one down the hill. Kai-yah!”

Tildy blushed and smiled at him. “You were very brave. Thank you.”

“You are a right foolish girl, Tildeneth,” chastised the witch, her face dark. “Impetuous, reckless, and by goram lucky. Do not ever do that again!”

 “Hey, you look like yourself again,” Marklin said, interrupting the rebuke. “But those wings of yours. I’d quite forgotten about them. I don’t know who was more surprised, me or them Slithers!” This earned him a broader grin from Tildy and a deeper frown from the witch.

“Hmph. Let us hasten away before night comes,” her adoptive mother said, setting aside the reprimand. “Creatures of the dark such as those often regain their courage when the shadows fall. And these were darker than most.”

“Oh!” cried Tildy. “I just remembered when you mentioned shadows.” Before anyone could say another word, she took flight again and was searching the ruins from above. Her heart pounded encouragement as she flew.

“Tildeneth!” cried the witch. “You cannot keep taking off like that!”

* * * * *

Tildy heard the words, but they were pushed from her mind as she found the chamber she’d seen during the battle. “I couldn’t tell if it’s a crypt or a secret room or what,” she called back. “But I think I saw gold.”

“Gold?” cried Marklin. They hurried to the spot Tildy indicated. “There’s no door.”

She had been about to land on the stone slab, but thought it looked unstable enough to shift at any moment. Instead, she hovered, peering down into the shadowed recess. Her eyes widened. “It IS gold!” she cried. “I can see a small chest with an open lid.”

“Tildeneth, I do not think—” began the witch, but Tildy had already made up her mind. Her skin tingled in warning, but it was the kind that promised more adventure than danger. Usually.

Confirming the opening was just big enough for her, she furled her wings and dropped like a rock. The others gasped. She landed in the dim interior, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the light. The walls appeared solid. Cracks ran through the floor’s paving stones, though weeds and grasses had filled in the spaces like brown and green mortar.

And at her feet: the small open chest. Behind it lay the remnants of framed paintings, a rusted coat of arms, and a rotten ladder, but Tildy only had eyes for the treasure that faintly reflected the light of the world above her. She knelt and looked inside. A few baubles rested amongst unfamiliar coins of gold, silver, and other metals. A crystal goblet with silver crest lay beside a necklace bearing a small goldcast face with faceted sapphire eyes. Tildy’s eyes were dazzled as she reached for the cup.

The ceiling stone shifted back into place, extinguishing all light.

Tildy was trapped.

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