The Shining Falcon

He remembered this one, this young female human… the girl from the farm. The girl who'd saved his son! But now there was a difference to her… The leshy hissed in displeasure. Now she bore the unmistakable taint of City about her.

Yet I am still in her debt, the leshy admitted reluctantly. Just as much as I was with Brother Leshy. Debts must be paid. Aie, but I have sworn not to let city-folk pass!

It was a dilemma. He stood for a time, more still than anything of mere human flesh and blood, and pondered.

Aie, but these humans are such boring things!

With a whoop and a laugh, the leshy swarmed up a tree, startling a squirrel, tickling its nose, then froze again, thinking of that itch of a debt. He leaped lightly down to the forest floor with a sigh, and all the leaves about him stirred.

Vows are magic, not safely broken. So the forest shall not welcome her; no, it shall not.

He would let it do what it would do. And if, in the doing, the human was harmed or slain—that was the way of things.

Yet… the debt… I will not aid her until and unless she thinks to call upon me. The being paused, considering, then gave a foxlike bark of a laugh. Yes. It is the way it must be.

The human promptly forgotten, the leshy turned away and vanished into the forest's depths.

Well, what did you expect? Maria chided herself. A gentle stroll in the country?

For what had seemed like days, she'd been struggling through summer woodland that seemed grimly determined to stop her, thrusting out roots to trip her, branches to snag clothing and flesh. The ground beneath the deceptively smooth carpet of old leaves had proven so treacherous that she'd had to pick her way, thankful for her sturdy shoes, lest she do something as disastrous as twist or break an ankle.

«I don't remember the forest about the farm ever being as tangled as this, or as rugged!»

Still, the pull of the silver chain was leading her on. Maria stopped to wipe stray strands of hair back from her overheated face, then grimly continued. Akh, the fallen log she'd thought secure had rolled under her feet and sent her sprawling! Scratched and aching, Maria lay still for a moment, catching her breath, feeling the life-force of the forest all around her, powerful, indifferent…

No, not indifferent. It knew she was here, and it didn't care for the knowledge—

Oh, nonsense! She was beginning to think like Vasilissa.

Maria scrambled to her feet, trying in vain to wipe bits of twigs and leaves from her skirt, then started forward once more—only to stop short as she realized she'd been about to walk right into a gnarled giant of a tree. Shaking her head, she started around it, only to find her way blocked by a thorny thicket. After a vain attempt to find a safe way through the dangerous thing, she backed away-only to find herself backing right into the gnarled tree once more. She moved hastily aside, then froze, listening with all her might. Was it illusion—or the faintest, most inhuman sound of mocking laughter?

The wind, Maria decided after an anxious moment. It must have been the wind in branches. The boyarevna drew a deep breath, telling herself to go on. She had to find some safe, dry place to camp before nightfall, and night wouldn't be long in arriving. Though she guessed it must be late afternoon, the forest was already growing dark.

Maria shivered, anticipating the chill that would soon rise from the cooling earth. A fire, now—a nice, warm, cheerful campfire…

The forest seemed to flinch about her, almost as though it had caught her thought. Branches lashed at her as though the wind had caught them—but there was no wind. Gasping, Maria fought her way forward again, away from the old tree and the barricade of thorns—only to find her way blocked this time by two larches grown close together.

They weren't here like this a moment ago, I could almost swear it!

And the air had grown so still, so heavy, almost menacing. No, impossible. This was a forest, only a forest, not some demonic being!

Maria heard the softest slither behind her, and turned to see the impossible.

The branches of the thicket were stirring and spreading themselves, moving with slow, dreadful purpose, blocking the path she had just taken.