Chapter 7
I crashed through the underbrush, my cloak flying behind me. Rustling noises scraped the shadows, getting closer. I’d left my makeshift club behind, abandoned beside the tree trunk, and there was no time to snatch up another.
If I reached the path, would I be able to run fast enough to break free of the forest before whatever was chasing me caught up? But where was the path?
There was no trace of it—only the forest stretching around me in all directions, a black and forbidding wall. Panic burned in my chest and I could scarcely draw a breath.
A sudden dip, hidden by a screen of ferns, sent me sprawling. I scrambled onto my knees, and suddenly the things were there, all around me. The boglins.
They looked like figures made of sticks and leaves; harmless enough, until one leap
