Bookweird by Paul Glennon

there was a pause and a hasty peering around for danger. By maintaining a steady walk, Norman was able to keep pace with them. Only the sharp incline of the path caused him trouble. They were descending now, and Norman took the utmost care to keep his footing. A grazed elbow or stubbed toe wouldn’t be the end of the world, but a fall could harm his young charge. He picked his way carefully down the path, holding his hands in front of him—not just for balance, but to protect the sleeping stoat in the sling on his chest.
    The sun was setting when they finally saw the tree line. It cut a jagged silhouette across the orange sphere, like teeth gradually nibbling away at it as it descended. Duncan urged them to hurry, but they were all tired by now.
    â€œC’mon, lads, let’s not dawdle. There’s dry beds and fresh victuals beyond those trees. Let’s have at ’em before it’s too dark, eh?”
    There were a few weary grunts of agreement, but the stoats quickened their steps only briefly before falling back to the same exhausted plod. The party drew up tighter as the light faded. No one wanted to be out of earshot or eyesight of his companions as the night came on. In the dark of early night, they would not see the ravens until it was too late. Duncan peered anxiously at the sky more often now, and around at his men, gauging their strength and calculating their odds if they had to fight another squadron of ravens. Frequently his gaze fell on Norman, his sharp eyes darting over him, judging him before falling on the bundle around Norman’s chest. Norman tried to look strong and dependable.
    That last half hour before nightfall seemed to last forever. The stoats were accustomed to moving around in the dark, but Norman’s eyes weren’t quite so acute. He frequently stumbled on the rocky path, making a huge ruckus. His travelling companions glared back at him scoldingly, as if they could not believe he could be such a clumsy oaf, then motioning upward as if they were sure that his din would summon the blackwings.
    When the sun itself finally disappeared into the jaws of the forest and only a few faint orange rays seeped up into the sky behind them, Duncan’s party fell into a more constant bounding sprint. It was as if they could hear the wing beats of their enemies behind them. They forgot all caution and ran headlong for the trees. It was almost easier now for Norman, at a jogging pace. He lifted his feet higher, avoiding the ruts and boulders that had tripped him up when he walked, but he ran with one arm around the sling and the other in front of him. If he fell forward, he would rather break his arm than crush the little stoat.
    He did not dare look back, but the sound of his own rushing blood in his ears sounded for all the world like the rustle of predatory birds at his back.
    Norman picked out as his target a slender birch sapling at the edge of the forest. The pale gleam of its white bark was the only thing that stood out for him in the forest gloom. Upon reaching it, he grasped it tightly with his free arm and let his own momentum turn him around to face the direction from which he had come. The stoats scrambled in behind him. The closed bunch had broken up now, and each stoat was running at the best of his ability to the safety of tree cover. Only Duncan held up at the forest edge, urging the stragglers on, telling them how close they were to safety, reminding them of their brave deeds in the past and of their bold adventures to come.
    Norman scanned the night sky and strained his ears, but there was no sign of a pursuit. He stood at that tree and counted the stoats as they rushed passed him. Duncan was the last. He slowed his pace and strode proudly into the forest on two feet, adjustinghis sword hilt and Cavalier hat and nodding solemnly to Norman as he did so.
    â€œThat’s all of them then?” Duncan asked.
    Norman whispered, “Yes.”
    â€œAnd the boy?