Free Don't Let the Fairies Eat You by Darryl Fabia

guards were lazier than merchants hovering miserly over their own wares.
    The courtyard was busy as Baelin entered. Genuine stable boys ran to and fro, servants carried wineskins and weapons, and at the edge of the thick, dark woods, a line of men mounted horses, facing the line of trees. The white hart had been spotted early in the morning by foragers, said the commotion around the keep. Lord Tremley intended a grand hunt, where he would cut down the pale-haired deer and offer its skin as a gift to the king. The kennel-master sent a dozen hounds along with the lord and the stables poured out their finest horses. Only the sharpest of throwing spears and firmest bows were sent with Tremley, and his men were hand-picked among his friends and huntsmen.
    Many of the guards watched them and no one stopped Baelin as he ran around the walls, past the stables, through an outdoor corridor, waited near a corner for one baker woman to pass, and then dashed into the orchard. His belly grumbled impatiently as his eyes darted from tree to tree, pondering which to climb first, which bright red fruit would wet his tongue with sweet juices and fill his empty stomach.
    None, he realized, as two heavy hands clapped down on his shoulders. He reeled back his bent arm, hoping to hit his captor’s face and flee into the orchard, and then the woods, but he rammed his elbow into a heavy breastplate instead. The guard spun him around and punched the boy’s gut once, knocking out his wind. All the strength dribbled from Baelin’s limbs like water and the guard scooped him up by the waist, carrying him away from the orchard and its sweet fruits.
    “The lord’s justice will have to wait for his return from the woods,” the guard said, tossing the boy into a jail cell beneath the keep’s walls. “You’ll see your fate in the evening. Perhaps if he returns from a happy hunt, he’ll be lenient with you. If not, he may let you stew until morning, or perhaps he’ll never come for you at all.” The armored man slammed the barred door shut before the boy could stand and walked away laughing.
    Baelin sat cringing against the stone wall, feeling cold stone against his skin, moldy hay against his feet, and worst, the sucking pain of hunger in his gut. Mercifully, a kindly middle-aged woman came through the dungeon hall with a small piece of bread and slid it through the bars for him. It wasn’t sweet fruit, but he thanked her nonetheless.
    “You might prefer to starve,” the woman said, patting his hand. “The lord returned in a dark mood from an unhappy hunt, and the mood grew darker when he heard of your misdeed. I do not know what he plans for you, but you might be best off not seeing the light of day.”
    Three guards came for the boy in the morning, two grasping his arms and one leading the others. Baelin asked what was to be done with him. The leading guard raised his hand to smack the boy, and then thought better of it and went on toward the stairs. They stopped at the end of the sunlit courtyard, where the woods encroached on the keep’s edge, and dropped Baelin in the dirt. He thought the woman from the dungeon had been wrong, that he was to be shown mercy and let free.
    Then he heard a horse’s whinny and looked to the courtyard again.
    A line of horses stood where he and the guards had crossed. Over a dozen hounds snapped at their hooves and at the feet of the young men holding them on thin leashes. The sharpest of throwing spears and the finest bows were held by men mounted on the horses, picked among the lord’s friends and best huntsmen. At their center sat Lord Tremley himself, his two dark eyes burning over a heavy rust-colored beard.
    Baelin would’ve gone on staring, straining to comprehend the lord’s intent, but a guard patted his shoulder and pointed him toward the woods. “You’d better run fast, boy.”
    “Fast?” he asked, looking to the shadowy tree line.
    “Faster than hounds. Faster than horses.”
    Baelin