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

killed my mark,” the lord said, trotting his horse around the fallen boy.
    “The arrow struck his thigh,” the huntsmen explained. “It should not have killed him. But more importantly, lord, I’ve seen the white hart. It leapt into the woods just the instant I found the child!”
    Tremley’s burning anger for the boy left his mind almost instantly. “Then lead us, sir. I want that stag!” The lord’s hunting party poured through the clearing, storming past the pond and leaving Baelin’s body crumpled alone on the forest floor. A couple of the hounds sniffed at his limbs, but not one lingered, as if the scent had been lost from him entirely.
    On and on the horses rode and the hounds chased. They followed scents caught by the dogs, trails of hair left on tree bark, and tracks in the dirt, all leading them deeper into the woods, and in circles once they were far from the forest’s edge. Sunlight waned and many of the lord’s friends were ready to quit, but then one would see white fur flitting through the next line of trees and the hounds would regain their fervor. At even the faintest glimpse, Lord Tremley urged his party forward, while the white hart led them in circles.
    Yet by nightfall, even the lord’s resolve had worn out and he turned the horses west, toward home. “I have failed a second day when given such a rare sight,” he said miserably. “I fear we will not see the white hart again.”
    The woods seemed to darken then, deeper than when first losing the sun’s light, and a chorus of raspy voices arose through the trees. “Oh, sweet Tremley, that is the last thing you should fear.”
    Before Lord Tremley could respond, the hounds’ barking cut him off. Foam slathered from their mouths and they spun around, tearing leashes from their handlers’ hands and knocking them to the ground, where the dogs tore out their throats. Then the hounds turned blood-frenzied eyes to the horses and began chasing after their legs, sending the steeds on a panicked dash.
    The woods thundered and roared with galloping, as if a hundred deer stampeded through the trees surrounding the horses. One huntsman vanished into the dark on the right, and then another on the left, and soon Lord Tremley found himself riding alone, his horse scared witless of the snapping jaws behind its legs. The lord pulled at the reins, hoping to get his horse on track and head west, where the keep lay beyond the woods, but the horse wouldn’t obey, no matter how much its master kicked and swore.
    A great shadow billowed up ahead like a wall and the horse finally stopped, rearing up on its hind legs and throwing Lord Tremley to the ground. He couldn’t even grip the reins again as his mount rushed away from him like a frightened foal, and he hit the forest floor like an abandoned sack. The shadow grew above him into a man’s shape, if a man were as tall as the trees and grew stag’s antlers from his head.
    “You laid the odds too favorably for yourself against too meager a foe,” said the shadow. “We so rarely intercede in mortal woes. Your lust for glory has now brought your end. It is the right of kings to hunt the white hart, not bootlicks and lesser men.”
    The phantom vanished into the air before Tremley’s eyes and any response was again cut off by the coming hounds. The pack had finished another kill and came on snarling with blood caking their snouts. Tremley hurried away like a scared boy as the hounds snapped at his heels, feebly slashing back with his sword and trembling at the sight of glowing eyes chasing behind him. He spent so much attention looking back that he failed to notice the slope ahead of him until his foot ran over the ledge and he tumbled through ferns and briars.
    He lost his sword in his clumsy descent, and his nerve too. “Where are my men?” he cried. “Where are my friends? My horse? Help me, sirs! I have been your lord, rewarding and just! Rescue me and you shall have any prize!”
    The white hart