Pipkin Thornwhisker's Arc

Chapter 3 of 7

The carriage wheels were still fading down the path when the brush exploded behind the shelter. A small shape tumbled into the clearing and skidded to a stop near the embers. It was a squirrel, ragged and panting, a torn gray scarf wound around her face. Two thin blades hung at her belt. She tried to rise, then folded sideways into the dirt. Pipkin froze. The hedgehog scrambled up, dagger ready, eyes huge. From the trees came a sound that did not belong to morning birds. A slow, dragging step. A wet, rattling breath. Pipkin moved fast. He dragged the squirrel behind the shelter wall and packed dry leaves and moss around her in a quick, clumsy ring. It was not pretty. It would hide her. He pressed a paw to her chest and felt a thready heartbeat. "Stay," he whispered, more to himself than to her. The dragging step came closer. A hooded thing stepped from the trees. Bone showed through its torn cloak. In its grip was a jagged black blade with a handle made of small, terrible pieces. Its eyes found Pipkin. Pale. The same pale he had seen across the river. Pipkin's legs shook. He stepped in front of the leaf nest anyway. The hedgehog stepped up beside him, spines bristling. Two small creatures, one shaking dagger between them. The hooded thing tilted its head, as if measuring. Then a fox burst from the underbrush, snarling, fur up, and planted himself at Pipkin's flank. The hooded thing hissed, backed one step, two, and slid into the trees like smoke. Silence rushed in. Pipkin's knees gave out. The fox did not run after the food smell from the embers. He sat. He stayed. Behind them, in the leaf ring, the squirrel's eyes fluttered open. She wet her lips and rasped one word. "More. Coming."