Thorne Berry crouched inside the burned pixie house and counted goblins through the crack in its little arched door. Six of them. His sister was three days north, locked in the warlord's mountain fortress, and this scouting party stood between him and the only path out of the Hollow. He gripped his sword. Steel felt small against six spears. The pixie house had been his home before the goblins torched it. Now the walls wore black scars over the old painted flowers. Thorne had climbed the slender pole and slipped through the door to hide. Below, boots crushed the moss. The goblins jabbed spears into bushes, hunting stragglers. Hunting him. One goblin dragged something across the clearing. A garden gnome, small and carved, its coat painted in green and brown blotches. The goblin cackled and kicked it over. The gnome rolled to the base of Thorne's pole and stopped, staring up with its painted eyes. An idea landed hard. That gnome could pass for a hiding pixie in dim light. Thorne needed the goblins looking the wrong way. He waited until the group clustered near the far bushes. Then he leaned out and shoved the pole with both feet. The pixie house swayed. He shoved again. The gnome tipped, then toppled into the ferns with a loud crack of wood. "Straggler!" a goblin shrieked. The six of them charged the sound, spears down. Thorne dropped from the door and ran the other way, low and fast, sword tucked to his side. Behind him the goblins stabbed the ferns and cursed the broken gnome. He reached the mouth of the path. The way north lay open. Then a hand caught his collar and lifted him off his feet. The goblin who held him was not with the others. He crouched alone by the path, and he had been watching it the whole time. His fingers were crusted and filthy. He raised one to his nose, dug, and ate what he found, grinning the whole while. A heavy warhammer leaned against his knee. "Clever bug," the goblin said. He wiped his finger on his chest. "Snotfinger don't fall for the doll trick." Thorne kicked and slashed backward. His blade nicked the goblin's wrist. Gribble Snotfinger yelped and dropped him. Thorne hit the ground rolling and came up with his sword raised. Gribble grabbed the warhammer. He did not shout for the others. He wanted this catch for himself. That was the opening. Thorne feinted left, then darted right, straight past Gribble's swinging hammer and onto the northern path. He ran until the clearing shrank behind him and the goblin's curses faded. The path north was his now. But Gribble had seen his face, learned the trick, and would not stay behind for long. Thorne slowed to catch his breath and looked toward the mountains. Somewhere in that gray stone, his sister was waiting. And now a goblin with a warhammer knew exactly where Thorne was going.

Thorne pushed north through the swamp. His legs ached. His wings sat folded and useless against his back, too small to lift him. His friends flew by his age. He still walked. Behind him, somewhere in the wet trees, Gribble Snotfinger tracked him, closing in hour by hour. Thorne needed speed he did not have. The ground turned to black mud. Ahead stood a cluster of swamp trees, twisted and dripping. Their trunks bore faces. Hollow eyes followed him. Thorne slowed. The largest tree opened yellow eyes and groaned. "None pass," the tree said. Roots ripped from the mud and slapped the path shut. "Turn back, small bug." "I can't turn back," Thorne said. He drew his sword. "My sister waits north. A goblin hunts me. I have no time to walk around you." The tree laughed. A root swung at his head. Thorne ducked and rolled. He slashed the root and cut it clean. Another root grabbed his ankle and yanked him off his feet. He hit the mud hard. The tree dragged him toward its snapping mouth. Thorne twisted and stabbed the root that held him. It let go. He scrambled up, chest heaving. He could not win by cutting one root at a time. There were too many. Then he saw the plant. A broad black leaf grew beside the tree, streaked with yellow lines like lightning. When a root brushed the leaf, the yellow lines flashed and the root jerked back, smoking. The tree feared it. Thorne ran for the plant. Roots lashed at him. He cut two and dove past a third. He gripped the thick stem and tore a leaf free. The yellow veins buzzed warm in his hands. "Stay back!" the tree screamed. Thorne charged and pressed the leaf against the trunk. Light cracked through the wood. The tree shrieked. Its roots curled and blackened. The yellow eyes dimmed, then closed. The trunk split down the middle and went still. The path lay open. Thorne dropped the leaf and caught his breath. Inside the broken trunk, something round gleamed. He reached in and pulled it out. It was a shield, small and flat, shaped like a bottle cap. Its rim curved out in stiff ridges. He slid his arm through the strap. It fit. He still could not fly. His wings were still small. But now he had a shield. Gribble's hammer would land on steel, not on skin. Thorne looked at the ridged edge and understood what it meant. He would not outrun the goblin. He would have to stand and block him. Thorne stepped over the dead roots and walked north, shield ready. Behind him, faint through the trees, a warhammer thumped against mud. Gribble was close now. The gap had nearly closed.