Face pressed almost to the ground, Branden smiled grimly.  “It’s close now.”  A seven-toed print, much larger than his own foot, clearly marked the mud near the bank.  Straightening and then standing, he gripped his spear tightly.  

“I’m not happy,” muttered Samwell as the four men waded through the little stream, the light of the sinking sun golden on the water.  

Jack laughed.  “When are you ever happy, Sourball?”  He kicked vaguely in Samwell’s direction, spraying them all.  

“Bleedin’ fool!  We’ve enough to do with the treescrewers, saying nothin’ of the blasted Olonto we’re after, without you causin’ us to freeze to death with your foolery,” Samwell said, eyes scanning the horizon.

Armed with a smile, Erik stepped between them.  “We aren’t that wet and Jack was just having a little fun.  But we ought to respect Samwell as our elder.”  He scanned Jack and Samwell’s faces in turn.  

“And how very elder he is!”  

Erik turned to Samwell, face straight but eyes laughing.  “Don’t mind him.  You said you aren’t happy?”

“Four days we been chasin’ the thing, hardly a broken leaf or bent blade of grass to follow.  Now out of nowhere, it leaves us a print clear as the nose on my face.”  He spat.  “Don’t trust it.  Seems awful convenient, like it wants to lure us in.  And the trees are gettin’ thicker.  Might be in league with those Elves-”

“I don’t know, your nose is pretty clear-” Jack said.

Branden broke in.  “There’s no elves here,” he said, scanning the horizon.  “Treescrewers only live in proper forests; this little wood isn’t big enough.  Besides, we’d be full of arrows and halfway eaten before you’d finished arguing.”  Listening to the quiet forest sounds for a moment, Branden’s breath seemed heavy in his own ears.  His heart thudded.  “And it wasn’t a clear print.  Even the most cunning beast leaves marks for a skilled tracker to find, and the Olonto finally slipped up.”

Already the stream and the meadow behind were lost to sight as they struggled on.  “You’re talkin’ mighty sure for a man who hasn’t seen an Elf nor an Olonto before.  You don’t know everythin’.  You’re scared, same as the rest of us, and you bloody well should be.”

“You coward!  You’re just afraid I’ll find it!”

“Hush!  I hear something!” Erik whispered.

Not daring to breathe, Branden caught a single dull thud.  No one spoke or moved.  Branches creaked in the sighing wind, but not a bird or squirrel could be heard.

Jack spoke first.  “M-maybe just a stone falling.”

“Not bleedin’ likely.”

“We’re all just tired and grumpy.  I must have imagined it,” Erik said with a swallow.  “Light’s failing fast, and we could all use some rest.  Might as well make camp here.”

“No!” cried the other three in unison.  

Snowy beard swaying, Samwell shook his head.  “Gotta find more open ground.  A clearin’ if we can’t get out of these woods altogether.  Safer against treescrewers.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“I told you there’s no Elves here, old man.  You’re as likely to find fairies, leprechauns, and a hundred other creatures from tales your mother told you in these woods,” Branden replied, grinding his teeth to keep them from chattering.  “Blasted cold.  I just want to find that Olonto while we’re close, that’s all.  You can bring your mother, if that will make you feel more brave.”

Even Erik laughed.  

“If I can find change for a silver, maybe we’ll have a better night,” said Jack between guffaws.

Staring at Branden with narrowed eyes, Samwell said nothing.  At length his hand dropped from his sword hilt.  

“Since that’s settled, follow me.  Jack, Eric, have your bows at the ready.  Shoot it on my mark, then Sourball and I will hack it to pieces.  The thing will be dead before it knows we’ve found it,” Branden said, taking the small wooden shield from his back.  “No torches.  The full moon will be enough, but we must strike tonight.”

Stooping to the ground, Branden led them on, pursuing the trail deep into the trees.  White moonlight shimmered on leaf and branch.  Darkness grew about them, as did night noises: crickets, owls, and unknown creatures.  At first the sound comforted him, but soon Branden found his heart pounding and hands shaking again.  Though he forced down his fears, they grew ever worse as the little party pressed on.  Soon the trail needed little skill to find: deep prints, though no broken plants, marked the way.  Fear is for cowards.  I’m excited and cold, that’s all.  Fear is for cowards.  Savagely rubbing his hands together, he hauled his leaden legs forward.  Each step dragged more reluctantly than the last.  Finally he could endure no more.  He must shout or die!

Stumbling forward, the band reached a clearing, grass grey in the moonlight.  A little mound rose in the center.  The trail forward had vanished: no blade of grass was bent.  Eyes straining to the edge of the woods, Branden searched for a sign.  “Sittin’ ducks,” spat Samwell, drawing his sword.  Too late.

With a roar that rent the night, the mound leapt on Samwell as his sword left the scabbard.  Dull red blood splattered on the grass.  

Looming over Branden, the grey-furred creature roared again, blowing his hair back.  Branden’s arms hung limp, eyes bulging, bowels turned to water.  Jack and Erik had already dashed towards the trees.  In vain.  The creature pursued, speeding towards the fleeing figures.  

Branden found himself helpless; unable to move, breathe, or think.  A groan brought reality back.

He knelt beside his companion’s mauled body.  “Samwell,” he choked.

“Go, idiot,” Samwell spat.

Raising his eyes, Branden found the clearing empty.  Trees crashed and cries rang out behind.  Forward, forward!  I might make it.  Go, idiot!  He stood.

Yet Samwell still breathed.  

Raising his little shield in his left hand and his spear in his right, Branden stood alone over his fallen comrade.  

The seconds crawled by, long as years.  As the din in the trees died down, his breathing quickened.  No cricket chirped or owl hooted.  Thud.

The wood felt rough in his hands.  Thud.

Samwell coughed, wheezed, groaned.  Thud.

The creature entered the clearing.  Thud.  Blood dripped from its claws and snout.  Thud.  Brown eyes fixed on him.  Thud, thud.  It approached.  Thud, thud, thud.

A sandcastle before the ocean, Branden stood in the creature’s shadow.  As the roar struck his ears, he trembled before the menacing figure, eight feet tall at least.  Yet he stood.  The creature smote his shield with its massive paw, shattering the shield to pieces.  His left arm hung, useless.  “For Atolion!” he shrieked, driving his spear forward with all his might.  Ducking, the creature slammed itself into Branden, sending him flying.  He struck the ground and darkness fell.