“Gwen? Gwen!”

Gwendoline opened her eyes to see her brother kneeling in front of her, hands on her shoulders. Their dog, Theodora, stood next to her. Upon seeing Gwen was awake, the mutt started licking her cheek.

“What happened?” Gwen mumbled. It took her a moment to realize she’d fallen asleep. The dream of that day was always so real. She supposed that made sense--it was more of a memory, anyhow. Twelve years hadn’t dulled any of the details.

“You’ve got to be careful,” Steffan said. “I was so busy keeping watch, I didn’t even know you were asleep until you started whimpering. What if bandits showed up? Or a wild animal?” His hand strayed to the hilt of their mother’s sword, which he wore on his hip. “I still think we’re grazing them too far from the city.”

Gwen fought the urge to roll her eyes. Steffan was the only person she knew who could whine and lecture at the same time. She got to her feet and tied on her cloak, which she’d been using as a makeshift pillow. “I would have woken up, obviously. Besides, we’ve been over this. They need the grass out here.” Closer to the base of Ascangen, the tree’s roots and trunk blocked the sun in the morning and evening. Shorter days meant less light, and less light meant thinner crops. Out here, closer to the Wirt River, the Roots dipped underground, so the days were longer. That made the grass grow thicker and taller. True, there were more bandits around, and across the river was troll country, but there was a fort a few miles to the south with real soldiers. That kept things from being too dangerous.

Besides, the Beohur would protect Gwen and Steffan and their flock. That was why Gwen prayed every morning and evening and made sacrifices every full moon. She never asked for anything except safety and good health. So long as she and Steffan had those, they could achieve everything else. Eventually Gwen would have enough money saved for her to take her pilgrimage and Steffan to hire someone to help protect the flock. Someone who actually knew how to fight, unlike Gwen.

“I know you’re right,” Steffan said. “The sheep have been making more wool this season.”

“See? And you can scare away any bandits or bears anyway. You sure practice enough with that thing.”

“Now that you mention it, I should do one last set of exercises before we go back.” He loosed the sword in its scabbard.

Panic bubbled up in Gwen’s chest. She cursed herself for mentioning the sword. She wasn’t ready to see it unsheathed. Not so soon after her dream. She needed to change the subject.

She clasped Steffan’s sword arm tight in her hands. “Did you know that about halfway up Ascangen, there’s a cathedral actually carved into the tree? It’s made from the bark and everything.”

“Isn’t that blasphemous?” Steffan asked. Still, he clicked the sword back into its scabbard. He didn’t care much for worshiping the Beohur, but he did like carpentry and architecture.

“I guess not if it’s a cathedral,” she said. “And not if it doesn’t go deeper than the bark.” Not like humans were able to go that deep--not without a century of work that the Beohur would surely notice and punish. “Maeve even visited it once, so I’m sure that means it’s all right.” If the Beohur of Plants was fine with you carving something into the world tree, then you couldn’t really be doing anything wrong. “I have a picture in a book back home. I can show you what it looks like.”

Steffan nodded. “You know, I’m glad you got Brother Ferdinand to teach you reading. You’ve been so much more excited since you started borrowing all his old books.”

“Oh. Thank you.” That was touching coming from her brother, who had always thought her reading was a waste of time. Gwen was glad he could see how much comfort it had brought her, even if it had taken him almost a year. For her, reading was just another way to deepen her faith. Now if only Brother Ferdinand would stop trying to talk Gwen into becoming a monk, she could relax and read in peace. Not that she didn’t understand why the old priest did it--few townsfolk had the time or energy to care about faith beyond just keeping what little they had. Someone like Gwen, who went as far as learning to read so she could worship better, was the exact kind of person who might follow Brother Ferdinand’s footsteps.

But doing that would keep Gwen stuck in Ascangen’s shadow for the rest of her life.

“Are you all right?” Steffan asked, brows furrowed.

“Hmm? Yes, I’m fine. Just lost in thought, I guess.” Gwen hadn’t told Steffan she was going to leave. He already worried too much, and she wouldn’t be gone for another year or two anyway. There would be plenty of time to break the news to him later.

“I take back what I said about reading. It’s making your head too full.” He stuck out his tongue.

This time, Gwen did roll her eyes, but only in jest. “Oh, yes. I should be more like my brother, who’s always relaxed and never worries about anything.”

Steffan chuckled. “Why do you think I practice so much with the sword? It clears my head. Gives me confidence, too.” His eyes grew distant again. “I’m scared of so much less now.”

Gwen almost snorted, but Steffan was right. The better he’d gotten with their mother’s sword, the less anxious he’d become.

“You really should let me teach you sometime,” Steffan said. “It would be good to have more than just one person who can fight things off.”

There was no way that was happening. “You’ve got Theodora,” Gwen said. “Besides, we’ve only got the one sword.” Good swords were expensive. Down here, most true weapons were, on account of bandits and trolls.

Steffan opened his mouth to argue, but then he frowned and closed it. “Hey, do you see that?”

Gwen followed her brother’s gaze across the river, where a huge cloud of dust had been kicked up. What was more, whatever kicked it up was getting closer.

It was almost to the river bank when the dust cleared enough to see, though seeing did nothing for understanding. The thing seemed like a giant boar, or maybe a bear, but it was as large as a shack, and several furred tentacles stuck out from its back, each flat at the end. They slapped the ground, helping propel the beast forward.

“Sword won’t help against that!” Steffan said.

“What do we do?”

“Theodora!” Steffan called. “Home!”

The dog took off running. She nipped at the sheep’s heels and yipped in their faces until the walking pillows started moving back toward Wirtrumburg. They bleated in protest, but they still moved.

“We have to run too,” Steffan said. The monster had hit the Wirt, and it was having no trouble getting across. The tentacles were actually helping it paddle.

This time, Steffan being a worrywart made Gwen’s life easier. A more reckless man might have stood and tried to fight. She snatched up her satchel, and then they set off sprinting after the animals. The path wound through a grove of trees about a mile ahead. Maybe that would slow the beast down or distract it for long enough to let them get away.

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After a couple of frantic minutes, the monster’s splashing stopped, replaced by earthshaking thuds that could only be its footfalls. The sounds grew steadily louder as she and Steffan ran. It was catching up to them, closing the distance with each thunderous step. What was worse, Gwen’s lungs had already started to ache, and she and Steffan were barely halfway to the tree line.

Celia, grant us the speed to escape, Gwen prayed. Firth, grant us the time. Dorothea, protect our flock.

The frontmost sheep reached the trees, followed shortly by the rest of them. Amidst her panic, Gwen found a small pocket of relief. At least the flock and Theodora would be safe. Steffan’s longer legs and stronger build meant he was probably also fast enough to outrun their pursuer.

Gwen, on the other hand, was in danger. Her lungs burned with the strain of running farther and faster than she ever had at once. Her heart hammered so hard it felt about to crack her ribs. She stumbled every time the monster’s feet hit the ground behind her. Without daring to look back, she had no idea how close the thing was to her. She only knew it was gaining.

The flock disappeared into the grove, with Theodora right after. Steffan got to the tree line a few seconds later, but he paused to turn back. When he saw Gwen, his eyes went wide and his hand went to his sword.

The next footfall hit right behind Gwen, the impact knocking her to the ground. The hard earth drove what air was left from her lungs. She gasped and wheezed, desperate for a full breath.

Suffocating might have been better. This beast was the most fetid, rotten thing Gwen had ever smelled. She coughed and gagged. Her stomach twisted in protest. Bile rose in her throat.

She rolled onto her back and came face to face with the source of the stench. The horrible creature stood above her with its mouth open, two rows of sharp, threatening fangs framing a wide black tongue. A rope of drool hung from its jaw all the way to the ground. Hot clouds of rancid breath assaulted Gwen’s face, making her retch. This close, Gwen could see a number of open wounds on the thing’s side that oozed yellow pus.

Leaning in, the monster opened its mouth wider.

All of a sudden, looking up at certain death, Gwen’s body relaxed, the tension flooding out of her. She would gain nothing from panicking. Either the Beohur would answer her prayers and spirit her out of danger, or they would let her die. Whatever they chose was their will, and Gwen had no control over it.

“Hey!” Steffan shouted. A moment later, a fist-sized rock smacked into the monster’s forehead. It closed its mouth and looked up, head swaying back and forth to find whomever had distracted it from its meal.

The next rock hit it squarely on its snout. It made a startled sound, a cross between a whimper and a growl.

Then Steffan was standing above Gwen, yelling and swinging his sword. It was a frenetic swirl of steel, the exact opposite of the careful, methodical movements he made in practice. “Get! Away! From! Her!” he shouted, punctuating each word with a sword strike.

The monster took a step back, and for a moment Gwen found a spark of hope. Then it lunged forward and lashed its tentacles at Steffan.

Steffan caught the first tentacle with his sword, the blade biting halfway through it and drawing purplish blood. He ducked under the second tentacle and tugged his weapon free.

The third tentacle caught Steffan in the face with a dull thwack. Gwen gasped as her brother dropped to the ground clutching his eye. Blood seeped through his fingers.

The monster picked up one of its feet. Fighting back her pain and fear, Gwen rolled out of the way just in time to avoid being crushed. Cynefrith spare him, she prayed as the creature leaned forward and opened its jaw. Please spare my brother.

A nearby horn sounded so loudly it felt like it was stabbing GWen’s ears.

The beast paused. Then it flinched as a ballista bolt slammed into the ground barely a yard away, kicking dirt and dust into the air. Another ballista bolt landed on the monster’s other side, missing by even less. A second later, a flurry of crossbow bolts buried themselves in its thick hide.

With an ear-splitting roar, the creature rose up on its hind legs and pawed at the air. After another round of crossbow fire, it turned and made a full retreat toward the Wirt, barreling away from Gwen and Steffan.

Gwen rolled onto her hands and knees and crawled over to Steffan, who lay on his back moaning. She pulled his hands away from his face to reveal a bloody cut that ran over his right eye. That wasn’t the end of the world, was it? People had no problem living without eyes. It wasn’t like he was an archer.

“Steffan?” she asked. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

His healthy eye found her face. “Gwen?” He pulled himself up to a sitting position and gingerly patted himself down. “I don’t think so.” Then he groaned and clutched his face again. “Not that I need any other wounds.”

Relief. Sweet, cool, refreshing relief. He was going to live. They were both going to live. Gwen murmured a quiet thanks to Cynefrith and vowed never to ask the Beohur for anything ever again.

Gwen stood first, then helped a shaky Steffan to his feet. Together, they turned toward the soldiers who had saved them.

Several people in dark blue jupons ran up. They wore crossbows slung over their shoulders and shortswords at their waists. Gwen guessed they were soldiers from the fort a couple of miles away.

A tall, wiry figure with a lieutenant’s insignia on their chest stepped forward. They offered their left hand to shake, probably because their right arm ended in a hook.

“Lieutenant Harlow,” they said as Gwen shook. Their hand was mottled with callouses. “We came as fast as we could. I’m glad we were in time to save you.”

“The Beohur delivered you just in time,” Gwen said.

“We delivered ourselves, miss.” Lifting one of their boots, Harlow pointed to the mud ringing the sole. “Ran all the way here on our own feet.”

Gwen nodded. “Yes, I’m very grateful.” How could she explain that the Beohur were behind all things? As strong and capable as Harlow clearly was, if the Beohur hadn’t wanted their squad to arrive, it wouldn’t have happened.

“We’re very grateful,” Steffan said. “My name is Steffan, and this is Gwendoline. We’re--oh, shit, the sheep!”

The sheep! Gwen had been so worried about Steffan and distracted by this tall stranger that she’d completely forgotten about the flock. She put her fingers to her lips and let out a sharp whistle. “Theodora!”

The dog came dashing out of the trees. She knew not to take the flock too far away from Gwen and Steffan, so hopefully all of the sheep were still in the grove, or at least nearby.

“Bring,” Gwen said, giving the hound the command to herd the flock back to her.

“We’re shepherds,” Steffan said sheepishly. “We were grazing our sheep when that thing...ooh.” He winced and put a hand to his forehead. “Dizzy...”

“Ronald!” Harlow called. “Patch the man up, please.”

A scrawny soldier ran forward and helped Steffan sit down. Ronald unzipped a small pack to reveal surgeon’s supplies, which he began using to clean and bandage Steffan’s eye.

“You shouldn’t graze the sheep so close to the river,” Harlow said. “It’s dangerous.”

You don’t say, Gwen wanted to reply, but that wouldn’t have been very nice. “It’s just as dangerous for us if the sheep starve. The grass is better out here. It doesn’t grow nearly thick enough in our village. There isn’t enough sun.”

“Still, try to stay farther from the Wirt. And you should both be armed if possible. We can’t protect everyone from everything.”

“That’s what I’ve been--ow!”

“If you don’t stay still,” Ronald warned Steffan, “you might lose your other eye.”

“I’ll think about it,” Gwen told Lieutenant Harlow. Truly, though, what good would having a weapon have done? It took a ballista and a whole squad of soldiers to drive off the monster that had attacked them. Steffan, who did have a sword, was the one who had been wounded the worst. Still, he had stalled the beast long enough for the soldiers to arrive. And if bandits or trolls showed up instead of a monster, maybe...

“We’ve got to go make sure that thing goes back across the river,” Harlow said. “Please stay safe. Being alive is worth a few hungry sheep.”

Ronald finished wrapping Steffan’s bandage and stood. Harlow turned around and the entire squad of soldiers started jogging toward the Wirt.

“Home?” Gwen asked once the soldiers were gone.

“Home,” Steffan said.