Alvah holds his breath.
Snow covers the ground beneath him yet the air doesn't feel any less dry; it's fresh and at any other time he'd be relishing in the glowing midnight sky that peeks between the branches. Leaves rustle as they dance in the brittle winter breeze, illuminated by the moonlight that seeps through the overhanging trees. Alone, surrounded by thick frosted bracken and dense rows of towering beech, there's no peace or calm that would otherwise blanket him in warmth. Instead the cold stings each time he inhales; with them lurking in the darkness, waiting for him to make a mistake, he'd be a fool to indulge in the false security the forest provides.
Snap. A twig cracks, metres behind him, echoing a warning that they're close. A head start had felt like a gift when he'd entered the undergrowth, weaving to avoid the roots that rise from the mud and slipping down icy hillocks, but now he realises it'd simply given them the advantage of waiting until he was too tired to continue running. Father's voice rings in the back of Alvah's mind, wearing that playful lilt he often spoke with when Alvah had made a mistake he'd warned him against, "my son, don't you remember that a successful predator waits for its prey to walk into its trap?" He pushes away from the trunk he'd been leaning on and set off, pushing a huff past his lips that forms a mist. It's loud, to his own ears anyway, and he prays it isn't to those beasts.
Alvah keeps his eyes to the ground, watching for anything that may trip him up, but the roots that creep across the floor are nothing but dark blurred shadows with no start and no end. These woods are familiar, he could navigate it with his eyes closed, but he's fighting the urge to look behind him and it takes everything in him to keep focused. There's an itch that spreads across his body, like an unforgiving chill that raises the hair on every inch of his skin, and he tells himself he's imagining it. He has to be imagining it, because if he thinks for a second they've found him then he'll falter. Distraction can be dangerous in the darkness, and he's not prepared to risk it all for a hunch.
He skips over a stump, and a rumble vibrates through him, a thousand jittering bugs moving between his muscles. It's between a growl and a sigh, a hefty animalistic huff that lingers in the air. Alvah's head snaps up, and that's when he slips on frozen ground. It'd been wet and sticky before the temperatures dropped, dips that had been puddles now iced over. He uses his arms to break his fall, and one of his elbows smacks down onto a mossy rock. Pain shoots up to his shoulder, he grits his teeth, and for the first time in awhile the will to push forwards seeps from him like his body heat.
His hand is numb, and he moves his fingers to get some feeling back. It doesn't work at first, a dull ache as if he's padded his fingers with cotton wool throbbing towards his palm. Father had taught him that nothing lasts, opting for a less jaded approach to life than those in the village just past the forest. Alvah would often wonder if that's why he'd moved here, into the woodland, and whether the lack of cynicism was worth the dangers of the hunts. As soon as he feels them tingling he scrambles to his feet; he can deal with it later, when he's safe. And if he doesn't make it home, his elbow will be the least of his worries.
Snow kicks up around him and Alvah tries to gather himself. The fall leaves his head fuzzy and he searches around him for any sign that he's been spotted. The outlines of the plants form shapes that put him on edge, imitating bodies and faces that aren't there. That's when he sees an opening in the distance, an expanse of grassy hills framed by the trunks of evergreens. It's risky, allowing himself to be that visible, but forward is his only option. If he goes backwards, he'll be sure to get caught, and he's been hiding since he entered. It hasn't worked for him, so he needs to trust he can run faster than they can catch him. His stomach flips -- that's if they're not already waiting.
Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Doubt washes over him with each agonising step he take, careful not to make the same mistake on the slippery surface beneath him. Alvah could go left, or right, or he could climb to the top of one of these trees, but something in the back of his mind tells him that staying this side of the forest is exactly what they'd expect him to do. They see him as prey, therefore they expect him to act like prey.
Staring out at the hills, he counts to five, calming the heart racing in his chest. His legs don't want to move, almost like they're anchored into the ice, and when he reaches five they hold him back. He tries again, and again, and again until he finally takes off into a sprint, through the field and up the first hill. Overgrown grass whips at his legs, in a way so different to the summer days his father had taken him here to play as a child, the pounding of his feet on solid ground filling his ears. The top is close, and the farther Alvah gets towards it the harder he pushes himself. He'll be able to see his father's mismatched, uneven manor from there -- built high from pieces of homes the villagers past the forest no longer wanted, teetering towards the heavens.
The wind is knocked from his lungs, squeezed out of him as his feet leave the ground. They tumble down the side, rolling through the frost and snow. Alvah pushes, closing his eyes to fight the sickness that's bubbling up his throat, and as quickly as they'd started they were rolling to a stop. Damp hot air blows across his face, thick fur against his palms as he uses all of his strength to throw them off. Their weight is crushing, hundreds of pounds of muscle bearing down on him, and a sharp pain zaps through his injured arm. He groans, the muscle becoming weaker, wobbly and jellified.
The smell of rotting flesh and curdled blood envelopes him in violent waves, pulling the sickness closer and closer from his stomach like a riptide. Alvah wants to turn his head, throw up onto the grass, but he swallows it down instead. When he opens his eyes, he's met with rows of razor-sharp teeth inches away from him, their flat face almost touching his, and even in the darkness Alvah can see patches of bare skin from scars long healed. Their arms -- or are they legs? -- trap him between their body and the mud, ice crunching as their claws dig in. All he can imagine is that must be the sound his bones will make when they crush them between their jaws, snapping and crumbling, and for a second he resigns to his fate. HIs limbs are weak, tired from the running, and he wonders if the fight is worth it.
Of course it is. He headbutts them, as hard as he can without knocking himself out, and their grip on the ground loosens. This is his chance, and he takes it; Alvah pushes them to the side, rolling them next to him, and he crawls onto his stomach to search for something -- anything -- in the snow. Their droll sticks to his face, turning cold and tight, and his fingers begin to lose feeling. That's when he finds it, hard and rough, and he has to grasp it with two hands to pick it up. It must've fallen during the storm, loose at the trunk but otherwise intact.
Breathe in, breathe out. Time goes slow, seconds turn into minutes, and they throw him onto his back. He holds onto the thick branch tight and swings, using the beast's own strength to his advantage. It smacks into their skull with a crack, and they stumble backwards. Pushing up on his knees, Alvah swings again, drawing a whimper from them. Another swing and he's sure they'd be dead, but he can't gather enough strength for that and make it out before the rest find him. He drops the branch and bolts back into the woodland to his right; he'll have to find another way.
The beech are tall and old, with branches the size of pillars and brown leaves. He jumps and grasp onto one, testing the stability of it, and it creaks under his weight. It doesn't break, it doesn't crack or snap, so he jumps again and gets a better grip. It's a last ditch effort at surviving, climbing his way up until he can see as much as he can of the forest floor in the darkness. Alvah rubs his hands together, warming them through, and he leans his head back against the trunk. The smell of copper, iron and a tinge of alcohol rises from his fingers -- he can't tell whether the blood is his or theirs, but at this point he doesn't care.
It's past midnight and he can see the manor in the distance, a faint glowing candle flickering in the window of his father's bedroom. All he needs to do is survive until sunrise, then the daylight will protect him from the hunger of the nocturnal hunters. And then he can just hope that these things aren't brave enough to enter his home.