Esrahaddon

By Michael J. Sullivan

A hero to some. A villain to many. The truth forever buried.

The man who became known as Esrahaddon is reported to have destroyed the world’s greatest empire — but there are those who believe he saved it. Few individuals are as divisive, but all agree on three facts: He was exiled to the wilderness, hunted by a goblin priestess, and sentenced to death by a god — all before the age of eight. How he managed to survive and why people continued to fear his name a thousand years later has always been a mystery . . . until now.

From the three-time New York Times best-selling author Michael J. Sullivan, Esrahaddon is the final novel in The Rise and Fall trilogy. This latest set of stories sits snugly between the Legends of the First Empire books and the Riyria tales (Revelations and Chronicles). With this novel, Michael continues his tradition of unlikely heroes who must rise to the call when history knocks, demanding to be let in. This is the nineteenth full-length novel in a body of work that started in 2008 and spans four series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael J. Sullivan
• Release date: Aug 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781943363599

Michael J. Sullivan

Michael J. Sullivan is a three-time New York Times, USA Today, and Washington Post bestselling author who has been nominated for nine Goodreads Choice Awards. His first novel, The Crown Conspiracy, was released by Aspirations Media Inc. in October 2008. From 2009 through 2010, he self-published the next five of the six books of The Riyria Revelations, which were later sold and re-released by Hachette Book Group’s Orbit imprint as three two-book omnibus editions: Theft of Swords, Rise of Empire, and Heir of Novron. Michael’s Riyria Chronicles series (a prequel to Riyria Revelations) has been both traditionally and self-published. The first two books were released by Orbit, and the next two by his own imprint, Riyria Enterprises. A fifth Riyria Chronicle, titled Drumindor, will be self-published in the near future. For Penguin Random House’s Del Rey imprint, Michael has published the first three books of The Legends of the First Empire: Age of Myth, Age of Swords, and Age of War. Grim Oak Press distributes the last three books of the series: Age of Legend, Age of Death, and Age of Empyre. Michael has returned to purely self-publishing roots with the release of his most recent series, The Rise and Fall Trilogy. These books are being published in the current schedule: Nolyn (Summer 2021), Farilane (Summer 2022,  and Esrahaddon (Summer 2023). Michael is now writing Drumindor, the fifth book of The Riyria Chronicles. This will return him to the timeline of Royce and Hadrian, two rogues he hasn’t visited with since the release of The Disappearance of Winter’s Daughter in 2018.  You can email Michael at [e-mail].

Book preview

Praise for The Rise and Fall

Nolyn is masterfully executed, and the disparate storylines are equally intriguing as they are spun beautifully together into an ending full of gnarled twists and grim surprises that will leave you clamoring for more. For true fans of epic fantasy, Michael J. Sullivan’s The Rise and the Fall series is not one to miss.

— David Estes, Amazon #1 bestselling author of Fatemarked on Nolyn

Breathtakingly epic in scope, yet the characters are infused with the breath of genuine humanity that makes Sullivan’s work utterly unique.

— Andy Peloquin, bestselling author of The Silent Champions series on Nolyn

Vengeance and love test the boundaries of honor in this phenomenal epic fantasy by Michael J. Sullivan. Heart-wrenching and powerful, you can’t help but root for Nolyn and Sephryn as they struggle to unravel the plots against them before the final trap is sprung. I loved every minute and can’t wait to see what happens next!

— Megan Haskell, award-winning author of The Sanyare Chronicles on Nolyn

With Nolyn, a true master of epic fantasy shines even brighter. Sullivan has an amazing ability to craft a brilliant ensemble of characters and lead readers on an adventure that keeps them wide-eyed and begging for more with each expertly written page.

— Dyrk Ashton, author of The Paternus Trilogy on Nolyn

I don’t think there are enough superlatives in the English language to describe just how much I loved this book. — THE HOBBLEIT on Farilane

So, this book absolutely blew me away and is possibly tied for best Michael J. Sullivan book with Heir of Novron. — Powder & Page on Farilane

Michael is a spectacular author, that's never been in question, but this is by a country mile his best work. — Adam Lane, Goodreads reviewer of Farilane

A rollercoaster of emotions that will leave you breathless and craving more, Esrahaddon is one Sullivan’s most skillfully woven tales and a worthy follow on to the fantastic Farilane. — Eon Winrunner, Novel Notions on Esrahaddon

I laughed, I screamed, and I cried. I loved every part of this book. Once again, Michael J. Sullivan has gifted us with another masterpiece. — Logan, Goodreads reviewer of Esrahaddon

Esrahaddon was the stunning final piece in the puzzle that masterfully connected all the stories that had been told in the world of Elan.— T. S. Chan, Novel Notions on Esrahaddon

Works by Michael J. Sullivan

Novels

THE LEGENDS OF THE FIRST EMPIRE

Age of Myth • Age of Swords • Age of War

Age of Legend • Age of Death • Age of Empyre

THE RISE AND FALL TRILOGY

Nolyn • Farilane • Esrahaddon

THE RIYRIA CHRONICLES

The Crown Tower • The Rose and the Thorn

The Death of Dulgath • The Disappearance of Winter’s Daughter

Drumindor (release date pending)

THE RIYRIA REVELATIONS

Theft of Swords (contains: The Crown Conspiracy & Avempartha)

Rise of Empire (contains: Nyphron Rising & The Emerald Storm)

Heir of Novron (contains: Wintertide & Percepliquis)

Standalone Novels

Hollow World (Sci-fi Thriller)

Short Stories

Anthologies

When Swords Fall Silent: May Luck Be With You (Riyria Chronicles)

Heroes Wanted: The Ashmoore Affair (Fantasy: Riyria Chronicles)

Blackguards: Professional Integrity (Fantasy: Riyria Chronicles)

Unfettered: The Jester (Fantasy: Riyria Chronicles)

Unbound: The Game (Fantasy: Contemporary)

Unfettered II: Little Wren and the Big Forest (Fantasy: The Legends of the First Empire)

The End: Visions of the Apocalypse: Burning Alexandria (Dystopian Sci-fi)

Triumph Over Tragedy: Traditions (Fantasy: Tales from Elan)

The Fantasy Faction Anthology: Autumn Mist (Fantasy: Contemporary)

Help Fund My Robot Army: Be Careful What You Wish For (Fantasy: Contemporary)

Standalones

Pile of Bones (Fantasy: The Legends of the First Empire)

About the Book

(From the Back Cover)

A HERO TO SOME. A VILLAIN TO MANY. THE TRUTH FOREVER BURIED.

The man who became known as Esrahaddon is reported to have destroyed the world’s greatest empire — but there are those who believe he saved it. Few individuals are as divisive, but all agree on three facts: He was exiled to the wilderness, hunted by a goblin priestess, and sentenced to death by a god — all before the age of eight. How he managed to survive and why people continued to fear his name a thousand years later has always been a mystery . . . until now.

From the three-time New York Times best-selling author Michael J. Sullivan, Esrahaddon is the final novel in The Rise and Fall trilogy. This latest set of stories sits snugly between the Legends of the First Empire books and the Riyria tales (Revelations and Chronicles). With this novel, Michael continues his tradition of unlikely heroes who must rise to the call when history knocks, demanding to be let in. This is the nineteenth full-length novel in a body of work that started in 2008 and spans four series.

Esrahaddon is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the copying, scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book (other than for review purposes) without permission is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book, prior written permission can be obtained by contacting the author at [e-mail]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

Esrahaddon © 2023 by Michael J. Sullivan

Cover illustration © 2015 by Marc Simonetti

Cover design © 2021 Shawn T. King

Map © 2021 by Michael J. Sullivan

Ebook Formatting © 2021 Robin Sullivan

ebook Version: 1.1

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Riyria Enterprises, LLC

Learn more about Michael’s writings at michaelsullivan-author.com

To contact Michael, email him at [e-mail]

World Map

Maps are problematic on e-readers that don’t have adequate resolution to display them, and for this reason you can access a high-resolution map online from this link.

map

This book is dedicated to Patrick Brunett and Cheryl Skynar.

To my knowledge, they are the only childhood

friends who have read any of my books.

Table of Contents

Praise for The Rise and Fall

Works by Michael J. Sullivan

About the Book

Copyright

World Map

Dedication

Author’s Note

Prologue

<<< PART ONE: AWFUL THINGS >>>

Chapter 1: Tigerwolves

Chapter 2: The Forest

Chapter 3: Goblins

Chapter 4: Hekkabah

Chapter 5: The Nyphron Church

<<< PART TWO: NEW BEGINNINGS >>>

Chapter 6: The Longest Day

Chapter 7: Growing the Flock

<<< PART THREE: HIDDEN GIFTS >>>

Chapter 8: The First City

Chapter 9: The Tree House

Chapter 10: Rappaport and Wardley

Chapter 11: The Warlord

Chapter 12: Riddle of the Rogue

Chapter 13: The Proposal

<<< PART FOUR: UNEXPECTED CHALLENGES >>>

Chapter 14: Eber-On-Aston

Chapter 15: The Forbidden Forest

Chapter 16: The Witch

<<< PART FIVE: TUTORS >>>

Chapter 17: Lost and Found

Chapter 18: Meet the Tutors

Chapter 19: Teaching the Prince

Chapter 20: Finding Space

Chapter 21: Conspiracy

<<< PART SIX: A HOUSE DIVIDED >>>

Chapter 22: Granting Wishes

Chapter 23: Seven’s Shadow

Chapter 24: The Story Retold

Chapter 25: Training Lessons

Chapter 26: Departure

Chapter 27: Merredydd

Chapter 28: The Hawthorn Glen

Chapter 29: Ryin Contita

Chapter 30: In the Shadow

Chapter 31: Rochelle

Chapter 32: Before the Gates

Chapter 33: The Legion and the Leash

Chapter 34: Mileva

Chapter 35: The Pile

Chapter 36: The Riva

Chapter 37: Sailing Home

Chapter 38: Visitors

Chapter 39: A House Divided

Chapter 40: Preparing to Leave

Chapter 41: The Secret

Chapter 42: The Tower

Chapter 43: As Light Fades

Chapter 44: Fallout

Chapter 45: The Prince

Chapter 46: The Night of Sorrow

Chapter 47: Founder’s Day

Chapter 48: Farewell

Chapter 49: Fall the Wall

Chapter 50: The Heir of Nyphron

Afterword

Riyria Sneak Peek

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Author’s Note

After I published my first novel, The Crown Conspiracy, a critic wrote that my book was without merit and, in ten years, both it and I would be long forgotten. It has now been sixteen years, and by reading this, you’re proving that fellow wrong.

Esrahaddon officially marks the publication of my twentieth novel. Such a thing naturally evokes a certain degree of nostalgia. Looking back reveals a pattern that managed to weave its way into my novels: the idea of the unlikely success story. In an era of artistic and cultural pessimism, my books are sometimes accused of being too optimistic. The common assertion is that life is misery, and great novels should reflect that reality, even if they are set in a fantasy world. The idea of Good triumphing over Evil has been relegated to a childish yesteryear of fairy tales. They say such a notion never existed in the past and certainly has no place in the future.

Except it has, and it still does.

I began writing stories around the age of twelve and had completed three full-length, typewritten novels by the time I was seventeen. Still, I never thought of being a writer because such an idea was beyond absurd. I didn’t know the first thing about grammar, and my spelling was atrocious. While I didn’t know much, I was pretty sure writers needed to master such things. So when I graduated from high school, I set my sights on becoming an illustrator. I won a scholarship, which paid for my first year at a prestigious art school: The Center for Creative Studies in Detroit. If not for the financial assistance, I wouldn’t have attended college at all because of a lack of funds.

Like many Irish of the early twentieth century, my father worked at a steel mill. He also served in World War II. He died when I was nine, leaving behind four children and a wife whose only work experience had been filling in, Rosie the Riveter style, during the war. As a result, we lived on social security and veterans’ benefits. This meant my clothes were a hodgepodge of hand-me-downs from cousins, as all our income went to food, housing, and utilities.

I wasn’t good at much in school. I could draw and had a comic strip in the school newspaper, though I wasn’t an official member of the paper’s staff. I only had one creative writing course, the highlight of which was when the teacher picked my story to present to the class. She chose two other shorts that day, one written by another boy and the other by a girl named Megan. Having the girl selected was no surprise. She was the best in the class — likely the entire school — a bookworm who would achieve unexpected fame in her senior year as the high school musical star. The boy was an athletic sort, whose name I can’t recall, and whose story was, not surprisingly, about sports. To my regret, I don’t remember what Megan’s story was about, but I found it to be well-written.

The assignment had been to create a short story of no more than three pages about a photograph that was shown to the class and then passed around. The picture was of a single flower — a daisy, I think. I felt my story was pathetic. Given such a limited prompt, I came up with an absurd concept. A boy who had lived his whole life in a bunker after some apocalyptic event is sent to the surface to look for signs of life. He wanders for a few hours through a hellscape until he stumbles upon the flower. Having no idea what it is, he plucks it from the ground and studies the daisy before discarding it and uttering the only line of dialogue: Whatever you are, you have no place in such a brutal world.

I remember cringing as the teacher read my story. Afterward, I was surprised when no one laughed or made fun of it. They didn’t applaud, either. After all, we were a class of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds. But what did happen has stayed with me all these years. Megan, the leading wordsmith of my eleventh-grade creative writing class, looked flabbergasted and asked incredulously, A boy wrote that?

I took it as a compliment — my first ever.

After high school, one of my friends entered the US Air Force. The rest went to four-year colleges — paid for or subsidized by their parents. I worked as a dishwasher, then in a miserable job at a podiatrist’s lab. The pay was the same, but laboratory technician sounded better. Few knew I was just pouring plaster into molds and standing for hours at a utility sink being splashed by frigid water while I shaped foot castings. When contemplating my future, I thought I might save enough money to afford a tiny mobile home where I would live alone, or if I were lucky, I might have a dog. Marriage wasn’t in my cards because no one would want a guy who wasn’t confident about his ability to support a pet. At the age of eighteen, I was ready to call it quits. My life consisted of working long, crushing hours at a terrible place, eating fast food, and never sleeping enough hours. Still, I was convinced this was the high point of my life. Things would only worsen as age brought aches, pains, and medical bills.

Then just like in a fantasy story — one I wrote, at least — everything changed.

I met someone, or perhaps it is more accurate to say I noticed someone I hadn’t before. Nearly a year younger and still in high school, she was a waitress who sometimes played that new and somewhat infamous game, Dungeons & Dragons, at my house. I was drawn to her because her life was worse than mine. She was the daughter of two alcoholics in a broken marriage, with a mother who blamed her children for the breakup. Back when the mother suffered a nervous breakdown, this girl (who was only thirteen at that time) was left to care for her six-year-old sister. After the mother’s discharge, more problems followed, such that the girl didn’t want to go home. This was why, late one Saturday after a long night of D&D, I found this girl asleep on my mother’s couch. Knowing her story and that she had no place else to go, I stayed up all night watching over her so that my mother didn’t find her and demand explanations.

As the sun came up, so did her eyelids. She blinked a few times, staring at me. Then her face scrunched up in confusion. She looked at the sunlight creeping in through the windows. Have you been there all night? she whispered.

I nodded.

Don’t you have to go to work in a few hours?

I nodded.

She stared at me for a long time as if my elaborate replies didn’t make sense.

Why?

I wanted you to get a good night’s sleep.

Again the odd, long stare.

I didn’t know it then, but that was the moment Robin Planck fell in love with me.

It was also the instant that the downward spiral of my life stopped and slowly began to go in the other direction. Robin suggested that I go to a community college. I honestly didn’t think that was possible. Given that she was the valedictorian of her high school class, I knew she was more intelligent than I, so I took her advice. I didn’t get much out of the education, but I was able to land a job as an illustrator for slightly more than minimum wage. Robin spent three years working full-time while simultaneously finishing her engineering degree. We both worked sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch and meatless spaghetti for dinner. Sweaters and wrapping up in blankets were a necessity because we kept our thermostat so low that we blew on our hands when writing. But by doing all that, we managed to afford a house.

Once Robin graduated, we got married, and from that point on, every year has been better than the one before. Most of it wasn’t easy. Neither of us benefited from a mentor, a supportive family, a wealthy relative, or a lottery win. No opportunities fell into our laps. Doors were usually closed, several locked, but one way or another we found our way in.

I’m not suggesting we had it harder than anyone else. After all, I am a straight, white, American male, so my basement is a roof for many others. Still, when comparing myself to everyone I knew, I suspected I was the least likely to succeed, especially at something as challenging as becoming a novelist. The idea wasn’t realistic enough to even contemplate.

It was a fantasy. And yet here I am.

So for me, the idea of an unlikely character beating the odds and achieving the impossible isn’t something that exists only in books. It’s the story of my life: the tale of a young boy destined for failure, who, through the heroics of one woman and the generosity of a legion of readers, has achieved dreams heretofore unimagined.

Thank you for proving that critic wrong and supporting me for so many years. You’ve turned a fantasy into reality, and I hope I can return the favor.

Michael J. Sullivan

January 2023

Prologue

PERCEPLIQUIS, FOUNDER’S DAY, SPRING, 2120 IR

As he rushed up the Grand Marchway toward the Imperial Palace, Esrahaddon prepared himself to kill. This process took far less time and effort than he was comfortable with. Literally about four seconds, or the amount of time required to take four quick steps. He’d killed before, but so many of those he was about to slaughter were innocent — some would even be children. The others, while not guiltless, had been corrupted by lies. In another place and time, he and they might have been friends. Oddly, what bothered Esrahaddon the most was not what he was about to do, but that he so readily accepted the undertaking.

It’s always easier to destroy than to build.

This was about to be the worst day in the lives of so many people, the tragic end of the greatest era of mankind, which made Esrahaddon wonder why it was such a beautiful morning. That it happened to be Founder’s Day was more than a little ironic. The holiday fell at the same time each year: mid-spring. People planned weddings or trips during the holiday because it was believed to have the best chance for good weather. Despite this, Esrahaddon had rarely seen a pleasant Founder’s Day. Always too cold, too hot, or pouring down rain. But this day, of all days, the holiday weather was flawless. The sky was blue, the air warm, and the blossoming trees were at their peak. This would have been the best Founder’s Day in recent memory. Instead, he was about to make it the most infamous in history.

Esrahaddon waded through the rivers of people pouring into Imperial Square. To his right stood the stone rotunda of the Cenzarium, and to his left was the more brutish columned façade of the Teshlor Guildhall. Before him, at the terminus of the boulevard, rose the great, golden-domed palace — the seat of the emperor of the world. Esrahaddon marched past the Ulurium Fountain, across the Memorial Green, to the very steps of the palace. Not a single imperial guard was on duty. No one noticed. Everyone was too busy celebrating.

That was part of the plan.

Entering the elegantly marbled hall, Esrahaddon was engulfed in the scent of incense that made him think of the umbra trees and abbra berries from the land of his birth — the smell singularly out of place here. The palace was a marvel: large, beautiful, and extremely well built. The building had stood for more than a thousand years, and the empire for twice as long.

But all that was about to end.

Two Teshlor Knights faced Esrahaddon as they stood guard before the magnificent golden doors. At his approach, each man reached for his sword. With a word, Esrahaddon commanded the doors to melt. The resulting wave of molten metal engulfed the two guards — their screams lost in the revelry of the city’s celebration. An instant later, Esrahaddon walked over the solidified pool of gold where parts of two men protruded.

The reception hall and corridor — normally congested with dignitaries, diplomats, ambassadors, delegates, legates, envoys, emissaries, council ministers, aides, administrators, and servants — lay empty. In that silent vacuum, Esrahaddon’s anger grew. The emperor was inside with his family. They would be hiding somewhere — down by the tomb, he imagined.

I’m done playing games.

Esrahaddon flexed his fingers. He was free to act at last, free to take his revenge, free to show everyone what he was truly capable of. All he needed was to find the emperor. Esrahaddon followed the corridor where he once more saw the murals etched into the polished stone like burnished details on glass. The images told a story, and Esrahaddon had seen them before, but this was the first time he recognized the man mysteriously repeated in each coronation picture.

He reached the throne room and found it empty.

Hearing a pounding noise echoing down the hallway, he headed that way.

More knights appeared in the corridor. Above them, a two-ton block of stone fell from the ceiling, killing the lot. With a flick of Esrahaddon’s finger, the block blew apart. Stepping around the crushed knights, he reached the stairs and headed down. The pounding grew louder.

Deeper into the palace he went.

At the bottom of the stairs was a hallway that ended in a small, square room. The light of his robe revealed a vaulted ceiling, and at the center was a great statue of Novron. The walls were filled with cubbyholes, which themselves were stuffed with piles of rolled scrolls. On the far side was a stone door, closed tight.

Knights were busy pounding on the door, desperate to get in. At his approach, they turned and attacked. He opened the floor, letting it swallow them in a single bite. This left only the door. Esrahaddon had reached the Vault of Days. Inside, he could hear the emperor, his wife, and his daughter crying.

Esrahaddon placed a hand on the stone portal and shook his head.

How had it come to this? How had it gone so wrong?

Memories flooded him — a voice from the past. Killed his own mother . . . So vile, even a lion refused to eat him . . . Only a child but he’s as evil as a new moon is dark . . . This is all your fault, boy. This last one hurt the most, the words chilling.

Esrahaddon felt the cool stone against his palm as he pushed the door open.

This is all your fault, boy.

part_1

Chapter One

Tigerwolves

TWENTY YEARS EARLIER

IMPERIAL PROVINCE OF CALYNIA, SUMMER

This is all your fault, boy, his father said, glaring down at him. Eleja was a big man by any standard, hard and fierce. His bare arms displayed lean muscle, while cracked hands adorned with callouses held tight to his hunting spear. To a seven-year-old boy, Eleja was a giant — an angry one.

Ezra said nothing.

Outside their little home, people sobbed as the sun set and the last light faded. The men had spent all day making more walls, trying to defend their tiny village. But even as young as Ezra was, he knew the bamboo and jungo leaf panels provided only the illusion of a barrier. Maybe that would be enough. After all, animals weren’t smart. Ezra wasn’t bright either, but even he could tell the village defenses would be useless.

The tigerwolves, the largest and meanest kind of hyena, began their high-pitched squeals and chuckling laughter as soon as the sun vanished and shadows flooded the valley. There were more of them that night, many more than before, and they were closer. The sounds scared Ezra. Animals shouldn’t cackle.

Ezra, his aunt, and her two boys remained inside their mud-grass-and-stick house — ordered there by his father. To Ezra, their home, like the jungo-leaf barriers, provided only the perception of shelter. The door was nothing but a woven mat that rolled up with the pull of a string.

Animals might not be smart, he thought, but they aren’t stupid.

Maybe some hyena were. They certainly looked dim-witted with their high shoulders and low-slung heads. But the striped ones, the tigerwolves, were cunning and vicious. And like dogs, they could dig. So if the mat door confused them, they could go under it or through the walls.

The home was cramped and smelled of smoke and tulan, which was drying among the rafters. Members of Haddon Village harvested and sold the red leaves in exchange for salt and fish oil at the seaside town of Shahabad. But this year the crop was thin. The wet season had been dry. Rivers became rock gullies and lakes little more than circles of cracked mud. Haddon had seen droughts before, or so Ezra had been told. The last one had been seven years ago — a few months after Ezra’s birth. Animals came then, too. That time it had been a pride of lions. Some days nothing happened. As many as three nights would go by, and people talked about the terror being over. Then someone else would disappear. The cats were quiet and quick. Fifteen villagers were killed that year. Ezra’s mother had been one of them — the last one.

Ezra had been with her. She was gathering abbra berries and rom nuts along the eaves of the forest. She didn’t dare go in; everyone knew the Erbon Forest was a place of unspeakable horrors. Some had names, others did not. Only hunting parties went under the forest canopy, and those who ventured too deep never returned.

A narrow trail through an open field connected the village of Haddon to the port city of Shahabad. This path and the meadow they farmed were considered safe, and people didn’t stray from them. Ezra’s mother had carried him in a basket and set her new son down in a patch of dry grass. Then the lions attacked, and they tore her apart. Ezra couldn’t remember the moment — not really. His recollections came from after-the-fact retellings by village elders who had found Monsara’s shredded body. They said his blanket was drenched with her blood. The mystery that remained since that day — the one that had baffled everyone including Ezra — was why the starving lions had ignored a helpless baby. It made no sense for them to attack his mother when he was so easy to snatch. But even more curious was why the pride had left Monsara’s body behind and had chosen that moment to leave Haddon Village for good. No one had answers, but many made guesses. Ezra’s father was always vocal about his.

This is all your fault, boy, his father said again, perhaps thinking Ezra hadn’t heard him the first time, even though Ezra stood close enough to feel the spray of his spit. There was sweat, too. His father’s skin glistened, and drips gathered, rolling over the hills and gullies of Eleja’s wrinkled forehead before entering the forest of bushy brows that ran together, joining forces in their reproach of Ezra. Did you call them?

What? Tadesha asked, confused. Ezra’s aunt had her arms around her two little boys, pulling them close as they huddled on the mat beside the pit. The three were rocking and praying to Novron for protection. Who? The tigerwolves?

The old man didn’t answer. He continued to stare at Ezra, who shook his head. This did nothing to satisfy his father. You’re doing it again. I know you are. You brought lions to kill your mother and called the tigerwolves for the rest of us.

The drought brought the animals, Tadesha said softly.

"And just like before, Ezrrra made the drought," Eleja declared, dragging out his son’s name as if it were a lie that needed to be exposed to the light of day.

No. I didn’t, Ezra whispered.

He’s always been trouble, Eleja went on, talking to Tadesha or maybe to himself, possibly to Novron. Everyone else was speaking to the god that night, and his father was as faithful as they came. The family had little, but Eleja always found a coin to put into the wooden box at the church in Shahabad. Not a bit like Kedea, Nocea, Jaomo, and Ado.

He’s seven.

"All my sons are strong, tall, brave, and fit. Eleja waved his left hand out and up in a violent motion. This one is sickly and weak. He picks at his food, stays in the house, and draws pictures on the walls instead of learning to fight and hunt."

He’s seven, she repeated, but without much conviction.

"That may be, but he is not my son. He’s . . . he’s something else."

This wasn’t the first time Ezra had heard this. Eleja often told the other men of the village that his wife had been unfaithful. He proclaimed her death was Novron’s punishment for her betrayal. But maybe this was the first time Tadesha had heard it, or perhaps she simply didn’t like him speaking ill of her dead sister.

You’re crazy, Tadesha said, her voice rising. "What are you accusing Monsara of? My sister was a good woman! And Ezra isn’t something else, he’s just a boy. What do you think he is?"

"The forest is full of Awful Things. And if the village suffers, it’s all his fault."

Tadesha straightened herself. She was a bony woman with a skull-like face dominated by sunken eyes and yellow teeth. Everyone said she was so devoted to her deceased husband, Blar, that she refused to take another man after he died. But Ezra thought Tadesha was alone because no other man wanted her. People said that Blar was old and no great prize, but it was also said that Tadesha had been lucky to have him — luckier still that he gave her a pair of sons before passing.

With a final, hateful glare, Ezra’s father left the house, dragging the butt of his spear and leaving a line in the dirt beside a set of bare footprints that led away — footprints Ezra knew he could never fill.

When Ezra turned back, Tadesha was hugging his cousins, Jaydan and Nomax, so tightly that they winced. She stared at Ezra with cold eyes. She had been supporting her sister’s memory, not defending her nephew.

Maybe she agrees with Father. What is she seeing when she looks at me? And who am I if I’m not Eleja’s son?

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The attack came later that night.

Ezra had managed to fall asleep on his mat beside the big water urn. The woven carpet of grass that had belonged to his mother was thin and frayed. It had an ugly, rusty zigzag pattern that didn’t quite line up, a stain that smelled of dung and sweat, and a corner that constantly threatened to unravel. The mat was also his most beloved and cherished possession — the only connection to the one person who had loved him.

His other two treasures were a clay cup and a colorful feather. The misshapen mug had been cast aside because a chip and a crack made it leak. Ezra had found the feather about a year ago near the big rock. Almost a foot long, the plume was bright yellow and blue, and Ezra thought it had to be the most beautiful thing ever. He’d never seen a bird with feathers such as that. Imagining that it must be magnificent, he’d tried drawing the bird on the walls of his house, guessing at its wondrous shape. Ezra hoped someone might see the drawing and say, "Oh, that’s a something-something bird," giving him the chance to ask questions and learn where he might catch sight of one. That never happened. He considered showing the feather around and inquiring about it, but he was afraid someone would steal it, or — and he felt this to be the worst possibility — that they would know exactly what kind of bird it came from and claim it was nothing special. He feared this because the feather was extraordinary. Too beautiful to be of the village, it had to come from someplace else, someplace better: a softer world of brilliant colors, where things with such magnificent plumage could fly. Ezra often imagined that the feather had been left just for him. that the bird had dropped it in his path as a sign, or perhaps a message. What the bird was trying to tell him was a mystery, something for Ezra to figure out. He kept the plume under his inherited mat, taking it out only when he was alone. Looking at it made him grin, and because of that power, he knew it was magic.

That was the other reason he kept the feather hidden. Magic was evil. Ezra’s father and Novron, the Son of Maribor, had said so. Any magic — even reading — was forbidden. Once, a Monk of Maribor had come to their village. Everyone was happy to see him until they noticed he carried books. The elders sent him on his way, calling him a sorcerer of Uberlin. A goat was slaughtered that night and every building painted with its blood to purify the village. For weeks afterward, conversations centered on the evils of the outside world and how fortunate they were to live in such a blessed place as Haddon.

If a Monk of Maribor is cast out for having books, what would the elders do to a boy hiding a magic feather? Not to mention a boy who had killed his own mother. Or was it Novron who killed her as punishment? He would never dare ask, but he guessed his father would say both were true. That was the way with Eleja.

Ezra couldn’t tell if it was the screams or the growls that woke him. The sounds were similar. The throaty snarl of a striped tigerwolf was much like a man groaning out in anguish. Such a noise was a terrible thing to wake up to, and Ezra’s eyes snapped open. Most of the cries came from outside where a big fire had been built, but one scream issued from across the room. This wasn’t the growl of a tigerwolf; it came from Aunt Tadesha.

Her prayers to Novron had not worked. Ezra watched as his aunt was jerked by her foot. Using a series of violent tugs, a huge tigerwolf with wild eyes hauled his aunt toward the doorway. She screamed and kicked at the beast with her free foot while she clawed the floor, scratching shallow lines in the packed dirt as out the door she went.

The tigerwolf didn’t have the slightest trouble getting past the mat on the string.

Cowering, abandoned by both Novron and their mother, Ezra’s cousins cried. Ezra did, too. The night was filled with screaming — screaming, crying, growling . . . and laughing. But only the animals laughed.

Ezra’s brothers weren’t there. Older and armed with spears, they would be fighting. His sisters weren’t around, either. They both had men now, and that night they were with their new families. With Tadesha gone, Ezra was alone with the wailing Jaydan and Nomax.

Shut up! he screamed in his head. You’re just asking for —

Another tigerwolf entered. It ducked its dog-like head under the door’s woven mat, lifting it up to look inside. One of its eyes was blind and milky. Its ears were big, like a bat. And all around its face, its fur was soaked with blood that dripped from long chin hairs that created a deep-red beard.

Is that Aunt Tadesha on its face?

Framed in the firelight, creeping in slowly, the beast kept its head low, shoulders high, tail tucked.

It’s not an animal at all. This is one of those Awful Things that Father said the forest was full of.

The blind, milky eye looked at the screaming cousins, and the animal showed its teeth.

No! Ezra shouted.

The monster’s head turned, and its good eye found him.

Ezra felt under the mat and drew forth the feather. He pointed it at the animal. The plume was long and drooped lazily — quivering. Stay away!

With labored wet breaths that smelled of rotting meat, the beast took a step toward Ezra. Then it crouched, growled, and finally cackled.

Terrified and expecting to die, all Ezra wanted was for it to stop laughing — for all of them to stop making that noise.

Another tigerwolf entered the house, then another.

They all laughed.

Ezra continued to point his feather but closed his eyes. Stop it! he screamed. Stop it! Stop it!

The laughing ended, and the tearing began.

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Ezra woke on his back in the center of the village with the sun on his face. He wasn’t alone. A circle of men surrounded him. All the elders were there. So was his father.

See? Eleja said, pointing down at him. What did I tell you?

The others nodded with serious expressions.

Not a scratch, Kenja said. He was the Chief Elder, the biggest and oldest, and on his shoulders was the drape of the leopard skin that went by the name of the Great Oska.

The men stood shoulder to shoulder in a ring, and above them was the blue sky and a high sun that told Ezra he had been sleeping a good while.

What happened? he asked.

They ignored him.

A fire was burning somewhere — a big one. Ezra could hear snapping and crackling. He heard crying, too, but that was faint and muffled. Inside a house, perhaps. In the gaps between the fence of men’s legs, all he was able to see was smoke.

What do we do? Ashah, the Second Elder, asked while holding his spear in two hands.

When Kenja hesitated, Ezra’s father spoke up. He must be killed.

Who? Ezra thought. Me? Why?

He’s just a boy, Kenja said.

He is not, Eleja declared. He’s a demon spawn. That’s why trouble always comes — he draws it, causes it! He’s the reason for the drought that saw fifteen of us die. And now this. His father shook his head in disgust. So vile, even a lion refused to eat him. Only a child, but he’s as evil as a new moon is dark.

Several of the elders nodded at this.

It is me. I’m the one. My father wants me dead.

What happened? Ezra asked again, more earnestly this time, but once more they acted as if they couldn’t hear.

We cannot kill him, Kenja said. It is dangerous. We all saw that.

Should have listened to me. Should have killed him while he slept, Eleja said. His lips were wet, his teeth showing, and he breathed as if he’d been running, but there was no sweat on him.

Wouldn’t have mattered, Kenja proclaimed. The lions didn’t kill him. The hyena couldn’t, either. There must be a reason for that. He is protected. Trying to harm him would only bring wrath.

Novron will protect us.

If Novron wants this boy dead, then he can do it. Kenja clapped his hands. We shall banish him. Give him to the forest.

A child cannot hope to survive in the Erbon — Ashah said.

Not a child, Eleja said, a demon spawn. We need to —

Novron will decide, Kenja declared, and he clapped his hands once more in judgment. He faced Ashah. Or do you suggest that our Lord, the Son of Maribor, cannot protect an innocent child, should he so wish?

He’s not innocent. Eleja spoke with such frustration he spat with the effort.

"And are you saying Novron cannot kill a child — spawn of a demon or not — should it be his will?" Kenja asked.

Eleja panted and sputtered but said nothing more.

What happened? Ezra asked a third time, pleading for them to answer.

How say you? Kenja asked the elders, and each in turn nodded in agreement.

Ashah pulled Ezra to his feet. Food and water? he asked Kenja.

Novron will provide, should it be his will, Kenja said. Then for the first time, he addressed Ezra. You will leave Haddon and never come back. If you do, we will try to kill you.

Without another word, the circle of men dispersed, and Ezra could see what was left of the village. Most of the homes were gone, flattened as if by a mighty wind. The feeble walls the men had spent all day building were blown outward. One was high in a tree at the edge of the clearing. The watchtowers were toppled, the stones of the well scattered, baskets and pottery flung in all directions. And everywhere, there were bodies. Some were villagers — Ezra spotted Tadesha, her throat ripped out — but most were the striped carcasses of tigerwolves. There might have been as many as fifty, but it was difficult to say. They appeared to have been torn apart.

The only building unaffected was Ezra’s home.

Not a scratch.

Go, Kenja ordered, and pointed at the forest. Leave, and never come back.

All the survivors of the village stared at him, Jaydan and Nomax among them. His cousins looked at Ezra in horror.

What did they see? What happened?

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Ezra had nothing. His feather and cup were lost, and they were sending him away without even his mother’s mat. All he had left was a single drape of plain cloth tied with a string. The garment measured less than his height in length, yet it was long enough to wrap twice around his waist and once between his legs. Seven years and three full moons old, and Ezra would be alone for the first time.

He cried all the way across the field, past the big rock where he had found the feather, and up to the start of the forest where the great umbra trees held hands with stalks of jungo plants. The greenery created an intimidating barrier that separated the world Ezra knew from oblivion.

No one went into the forest except the bravest of men, who hunted in groups of twenty, each armed with spears. Even they ventured there only to slay a single kapa, the long-nosed pig the villagers roasted on each of the four Feast Days. The great Erbon Forest was no friend to the people of Haddon. It was the Other, the place in which all terrible things lived.

Two men, Kenja’s sons, had followed him. Tall, lean, and as stern as their father, the pair climbed atop the rock and watched as Ezra reached the eaves of the forest. They stared at him without a line of kindness on their faces.

Why? he half-shouted, half-cried, nose running. His hands squeezed into fists. His body shook.

One of Kenja’s sons pointed firmly at the trees. The other folded his arms tight across his chest.

Ezra hitched a breath, lips quivering, eyes blurred. Turning, he looked at the shadow-line that divided the sunny brittle grasses and dusty patches of the field that had always been his home from the darkness of the unknown forest canopy. Ezra had never once been inside. Where he stood was as close as he had ever come, and that was with his mother — the day she died. He didn’t know the exact spot. Many had told him, but they each mentioned different places. It didn’t matter. Everyone agreed she had died at the eaves, and that’s where he now stood.

He looked back again, and once more received the adamant point and the folded arms.

Sobbing so hard that the stream of tears ran unchecked down his neck and chest, Ezra bowed his head in resignation and stepped into the forest, into the darkness of shadow, into the Realm of Awful Things.

Chapter Two

The Forest

Ezra pushed past the massive jungo leaves, many of which were just as tall and decidedly broader than himself. He dodged around the kala plants with their poisonous pink flowers. Deeper and deeper he went until Ezra was fully behind the curtain, under the leafy blanket — gone from his world and into the Other.

Up close, the trees were massive. The stately umbras had smooth gray bark and appeared like old women — curvy and decidedly wider at the base than higher up. Some, perhaps the older ones, had bark that peeled back, revealing a pale underside. Other trees had bodies that seemed made up of hundreds of other trunks all woven together. These were the eske trees that looked like stretched dough or torn flesh, and Ezra had always thought of them as gruesome. Nothing here was familiar, nothing safe, nothing pleasant. Looking back, he could no longer see Kenja’s sons, or the rock, or the field.

What had happened? The question remained unanswered.

Something bad, he was certain, and something he did, or they wouldn’t have cast him out. Ezra was guilty of a crime so terrible that even a child could not be forgiven.

But what was it? Perhaps it is so bad they don’t want to speak about it.

Ezra couldn’t recall anything that happened after the tigerwolves entered the house. He had pointed the feather, closed his eyes, and cried. That was all.

I must have fainted.

Women did that sometimes. Men did, too, if it was hot and they were out too long in the sun. But such a thing was shameful. Men weren’t supposed to faint, or cry, or draw pretty birds on the walls. But no one had ever been exiled to the forest for fainting.

He’s seven, Ezra’s aunt had said, but age didn’t matter to his father. Men were big, brave, strong, and they always knew what to do. Ezra was small, weak, cowardly, and ignorant of everything. I can’t be his son. How could I be? That was why they sent him to the forest. I belong here, not in such a wholesome place as Haddon. I’m one of the Awful Things.

He knew it was true as soon as the thought landed. I should never have been born. I deserve to die, and now I will.

He waited.

Tigerwolves would be on him soon. They would drag him away by his feet. Or perhaps the lions that had killed his mother and given him nightmares all his life would leap out of the shadows. How much would it hurt to be torn apart? Ezra closed his eyes, held his breath, and cringed in expectation, but all he heard was the rustle of leaves in the wind. He fell to his knees, placed his face in his hands, and sobbed. He cried until his stomach hurt. At any minute, his death would come, so he waited. Then he waited some more, and then some more.

After a good deal of time, Ezra grew bored. He looked up and stared at the underside of the trees. Big and solid as stone, still they swayed. A leaf came free and spiraled down, hitting the forest floor only a foot away. It landed without a sound. But there were plenty of noises. Now that Ezra had stopped crying, he heard them — birds mostly. They tweeted, cawed, and whistled. Insects droned, and frogs peeped. Some creatures made sounds Ezra couldn’t identify — chirps and plunks and chuckles. Something tapped repeatedly on wood, making an eerie echo. Then he heard a whooping sound, which he concluded must be a monkey. The forest was surprisingly loud, as if an angry argument were underway and everyone shouted at once. Even the trees creaked.

Out of the din came music — beautiful and serene, as if someone were playing a flute. But it wasn’t an instrument, it was a bird. Looking up, he saw it high in the trees, and its long tail feathers were a brilliant yellow and blue. Ezra held his breath as he stared. The bird was perched on a high branch on one of the ladylike umbra trees and caught in a shaft of sunlight. It was beyond anything Ezra could have imagined, as it was unlike any bird he’d ever seen. Not only was it yellow and blue, but also orange, green, and black. It had normal-looking wings, but its tail feathers — each a perfect match to the one he’d treasured for nearly a year — were twice its body length. Still, the bird had yet another set of feathers that draped down from its back to well past its feet, gratuitous plumage that served no obvious purpose other than to look amazing. Ezra thought the bird wore these extra feathers like Kenja wore the Great Oska.

You’re in the forest? Ezra asked the bird, shocked. You’re in the Realm of Awful Things? The Erbon was certainly a different world, which agreed with his belief that the bird was not of the village and yet . . . But you’re not an Awful Thing — you can’t be. You’re beautiful.

The bird flashed out gorgeous wings and flew deeper into the trees.

Wait! Ezra shouted, jumped to his feet, and ran after it.

He might have only been seven, but forests seemed made for someone his size. He moved swiftly, leaping logs and ducking under branches as he chased the bird. Stopping to catch his breath, he lost sight of it. Then the melody started again, that music similar to songs played after meals — except that his uncle was an amateur compared to the Magnificent Bird. Ezra crept toward it and was rewarded with another view of those brilliant feathers, now higher in the canopy. The bird took flight once more, and the chase began anew. This went on until finally Ezra collapsed. Panting and looking around, he had lost all trace of the bird. He waited, trying not to breathe so he could hear better. But the song and the bird were gone.

By then, Ezra was deep in the forest. He no longer had any idea which way Haddon lay.

I can’t go back now even if they let me. I’m lost.

Ezra once more recalled his fate, the impending doom that the bird had only briefly distracted him from. With it, the sadness, guilt, and fear returned. He thought he might cry again, but just then, he realized he was thirsty. The running had done it. But he had no water, and he would find none. The drought that had driven away the herd animals and caused the tigerwolves to feed on the villagers was still raging. Even the well had been desperately low. Ezra recalled how Aunt Tadesha had complained that the gourds always came up half full.

If the animals can’t find water, what chance have I?

A gentle breeze blew through, and one of the plants he sat beside brushed his face. He swept it away.

Perhaps I ought to travel downhill. Water is more likely to be found the lower I go. Isn’t it?

Another breeze, and the broad green leaf slapped him again. Ezra pushed back, snapping the plant stem. He hadn’t meant to. It was only that Ezra was trying to think, and the leaf —

Out of the broken stem a drop of liquid appeared. Touching it, Ezra brought his finger to his tongue. Water. Bending over, he sucked on the snapped stalk. He got a little more, but only a little. Then Ezra stood up and looked around. He was standing in a patch of green plants — lots of them. Jungos, spikers, even some abbra berry bushes. And there were many more he didn’t know — forest flowers, shrubs, and ground cover. Ezra had worked long hours in the village gardens, carrying water from the well to give to the stunted vegetables, and they had never looked so lush as this. All the grasses in the field around the village were burnt and yellowed, and many patches had returned to dirt. But here everything was enormous and flourishing.

Here wasn’t a big place. The patch of lush plants extended only a few feet around him. Smaller than my house, he thought, then reminded himself, not my house anymore.

Ezra got up. As young as he was, even he knew plants didn’t grow without water, and they sure wouldn’t get this big and green without a lot of it. He couldn’t remember the last time it had rained. Uncle Hebus — the amateur flutist — was fond of saying, There’s a time for everything. He even had a song about it, though Ezra only remembered one line: Green grows the abbra berry, early in the year; summer is the time of plenty; winter’s nearly here. The time for rain wasn’t late summer. That was the time for broiling heat, dead grass, and fighting to keep the olla pots filled. But those things were true in a normal year, and this wasn’t one of those. Even in spring, Ezra couldn’t keep the clay pots, which seeped water to the vegetable roots, filled. There had even been talk about what to do if the well went completely dry. But here . . .

Ezra pushed back the plants, sticking his head into the bushes and searching for their secret. He found none, but where his hands touched the dirt, it was cool. Digging with bare fingers, he found moisture. Puzzled, Ezra frowned at his dirty hands. That’s when he heard the drums.

Haddon had one that was hauled out and beaten at each funeral. Ezra guessed he was hearing the start of the ceremony that would bury Aunt Tadesha and whoever else had died the night before. But this sound did not come from Haddon’s funeral ceremony. For one thing, he heard more than one. For another, the funeral drum was a tall instrument made of hardwood, like a giant chalice with goatskin stretched over the top. Slapping it made a high, hollow ring unless you hit the center. Then it would make a lower tone, but nothing so deep as what Ezra was hearing as he stood in that little patch of green.

His second guess was thunder, but thunder heralded rain, and rain no longer made visits to Haddon. While Ezra was now in another world, he didn’t think it so far, nor he so fortunate, as to be in a place that had rain. Also, the sound didn’t come from overhead but off to his left, in the direction the Magnificent Bird had flown. Ezra officially gave it this name, assuming the authority based on his growing belief that he alone had ever seen it, and that they were both of the same universe — both members of the Realm of Awful Things.

If it wasn’t the funeral drum of Haddon, Ezra was at a loss as to what it was. His entire understanding of everything ended at the forest eaves. Being in a new world, it might be anything. Still, Ezra was scared. Loud, deep, hollow sounds were frightening. They suggested something big and dangerous that had no fear of being heard.

The forest is full of Awful Things.

Ezra gave up trying to solve the mystery of the green patch and searched for a place to hide. He considered climbing a tree, but the umbras were too smooth to scale, and there were no nearby eskes to scramble up. The other ones, those with branches he could reach, were too small to help.

Boom, boom, boom.

Was it louder? Closer?

Ezra found a large rock that an umbra tree clutched with its roots. Part of the rock was tilted up, as if the tree had been working to lift it. Smaller rocks — or likely broken portions of the big one — lay beneath, creating a tiny gap. Not quite a cave, it was better than the open forest. Being small, Ezra was able to squeeze in, and he found the crevice was deeper than he had first thought. Delighted, he pressed himself down, twisting into what he believed was a cleft. Ezra discovered his mistake when he fell, or maybe not so much fell as slid. While the trip down wasn’t far, it was enough to leave him in the dark. He was under the rock, beneath the tree, and for the moment, he was happy. Pleased to be where it was cool, glad to be hidden. Whatever is making that sound won’t find me in here, and even if it does, it can’t get me. Nothing making that big of a noise could fit.

Ezra lay on moist dirt, staring through the opening at the muted forest light — waiting. The drumbeats were muffled, made softer by his refuge. The pounding could be anything. Might not be drums at all.

What if they were footfalls of some monstrous beast, like a giant or a dragon?

Uncle Hebus had all sorts of stories about the forest: songs about spiders, lizards, lights, and talking trees. None ever had happy endings.

Ezra listened to the drums pound, which he no longer thought were coming closer. On the other hand, they weren’t getting farther away, either. The pounding beat continued unaltered, and what had been frightening slipped into an almost comforting constant. Ezra was back to waiting for death, and in addition to being thirsty, he realized he was also tired — a strange sort of exhaustion — despite having slept late that morning. Lying on his stomach with his cheek pressed to the cool ground and his mind focusing on the regular, rolling rhythm that played like thunder, he discovered the weariness taking priority. It made no sense, but who knew if sense was allowed in the forest. And in between one beat and the next, Ezra fell asleep.

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Plunk, plunk, plink. Ezra could hear the drums, but they sounded strange. Less throaty, higher pitched, the beats came with greater pauses in between. The bird was in the tree, looking back at him over its shoulder as if it was showing off those stunning tail feathers and that extra plumage that draped it like a wonderful robe.

This way, it told him, and its voice was music. She’s waiting for you.

Ezra opened his eyes, but everything was dark. Lying on moist dirt, he was chilled. Looking up, he could see the exit from the hole. But it was night, so he couldn’t see much else. The outside was a shade lighter than in the hole, but that was it. Something tiny crawled over his stomach, and Ezra shivered. Sitting up, he frantically brushed himself off, then pulled his knees tight to his chest, hugging them. Remembering everything, he felt like crying once more but wondered if he had the tears. Back in the village, water had been limited to only a few cups a day, and Ezra hadn’t had any since he’d left — except for the little tease he got from the plants.

Maybe if I chewed on them?

The drums had stopped, but there was another regular sound. This one didn’t come from outside. This came from deeper in. Plink, plink, plunk.

Water? Perhaps I ought to travel downhill. The thought revisited him.

The problem instantly presented itself: darkness. Ezra couldn’t see anything except the pale exit framed by the silhouettes of stone and tree roots. If I go down, I’ll lose that. I got lost in the forest. What happens if I get lost down here? This very sensible argument was countered by the far more obvious, what is there to lose? The debate was destroyed by overwhelming thirst and the tantalizing dripping sound coming from somewhere below.

Not too far, he thought. I’ll still be able to get out — I think.

Down he slid, feeling his way with his toes, guided by his ears that homed in on the regular plink, plink, plunk. Soon he lost sight of the exit. A small panic gripped him as he realized he wasn’t at all certain how he might find it again. Maybe in daylight it will be easier? Best to spend the night down here anyway. Predators roamed in the dark. Tigers would be on the move — jaguars, wolves, and snakes, too. The constrictors were known to eat even the big cats.