Clutch Of The Cleric (Book 4) by Craig Halloran

arrow , a normal one, and sped after him. I jumped along. Winding through the trees. My footfalls light as feathers.
    There he was. A clump ed Dwarf fighting in a net surrounded by pines and a floor of pine needles. I didn’t see anyone else. Still, I remained hidden.
    “Dragon!” Brenwar said. His voice a loud hush. “They’re gone. Get me out of this net!”
    I peeked at him.
    His dark eyes were right on me.
    I wasn’t sure how Brenwar could see me, but he could always find me when I was close. I never knew for sure if it was my scent or his vision, but the only way to escape him was to outdistance him.
    I crept over, withdrew a dagger , and quickly cut at the net.
    “Hurry, will you!” he said.
    “Stop struggling, will you!”
    “You’re not the one in the net.”
    I laughed.
    “Stop laughing and hurry. You spooked them, but they’ll be back. They always come back.”
    I cut at the cords. It wasn’t easy.
    “Use your claws, Dragon!”
    “Oh, good idea.” I cut. One. Two. Three at a time. “Nice.”
    “How many of them?” I asked.
    “Two.”
    “Two that we know of.” I sawed away. Brenwar was almost free.
    Clop. Clop.
    Clop. Clop.
    I wanted to stop, but I didn’t. I ignored the sound. Kept cutting.
    “Hurry!” Brenwar said.
    A flute-like sound drifted into my ears.
    My head started spinning. My fingers turned numb. Limp.
    Brenwar’s eyelids fluttered. His meaty hands clamped over his ears. “No!” he growled.
    I couldn’t say anything. My tongue felt like water. But I could see. Both of them. Shadows in the forest coming out of the darkness. One was male, the other female. Each pressed a set of small pipes to their lips. Tiny horns protruded from their heads. They stood on stout legs with the hooves of mountain goats.
    Satyrs. Crafty and Merciless.
    The music tore at my mind.
    I screamed, but I couldn’t hear myself.  I had to move. Had to escape. Run. Flee. I knew the stories. I knew th e tales. Whatever the Satyrs captured they kept. Never to be seen again.
    ***
    Shum lay still. Eyes closed. A mouthful of pine needles. A crossbow bolt sticking through his back. Bleeding. Over him, the Gnoll leader gloated.
    “Great shot!” he said. “Now get down here. It’s time to skin him.”
    Shum remained. Ears picking up his surroundings. The Gnoll leader kicked him hard in the ribs. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. The Gnoll walked away, footsteps crunching over the ground, and picked up his flail. The air whistled as it twirled around. Another pair of footsteps approached. Followed by another. There were three of them.
    “Get those bows ready. If he moves so much as a hair , shoot him.” 
    “ Isn’t he dead?” one said, cranking back his string.
    “If he’s dead, he won’t feel it,” the leader said. “O f course, he’s a Ranger, so you can’t be too cautious. Humph. Go ahead. Put another in him. Right in the heart. Maybe between the ears. That’d be a funny trophy now, wouldn’t it?”
    They snickered a howl ing sort of sound and stretched their strings.
    Shum had been in tight spots before, but this was ridiculous. Death comes from any corner. The darkness sings. Hands under his belly, he scratched at the dirt. Tapped the world’s power. He was an Elf. Attuned to nature and magic. Using it when needed to save others. To save himself. He focused. Concentrated. Stretched out the powers he summoned.
    “What is this?” one of the Gnolls said. Its crossbow trembled in its hand. The wood creaked and groaned.
    “It’s cursed!” said the other. The crossbow in its hand warped too. It let out a cry.
    Both crossbow s were now twisted like roots. The strings snapped. The Gnoll leader let out an angry cry.
    “It’s the Ranger , you fools!” He jumped forward, swinging his mace. “Draw your blades! Have at him before he escapes.”
    Shum felt the flail coming down. In a blink he dove into the Gnoll’s legs, toppling it over. He kept on going. Blocking out the blinding pain in his