It was so cold he couldn’t feel his fingers. His face burned, like a torch was jammed under his skin. Despite it all, he smiled. Erandon pressed himself into the snow, watching the slowly moving doe. She paced carefully into the clearing, looking around cautiously. Her eyes passed over his position dully, she had no idea the fox was lurking just nearby. He dragged himself on his belly like a Snowsnake, getting ever closer to her. She stepped on a twig, the crack echoing like a wardrum through the forest. Erandon halted, muscles tensed. He clutched his spear close to him. The bleached white bone of the speartip glinted in the early morning sunlight.

  There was almost always a little snow in the north. A scant few months in the summer the snow would recede far enough for certain crops, but almost all year round there was snow. Erandon dragged himself just a little bit further, wincing at the sound he made as he pushed through the snow, his hand stinging with the icy bite of winter. He paused as he got a better angle on the doe, spotting the little buck that clung close to her legs. He was not as cautious as his mother, stomping through the clearing with the reckless curiosity of the young. The fawn seemed utterly fascinated with everything, every snowy branch and exposed stone. The plants that pushed through the blanket of white drew his attention fastest, providing the little one with enough time to eat and get some energy before he took off towards his next interest. His mother stood a careful vigil, watching the treeline for any predator. Erandon's stomach growled. It was the morning of the final day of his Rite of Wood.

  There is other prey in the forest. He decided. Erandon lay in wait another hour or so, watching the two of them until they wandered off into the forests.

  He drew himself to his feet, laying his spear across his shoulder as he moved deeper into the woods. He thought back to the meeting he saw in the Eyefort. Every major name in the fort had gathered in that room to discuss treason. He remembered Corwyn, Manden, and Veylyn all trapped in that dark and dusty wall with him, watching from the crawlspace as his Keld and Mother discussed treason. They would refuse fealty to the new Azalus, it would certainly mean civil war. And why were they waiting for him to return? His mind was swirling with the possibilities. Would he be named a Todd? Why? His mind wandered to the King’s brother in exile, Rousse Azalus. Erandon had never looked a northman. He had the features of a southlander, fair hair and bright eyes. Rousse had many bastards, or so the stories went, and he had traveled north once long ago. Erandon wistfully wondered what such a thing would be like, to be the son of Rousse the Black. A dread pirate lord, sure, but no man had defected his crew, and no ship had ever mutinied his command. His men were said to be the richest pirates in the south, and they took on fighters and fleets that any sane man would flee. He could not be all intimidation, because fear does not inspire loyalty. His men had not been routed, not that Erandon could remember, so despite his harshness there had to be something worth following. Even if only gold.

  “Anything is better than Stanwen.” He grumbled to himself, air clouding with his breath. Something crunched in the snow behind him. Erandon wheeled around, spear leveled, to see a little black fox peeking from behind the edge of a tree. He froze. The Fox was the symbol of House Todd. Many of the Lords of the Eyefort, Wardens of the Pommel, had foxes as pets. Wily little creatures, they could not be domesticated so much as they could be allied with. Willful and determined, they were destructive- and Erandon knew from cleaning pens that they could be very very smelly.

  “What are you doing?” He asked the little creature, but it of course did not reply. It did not flee either, boldly taking a step beyond the edge of the wood. It looked him right in the eyes. There was not an ounce of fear in the animal.

  "Well, you're a bold one." Erandon laughed at the bristling beast. It took another step into the open, tail puffed up behind it like a giant pinecone.

  It tilted its head ever so slightly, taking another step forward. Erandon took a single, slow, step forward. The fox darted some twenty feet away, stopping to look over its shoulder, staring at him. It crunched a little closer across the fresh fallen snow, then dashed away once more, little splashes of snow raising behind it. It paused again, looking once more over its shoulder.

  “You want me to follow?” He asked it.

  It did not move, it made no noise. Erandon took another cautious step. It looked forward, then back, impatiently.

  Erandon strode forward, the fox trotting along ahead. Every few feet, it stopped to ensure he was on its tail. They weaved a path under the shaded branches of the Ratwood. It was somewhat strange to see a fox here, now that Erandon was thinking about it. The Ratwood was home to large rats, hence the name. As the stories went, some of the rats in the Ratwood were so large they could drag people out of their homes in the dark of the night. Yearly, villages around the Ratwood form mobs to purge any of them that get too close to the treeline. Erandon wondered if the bigger rats, then, were hiding deeper in the woods? Crunching over snow, and under the pale northern sky, they made their way deeper into the forest. The breeze whistled through the branches, a chill running down Erandon’s spine.

  The entire forest seemed to suck in a breath as they entered the clearing. An isolated Ironoak grove in the dimmest depths of the Ratwood. Erandon had never heard of such a grove, not even in legend. He could scarcely breathe, the hairs on his skin rising like a rolling wave. Erandon took a step deeper into the clearing, nearly tripping on a gnarled root that jutted out of the ground like some massive skeletal finger. In the distant edge of the clearing he spotted the largest, most ancient of the trees. It was the darkest color that Erandon had ever seen. So deep and dark that the tree almost seemed to suck in the light around it. Jutting from its bark, like the hand of a drowning man, was the blade and hilt of a sword. Impaled into the tree as if the previous owner had been trying to kill it. Mountain ranges of goosebumps cropped up across his skin, the sudden step of the fox ahead causing him to shriek quietly, breaking the still and silence of the forest.

  “Little bastard!” He laughed to himself as the fox slunk forward. It paused, sniffing at the air, bristling. It glanced at him warily. As if asking “Do you smell that?”

  “What is it?” Erandon asked, lowering himself. He clutched his spear close to his chest, scanning the nearby treeline.A greasy brown streak of movement in the underbrush drew his attention. He couldn’t see the creature, but he could assume what it was, the stench finally reaching him.

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  Seems I was right, there is more prey in these woods. Me. He braced himself, trying to face the threat. The giant rats of the Ratwood would not usually strike head on- they were cowardly creatures. Some called them Southern Rats. Bloated, cowardly, thieving. He wondered how accurate the name was. He wondered if the beast would be bloated on his flesh tonight.

  The fox tucked in close to him, seemingly sensing their better odds in numbers.

  “We foxes must stick together. See, we’re cousins!” Erandon said, tapping his finger to the broken crest on his chest, the escutcheon bearing a fox split in half to represent his bastard nature. The fox issued a cry somewhere between a whine and a growl as they heard the sound of another cracking branch in the forest somewhere behind him, past the tree with the sword.

  “Gods, that’s just my luck.” Erandon hissed, cursing to himself. He supposed there was a reason for the Northern saying ‘A Bastard’s Luck’. He tried to keep his attention balanced between the two massive rats, but they both stayed on opposite sides of him.

  Not cowardly. He thought. Crafty.

  There was a rapid crunching behind him, and he whirled around while the fox hissed. He drove his spear forward too early, the Rat stopped short, slowly moving backwards. It kept its eyes on him, low and submissive. Erandon could hear movement behind him. If he turned to face one rat, the other would get him.

  I’m had! He thought. I’m had, by rats!

  As the dashing behind him got close, his nerve snapped and he threw himself to the side to avoid the beasts behind and ahead.

  Jaws clamped hard onto his leg, jagged and rotten teeth sinking into the muscle of his calf. Erandon cried in pain as the other rat leapt onto his shoulder. All he’d succeeded in doing was getting himself prone. Claws tore at his flesh, breaking through the ruddy dark jerkin. Steam filled the air as his blood flowed.

  Thrashing like a caught fish, he finally flung the first of the rats from his shoulder, driving the spear into the flank of the second greasy beast.

  It shrieked and squirmed away, thrashing in the blood red, sodden snow. A terrifying crack resounded, and at first Erandon feared the beast had broke his leg- but worse, it had snapped his spear. It dashed away into the undergrowth, taking his spear tip with him. Erandon scrambled back through the snow, leaving a thin bloody trail in his wake. He kept hold of the snapped spear, breathing hard.

  “Stay back!” He cried, more fear in his voice than he’d thought. The fox dashed in front of him, yapping in anger. The remaining rat stayed just out of spear length, pacing. He could see an intelligence in its dark eyes. It was weighing its odds. Considering if it could take them both.

  Erandon’s breath shook him, anger boiled in his chest.

  Dead? To rats? Erandon did not mind dying under the watch of the Ironoak, but to a rat? Oh how Logar would laugh. How vindicated would Stanwen feel? Would they mock him? Would Corwyn see songs sung of the foolish little bastard who thought he’d try at trueborn?

  Screaming in anger, he jabbed the little wooden stick at the wild rat. Its matted, greasy hair clung to it, the air thick with the stench of the creature. Its breath hung in the air like his own, stinking of carrion. A scavenger.

  “Did you think you could scavenge me? I am no carrion! You will find you have bitten off more than you can chew!” Erandon shouted at the creature, but he could hear the weariness in his own voice. Blood flowed down him like tiny sanguine waterfalls. How long could he keep this up?

  The rat seemed to wonder the same thing, dashing forward. The fox lunged, biting onto its shoulder, but the rat flung him off like a doll.

  Then, it was upon him. Flashing claws and gnawing teeth. The beast’s weight pressed down on him, jaws snapping as it drooled, breath hot in his face. Closer and closer it came as the strength in his arms faltered.

  “No!” Erandon shouted, driving the wooden shaft of the spear into the beast's chest. It gave a mighty shriek as skin gave way to muscle, gave way to the beast’s innards.

  Its blood rained through the air as the shaft of the weapon forced its way out of the rat’s back. Erandon reached up the tree, desperately grasping for the hilt of the sword as he shoved the rodent away, yanking himself to his feet. His own blood mingled with the rat’s on the hilt of the sword. As he tried to pull himself completely to his feet, the ancient rusted blade dislodged from the tree, sending him sprawling onto his back. A thin red sap billowed from the wound in the tree, barely visible on the sable bark.

  Erandon dragged himself across the snow, away from the tree. His vision blurring, he thought he could see the branches reaching out for him. The black fox pulled itself to its feet, trotting over to him as he pulled himself a little further through the snow. His muscles were disobedient, each movement a war with his own body. Erandon pulled himself against one of the trees in the grove. He looked at the little black fox, which drew closer to him, ears flat to its head. It whined.

  “I made a friend. That's two who will be sad to see me go.” He frowned, thinking of his mother in the fort. She’d be so sad. He let her down, she had vouched before Stanwen and he failed. Stanwen was right about him. Erandon turned to the fox.

  “Are you like the stories?” He coughed, clearing his throat. “Will you get me help?” He asked. It bit him by the leg of his breeches and tried to drag him.

  It could not, small as it was.

  On your feet! He ordered himself. You won’t just sit there and die.

  He slammed the rusty, twisted, blade into the ground. He pushed with all his strength, slowly rising from the bloody forest floor. Each step was agony, but he could not stop moving. To stop was to die, which was not an option.

  The fox traveled as far as the edge of the Ratwood with Erandon before he turned around, and returned to his own home. Dragging himself down the muddy road, he smiled as he spotted the Eyefort in the distance. He’d be happy to die, with his home in sight. But he didn’t stop walking. The last thing he heard before he toppled over was a thundering of hooves, and the last he saw a flash of a crest, eagle on ox.