The Wings Of The Kestrel Trilogy Book 1: The Journey To The Mountains

Section One

The thorns and brambles tear at the skirts of my sky blue dress as I race between the trees, my dog, Sparrow bounding at my side. I'm supposed attending some sort of social event in the village, but the last time I actually stayed at something like that for more than ten minutes must have been more than seven years ago. My father says I spend too much time alone for a girl my age, but I can't stand being around the children in my village, many of whom like to sew when I would much rather be making arrowheads and mainly worry about what kind of person they will marry when they are older. The other sort are even worse. They like the forest, but they don't respect it, running about with slingshots trying to kill animals for sport whilst trampling plants that could have otherwise been picked and eaten. No. I'm a huntress who actually hunts, killing only what I need to eat and using as much of the carcass as I can. I take after my father in that way, but even he doesn't see the world in the way I do. Over the years, I've resigned my to the truth that nobody does. Nobody apart from the animals and insects that surround me, hidden out of sight when I'm in the place I love most. And Sparrow, of course.
I have exactly one friend in the village: Farmer Burroughs, who lets me ride his two draught mares and claims that I have a "way with animals", which is something that I've never particularly noticed about myself, but if he says so, then I guess I must. His sheepdog bitch birthed a litter of five pups a few years back. The runt died within a week, and he sold two of the dog pups, but let me pick one to keep out of the two left. I chose the dog, mainly because I knew that Mr Burroughs would prefer to keep the bitch, but it was a choice I don't regret. Some dogs have deep brown pleading eyes and others have eyes that are a clear, intelligent blue. Sparrows eyes are the same shade of bright brown as oak leaves in the autumn. He's medium sized but like somewhere between a wolf and a fox in build, with a glossy black coat and traditional sheepdog markings in white and tan. He loves playing fetch with sticks and pinecones and he's the most loyal dog I've ever known.
We reach the edge of the forest and I clamber on top of the fallen tree that looks out over the meadow of brown grasses, ringed with more woodland, over which the sapphire glimmer of the sea can be seen off to my right. If it wasn't for that streak of blue, entering the meadow would truly feel like stepping into another world. Away from quiet, human life in Sail's Rest, our little fishing village and out into a place of freedom where deer graze in peace and kestrels hover, waiting to see a glimpse of prey. Patience: the hunter's most essential skill. There's a kestrel hovering up there now, a female, I think. You can tell by the dark barring on her light brown body, and by the fact that her head and tail are brown, not grey. I climb up onto a fallen tree and watch her, un-braiding my long, red hair and tucking the cobalt-blue ribbons into the right pocket of my dress. Sparrow, flops, panting, amongst the dry leaves and sprawls on his side in the late autumn sunshine.
"Good boy," I smile, and his tail gives a lazy wag. He loves it when I talk to him. "Here, do you want a treat?" I retrieve a small lump of cheese, his favourite, from my left pocket and Sparrow sits up hopefully. I hold out my right hand to him. "Give me a paw." Sparrow places his left paw very purposefully in the palm of my hand and looks at me expectantly. "Good boy," I say again, handing him the cheese. He takes it, almost taking my fingers as well, then lies down again.
I shiver as a cold gust of wind hits my bare arms. It's the twenty-sixth of Deimber, the tenth month, and although it has been a warm autumn, it's getting too cold for loose blouses and thin dresses. But just as I'm about to get up to head home, Sparrow gives a deep warning growl, then starts barking. It's a high-pitched bark, but not high-pitched like when he yaps because he wants me to make a fuss of him. No. This is a bark of fear.
"What is it?" I ask. It isn't uncommon for Sparrow to bark if he hears a noise while we are in the house, but I don't recall him ever doing this while we've been out. I slip off the fallen tree trunk and am about to crouch down next to him when I feel the ground begin to tremble. Sparrow stops barking and sprints through the woods in the direction of the village, his large, triangular ears pinned flat back against his skull. I call to him but his instinct to run is deep and primal, more powerful than any human training. It's then that I see what's causing the tremors in the ground. Around fifty or so deer are bolting up the meadow toward me, their dark eyes wide with terror. Whatever has scared them has got them so spooked that they will continue running no matter what, trampling whatever lies in their path. They won't even notice a skinny thirteen-year-old girl. I've got no other choice. I lie down pressed flat against the tree trunk, hoping that in jumping that, they will manage to clear me as well. The leading buck is only a few inches from me when he leaps, and the rest follow pretty much the same path as he did. I expect this is one of the most terrifying experiences I'll ever have, being jumped over by a herd of deer. It's like falling off a cantering horse, except instead of four hooves pounding above your head there are two hundred. One doe doesn't quite make the jump and falls, catching me with her hind hoof as she scrabbles to her feet. She doesn't kick me hard, but it will be a sore bruise later.
When the last of the deer is gone, I pull myself up and look around. Where the kestrel was hovering, the sky is now empty. I can't see what could have caused all the animals to flee like this, but as I stand there, I feel an uncomfortable heat begin to spread over my body, burning me, smothering me, scorching my throat so that it hurts to breathe. A fire, I think. It's been the driest autumn in years, there must be a forest fire. But there is one key factor that destroys that theory: I can't see nor smell even the faintest wisp of smoke. It's then that I see it.
It stands at the edge of the forest where the deer bolted from just moments ago, across the other side of the meadow, and its eyes, if it has any, are glaring straight into mine. At a first glance, It looks like a person dressed in all white sat astride a light grey horse. But on further inspection, I realise I'm wrong. The human torso almost seems to rise out of the horse's back, not like a centaur, but like two creatures horrible disfigured into one. And they, or it, are not just dressed in white. The white engulfs them like a flame too hot to even imagine, blotting out all of the thing's features. This is textureless white, the shade you get when you take away all the colours. As I watch, the creature starts moving, going straight from a halt into a swift gallop and coming straight for me. For a moment I freeze there. Then, choking for breath, I run into the trees.