December's Dreaming
an excerpt

As we walked, a sudden wind sprang up. I expected the rider to keep going regardless, oblivious of his surroundings, but instead he held up a large, triangular shield and put his head down behind it; he turned his head with a creaking and a strange sound like a rusty bell, and moved his shield to the right a little bit; I took this to mean I should get behind him, and I did so. Anything that could make him stop, I knew I should be afraid of.

I wasn’t there ten seconds before the wind whipped up to a frenzy; the wood looked warmer, as if it were lit by fire; my hair was whipping around my head so I could barely see, even behind the shield; I could only imagine what it was like outside of the small amount of shelter it provided. I spat out some strands that had caught in my mouth and gathered my hair back in my hands. I then heard a horrible shrieking like a chalkboard being murdered and something flew by me, faster than anything; the white knight didn’t move, but I flinched, putting my hands up in reflex, letting go of my hair. It swirled around me like a fan opening; next thing I knew there was something tugging and pulling at it, something that wasn’t wind; the wind shifted a bit and I saw through my hair a horrible, skeletal white-gray face, with dead eyes and a slavering, grinning mouth, gripping my hair with its bony hands; I let out a shriek and the rider’s arm came down, slicing off the end of my hair with his sword and sending the creature off to tumble in the wind.

The wind died down as I stood there, gasping and panting with fear, still, my heart pumping so hard I thought it was going to jump out of my chest. I felt myself growing angry, then, because if there was one thing I hated more than not knowing what was going on, it was not being able to fend for myself. “What was that?” I demanded of the rider.

He said nothing. “Why won’t you talk?” I yelled.

The horse started its slow, stately walking again, with no visible cue from the rider, who still sat like a statue. Fuming, I refused to follow, stalking off in another direction through the trees. “Stupid,” I muttered, throwing my hands up. I was sick of Baba Yaga and her games. “This place is too dangerous to be wandering around aimlessly, so if she doesn't want to tell me why I’m going somewhere, I don’t see why I should--”

I was cut off by the spear that suddenly thudded into the tree next to me, so fast that I didn’t see it fly through the air, just sticking into the wood, still vibrating with the energy of its throw. I felt a sudden heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach as I turned around slowly, rotating on one heel, to see the rider with arm outstretched; ponderous as a statue, he picked up another throwing spear from the pack on his horse and hefted it, carefully, with no emotion or extra flourishes.

“Okay,” I muttered, trying not to give away how much I was shaking, although I doubted he would care. “I get it.”

Following him as he silently rode, I wondered just what Baba Yaga had planned for me...