Chapter 4

A sudden noise woke Chadwick from his rest. Rolling to his knees, he instinctively he reached for his longsword for defense. His hands brushed its smooth handle; he gripped it tightly as he held it in from of his kneeling figure. The fire had long died and now the bitter cold of the forest bit into every muscle of his fatigued body.

Cautiously he stood, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. All his senses were heightened. But now, what he sensed was silence. It seemed deadly. The Whispering Woods was thought to be a haunted place where no traveler returns alive. Stories of Old, tell of nights when weary travelers hear soft whispers, promising dreaded torment. Words that were only heard at the gates of Hell's entrance. What evil could roam the woods that would stop the whispering? It was as though the woods itself was afraid.

The moon was descending in the frigid sky. Chadwick threw his blanket over his shoulder and proceeded with caution. With every step his feet sank into the moist rotted earth, and the soft gurgling sound it made echoed off the trees. The further into the woods he walked, the more he began to smell an aroma on the moist fragrant air. An aroma he had never smelled before. It was like scent of sweet nectar calling to a bee. He followed the scent to what looked like a clearing in the woods.