Bran

           Thesoundwasthefaintestofclinks,ascrapingofsteeloverstone.Heliftedhisheadfromhispaws,listening,sniffingatthenight.

           Theevening’srainhadwokenahundredsleepingsmellsandmadethemripeandstrongagain.Grassandthorns,blackberriesbrokenontheground,mud,worms,rottingleaves,aratcreepingthroughthebush.Hecaughttheshaggyblackscentofhisbrother’scoatandthesharpcopperytangofbloodfromthesquirrelhe’dkilled.Othersquirrelsmovedthroughthebranchesabove,smellingofwetfurandfear,theirlittleclawsscratchingatthebark.Thenoisehadsoundedsomethinglikethat.

           Andhehearditagain,clinkandscrape.Itbroughthimtohisfeet.Hisearsprickedandhistailrose.Hehowled,alongdeepshiverycry,ahowltowakethesleepers,butthepilesofman-rockweredarkanddead.Astillwetnight,anighttodrivemenintotheirholes.Therainhadstopped,butthemenstillhidfromthedamp,huddledbythefiresintheircavesofpiledstone.

           Hisbrothercameslidingthroughthetrees,movingalmostasquietasanotherbrotherheremembereddimlyfromlongago,thewhiteonewiththeeyesofblood.Thisbrother’seyeswerepoolsofshadow,butthefuronthebackofhisneckwasbristling.Hehadheardthesoundsaswell,andknowntheymeantdanger.

           Thistimetheclinkandscrapewerefollowedbyaslitheringandthesoftswiftpatterofskinfeetonstone.Thewindbroughtthefaintestwhiffofaman-smellhedidnotknow.

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