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Hold Back The Night
A chill wind howled through the trees. Raindrops dripped down the nape of Cavendish’s neck, even if he could not quite see them splashing off the brim of his hat in front of his eye line. He scratched his beard and narrowed his dark eyes, searching for some kind of landmark in the gloom to mark where they were.
Something spooked the horses. The men, too — the most redoubtable bunch that the town could offer — were nervous. Any light was non-existent, but Cavendish could feel their uneasiness. The feeling had transmitted itself from the men to their steeds. He worried the jittery horses would bolt at any moment.
“OK, men,” he shouted above the hissing rainfall and howling wind. “Light up.”
His men lit torches, which illuminated the gloom in the uncertain, flickering light.
“No-one knows what lies beyond these woods. I must be honest. I cannot promise we will live through this trial,” said Cavendish.
Hardly inspiring words, but Cavendish was no wordsmith. He never thought he was the man to lead the group. But someone had to. They had picked the stoutest men from the town, of course — but some were barely men. Mere boys. And in the flickering torchlight, he could see the pale, scared faces that they were desperately trying to hide from each other.
