More and more the trees of Girdley Island started to crowd around her. Limbs reached for her and trunks formed an enclosing ring from which there was no escape, while a stone's throw away, more trees were moving towards the unearthed chamber, helping the huorn to dig out more. Though she dodged and weaved between them as best she could, here and there a root tripped her, a branch thumped against her, and she was battered, bruised, wearied.
I either risk everything or I lie down to die now, she thought. It was no longer even possible to hope to run to the river and flee; there were too many trees in the way, and by now even some of the bushes had become thorn-covered, grasping nets. A forward attack on the tree-creature was not only against her instincts, it seemed impossibly dangerous before, and the more so now, with it surrounded by half-awake trees. Everything in her screamed against the idea. And still, she slipped her bow onto her shoulders and began to push her way through the trees toward the twisted thing. As she went, pushing and fighting her way forward, branches beat against her, and she could not dodge as she had before. She had to just take the bludgeoning; every blow took her closer to the huorn, and closer to unconsciousness.
The creature seemed bent on its work, perhaps confident the battering of dozens of half-slumbering trees were enough to keep any threats or hindrances at bay; and it nearly was. By time Kryssta was crept up behind it, every movement was a wearisome pain. But now, after pushing her way through the foliage with an unsubtlety counter to her own aptitudes, she was in the perfect position to use her talents for cunning and dexterous motions. She leapt and shimmied up the huorn's branches faster than it could react, then plucked the amber stone from its grasp; finally, with a showy backflip, she tossed herself away from it, clutching the stone to her chest and sinking into the very vault that it had been tearing at.
The moment of surprise passed. The huorn began to reach for her. Limbs wrapped around her, crushing her battered body, then with a savage yank, tried to tear her in half. Though so abused and weary by now she could hardly move, she kept her grip on the stone and wriggled free just before the branches could rend her limb from limb.
Dimly, she sensed glimmers around her, but she could not focus on them. She had hoped the vault might have a tunnel, an archway, a niche she could flee into or hide in, but it offered no such respite. She could barely have moved into it if there had been one, anyway. Her last hope dashed, she closed her eyes and waited for the limbs to take her. There was nothing else to do now.
Creaking. The horrible sound of splintering wood.
Then, slowly, quiet.
She opened her eyes. Duin was watching her from the hole, tapping a paw impatiently. He turned and darted off, and slowly, she crawled up and out, to survey the wreckage. The trees of Girdley Island shifted slightly, parting to make way for her, while in the middle of them, twisted, blackened wood was cast this way and that around the vault's entrance. She realized slowly that this was what was left of the huorn, torn apart by the other trees that now moved out of her way.
Duin was posing atop one of the larger chunks of twisted wood, chittering triumphantly. The last thing she did was laugh at the merry otter, before she collapsed, the amber stone still clutched to her chest, and slipped into a relieved, exhausted, pain-wracked slumber.
