Page 111 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

‘Why did you not protect him?’ Silas knew himself unreasonable, terror making him careless. ‘Why did you not stop them?’

Not only was Pitch taken, he was in the blasted air. Flying. His own daemonic version of hell. Silas shoved the teratism away, hard enough that the creature struggled to keep upright upon its bowed legs. Silas was being ruthlessly unkind, he knew it, but Christ almighty, what a nightmare. The angels had Pitch.

It was not just Silas’s head fit to tear apart now. He left the teratism, reaching for the next solid thing, on his way to god-knew-where. His hand brushed at a column of stone, one he was faintly aware was out of place but was too anguished to consider.

‘Enough of that, now,’ a curt voice remonstrated. ‘No need to be a bastard, after all they’ve done. They, along with the rest of us, were dealing with the Hunt when the angels took your boy. Can’t be everywhere at once.’

Silas blinked, staring down at the gnome who stood before him, plump hands on hips. Silas recognised the portly fellow as the one who’d been especially attentive to Pitch’s cup of mead the night before, even daring to ask for a dance, which the prince declined, preferring to stand on Silas’s feet for the evening.

Oh god, how could it be that precious time was only just last night? Silas fought to steady himself, nearly overwhelmed by the crush of panic that came.

‘How long ago was this?’Stay steady, man. Keep your wits.‘How long have I been out?’

Not long. Barely a half hour.

‘Half an hour or so.’ The gnome and the teratism spoke in near unison, the forest dweller’s ears not open to the voice of the dead.

Silas knew nothing of an angel’s speed on the wing, but he imagined that such an amount of time, assuming no interruption came, had put an intolerable distance between them.

And here Silas was, without even a damned horse. The enormity of the situation had him shaking, fatigue, grief and helplessness making him weak.

‘Best come and deal with him,’ the gnome continued. ‘Don’t think he can hold out for much longer.’

Silas frowned. ‘Deal with who?’

‘The fellow who stopped you from having your head caved in by that stallion.’

For the first time, Silas studied his surrounds. He had been returned to the clearing, but how different it was now to when he’d stepped from it just a short time ago.

‘Oh sweet mercy,’ he whispered. ‘Robin.’

Silas tried to make his way to where the hamadryad knelt at the centre of the clearing, their hair mimicking Medusa’s snakes, reaching out and down towards the ground to join the roots which spread in a myriad fashion over the ground. He was not so right upon his feet as he’d have liked, and one or two of the finer roots were crushed beneath his boot. They cracked and crumbled like a log weakened by fire, turning to dust beneath his weight.

Except it was not ash. This was stone.Allwas stone. The hamadryad had been made a horrific sculpture by the angels’ invasion.

‘They did this?’ Silas shook with disgust and rage, struggling to find a path that would not see him ruin more of what had, just last night, been exquisite.

‘Come away from there, you giant fellow,’ the gnome cried. ‘Let the forest find its way, don’t break something that can’t be fixed.’

Silas halted at once, balancing on one foot while trying to decide where to place the other. ‘Robin is alive?’

‘Barely a pulse to be had, but the leshy gave of themselves so it could be so. Sherwood Forest’s heart still beats. It knows drought and flood and all manner of things sent to cut it down. The woods will find a way through this black magick, be sure of it.’

Silas glanced over at the stone pillar he’d been leaning against. Not a pillar at all. The Major Oak stood tall and proud, a magnificent if not damaged statue, standing sentinel over the insistent, defiant heart of the forest. There was a huge rent in the trunk now, not there when he’d left, with the splintering splayed outwards as though something had burst forth, tearing out.

‘Tried to keep him in, but he’s a stubborn daemon that one. He helped keep that heart beating, you know, ankou.’ Silas turned at the gnome’s words. ‘Wouldn’t let Robin and the Major give it all away for his sake. Saved a good many of the forest folk before those angel bastards got to him. And we’re sorry, awful sorry, we couldn’t do more to stop them from taking him.’

Silas found his way out of the embroidered rootwork, stepping carefully, being sure not to cause any more damage. ‘I’m sure you did your utmost,’ he said, his throat thick. ‘And I thank you sincerely for it. Do you have any idea what direction they took?’

His thoughts tore him apart. Pitch was alive. The angels had not killed him, but why? Of course Silas was grateful; he was drinking in the knowledge that the daemon lived like it was the finest brandy, but sickened to imagine what could be done to a captive, weakened prince.

The Dullahan will tell us.

He spun to find the teratism. ‘The Dullahan is still here?’

The creature’s severe hunch made it so he could barely raise yellowed eyes high enough to look at him.

He waits for you. I will take you to him.