Page 112 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

‘Waits for me?’

The teratism did not linger to answer. The Blight’s monster lumbered out of the clearing, dragging a rough-skinned foot through the leaf litter, the ankle’s vile angle suggesting a break.

Silas was struck by a vision of Forneus, the skriker’s back being broken by the Herlequin. Fists clenched and heart heavy, he followed after the teratism, fighting off thoughts of the hound, for he was barely keeping himself in check as it was. Another sorrow to think on and he might curl up next to Robin and never move again. He pinched the bridge of his nose, giving himself a moment, his gaze shifting to the ground where the soil was churned with mismatched footprints. One of them was notably bare. Goosebumps rose along Silas’s arms, certain it was Pitch’s.

A speckle of white against the dark soil caught his eye, and he latched onto the distraction: strands of stark white hair, peeking out from between the bulge of one of the leshy’s frozen roots. Kodami scampered out from their various hiding holes, emerging from the petrified bark like pieces of it come to life. They watched as he crouched down, peering at the new discovery.

Horsehair. A bundle of it, tied with a simple piece of dark leather. He reached and pulled it from where it had fallen into a crevice of stone and soil. The kodami whispered, their voices like gentle sighs. A tingling ran through his fingers. His pulse quickened as he turned the bundle over in his hand. Bloodstains decorated the strands where the mud had not soaked.

Silas pushed to his feet so fast his head spun.

Hastings’s mane lay in his hands.

Here was how he and Pitch had been found. At the White Horse’s dire expense.

The Hunt must have known the ruse, somehow. Retraced their steps. Perhaps to where Hastings had taken a sudden, erratic turn to fling them into the forest.

And Silas had sealed their fate with his idiotic saunter through the woods. His good intent had led them all firmly into a hellscape.

He stumbled after the teratism, carrying another terrible loss with him. The Herlequin and his Wild Hunt had dealt two catastrophic blows so far: Forneus and now Hastings.Dear God, do not let the angels deal a third.He shoved the horsehair into his pocket. This may be all that remained of the mare; he’d not leave her there in the decay and sod. Sybilla must…oh Christ, Silas could not think on how Sybilla would feel with this news. Did she already know of the loss? Would it guide her here, or send her further away, to where Hastings had been brought down?

The teratism was well ahead of him but had paused, waiting until they were certain Silas saw before moving on again. The trees immediately around the clearing were dry and brown, not a single leaf upon a limb, drained of life. That changed as they moved out further. There was not much greenery of course, winter’s embrace omnipresent, but the deadly taint of the angels’ attack had left no stony touch here.

Silas almost stepped upon the first body, he was so absorbed in his worries. ‘Bloody hell.’ He jumped back, removing his boot from the slender hand that lay with fingers splayed as though reaching for him.

This creature was well past reaching for anything, their head sliced clean off, the wound cauterised into a rounded plate of crisp skin. Their cloak lay spread around them, Silas mistaking it at a glance for a huge pool of blackened blood.

‘What has happened here?’ He took in the rest of the scene. More bodies lay scattered about, all in the same state of decapitation. Some were curled upon their sides as though they had tried to ball themselves into unnoticeable lumps to escape their attacker. All were the same slender build, fine limbs and fingers too elongated to be human.

The Wild Hunt has fallen.

Christ, it had not just fallen; it had been decimated. Silas was so intent on the massacre that it took a moment to realise it was not the teratism’s voice in his head. But another, far-less-familiar tone. One that barely rose above a languid sigh. ‘Who is there?’ He eyed his surrounds, glancing quickly over the wreckage of bodies.

Hurry, ankou. I have waited too long as it is.

But when a voice was in the head, rather than on the tongue, it was nearly impossible to discern where it came from. ‘I don’t know who you are.’ Silas scowled, too tired for such things. ‘Or where. Show yourself at once and stop this foolery.’

The teratism was at his elbow, touching his arm, before Silas finished speaking.He is there. Waiting.

They pointed, and the crookedness of their finger might have made it difficult to figure out where he was to look if the dancing of several peri along a huge fallen elm did not make it obvious. The slight creatures, floating strands of hair like gleaming silver thread, were clearly directing him, chittering as madly as Will Scarlet had ever done.

The last time Silas had seen that will-o’-the-wisp, it had been nestled outside the bramble alcove he’d shared with Pitch, far too close for its own good. A sudden yearning for a return to last evening nearly staggered him.

He made his way quickly to the fallen tree. The downed growth had apparently not long been horizontal, for there was no sign of moss or decay upon it and the breaks were fresh on young branches. The peri gathered in a tight bunch and danced over the trunk, drawing his attention to the far side, their motion joined by the tinkle of bells. Rather than navigate his way around the length of the old tree, and considering its bulk only went as high as his belly, Silas clambered over, pulling himself up to kneel on the wood.

His eyes widened.

The Dullahan lay next to the tree, his arm extended towards it, his hand lost beneath the wood.

The hand that bore his bone whip.

Silas’s own hand went to his trouser pocket, searching for the bandalore, recalling at once it was not with him. Dear god, let it still be with Pitch. Let it be with him, giving him hope, if nothing else.

But Silas’s thoughts were overtaken by a sudden, dire realisation. He had neither the bandalore nor Crane’s spectacles, the blade he’d fought hard for and won.

Your scythe is with me.The headless horseman’s whisper was a pine forest swayed by a breeze.But I’ll not return it unless you promise me you shall use it to break this curse, and not to destroy me.

‘You are blackmailing me?’ Silas dropped to the ground, keeping a cautious distance. He searched for sign of the Dullahan’s horse, of which there was none.