Page 59 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

Pitch lowered his arms. A stag stood over him. And quite a bloody magnificent one at that, with a chest broad enough to use as a dartboard and antlers that reached higher than Pitch could crane his neck.

As it seemed the animal was not about to shove a hoof in his face, Pitch sat up. Impossible to do without shifting his trapped leg. The metal sank deeper.

‘Shit.’ He bit at the inside of his cheek so hard that he tasted blood at once.

The world tilted so madly he went back down onto his elbow. He could barely see for the white dots filling his vision. And red dots, and green, and yellow. Tinkling bells could be heard, tiny sounds that might just be in his imagination alone.

Good gods, maybe he was dead already?

The stag’s waft, rich with the dampness of earth and decaying wood, brought Silas to mind. If Pitch had managed to get himself killed, the ankou would be furious.

Pitch swallowed against the strange sob that worked its way up his throat, turning it into a strangled grunt of irritation instead.

‘Take care, take care.’ A gentle whisper came from close by. Right at his shoulder to be exact. Pitch shirked away, peering through the rainbow of light that surrounded him.

He was certainly not dead; there was far too much pain for that. The colourful air was courtesy of the will-o’-the-wisps’ return.

‘Since when do you speak?’ Pitch tried again to sit up.

‘Take care, I said.’ This time there was a soft pressure at his shoulder, urging him back. ‘Stay still. We will deal with the trap.’

A snorted breath right overhead made him jump, which in turn made him curse all manner of nasty things. The stag tossed its head, as though personally affronted, but took a step back.

‘Now that’s enough of that language around the young ones, thank you.’ The same gentle voice, a honeyed timbre that could have put a thousand babes to sleep. But who was the irksome little shit? Will-o’-the-wisps, so far as he knew, did not speak, not in a language he understood, at least. They tended to prefer squeaking and squawking like irritating chicks.

‘Show yourself,’ he demanded. ‘And the rest of you bloody well back off. I can’t see a fucking thing.’ He was lying in a damned rainbow.

‘Stop wriggling about, young man. You’re spilling enough blood as it is. I am trying to help you. I want you out of here as much you want outing.’

His tired, pained brain considered the idea that it was the stag talking to him. Perhaps the hunter’s blowhadknocked him out. Either way, he’d had enough of this place.

‘Leave me be.’ Pitch pressed himself into a sitting position and lurched forward, reaching towards his imprisoned ankle.

The scenery tilted so violently that he grabbed fistfuls of dirt to try to anchor himself.

‘Sit still, silly boy.’ The honey-talker clucked their tongue. ‘Let you be? You sure about that? Didn’t seem you were doing so well without us.’

Pitch’s vision drew back into focus. And he had a disturbing view of great antlers lowering down towards his feet. The stag’s bone set was mightily impressive, like a rangy, leaf-bare forest upon his head. The animal lowered his head until the hairs on his nostrils were scraping the undergrowth, and the tips of several antlers were far too close to Pitch’s bloodied ankle.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ There was nowhere to go. The chain anchoring the trap was already stretched long, any further and he’d dig the teeth in deeper.

‘Let him work,’ his whisperer decreed.

‘Work on what?’ Pitch grabbed at his knee, cupping it with both hands. ‘Eating my foot?’

‘He’s not going to do any such thing.’ The talker was amused, but they were the only damned one. ‘Now just keep still, and he’ll have you free.’

Before Pitch could splutter any sort of reply, the stag slid several of the longer curves of his antlers in between the steel jaws. They glanced against the metal, causing a tiny shudder to run through his bone.

‘Oh fuck, no. Stop.’

A weighty sigh scored the air. ‘Do you want out of these woods or not? Cripes, maybe you aren’t a daemon. I imagined them tougher than this.’

Now that he could see a little straighter, it truly seemed as though the stag was speaking, for the whispering came from him certainly. But there was no natural aura surrounding the beast, no suggestion he was a shape-shifter. This was a stag, plain and simple.

Pitch squinted through the candy-coloured light. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

The tinkling of tiny bells played around him. Very distinct now, clearly not a figment of his imagination.