Page 61 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

Tuppers, pleasant chap he was, pulled himself fully from the soil. He was smaller even than Gilmore, which was to say his height barely lifted him to the stag’s knee. He was far more rotund than the Holly Village earth elemental though. A belly that would make a fine pillow.

‘What the fuck is a Herlequin?’ The name was vaguely familiar, but a strike to one’s head and a break to one’s ankle tended to blur the mind.

‘The one who leads the Wild Hunt.’

Now that was more familiar. Pitch closed his eyes. ‘Do tell me that’s not the Erlking’s little band of merry men?’

‘The very ones.’ The gnome spat black dirt. ‘Haven’t been seen around in a very long time, and no one misses them. But here they are, storming about again. The Erlking declared it his royal right to hunt down the ones responsible for killing all those bluecaps in the Forest of Dean. Says everyone is to be on the watch for a pair of strangers. One big as an ox, the other pretty as a picture.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’ Pitch gave up trying to reach for the stag and slumped back against the trunk. ‘I knew I should have burned down that whole fucking forest the moment I stepped foot in it.’

The will-o’-the-wisps flared their colours, frightened squeaks coming from them. The hobgoblin tsked again.

‘No need for such talk.’ Clementine’s wrinkled face grew a few more wrinkles. ‘And we don’t want any part of that spat. Especially considering that same pair of strangers is said to have gone on to save the spirit of the forest. Heard they put an end to a witch-bottle maker’s trade too, opened a lot of cages…set free enough birds to spread word a fire daemon had been the one to save them.’

Pitch stared down at the creature standing by his ankle. His wound ran crimson into the leaf litter. Clementine’s scaled feet would be bloody before long if the hobgoblin did not move.

‘Nice reward on offer though,’ Tuppers said. ‘A golden apple from the UnSeelie Court, grant you your heart’s desire in a single wish.’

‘Oh, and I’m sure there are no nefarious attachments to that prize.’ Pitch tried to move his injured leg himself, a hand beneath his knee, trying to bend it. But he felt every shift of flesh around the wound, every twinge of split bone at his ankle. This was a fucking disaster. He was going to have to ask for their help. The knowledge was lemon juice on a cut. ‘Are they nailing up wanted posters on noticeboards, then? How do I look in the drawings? Terrible I’m sure, for there is no artist alive who could capture this beauty.’

Pitch eyed the trunk, deciding that one of the jutting gnarls would work nicely as a lever. He reached for it.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

He drew in a breath, ignoring Clementine. He tensed every muscle he knew how and leaned his weight into his arm. Right, a simple countdown would do. One, two…he pushed himself onto his knees.

What a fucking mistake that was.

The only fire that burned was made of injury and broken parts. He squeezed his eyes shut. He might have screamed; he certainly fell over flat on his back, panting through the throbbing pain. The will-o’-the-wisps were a storm of pretty colours around him. Laughing at him, he supposed, at his stupidity in imagining he was capable of anything productive. The stag nudged his shoulder, stamping a dark hoof.

‘Yes, fine. I know,’ Pitch said. ‘Stupid idea.’

‘What the bloody hell was that in aid of?’ Clementine cried, scales clicking as they got themselves all ruffled with annoyance. ‘Sit damned well still.’

‘While you wait for the Hunt to arrive? I don’t fucking think so.’ Pitch swiped at the will-o’-the-wisps, which swarmed him.

‘They aren’t trying to hurt you. None of us are.’ Clementine was exasperated. ‘But if you go screaming and bringing attention to yourself like that, we can’t vouch for who might hear you and think they’d like that golden apple. You can be sure there are some naturals out there who don’t take kindly to someone killing bluecaps…or boggarts.’

‘Boggarts?’ Pitch rubbed at the tears that pain had forced free.

‘One got murdered down Mordiford way. Word is it’s the same killer.’ Clementine eyed him meaningfully.

Pitch exhaled, the sigh taking a little more of his strength. ‘That word would be very wrong. But if you truly don’t wish to be part of all this bullshit, then let me get to my feet, will you?’

One of the will-o’-the-wisps darted to his side, the faint silhouette of their form visible in their glow–a miniaturised human for all intents and purposes. It was the unique one, with colours not set to one hue but rather all those of the rainbow. It held out a hand no bigger than a freckle on Charlie’s face.

‘Piss off.’

The wisp prattled at him in a squeaky, seesawing spewing of dialogue that Pitch could not understand a word of.

‘Go away.’

The dejection that filled the minute face almost had him apologising. Almost.

‘You’re not much for taking help from others, are you?’ Clementine said.

‘I’m not one for having it offered.’