Page 62 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

‘Let the giant get him up.’ Tuppers picked at his teeth with a dirt-packed nail. ‘He’ll be here momentarily.’

Pitch propped onto his elbows. ‘Who will be here?’ His pulse had already raced ahead. There were only so many giants he knew.

‘The ox.’ Tuppers scooped up a handful of earth, spat into it, and rolled it between his palms. ‘Found him wandering about, calling for you, I assume. Stomping around like a one-man herd.’

‘Silas?’ Pitch was faintly aware it may be unwise to mention the ankou by name, fugitives as they were, but who would not know Silas Mercer on sight? He was unforgettable. ‘Silas is coming?’

‘Well, now that we aren’t leading him astray, yes.’

‘Why would you do that?’ Pitch cried.

‘Didn’t you hear the hobgoblin?’ The gnome’s voice dipped lower still with frustration. ‘But it’s not only the Hunt. We’re hearing tales that the kodami spread word through the trees black magick is about, too. We want strangers out of our woods. Now here, get this on your wound. Seems you are taking your time with healing.’ The gnome stepped in, and with no warning at all, smacked the dollop of mud on torn flesh.

‘Fucking, fuck…gods.’ Pitch fouled the air with discontent, nearly blind as his vision wobbled and fizzled. He could just make out the hobgoblin dancing about in front of the gnome.

‘He’s supposed to stay quiet, Tuppers!’

The woods were a vague swirl of colours and shadows, Pitch’s senses nudging at the very edge of consciousness. The brightest shades were the will-o’-the-wisps, swarming around an odd hulking shape.

The strange creature made no sense to Pitch’s fading coherence. It seemed a chimera of man and beast, one side tall and broad and striding forward at a rush, the other shorter and angular and bobbing up and down elegantly.

‘Pitch? Christ almighty.’

Not a chimera at all. Something altogether far more wonderful. The two pieces split, taking proper shape. Silas came at him at a run, royal-blue coat like summer sky around him. And at his side, the doe Pitch had freed.

‘Sickle.’

Was all Pitch could manage to say before his elbows gave way beneath him and he slumped back against the damp earth.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SILAS GATHEREDup the silent, bleeding prince as carefully as he could manage. But despite his care Pitch stifled a moan against the Inverness’s black lapel.

‘I’m sorry,’ Silas whispered.

‘Stop being sorry…I fucked things up nicely on my own. Please go.’

‘Follow the stag.’ The hobgoblin waved the animal forward. ‘He’ll lead you back the way you came.’

‘Thank you.’ Silas offered a nod, for it was all he had to give. He peered down at the gnome. ‘And to you too.’

‘For poisoning me with dirt?’ Pitch muttered.

‘For not throwing the dirt at you.’ Silas hoped he might receive some note of amusement with that. And was mightily relieved when the daemon pinched him gently at the breast.

‘Get on with it.’

Silas did as he’d been bidden, his head spinning with what the array of creatures had told him; the vile hunter who’d assaulted Pitch…and paid dearly for it, the Wild Hunt with their royal decree, the golden apple reward, the need for the ox and his pretty picture to leave this forest as fast as they could.

Silas followed along after the stag and the doe. With the stag’s magnificent antlers and the wreath of will-o’-the-wisps about his neck, there was small chance of losing sight of them.

Silas sent a silent curse the way of every divot in the ground, every fallen tree he had to manoeuvre around or over, not for himself, though it was unpleasant enough, but for fear of bothering the man in his arms. Pitch, though, was quiet. Enough so to be worrisome.

‘How are you doing?’

‘It is I who should have voiced that question to you by now,’ Pitch said. ‘Are you…are you well, Silas?’

‘Yes. Perfectly fine.’ It was true. The bruised ribs would heal soon enough. ‘I promise. It was a vision of sorts. We shall speak later of it.’ When they were safe behind Sybilla’s hexes, away from listening ears. Pitch nodded, his cheek grazing Silas’s collar. ‘It must have looked awful. But I think I shall recognise the signs if it were to happen again, and I shall try my utmost to give you warning before my theatrics next time.’