Page 90 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

‘I shall burn you down, you cockless, witless imbecile, if you do not release me.’ He uttered the demand for the hundredth time, and was fairly certain Will Scarlet sighed.

‘You shan’t,’ the Major barked back. ‘Because you can’t. We all know it. At best you’ve scorched me a little, which is terribly rude, considering. Do you mind?’

With a snarl Pitch lifted his glowing fingertips away but gave the inside of the trunk a decent kick for good measure. The will-o’-the-wisp tittered angrily and shook a bright fingertip his way.

The leshy grunted, the rustle of resettling branches easing the pressing silence.

‘Will someone at least fucking tell me what is happening out there? In the woods…’ He disliked the silence that followed far more than all the quiet that had come before. ‘Robin?’ he snapped. ‘Major? I swear by all the Celestials’ holy sphincters, if someone does not say a fucking word, I shall kick a hole in this oak.’

Will Scarlet placed itself at the peephole and delivered a small tirade of chirps to the outside world.

‘Calm down, Scarlet.’ Robin’s voice came from close without. ‘Fine, yes, you are right. Our silence is doing him no good.’ Scarlet backed away from the hole, crossing its tiny translucent arms and nodding, setting off a prismatic show of colour as its inner light shifted.

‘What do you know of Silas?’ Pitch demanded. ‘Is he harmed?’

‘No. He holds his ground.’ Robin spoke smoothly, with great calm. As though it might rub off on him.

‘Does anyone come to his aid? The Order? His horse?’

‘There is no sign of anyone,’ Robin returned. ‘Do they know where you are?’

Theyshould. Sybilla should know exactly where they were, thanks to Hastings. But the White Horse’s continued absence, despite the Wild Hunt’s appearance, made him inordinately uneasy. ‘Of course they do.’ He would try to convince himself, if no one else.

‘Then we just need time. That is all. I’m sure your ankou can handle himself until help arrives.’ Robin’s grim determination was pitiful.

Pitch wrapped Silas’s coat tighter about him, gathering up its copious length like it was a blanket. His hand found the hardness of the bandalore, his ankou’s scythe.

For a foolish moment Pitch thought perhaps if he took it from his pocket and held it upon his open palm, it might…what? Fly off to find Silas?

For fuck’s sake, it was a weapon not a butterfly. The bandalore just sat there, the stained boxwood a pleasant warmth against his skin, its dirty string partly unwound. He traced the swirl in the centre of the rounded disc, moving his finger over wood that had come away from the encounter with Black Annis changed, the hue deepened to mahogany with the blood spilled that day. Blood spilled by the bandalore’s master.

Pitch shoved the scythe deep into his pocket, a choking lump in his throat. He paced the three strides each way he could manage in his woody confines, the discomfort in his ankle all but a whisper. If the ankou left him…if he lost Silas here…

They were supposed to navigate this quest together. The ankou hadpromisedhim that was how it would be.

Pitch was light-headed, suffocated by his own thoughts. This reliance upon another living being was astounding and devastating, and the most confounding of things. Why the blazes did the purebreds seek out relationships with such passion? It was insanity. The sooner the quest was done with, he and the ankou could part ways, and sense would return.

He could be done with this weight, too. The silent wildness, that firebird at his core, was draining. Pitch sought to ignore it, but he was leaden, straining at the seams with an inferno suppressed.

He dug his nails into the fine flesh at his wrist, as though that could possibly relieve the pressure.

Scarlet came dashing at him, squeaking and squawking.

‘What the blazes is wrong with you?’

The creature darted in and jabbed an angry sunflower-yellow finger at the red mark on his wrist.

‘It’s none of your fucking business what I do to myself.’ Pitch brushed off the scowling creature. ‘Go to Silas, if you wish to be helpful. I won’t miss you.’

Scarlet folded its tiny arms and jabbered utter nonsense. He was about to tell it how unflattering its voice was, and what a waste of air it was for it to breathe, when the drag of the leshy’s burr sounded through the wood.

‘What is it?’ he called.

‘Quiet.’ The Major’s reply echoed in the hollow interior. ‘Keep quiet. They are very close.’

Pitch considered ignoring the instructions in favour of demanding answers, but he held his tongue and pressed his eye to the peephole.

Robin knelt at the centre of the clearing, surrounded by gradually widening rings of toadstools, a circlet of petals rotating overhead. Their fingers were splayed, the tips pressed to the ground on either side of where they rocked back and forth, eyes tightly closed, flaxen hair shifting like wind-gentled wheat.