Page 11 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire

y milwr

(THE SOLDIER)

I barely hear Neirin calling for me; the forest is a blur as I race toward the sound of the screaming. Even though it shoots ice through my veins to think of Ceridwen in danger, a spark of relief ignites within me. She isn’t far and I can save her.

That spark is doused quickly when the forest grows darker around me, as if I’ve run straight into the dead of night, the screaming getting louder and louder until finally it fades into a pathetic, wet sob.

“Ce–” But I stop myself before I give her name away again, and stagger to a halt. “Hello?”

Beneath my feet the mud feels sticky, like it’s rained here and nowhere else, but I can’t see it through the layer of thick white mist that creeps up to my knees. The trees are bare and brittle. It’s full dark, but when I turn my head up to the empty, twisted branches, no stars peek through.

My body grows rigid as the sobs start again, ever closer.

I’m alone and blind to the woods, bright and loud in my own ignorance—an easy meal. There’s an overturned log ahead and something draped over it.

Pale arms hang over the rotten wood, disappearing into the mist, a head and shaking shoulders buried between them. Thick black curls conceal the figure’s face. It could be Ceridwen. With no light, her hair could look like that.

No, it doesn’t work. I’m a good liar, but I can’t convince myself.

The arms are far too long.

I back away. With my eyes fixed on the woman, I don’t notice the branch until I step upon it.

A deafening crack shoots through the forest.

The sobbing stops.

I take a shaking breath as first one arm, then the other, creeps up to brace the body on the log.

The woman leans forward, her hair a mask.

Her arms are pale, withered. Her fingers are taloned, the skin around them shriveled like a corpse’s, the nails caked in decades of dirt and blood, and they dig into the bark like knives.

I glance behind me, willing Neirin to appear, but I’m alone, unarmed and still without sight—this creature wanted me to see her. She lured me and I took the bait.

The hag lifts her head with a grotesque snap like bones breaking.

The skin of her face is pulled tight across prominent, overdrawn features.

Her lips are nonexistent as her mouth parts to reveal rows of pointed teeth, and where her eyes should be, there is nothing but gaping black holes, boring right through me.

The groan of a dying woman rattles in her throat.

“Fy chwaer!” she calls. “Fy chwaer!”

My sister! My sister!

The hag calls out for those who will die, lures them close and brings their death faster, but whether she calls for me or for Ceridwen I don’t know.

I don’t have time to wonder. Her distended arms lurch over the trunk and her body follows.

The bones of her shoulders and collar look ready to slice through her rotting, corpse-purple flesh, cracking and groaning with each jerky movement.

Her talons scratch through the muck and, on hands and knees through the mist, the gwrach y rhibin—a hag of the mist—scrambles toward me.

I race away, arms and legs pumping as I try to double back to escape the mist and the dark, to find my way back to the road. The thump of her limbs never ceases, never slows, and she’s chanting something as well.

“Lawr, tywyllwch, lawr, tywyllwch, lawr, tywyllwch.”

Down, dark, down, dark, down, dark.

It’s in my very head, pounding at the back of my eyes. The words bleed into a garbled mess. I gather speed, but the hag matches me step for step, even as the trees begin to bear leaves again.

I can’t stop, I can’t fight, I can’t even think. My heart reaches my mouth and threatens to claw its way out.

I jump an overturned tree. The hag skids to a halt behind me, braying, the trunk a line between us. She hisses, gnashing her fangs at me. Still, she doesn’t follow. She cowers, recoils, looking past me, hissing at something I can’t see.

I don’t understand the rules of this chase, but I’ve gained an advantage.

I take a few steps back, refusing to look away from her.

Whatever she’s afraid of is probably worse than her, but that’s a problem for later.

For now, whatever it is, it is keeping me safe.

I move toward it as the hag flinches back. It’s a gamble, but I’ll take it.

The hag bows low to the ground behind the felled tree. She cries out in frustration, then scuttles back into the shadows, never turning around, never looking away from me. Her eyes are the last thing to vanish—two shadowed chasms, locked on my own. Then nothing, just darkness and silence.

I draw in a sharp breath. I have only a few seconds to gather myself before I must face whatever scared the hag away.

“They don’t like me.”

I whirl around, a hand clasped to my mouth, stifling a scream. A boy sits on the forest floor, his back against a tree trunk. He has his knees drawn up with a strange gun braced against them.

“W-why?” I manage.

He looks up. He’s no older than me. He wears a strange tan uniform with heavy boots.

His skin is brown, and his hair and eyes are a deep black.

He’s so ordinary—nothing like the shambling hag—and yet he seems to be what scared her off.

Is he another trick? Another creature in disguise like the pwca, luring me close before biting?

“This.” He taps the butt of his gun. “The sick ones like me even less.”

“The sick ones?” I keep a safe distance, my breath still heavy from running.

He chooses his words carefully. “They come up from the ground, from the caves. You seen them yet?”

I shake my head, shivering. The creatures he’s talking about must have come up from Y Lle Tywyll. The place Ceridwen is heading. The place to which I must follow her.

The soldier shrugs. “You will.” It’s more a promise than a threat.

“I’ve never seen a gun like that before. Is it from here? Do the teg have guns?”

“No, they have nothing like this.” His jaw sets. “It’s standard assignment for the British army.”

“You can’t be army,” I protest. “Your uniform isn’t right.”

He sighs. “Time works differently here.”

He heaves himself up and I squeeze my eyes shut.

Both Morgen and Neirin have warned me about how time moves strangely in this land—how people can get lost so easily—but I assumed it wouldn’t happen to me.

I thought myself too clever, like I could outsmart what has probably caught out a hundred humans before me.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. There are stars overhead even though it was daylight when I left Neirin mere moments ago.

I curse and rub a hand over my eyes. I’ve lost my way, my only source of help—even if that help came with its own dangers—and I’ve lost time, too.

“Who are you?”

His dark brow furrows. “A soldier.”

“Do you know how to get to Llys-y-Ellyllon?” I try. “I’m supposed to see their king. I was traveling with an ellyll, but we”—I search for a word that won’t betray how stupid I’ve been—“got separated.”

He adjusts his grip on the rifle. “I can take you to the next village. No further.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Nothing.”

I scoff. “As if I’d believe that.”

“What do you mean?” the soldier says.

I gesture to him. “You lot. The teg. Everything is a game. And you try very hard to hide the rules.”

Silence envelops us, permeated only by the wind in the trees and a bird singing, high and unnatural.

“I’m not one of them,” he says finally.

“Really?”

“Not any more than you.”

“Prove it.” I cross my arms.

The soldier considers me, then, with a sigh, lifts his jacket. “This lot don’t bleed like we do.”

His shirt is torn, soaked crimson, revealing a gaping wound beneath. Blood flows freely with each breath—so much blood that he shouldn’t be alive, let alone standing. If I stared enough I think I could see the organ meat beneath.

“What happened to you?” I ask. The gore and the smell of ruined flesh turns my skin gray, and he drops his coat before I gag.

“Hun got me.” He shrugs.

“Hun?”

“The Germans,” the soldier says.

I stare at him blankly. “Why has a German shot you?”

“Christ.” He breathes out, his face softening despite the hard set of his wiry body. “Aren’t you lucky to be oblivious—follow me.”

And when he turns and walks on, God help me, I do.

“Doesn’t your… injury hurt?”

“Injury” seems like too small a word for that carnage, but he moves with speed and determination, like it’s no more than a paper cut.

“Can’t feel it,” he replies curtly, but there’s an almost familiar lack of confidence in his voice that he doesn’t entirely cover.

I give him a small smile. I don’t mean to, but he sounds a little too much like me.

“And why are you helping me?” I ask.

“Can a man not do something out of the goodness of his heart?”

“Generally? No.”

The soldier grimaces. “Fine. There’s this village nearby.

Its creatures, they… don’t like me. I’ve tried everything: I’ve played them music, I slayed some monster that was living in their well.

Maybe that was a mistake. They don’t have guns, so maybe I scared them.

They won’t even let me spend a night at the inn. ”

“You want me to sneak you in?”

“No.” The soldier sighs. “I want you to camp on the edge with me.”

“Why?”

“You’ve asked enough questions.”

“Is there a quota?”

Finally, his lips quirk into the bare ghost of a smile. “Yes, and you’ve passed it.”