Three bent figures stood close together, their heads leaning into a bent-necked huddle. They had gathered together on a hillside, cold and wind-scoured. Their rather desolate place of meeting stood some distance from Sorcery Tor, though if a person chose to look west from the slope, the great peak would still be visible: albeit a grey and track-scarred mass against the dimming sky. One of these creatures had a hairy left hand and sprouted a tail that was just as hairy, poking out from under the hem of her dress. Another had a hand that dripped wetly with blood, as if it were injured by a cut that would never heal. The third had a waxy, dead hand, hanging useless, and all about him breathed a great shadow, stirring with the movement of clouds in storm.
Between them was a sprawled, dead man. He had white hair, and a horrified expression. His mouth was wide open, and it was possible, now, to see that someone had cut his tongue out a long time ago. There was nothing but a scarred stump in its place. He had been dead about a day, but the cold winds and freezing nights on the side of the hill had kept him from rotting. Over his skin ran a network of a thousand cuts, as if he had been attacked by just as many very small claws. Or possibly beaks.
It was the old woman who spoke first. “Well met, says I, she who was killed beside the sea and had her head cut off and placed in a cave, in darkness deep.”
“Well met,” said the bloody handed one, “says I, who was strangled in the bogs and sunk down to be a sacrifice for bleak lost gods.”
“And well met, says I, such as he who was killed in the field of birds.”
The hairy-tailed woman nodded. “Then we are that which we appear, and claim.”
“What news?” said the lichen-bearded man with the cobwebbed eyes and dead arm. “Have you set pieces into motion as desired? What of this maid that we have aided? Is she in our service now?”
“No. And more fool to think of that. She owes us a favour, and that is ten times better than any labours sworn or fealty given.”
The other two nodded. “This is true said, true said,” whispered the bloody-handed one. “But what now then? Will she be pursuant to our goals.”
The old woman nodded and her tangled grey hair shimmered in the dull light. “She will. Whether she wills it or no. She will.”
“And what of the flame-witch?” asked the waxy-handed one. “Is is aware of us in this?”
“The Witch of the Whispers? The one who calls herself Sorra?” The old woman’s thin lipless face showed a smile. “She has a notion that a Faer creature has played a trick on her. She does not fathom why.”
“Good, good” muttered the other two.
It was waxy-hand who then added, “That one will cause much trouble before the end of this is seen through. We must keep her ignorant of our plans, for as long as we might.”
The bloody-handed one leaned lower and sniffed. “So, what then what of this?”
“This,” said the old man with the dead hand is far too dangerous a thing to ever be let fall in the hands of mortalfolk.” He crouched down, pulled the cloak away from the corpse, and then neatly folded it and tucked it away. “There,” he said. “Done. No mortal will ever see that again. We agree to meet again when the meeting is needed?”
“Aye.”
“We do.”
They drifted a few steps apart, seemingly about to adjuorn, and go their separate ways, when a drifting patch of shadow in the grass seemed to thicken and resolve itself into something more animate. It moved quickly towards them–leaping and jumping like a fox in snow–and all three looked up sharply, angry perhaps at being disturbed, or wary of something that might be a threat.
“Oh,” said the old woman with the hairy arm and tail, as she saw it more clearly. “It’s just a little feral shadow-thing. Have you lost your master at the moot?”
“Tssssch. Tsss. Tsss. No,” hissed the shadow that was something like a cat, and something like a mink, and something like no living creature. “My master was lost long weeks and months ago. So I have been watching and waiting, biding and thinking, dwelling and wondering. Chasing. Chasing. Hunting.” With an air of suspicious enquiry, he asked, “What business do you have with Caewen of Drossel, she who is murderer, thief and villain?”
“Is she those things, is she?” ask the withered man, wrapped in shadows, his voice dusty. “What would a little shadow know? And why would a feral little shadow be asking about our business with some mortal lass? We are the Faer Folk. Our business is our own.”
“Caewen the murderer, she deceived and tricked my old master. There is an owing of certain… reparations. Tssssch.”
A snort from the old woman. “We want naught to do with the revenge of petty little shadow-creatures. Be off with you, or I’ll skin you and use you for a little fur cape.”
“I will go. I will. The moot was too dangerous a place to reveal myself, and now I have waited hidden too long, too long, and now she is gone off on her accursed horse-beast again.” The creature seemed to look around, distracted, blinking its black deep eyes. “If you will not help me, I will find her all the same. I will leap again from head to dreaming head until I find her… oh yes, tssssch, tssss. Oh yes. Tsssck.” The little shadow-creature leapt away and was gone.
“Nasty little creature, that,” said the woman.
The other nodded in agreement and drifted away into the darkness, vanishing themselves, one-by-one.
THE END
…
Thanks for reading! I hope you’ve enjoyed this instalment of Caewen’s story and the Winter King. The next book, A Charm for a Nameless Child is already written (in early draft form, at least, about 100,000 words). I’ll be posting some plans and announcements in the next week or so. I am grateful to those of you who have been reading along. Much appreciated! – Hob