As Dapplegrim stumbled sideways, the boy grabbed onto his mane with white-knuckled fists. A huge branch crashed down out of the canopy, and then a tree fell, and then another massive branch. The way ahead was cut off. The ambushers did not intend to let them get away. More of the black bolts flew and arced around them, though now Dapplegrim was dancing in place as best as he could with a half-dead leg: he dodged the hail of barbs for another few precious seconds as Caewen swung herself down from the saddle. She brandished her sword and yelled and yelled, but to no obvious avail.
Then, without a breath of warning, a great brown and tan mass of wings, and screeching noises, and outstretching talons crashed into one of the Hobs. It was a huge owl. There was scrabbling and fighting, and then angry cries from the trees and noises of retreat. Within moments the Hobs had jumped from tree branch to tree branch, and then onto a rocky outcrop on the nearest cliff face. And then they were gone. There was a crevice in the cliff. They all disappeared inside. Immediately afterwards there was a sound like stone grating against stone, and the crevice was shut.
They must have had some secret way into the mountain.
The owl circled and raised a howling noise from its throat, full of anger. Once it was clear that the attackers were gone, it glided itself down among the branches, shed a mass of feathers like rain coming off a cloud, and within the blink of an eye it was no longer an owl. It was Fleat, of course. Skinny and naked, and with a rage firing his eyes. “Those cretins!” he said, and he started to turn crimson around the cheeks and brow. “Welkinwisp! Sturmscarrow! Werndfeather! Those treacherous fools! Just wait until I tell the great old owl! Just wait!”
Caewen had a more than half-suspicious look on her face as she scanned the trees above them. She looked carefully along the line of the cliff overhead, then looked squarely at Fleat. She looked as if she didn’t quite trust that the attack was over. But all the same, she sheathed her sword with a small irritated noise. “Tell the old owl? And how do you know the old man doesn’t already know? How do you know he didn’t give secret instruction to ensure we did not make it alive out of this wilderness? Those arrows were poisoned.” She stopped and picked one up. “Just look.” There was a glistening black-grey oil all along the barb of the arrow.
Dapplegrim stamped a hoof and tossed his head. “I need to rest. My head feels strange. What did your folk tip those things with? There aren’t many poisons that…” he swayed and didn’t seem able to finish his sentence.
At that moment, the boy realised that he was feeling odd too. Light headed. Woozy. He tried to take a step and felt a stab of pain that he hadn’t noticed. He looked down at his right side and saw a small black-feathered barb protruding from his leg. It was strange how it didn’t hurt very much. Dimly, he realised that voices were still talking around him, and maybe they were calling to him? It sounded as if they were taking to him now. But they were too far away and the noises were too muffled by deliquescent silence for him to make out what they were saying at all.
He touched the bolt that was sticking through the fabric of his trousers and he ran his fingers lightly around the stain of red wet hot blood seeping outwards.
And then, without meaning to do it at all, he fell out of the saddle and hit the ground with a hard, oddly painless thump.