Of course, the boy had heard of boggarts and their ilk. Once even, in Wurmgloath, he had seen a dead bogle, brought in by a hunter who had filled the beast with arrows. And he’d seen what remained of the boggart that had been turned to moss-and-stone in the witch’s garden. But he had never seen anything like these big night-hunters, alive, close up, and so palpably near that even just their rank odour made him feel like a rat hiding from a very large, very dangerous dog.
He was quite happy that the creatures were at least somewhat far off, and that they did not know he was there, hiding in the scrub. He did not want to find out what would happen if any of their yellow eyes settled on him. And, as he did not know how well the creatures saw in the dark–or how well they might hear or sniff out prey either–he froze, and pushed himself downwards into he foliage carefully, until he was half-buried and could see only fragment-pieces of the scene through gaps in the leaves.
The grass and weeds scratched at his face and smelled dusty and strongly of grass sap. He watched the boggart-men spread out, moving as if they were taking guard positions around the fringes of the firelight. It struck him that the creatures looked almost as if they were setting themselves up to guard against the gaunt, armed men who had been lounging about the fire, just as much as they might have been positioning themselves against attackers from outside the circle of firelight. The Sorthelanders all got to their feet and dusted themselves off. They performed something that must have been a sort of military salute to the man on the great deer–though their looks remained sour. They gave off an air of annoyance. One man barely raised his hand at all. Another, who had the angry red patches of a rash down his neck, saluted with one hand while he scratched at the rosy scales on his throat with the other.
The boy was wondering if this cruel-mouthed, hard-eyed man in noble armour–girt with a fine sword and great sweeping helm–whether he might be the shadowed prince from the dream. The master of the white warths. But then a soldier said, “Captain Morair.”
The officer nodded, though his face remained impassive and cold. He swung himself out of his saddle and alighted with what seemed like almost weightless grace. He seemed phantasmal for a moment, standing in his armour and grey shawl, but then he stretched himself loosely, like a cat and cricked his neck and muttered, “Long ride and longer to go this night. How goes the watch and roving work?” His voice was gravelly and deep. It was not at all like the youthful uncertainty of the prince’s tones. No, this was not the prince. Rather, this was some underling. A soldier’s captain, and a master of soldiers and boggarts only.
As the soldier reported, the boy noticed that the nearest of the boggarts was now paying an uncomfortable amount of attention to the air. It sniffed deeply. Its nostrils flared. A grunt. Another snuffle. It took a step towards the place where the boy was hiding. It kept sniffing.
The boy felt fingers grip his arm. He looked back and the expression on Fleat’s face said: be ready to run.
Now, the other boggarts were watching the first with feral, intelligent eyes. It gave out a low snarl and sniffed again. A couple of the others started tasting the air too, sniffing lightly, almost delicately.
The boy sunk even lower in the grass and leaves. He had almost no view of the approaching boggart at all now. He’d made a mistake. He made such a mistake sneaking so close to the camp. It was clear that the boggarts could smell him and a few of them were breaking away from the group, and edging closer. Suspicious. Hunting. Seeking. That first boggart now made a move in a straight line, closing in on the boy’s hiding place, sniffling and puffing as it came.
If he moved at all, he was sure to be heard now. And seen too, most likely. The grass was dry and there were dead leaves. Fleat’s fingers were still tightly clamped on his arm, tightening. He looked back over his shoulder again. The hobbe-boy was afraid. It was clear in his face. It was one thing to sneak up on a lumpish group of tired-out rangers, but these creatures were something else again. These were hunting-beasts on two legs, down to every fibre of their flesh.
But just as the boy was on the edge of breaking and running, at the moment he could sense Fleat next to him was tensing and readying to change himself and fly off, there was a loud cry and a havoc of movement from nearer the bonfire rose up, clattering. The men on this side of the fire were mere black shapes outlined and made featureless by the blaze behind them. It was difficult to see anything clearly. The boy was only just able to make out what seemed to be happening. The man who had been complaining before, Crue, had drawn a sword and had attacked the nobleman. A smash of steel-on-steel rose, as the swords swept and clashed. Both men yelled and screamed as if possessed, though that was the usual Sortheman way of fighting. Or at least, so the boy had heard in stories: wild, violent, full of screams and cries to frighten the enemy. They circled, fought viciously and moved far enough to the side of the fire that they were all at once lit with a harsh light down one side, whilst soaked in darkness down the other. The boggarts snarled to each other, clenched their claws and shook their heads of greasy matted hair; they lost all interest in the smell they had caught on the wind, and turned instead to watch the fight.
The boy and Fleat both started to crawl backwards.
The soldiers, human and boggart alike, withheld their cheers for a split moment, but then they seemingly saw a change in the fight that the boy could not fathom. He had no notion of what was happening, other than a wild bash and thump of swords. But the soldiers must have understood that Crue was outmatched, and soon Crue saw it too. He fell back a couple paces, shot his eyes left and right, as if looking for a way to escape and seeing none, he threw his sword down and fell to his knees. Though the boy could no longer hear the words distinctly, it was clear enough that Crue was begging for mercy. Or maybe he was only begging for a quick end? Sorthelanders were hard folk, and not likely to forgive an attempted assassination. With one quick flick of his sharp grey blade the captain opened Crue’s throat. The boy hid his eyes behind his hands. He did hear–and quite clearly–the loud bubbling, gasping noise of air being sucked through a torn windpipe, and the burbling half-words as Crue seemed to be trying to say something more. There were two quick, sickening concussions. The boy never did know what exactly happened to put Crue out of what would have been a slow death. But after the second sound only silence was in the air.
That was the best opportunity that they would get. Gradually, with as much stealth as his shaking and shivering body could manage, the boy increased his speed, backing away from the clearing, and shuffling on his belly. Fleat did the same, just a few inches away.