In a deep, narrow rift between two hills, Fleat had kindled a small smokeless fire, and made something of a camp. He was curled up beside the fire when they arrived, not asleep, but blinking wearily at the flames. He stirred and moved a hand to his brow to clear his unruly hair out the way. As he sat upright, the boy saw a big red-black mark on his face. He was badly bruised up and down the left side of his face and neck.
“What happened?” said the boy. “Was it the boggarts?”
“Aye,” said Fleat. “One of them caught me with a thrown iron club. I was only lucky it wasn’t an axe or spear, I was.”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” said Dapplegrim.
“It’ll mend in time,” added Fleat, quickly. “I’m a bit sore. And a bit sorry for myself. That’s all ’tis.”
Caewen’s voice was darkly serious. “You are lucky it wasn’t a knife or hatchet or worse.”
The boy clambered down, landing with a slightly foot-paining thud. He then hurried over. There was a small fearful moth in his chest. “You ought be more careful.”
“I was careful,” snapped Fleat. “We wasn’t the ones who went off and vanished in a cave for days on end, was we? Stands to reason we’d eventually be found by the hunters.” He sighed and his shoulders sank a little. There was a paleness to his cheeks and the brown cast of his skin looked more like old pale wood now. His bright dark eyes had a touch of sleeplessness to them. “Sorry. We was worried for you, too, you know. And, as we said: the cudgel did not break me skin. It will not fester. I’ll live. Now, what happened to you two?”
Caewen and the boy took turns explaining, though Caewen did most of the storytelling and the boy only added points of detail where they had slipped her memory. Finally, she showed everyone the blade. It was a fine thing, wrought blue and green and silver, with tangled patterns like a braided river.
Fleat even gave out a little whistle of appreciation.
The fetch had evidently been watching all this, though where exactly he was curled up was impossible to tell. There were too many shadows, lying to thickly. He was nearby though. He issued a long, whispering, “Tsssssschssch.” It sounded very self-satisfied, though the creature did not say anything more.
Caewen turned to him, and said, “Thank you. Your advice was good.”
A smile played in the silence of the woods, but otherwise the fetch remained quiet on the matter.
Finally, the boy took a moment to look around and realised that the ravine was perhaps not chosen at random. The mossy clumps in the glen were thick and strangely luxuriant. Some of the more ancient trees had very old and weathered carvings on them–whorls and tangled knots. One big nearby stone that was peeking through the carpet of needles wore those same carvings. “Is this another Fane ruin?”
“No,” replied Dapplegrim. “It’s the remnants of some cultish grove. Shadow-worshippers. Hurm. It was fetch who insisted this place would be safe for us. He seems to have been right. The boggarts and white warths both give this place a wide berth when they pass.”
Caewen had by now also gotten herself down from Dapplegrim’s back, and had walked over to Fleat. She knelt and looked at him closely, then nodded. A moment after, she looked about and asked with a touch of suspicion, “Shadow? Where are you exactly?”
“I am here. Tssssch. Tasch. Tsh.” The voice came quite clearly from a place among the mossy roots of a tree behind Fleat, but standing well away from the fire’s gold cast. “Do not fear. I’ve not skittered off. And I knew you were alive and well. Tsssch. Tsss. I told the great clumsy-guts horse not to worry himself so much, but would he listen? Tssssch. No and no.”
Caewen only frowned. “Just wondering.” She looked closely at Fleat’s face again. “You were very lucky.”
“To the bone,” said Fleat. He breath was shallow. Clearly, he was struggling against a need to sleep. A yawn followed.
Caewen hovered her fingers over the wound. She whsipered a three short, airy sounding words. “This will help,” she said after a moment. “It’s only a small charm though. I’m not much of a healer.” She then yawned herself and stretched. Do we have some food ready? I’ve a hunger that’d kill a ferret.”
Fleat fished a soot-blackened pot out of the edges of the embers. He touched the rim gingerly and dropped it as soon as it was safe, shaking his fingers. “Hot. Hot. But yes, there’s damper in the pot and I’ll boil some blackleaf for us too. I found some wild at the edge of the Fane woods while we were waiting. If you want some?”
“Sounds very, very good. Sounds a feast.” Caewen eased herself onto the ground and sighed. Her shoulders collapsed. “Ug,” she added. “I’m getting old enough and beaten up enough that I need to grunt and make noises when I move. That’s a mark of age.”
“That’s a mark of letting yourself get cut and tumbled and beaten-up all the time,” said Dapplegrim. “You are far from old age, Caewen. Take it from someone who knows what it really is to get on in years. Hmph,” he said. “You’ve just let yourself get bruised, thrown about, bashed and worse–and then you go and suck your inner self near-dead with magic–and then you go and make bargains with a shadow-fetch–and you think it’s age? Age? I thought you were supposed to be the more sensible of us two?”
Fleat shook his head. “Don’t listen to him. He been worrying himself silly, and now he’s taking it out on you. You should’ve heard him going on all last night. I do hope they’re all right. I do hope they’re not lost. I do hope they’re all right.”
“I was not,” said Dapplegrim.
Fleat poked at the damper in the pot. “All. Night. Long.”
Dapplegrim turned his nose up and pressed his mouth into a frown but he didn’t say anything more. Caewen only laughed, lightly. She stretched out her legs. “Pass me some of that damper and a cup of tea. She drew out her sword again, and let the firelight play along it. In that light the sword looked as if it had been hammered out of cold blue fire and the darkness of a night’s sky blended together.
Dapplegrim apparently couldn’t help himself. “Well, I just hope it cuts as well as it shimmers.”