Hobbes were now returning from their pursuit, and were changing back from their feathered owlish forms. It seemed that the chase had been abandoned. The shifting-of-forms meant that a thin cloud of many-hued feathers were falling, all twirling on the wind. Strangely, many of the hobbes were now standing about naked, or nearly-so, barring the odd fur cape or silk cloak taken hastily from fallen knights.
On the edge of a low rise in the earth, where the fighting had been the bitterest, a figure of a woman and huge horse stood outlined against the frail stars of late evening.
If they had wanted to talk, they seemed to be done. Only a companionable silence stretched between them. She leaned against Dapplegrim and had her arm around his neck. Hair and mane moved at the touch of wind. Otherwise, they were still.
He was at such an awful and loose end. He needed to talk to someone. After a moment’s distracted thought, he decided that he would just have to risk interrupting. And so, he picked his way over to them, all the while, doing his best to avoid the puddles of blood and muck mixed up with dirt. In several places horse’s hooves and leather boots had churned the ground into red mud.
Caewen heard him approach and turned her face to look. The boy noticed a gash in her scalp that he hadn’t seen before. Now that he was closer to Dapplegrim, the boy could see more than a few streaks of injury and missing chucks of flesh upon his flanks. He wore splatterings of wet redness all over his pelt. His mouth was the worst of it. There seemed to be a human finger stuck between two of his sharp teeth.
For a moment, the boy was caught in thought. He wondered if Dapplegrim wasn’t named after the black-and-grey dapples of his pelt after all. It might well be that he was named after dapples of red blood. If so, the boy wondered what long ago event had led to the name.
“Did you bite someone to death?” said the boy, not quite knowing what he was saying any more, or even why. It all seemed so strange and distant.
“Yes,” answered the horse. He sucked the finger out of the gap in his teeth, and chewed it slowly, thoughtfully.
Caewen did her best to clean some of the blood from her face. “I think I ought to ask if one of the hobbes can stitch my scalp. Unless that’s another of you’re secret and surprising skills, child?”
He shook his head. The old man in the book-dreams had not taught him anything about doctoring. Although, he hadn’t actually asked about that sort of thing either. Maybe he should. Maybe the tutor could teach him doctoring. It was worth asking about, he supposed.
Caewen bent over to wipe blood off her sword: she ran the blade against a beautiful banner of stitched silk that now lay trampled on the ground. It was a banner of the House Lilthae. A white swan flying on midnight blue. The building-up of knowledge in the boy’s head was making him think differently. He had started noticing things he’d had never have noticed before.
As he stood, pondering this, Caewen looked up at the black-grey mountainside, and dipped a half-nod at the looming dark of night that pooled there. The many boggart watchfires were twinkling all over the flank of the mountain, but one tiny red mote of fire stood apart from the others, burning brighter and bigger still.
“Fetch?”
The elegant shadow crept out of the pouch she carried it in. “Tssch, tssh, tassch… yes?”
“Go find out who sits by that fire. I suspect I know… but still… all the same. I’d like to be certain.”
“Tsssch. Yes, my lady.”
“And fetch, please perform such formalities as are appropriate in the situation. Do not spy like a sneaking shadow. Show yourself and be honest about it.”
The voice was a wheedling hiss. “Of course, my lady.” The shadow-thing then curled away like a smoky twist of black velvet, and at once was invisible in the darkness of the uneven ground.
“Why do you want to know who it is?” said the boy. “Surely, it must be the boggart-witch? Who else could it be?”
“Yes. Almost certainly. I am surprised she helped us. It may go badly against her, and her tribe. Old Night and Chaos will not be much pleased. So, I’d like to be sure.” She looked around. “I need to get this wound stitched. We will need to tramp up the mountain and offer thanks. To whomever it might be.”
Suddenly the boy stood straighter. He looked around. “Where’s Fleat?”