The Unfinished Song (Book 5): Wing (19 page)

Finnadro had hunted there before, however. Once he
had tracked a killer wolfling across the peat hills for two full
moons. The wolfling had been wily and ruthless, a killer of more
than twenty innocents, but in the end, Finnadro had cut him
down.

I will cut you down the same way, Deathsworn, he
promised.

The terrain was both blessing and curse to a hunter.
Mud made good prints, but water drowned them. He lost the trail on
the second day across the marsh, where the water deepened into a
true lake. The wolves could not wade the deeper channels and had to
separate from him. They agreed they would fan out and scour the
marsh for any scent or tracks.

Finnadro kept going on his own and was rewarded just
past the lake when he once more found prints. Before, the woman’s
prints had not always been present, and Finnadro had presumed she
was bound and slung over the horse. Now there were no hoof
impressions, only the dainty boot marks of the woman next to the
man’s. Scuffs indicated that at times, he had to drag her
along.

Finnadro howled to alert the others. They would
converge on his path when they could.

The prints grew fresher. Without the horse, they
were moving more sluggishly. He knew he would intersect them
soon.

The edge of the lake was rich without sounds. Frogs
were still hibernating, but mallards quacked and splashed nearby.
Wrens churred and trilled, chek-chek-chek. Finnadro found a patch
of tall reeds near the bank. Here he deepened his camouflage.
Already, he wore soft browns and olives that blended with the
rushes, but now he smeared oily green mud on his face, everywhere
but his eyes. He tied clumps of marsh weeds to his head and
arms.

Several birds protested a disturbance ahead. He
heard the loud rattle of a belted kingfisher sounding an alarm, the
cheep-deep-chidy-deep of an annoyed swallow. Finnadro ducked deep
in the grass just as another man, further down the shore, stood up
and launched a sling at a duck. Ducks billowed into the sky
unscathed and the man cursed.

Finnadro squatted. His motions slowed to the pace of
utmost stealth. He positioned his bow and arrow and took aim. Now
that his prey was in sight, he could afford patience. His only
concern was to know where the captive woman was.

The angry man kicked something hidden in the grass.
A yelp of pain ended in a drawn-out whimper.

One question answered. He had to assume she was
bound, perhaps injured—though he had seen no blood near the prints,
which was a good sign. At this point, he was just grateful she was
still alive. For whatever reason, the Deathsworn had not sacrificed
her yet.

He kept his bow cocked and waited on his shot. A
breeze tickled the straw on his head. His cheek itched. His right
thigh muscle cramped. He did not move.

Finally, the man lifted the woman from the ground.
Her hands were indeed tied behind her back. He shoved her forward
so hard she stumbled. He caught her by her hair and yanked her so
she did not fall. She whimpered again.

Finnadro’s fingers tensed, ready to release the
taunt string.

The man tilted his face so Finnadro could see it
full on. It was not the face of the man that Finnadro had met a
year ago.

This was not the man in black.

This man was not Deathsworn at all. He was Orange
Canyon, and the woman he dragged along beside him was not Dindi,
but a middle aged Green Woods tribeswoman.

Finnadro stood up, still holding the bow ready to
spring.

“Release your captive or die, Orange Canyon!”
Finnadro commanded.

The Orange Canyon man snarled and pulled her in
front of him, as a shield, his stone blade posed on her throat.
“Leave me be or she dies!”

“Don’t be a fool,” warned Finnadro. He paced toward
the man, slowly, as a man would approach a jackrabbit. “You crossed
the river safely, and by our law, we will let you go back to your
own people. But not with a captive.”

“I must bring a sacrifice to the Eaglelords when I
go home, or they will slay me for cowardice,” wheedled the man.
“She’s worth more alive, but I can make do with just her head. Or
yours!”

“Do you know who I am?” Finnadro asked.
Incrementally, he shifted forward. “I am Finnadro the Wolf Hunter,
Henchman of the Green Lady.”

The man blanched.

“You’ve heard of me.” A step forward. “Good.” A step
forward. “That makes this easier.” A step forward. “You have two
choices. Leave her and live, or harm her and die. If you draw her
blood you will never see your home again.” Step, step, step. “I
suggest you take me at my word.”

“I have your word you will let me go?” he
quavered.

“If she is unharmed.”

“Do not let this beast leave alive!” shouted the
woman. “He has fouled me! I would rather die and take him with me
than let him live to laugh at my shame!”

She pulled aside the dirty apron over her legwals,
revealing blood stains on the inside leather of her thighs.

“Shut your muck hole, you lying bitch!”

The man shook his captive. Grim hate set her
features.

“Did you take this woman against her will?” Finnadro
asked.

“No! She’s a lying piece of muck!” As he said it,
Finnadro caught the green thread of the man’s feelings, conveyed
less in words than in vivid images, fast and ugly like slung
mud.

I shove moss into her mouth to shut up her screams.
Let the bitch cry. She is mine to use as I please. Her anger
excites me so much, I fumble to unlace her legwals. I shove in as
soon as I see her bare buttocks, and use her hard. It’s over too
fast, and I’m disgusted with her and myself. I can’t believe I
wasted seed on this old, ugly outtriber who was probably whelped by
wolves. I order her to lace her legwals back up. I ignore her
bleeding and smack her when she weeps. I swear I won’t touch her
again, but by the next night, I am panting to have her under me. I
make her serve me every night we camp. I might as well enjoy her
before I give her to the Eaglelords at the Paxota.

Finnadro released his arrow.

The Orange Canyon man never had a chance to carry
out his threat against his captive. He fell over backwards with an
arrow through his eye.

The woman stumbled forward a few steps, then fell to
her knees and threw up in the grass. She wiped her mouth.

Finnadro knelt by her side. He radiated soft Green
compassion into her aura, willing her to feel comforted and safe,
but he did not touch her until she reached out; then he took her
hand and helped her to her feet.

“I have another captive to free, auntie, otherwise I
would accompany you back to our tribelands,” Finnadro apologized.
Hopefully one of the wolflings has found the true trail. Their
noses would not be fooled by similar prints, as I was.

“I can find my way. My husband died in the war. My
children have only me. Nothing will stop me from returning to them
now that my honor is avenged.” She shook herself off and took his
hand to kiss it. “Thank you for my freedom, Wolf Hunter. This other
captive, is it also a woman?”

“A maiden.”

“It will be even worse for her than for me. You must
save her.”

“I intend to.”

But he had a feeling it would take more than one
arrow to bring down the Henchman of Lady Death.

A light drizzle fell. Water found its way into the
cracks of Dindi’s parka in a way that snow had not. She felt
miserable and cold. Fog rolled over the bog. In the distance, she
could see the faint lights of willawisps but no fae would linger
near Umbral, making a gray day grayer.

Upon one of the long stretches of undulating peat,
they walked right into a clanhold before either of them realized it
was there.

The homes blended perfectly into the hill, dug right
into the turf with only a small round opening at ground level.
Overhanging slabs of turf, covered with moss, shielded the front
yards from the drizzle. The domiciles were diminutive and so were
denizens. At first, Dindi thought they were children, dirty, oddly
dressed children. Then she realized that they were hobgoblins.

They had dark orange skin. Their hair looked like
brown moss. Mostly they were naked, but hobgoblins, unlike other
fae, loved human clothing and gadgets, so almost all of them wore
some article of human design—but wrongly. One hobgoblin male wore a
boot on his head. He carried a spoon as if it were a spear. Another
wore one-half of a set of legwals as a one-sleeved tunic. A plump
female wore two pots as shoes. The tallest of the hobgoblins stood
only waist-high to Umbral.

“A human! A human!” shouted the nearest hobgoblin.
Inexplicably, he’d strapped a waterbowl to his back, which made him
look rather like a turtle. He raised a ram’s horn to his lips, as a
human sentry might to sound an alarm, save that poor Turtleback
blew into the larger end. The sound which resulted was less a
clarion than a blubbery squelch.

More hobgoblins rushed out of their dugouts. Dindi
expected them to flee or attack. They did neither. They capered
around Dindi, full of glee.

“A real human has come to visit our clanhold! A
real
human!”

“I want her to stay at
my
house!”

“No, she’ll stay at
my
house!”

The two arguing hobgoblins began to kick and bite
one another. They fell into the mud and rolled around together,
still fighting. The rest of the hobgoblins ignored them and
continued to cheer and frolic.

“Wait! Wait! How do we know this human has not come
to make war on us?” demanded the male with a boot on his head.

The plump, pot-footed woman shouted at all the giddy
hobgoblins. “You’re all a lot of fools! The human doesn’t even know
we are here! She’s not come to see us! She
can’t
see
us!”

Boothead pushed past Potfoot to confront Dindi.

“Halt, Cornborn!” commanded Boothead. He waved his
spoon at Dindi like a dangerous weapon. “You bring an ill wind to
our hold! What do you want with us?”

Potfoot smacked him on the head. “Humans can’t see
fae. She can’t hear a word you say, fool!”

“We are just passing through, uncle,” Dindi said
politely.

“There! She sees us and hears us well enough,”
Boothead said.

“Hooray! She sees us!” cheered the crowd. Turtleback
made another squelching sound on his upside down ram’s horn.

“Hrmf.” Potfoot crossed her arms.

“Who’s ‘we’? Have you more humans with you, girl?”
asked Boothead.

“Just the two of us.”

“I see but one! Where’s your friend, then?”

“He’s right…”

“They can’t see or hear me, Dindi,” Umbral said.
“Just as ordinary humans cannot see or hear fae, though they can
sense when fae are near, so fae cannot see or hear Deathsworn,
though they can sense when we are near. Tell him you are alone. If
you tell him you travel with a Deathsworn, they will try to kill
you. Then I’ll have to kill them and it will be unpleasant all
around.”

“Oh,” said Dindi. “I, uh, forgot. I left my friend
behind. I’m traveling alone.”

Humans would never have accepted such a flustered
lie, but the hobgoblins took her at her word without blinking. They
were far more interested in the question of who would host her for
the night.

“We’re not really going to spend the night in a fae
clanhold are we?” Dindi whispered to Umbral.

“Why not? It’s a bit early to stop, but it’s worth
it to have a roof over your head, especially if the rain keeps up.
Find yourself a cozy bed for the night.”

“What about you?”

“My presence would discomfit them. I’ll camp on the
edge of town.” He pressed a bag of roots into her hands. “Eat only
our own food. Remember, they are fae: eat nothing they give you,
wear nothing they give you and don’t dance with them.” He lowered
his voice. “Hobgoblins have a taste for human flesh, so just watch
yourself.”

Umbral walked away in the rain, which was falling
harder now. He disappeared in the fog.

Meanwhile, the hobgoblins were still debating where
to house Dindi.

“Give her the Big House!”

“Yes, yes, the Big House!”

“No, my house!”

“No, mine!”

“I saw her first!” cried Turtleback. “She ought to
come to
my
house!”

“True, true, he saw her first, that he did!”

“True, true!”

This argument swayed the crowd. Turtleback blubbered
into his ram’s horn triumphantly. The hobgoblins hustled Dindi to
one of the houses carved out of the peat wall. There was no flap or
apron over the door, just a hole in the dirt. Turtleback slithered
in easily, but the hole was so small Dindi wasn’t sure she would
fit. With some wriggling, she crawled inside after Turtleback. She
wondered if she wouldn’t have been better off camping with
Umbral.

Inside, however, she found a larger space than she
expected, though the ceiling was too low for her to stand straight.
The furnishings resembled those in a human hut. There was a hearth
in the center, an eating mat on one side and a cot with blankets on
the other. Pots and baskets lined the wall. There were no windows
but the hole in the door let in the last light of day and the
hearth glowed orange.

Yet much was bizarre. The hearth did not shine with
the light of a fire, but with the eldritch shimmer of a pile of
slithering fae frogs. Their bright orange skin glistened with
poison and glowed with magic. The baskets and pots were filled with
odd things, like spiders, fish heads and still-wriggling lizard
tails. The whole place smelled like funny: dank, musky and much too
cloying. She sneezed.

Turtleback looked up at her anxiously.

“Your house is beautiful,” Dindi said.

He beamed.

The frogs emitted heat, just as a fire would have.
In fact, it was uncomfortably warm inside. Dindi took off her parka
and outer legwals, which she folded neatly at the foot of the
cot.