Chapter 16
Trewoofe
Trewoofe rubbed his bloodied muzzle along the frost to clean himself off.
He had hunted, killed, and completely consumed an old stag.
The Knucker had felt a twinge of pity for the beast before he slew him; his rib cage had been prominent against his dull pelt, meaning the endless Winter had taken a toll on the creature.
Trewoofe knew he needed to make a second kill today; he had promised Avice a share and planned to bring the Wulver a cut of the meat as well. The Knucker turned his snout skywards, letting the gale barrel a cacophony of scents into his nostrils.
His tongue brushed the air for several moments before he picked out the distinctive scent of a boar. It seemed to Trewoofe like silence had been draped over the forests surrounding his hill.
Avice may be right. This long Winter seems wrong, and could it be connected to the babies?
His heart lightened at the thought of the two children who joined his Kingdom.
Nothing hurt him more than seeing younglings in pain, and he was delighted he had been able to help them.
In the past, his soul-bound would chide him for how he would spoil their Knuckerlings when they pouted and cried, but he could not bear it when his daughters were sad.
He lowered his head and stalked through the trees, following the musky smell of pig.
Finally, after crossing a small clearing and tracking the scent into a leafless copse, he spied the skeletal creature rooting around at the base of a tree.
It was trying in vain to crack through the frost with its worn tusks, puffs of air wafting from its nose with each laboured strike against the earth.
Silently, he approached the boar from behind and pounced. With a quick crunch to the back of the neck, he killed the beast, so lightning fast it did not even have a chance to squeal. Trewoofe gave a satisfied chuff as he lifted the carcass in his jaw.
Avice will be happy.
The thought of his little witch praising him over his hunt had his tail whipping back and forth with excitement. He turned to the direction of her cottage and headed straight there.
Trewoofe had hoped that Avice may be home. He made his way up her garden path and cocked his head as he spotted a gentle stream of wood-scented smoke waft from the chimney.
Dropping the dead boar by the door, he flexed his jaw, snapping it open and closed to ease the strain of carrying the animal so far.
After the stiffness eased, he tried to peek through the keyhole but saw no sign of Avice within.
He turned his gaze to the sky; the cloud smothered Sun was still low in the sky.
“I am too early then,” he sighed. In his eagerness to see his little witch, he had arrived far before the agreed time.
Trewoofe tapped his talon on the frost while he thought what to do next.
The air was chilled. He reasoned the meat would not spoil if he left some here and returned in the afternoon.
He placed his paws on the body of the boar and took the hock of a rear limb into his maw.
With a yank, he ripped it off. The jarring sound of tearing muscle and cracking bone rippled through the air, eliciting a tremble from the holly bushes.
The Pillywiggin Queen appeared by Trewoofe’s paw, her glassy eyes squinting up at him. “What kind of King makes an offering to a human?”
The Knucker growled in his throat. “This King does. This is about more than offerings and bargains. Avice is my friend.”
“It is not right,” she said scornfully. “You are like the Wisp and the Grim, trailing after her like a beast of burden. They, at least, have the bond of a blood bargain between them. What is your excuse?”
Trewoofe bristled and hissed. He lowered his head so he could glare down his nose at the emboldened Queen. “I am a Knucker. You do not question the whims of Knuckers.”
Her wings trembled, sending a cloud of shimmering dust into the air around her. She dropped her gaze and kicked the belly of the carcass with a cloven-hoofed foot.
“Can we have some?” she asked.
Trewoofe scoffed at her audacity. “No! You insult me, the little witch, the Grim, and the Wisp. You will get nothing from me.”
Her wings drooped. “But we have eaten all the holly berries and have nothing to feed our young. This endless Winter… Usually we would be planting the witch’s garden by now, and she would be giving us her tasty offerings in return.”
Trewoofe felt a pang of jealousy, as he thought Avice favoured him with her honey cakes. “What kind of offerings?”
The Queen grinned. “We like her pickled vegetables.” She tapped her foot on the ground. “She brings them up from down there.”
The Knucker puffed with relief. He knew the gifts his little witch brought him were special, and the Pillywiggins could keep the pickles. He flicked his tongue out at the memory of the stinging vinegar.
The Faerie continued to look up at him with pleading eyes. Trewoofe huffed. It was as though she knew his weakness was that he could not bear to see younglings suffer. He curled out a talon, and with a quick slash carved off a long slice of meat from the body of the animal.
“Thank you, King!”
She squawked loudly, and two smaller Pillywiggins emerged from the foliage to help her carry the meat. They lifted it between them, the weight pulling them down, and fluttered off into the bushes with it. Trewoofe chuckled at the sound their excitable chatter and loud rustles made.
He contemplated what to do next. The Knucker flicked his eyes up to the sky and back down to the rest of the boar; he knew he could deliver it to the Wulver and return in time to keep his appointment with Avice.
What he wanted to do was to lay down in the garden and wait for her return, watch the hypnotic sway of her hips before he stood to greet her.
The thought of her body made his crest flutter, and he shook his head to calm the desire tickling down his spine.
To the Wulver, and then I will return.
He picked up the now three-legged boar carcass and made for his well.
Gone was the soft light of the embedded geodes in the walls of the Underneath. The loss of the delicate hum of the crystals was jarring, as he was so used to their soothing lullaby every time he travelled through his Kingdom.
Something is wrong.
The acrid scent of iron and oil scalded his throat. Trewoofe abruptly dropped his kill within the boundary of Wulver-led, the body landing with a sickening crack. He galloped into the settlement, made up of a circle of hide-skinned marquees surrounding the community square.
Mournful howls of the Faeries stung his ears.
“What has happened?” he shouted, hoping anyone might answer.
Trewoofe scanned the gathering area. It had a central fire pit next to a towering pink geode, with carved tables and chairs.
It was normally a warm and welcoming place where he had sought the company of the Wulver in the past. The space seemed empty, until he spotted something that made his stomach drop.
Two bodies, covered with the white mourning pelts of Wulver-kind.
No.
He tossed his head from side-to-side, looking for their Queen. “Olwilla!”
She spilled out from her fur-skinned home. She was followed by her stocky mate, Elfa, who carried a fussing Boarden wrapped in a deer pelt in the crook of her arm.
“What has happened?” Trewoofe asked.
Gratitude warmed the Knucker’s chest as he heard the grunting baby, relieved that he had not been inflicted by whatever killed the two Wulver.
“The villagers,” Olwilla snarled, her greying lips pulled back to reveal sharp fangs. “They put something in the healing waters: stinking, human oils mixed with—”
“Iron.” Trewoofe flicked his tongue out. “I can taste it in the air.”
Iron.
The only thing that gave humans power over the Faeries. A brutal, manmade metal that killed, maimed, poisoned, and drained their natural magics. The meandering scar along his belly stung at the memory of it.
Elfa adjusted Boarden in her arms. “You must do something.” She turned her desperate gaze, tears gathering in the corners of her blue eyes, to Trewoofe. “Two, King. Two of us gone. We are so few now and…” She let out a strangled sob.
“They could have poured it into the river that runs through their village,” Olwilla guessed.
“From there it must have flowed here. When Luc and Palla went to gather water earlier, it erupted in this” – she waved her paw through the air – “miasma. It killed them outright. We could not even stay by the dead to properly mourn them. We have not been able to howl our songs to send their spirits through the veil.”
“The air is not so foul in our homes.” Elfa dropped her gaze to Boarden in her arm. “I must get him inside. He is partly Wulver now, and so little, it may hurt him.”
Just before she turned away, Trewoofe called out, “A moment.” He lowered his head. “I would like to see him.”
Elfa, face wrought with concern, nodded her assent. “But quickly, Lord. This air…”
“Of course.”
Trewoofe’s gaze softened as Elfa pulled back the swaddle.
Boarden had doubled in size, the hair on his downy head had thickened into fur and the very tips of his ears were fluffy and pointed.
Trewoofe pressed the end of his snout to his head and felt the steady pulse of his fontanelle.
All things considered, Boarden looked in perfect health.
Relieved, he turned his gaze towards the poisoned river.
“Take him now.”
Elfa bowed and scurried back inside her home.
“You as well.”
Olwilla jolted at his order. “What will you do, King?”
“Reverse this mess, if I can.” He gestured his head over to her home. “Go back inside, now. If this does not work, head to my nesting chamber, and if this pollution follows you there: run, leave, and warn others on your way out.”
“Thank you,” Olwilla said, bowing low before joining her mate inside.