Chapter Twelve #2
“If we can get to the farmhouse, defend it, we have a chance. They catch us on the run, we’re dead or worse.”
“Better stop standing about flapping our gums, then!”
“Aye. Quick as you can manage it. I’ll watch our arse.” Because that way he wouldn’t have to set a pace and then clip it so Garner could keep up. “Can we stick with the wall, or do we have to cross?”
“Stick with it for now.” Garner settled his cap more firmly on his head. “I’ll tell thee when.”
“Go!”
Garner loped off along the wall line. Duncan let him get ahead a dozen paces, brought up the rear at a brisk pace that wouldn’t force the other man beyond his limits.
The first howl of pursuit through the trees at their back.
An answering call, almost playful.
Run, Duncan! Run!
Duncan snarled a grin.
Aye, come ahead then, you Fae fucks! You’re not chasing a wean now!
Along the crumbled line of the drystack at the loping run.
Twice, he had to dial back his pace so as not to overtake Garner, who by now was showing signs of distress.
They passed a place where a young oak tree had sprouted under the stonework, broken the line of the wall, tumbled fragments wide on either side.
Duncan caught one with his foot, tripped, nearly went flying headlong…
More howls, back and forth in the trees behind them. The sounds were coming quicker now, excited—joyous with the hunt!
And suddenly, Garner jammed to a halt, leaning on the wall. Duncan almost ran into the back of him, had to slam on the brakes hard and jigger to a stumbling stop. For a moment, he thought the other man was done—bent over, breath whistling out between gritted teeth. He slapped him on the shoulder.
“What’s got you?” he asked. “Need to stop for a piss.”
Gritted laugh. Garner’s hanging head shook back and forth. He threw out an arm, stabbed fingers mutely across the wall. Duncan peered, saw trees and little else.
“Farmhouse!” Garner panted. “Hundred yards. Look there…”
Duncan narrowed his eyes, peered again. Caught the dim ghost of angular architectural lines through the trees.
By the look of it, closer even than the hundred yards Garner had called it at.
He’d covered similar ground on retreat at Messines, harried by machine gun fire and mortar shelling—if Garner could make it too, this was a walk in the park.
“Right! Let’s get over this fucking wall, then.”
Garner nodded, breathless. Hauled himself on top of the stones, swung-fell off the other side as the weight of his pack tugged him down.
Duncan shifted grip on the McCulloch, held it one-handed halfway down the barrel.
He braced with his other hand on the wall, settled for an ungainly vault, tottered a bit on landing, but—
Shrieking, leaping, out of the cool night gloom, the first of the Huldu came at him like some deranged hybrid of man and stooping bird of prey.
He saw a falling flash of pale flesh, iridescent cloak-like wings, then the creature pounced and knocked him to the ground.
The McCulloch went flying. He rolled desperately, saw a long-armed set of talons lash at him as he moved.
Thought they missed. He braced hard with one hand, tried to rise, the pack a dragging weight at his shoulders.
The Huldu cannoned into him before he made it halfway.
“Duncan Silver!” the fanged mouth spat out the name like a curse. “We come for you!”
He rammed a forearm up at the Huldu’s throat, punched hard into its ribs with his other fist. The iron rings did their magic, the greenish-white flash, and the Huldu snarled in pain, but it didn’t give up its grip.
That was bad. Fucking hard bastard here.
The fangs dipped in. Duncan did the only thing possible, hunched and headbutted into the attack.
He felt a canine tear his scalp. He bridged up hard with his whole body, tried to tip his attacker off—
Boom of Garner’s over-and-under, like thunder right in his ear.
Blinding magnesium flash-flare, a scream, and abruptly, the Huldu’s grip was gone. It thrashed briefly atop him, like some massive pallid fish in a net, then keeled over. Duncan got a knee up and in, shoved the dead weight of the body off.
Saw Garner’s face hovering over him.
“Sorry,” the older man gasped. “Had to get in close, didn’t want to pepper thee. Here.”
He put out a hand, hauled Duncan up with a surprisingly solid grip. Broke the Woodward and ejected both shells, reloaded with shaky haste. Duncan caught his breath, stared wildly around, cast out his senses into the darkness.
Nothing.
Nothing yet…
“Don’t stand there bloody gawping!” Garner huffed at him. He closed up the breech of the over-and-under with trembling fingers. “Go get thy gun.”
“Hold your horses, old man. We’ve got some time yet.”
Garner glared at him. “How’s that?”
“This is an outrider you shot. The rest are still a good ways back.”
The dying Huldu twitched at their feet, bled black into the Forest soil.
In decent light, the blood would be a rich crimson shading into blue, and you could watch it give off a faint tinseled fuming, like the tiny stars you saw if you got hit too hard in the head.
If you got close, it smelled like cardamom and summer rain.
Duncan caught a whiff, from sheer quantity alone; Garner looked to have rammed the Woodward into the creature’s side just above the hip and given it both barrels.
Massive damage, faint blue-green fire still burning around the wound, eating into the flesh.
No Fae, not even warrior caste, was coming back from that.
The gleaming cloak lay tangled off to one side like a comet trail from the Huldu’s neck, or a strangling cloth in shattered rainbow colors. The kaleidoscope glimmer was already dulling out in sympathetic echo of the congealing light in the creature’s eyes.
“Outrider?” Garner repeated, like he didn’t dare believe it.
Duncan nodded, prodded the smoldering body with his boot. “Advance scout, looks like. They sent this one out to force our pace. Wind us. Maybe take us down, if it thought it could.”
“Well, I guess it thought it could.” Garner gestured at him. “Tha’re bleeding, by the way.”
Alerted, he felt the warm wet strip of blood down the temple from his scalp, where the Huldu’s canine had gashed him. He found the wound—it stung a little—pressed it and found it shallow. He wiped the blood off his brow.
“It’s nothing,” he said, and went to pick up the McCulloch. He racked out an unfired shell to check the action, then fed it back into the receiver. He’d never had the trench gun jam on him before, no matter the bangs it took, but it wouldn’t do to get complacent now.
“Right then,” he said. “You bought us a couple of minutes. Let’s get in the fucking house!”