Chapter 35
The breadcrumbs had been a foolish notion, but Richard had nothing better.
He’d torn the chunk Kaelen had given him into pellets and dropped one every dozen paces, though no doubt the animals would have them eaten within the hour.
The forest here was old, with broad trunks and a tightly knitted canopy that barely allowed light in.
Nettles stung through Richard’s trousers, and the occasional boulder blocked his path, but he moved quickly, sprinting, leaping, boots thudding hard against the ground.
The children.
By the gods, the children.
Why had he let them go? Why had he not listened to Daisy’s warning? Why—
Richard stopped. A clearing opened, ringed by willow trees, though there was no water to be seen.
In the centre nestled a cottage with a thatched roof, a smoking chimney, and charming round windows.
It stood on what looked like two chicken legs—each as thick as a wagon wheel, scaly, and ending in three splayed talons that gripped the soil.
A shriek split the air. Penn’s voice—”Lemme go, lemme go!”
Richard clutched his sword tighter and shifted forward, keeping his head low and legs bent in a crouch. The garden—a tangle of weeds that reached his knees—helped. He was almost at the nearest chicken leg when he saw the corpse.
A horse.
Its carcass was a stone’s throw away from the chicken leg—bloated, its hide cleaved along the belly where maggots churned and flies buzzed.
The stench was revolting, seeming to seep straight into Richard’s clothes.
But the worst of it was the creature’s three unblinking eyes and the sharp teeth crusted with blood.
Its leather saddle was stamped in a circle of letters.
‘Weltruden. Ardenia.’
Richard fought the urge to retch. This was an Ardenian stallion of Weltruden, a western borderland. By the look of it, Rot infested. How had it come to be here—
A second scream from the cottage—Jeya, this time—“Touch the little ‘uns and I’ll shove my sword up your stinking backside!”
Forget the horse. Focus.
Richard studied the hut’s underside and spotted a trapdoor ten feet up, though there was no ladder. Hiking up the chicken legs was the obvious approach.
Sheathing the sword, Richard drew two daggers from the backs of his boots. He stabbed into the yellow hide and—
The cottage screamed.
It was a deafening screech made of no mouth he could see, startling Richard almost as much as the twitch of the chicken leg.
The whole hut lurched sideways with a crash of pots from somewhere within.
Richard barely had time to gasp before the leg unfurled and three taloned digits closed about his arms and ribs.
He was lifted, kicking, into the air. Richard struggled against the grasp, trying to manoeuvre his dagger into position for another stab, but a sudden syrupy heaviness sank into him—a cloying weight that filled his eyes and his mouth and his lungs.
His head lolled. The dagger slipped from his fingers.
The clearing tilted, and the last thing Richard saw before the world went dark was the trapdoor in the cottage’s belly yawning open.
* * *
Land of Dreams
Richard knew at once he was in a dream.
He was in his tent. There was his cot with its furred blankets. There was his writing desk with scattered maps and a pinned drawing from Briony of their family. From outside came the muffled sounds of a camp settling for the night—soldiers chatting, horses whickering, owls hooting.
The Sylari border campaign. He’d been twenty-four, leading a group of soldiers against an onslaught of chupacabras. The skirmish had lasted two weeks, and earned him the long scar across his right ribs.
The shield above his desk reflected his face. He looked young, devoid of the bags that now sat permanently under his eyes. As Richard stared, his black hair turned sandy, and new lines etched his face.
“How strange.”
Richard froze. His heart gave a sluggish thump.
“I confess I had not expected to find your dream self within my grasp.” Galdran chuckled. “How ever did you come to stumble upon Rot, beloved? You are usually such a careful creature.”
Richard spun, stomach rolling, trying to bash away memories of hands at his hips, of a mouth at his neck. The elf was right before him, wearing a silver robe that highlighted the sheen of his hair.
The children.
“This is ill-timed,” Richard said. “I need to wake.”
“Ill-timed.” Galdran clicked his tongue. “Come now, that is no greeting.”
His eyes drifted over Richard’s face and stopped at his hair with a frown. “You do not suit brown, Lumethain. It dulls you.”
His hand rose, fingers curled to comb—
Richard slapped it away. “Let me wake.”
Galdran’s lower lip pushed out in a pout. He cradled his hand as though Richard had bruised him.
“How unkind,” he said. “Did we not have a lovely dance together? I have thought of little else, you know.”
Richard forced himself to breathe in and relax his shoulders. He gained nothing from snarling at a man who derived pleasure from such outbursts.
“Galdran,” he said. “I have been captured by an old lady who keeps a cottage upon chicken legs, and she has four children with her, and I should very much like to wake before she begins on them. You may either release me from this dream, or you may keep me here and let her kill me.”
Galdran’s eyes widened. “Oh, beloved.” He chuckled. “You do so get yourself into all manner of trouble. Where even are you? I do not feel you near any Rot-bound Threads I know of.”
“That is none of your concern.”
“All of you is my concern.”
Richard stiffened as Galdran neared. Outside, a soldier bellowed a warning, and an eerie howl spilled over the camp. The chupacabras’ ambush. He’d lost six men that night.
Galdran’s eyes glowed and the din of battle silenced. “A baba yaga. That is what you describe, you understand. Sylari-born, most of them. You will not have an easy hour of it, beloved. They are not killed cleanly. They flit and fold their cottages, wander across realms, and are never quite dead.”
“I shall deal with it. Release me.”
“How inconvenient.” Galdran sighed. “I had hoped to introduce you to my council in this dreamland. They are eager to meet my Lumethain, and ask after you often.” He huffed. “But I should not like for you to be devoured by a cannibalistic crone. It would set rather a poor precedent.”
Suddenly, he was inches away, cupping a cool palm along Richard’s jaw. The pad of his thumb stroked across Richard’s cheekbone, then meandered down the side of his throat towards the Lumeron.
Richard caught Galdran’s hand before he could snag the collar back. “Leave it be.”
Galdran glided a finger across the collar’s fabric. “You will let me see our mark, the next we speak.” His words were soft, eyes half-lidded. “Won’t you? Just a glimpse. I do so like to be assured of it.”
Richard scoffed. “Our mark?”
“Of course it is ours.” Galdran tilted his head with a smile. “The Lumethaid bear no marks, you see. Only the Lumethain wears the proof of our bond. Only you. That spiral of my essence upon your neck is all that says you are mine and I am yours. How cruel you are to keep it hidden from me.”
Richard bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. “Let. Me. Wake.”
Galdran rolled his eyes and let his hand fall.
“Fine, fine. But we must have ourselves a proper conversation soon, beloved, about the manner in which Ardenia shall surrender. I have been exemplary in my patience, but my council grows restless, and I should not like to appear soft on the matter of my own husband’s kingdom. ”
“You dare—”
“Hush now.” Galdran wagged a finger before Richard’s nose. “Go save your children—though where you found more chicks to take on, I cannot fathom. And do mind the oven. Baba Yagas are nearly all fools about the oven.”
* * *
Richard woke to the pungent reek of boiling herbs and charred wood.
His head hung forward, and immediately, he realised he’d been bound.
His ankles were roped to the front legs of a chair, and his wrists lashed along the chair’s arms, with a knot that pulled tighter when he tested it.
His sword was gone. His daggers were gone.
And his mouth was gagged with a stale cloth.
He lifted his head.
The cottage was bigger inside than out. The kitchen stretched the length of a banquet hall, with a ceiling lost in shadow and rafters from which hung dried herbs, plucked birds and neatly rolled entrails. The walls were lined with shelves, full of jars with eyeballs, teeth, fingers and bones.
At the room’s centre, an enormous black cauldron bubbled over a low fire. The contents were an ugly green, sending up curls of glowing steam.
Above the cauldron, suspended on a chain from the rafters, swayed an iron cage. Four small faces pressed against the bars.
“Richard!” Jeya yelled, her face ashen and her wooden sword poking out through the gap. “Richard, help!”
“Hush, dearie,” came a crooning voice, “hush now, don’t disturb the gentleman.”
Richard glared. The crone stood between him and the cauldron, leaning on a staff. She had the shape of an old woman—white-haired bun, deep wrinkles and a humped back beneath her layered shawls. Her nose was crooked, and her hands too long at the fingers— three knuckles instead of two.
“There he is,” she cooed, shuffling closer. “Awake so soon. The young master.”
Richard tried to speak, but the gag turned his words into a muffled snarl. He thrashed against the ropes, the chair legs creaking, and the witch’s gummy smile widened.
“Oh, oh, what a temper. What a temper on this one.” She shuffled close, her nose almost bumping into Richard’s. “Now let old Yelka have a good look at you, dearie. Let her see.”
Her knobbly fingers closed about his chin and tilted his face towards the firelight. Her eyes bulged, and she went still.
“I know this face,” she breathed. “I know these eyes.”
She dug her nails into his cheeks and yanked him closer.