Solomon rolled to his feet, staying low and peering into the dim light. Wherever they were it wasn’t in his direct line of sight. He crouched down, and slowly moved behind a scraggly bush, staying as still as he could.
It only took a couple of minutes until they were past. As the day grew brighter, they became more visible. They ran in a loose pack, no apparent order, sprinting and jostling each other. They were tall, short, thin, hefty and there was one, blond hair screwed into the appearance of crazy horns, that was obviously a child.
“Lyssa,” he breathed, and although he really wanted to jump out and grab her, bring her home to Greta and Friedrich, he stayed still. He was no match for all of them at once, and from what Celia had said, grabbing her wouldn’t have helped anyway.
The Mar-trollid first, then other plans could be made.
After they passed, he stood and started in the direction that the hunters came from, then stopped.
The hunters were headed back to Dunfield. They hadn’t talked about that and would be caught unawares. For a moment, he was torn. Go on to the Mar-trollid camp and see what he was afraid, yet certain, he would see; or return, and try to beat the hunters back to Dunfield to warn Celia and the others.
“Don’t be stupid,” he said, and began to run in the direction of the Mar-trollid camp.
The ones he left behind wouldn’t be surprised. They knew very well that the likelihood of the hunters being gone for good was slim. Besides, at the rate they were moving, there was no way Solomon would get back before them.
Stick to the plan, he told himself.
The sun came up fully and in the distance he could see smoke. He put on as much speed as he could and arrived an hour later.
As he approached, he could see the overturned wagons and the dead cows. Several of the wagons were burning, and it was that smoke that he had followed there.
He stopped short, sickened by the sight.
Then, there was movement. Solomon saw large, shaggy shapes moving.
They weren’t dead! Or at least not all of them.
But the hunters had taken their toll. Dead Mar-trollid were everywhere. The camp was bigger than Solomon remembered. Either he hadn’t realized its size at the time or more had come and joined the ones here.
Curious eyes watched him walk among them, but no one challenged him. The stares were different than those of the people in Dunfield. There was no hostility or aggression in them. But there was more than enough sadness.
“Gan-Rowe?” Solomon stopped and asked a female. She only shook her head and moved on.
“Yag-Morah. Is she alive?”
He kept asking and getting no answers, so he kept moving through the camp.
Finally, he found her. She was sitting on the ground near their wagon. It was still upright, but the door was in ruins and the cows near the front lay dead.
Solomon walked slowly toward her, not wishing to intrude, but needing to be there.
Gan-Rowe lay with his head in her lap, dried blood covering his torso.
Chapter 56
Celia watched Solomon recede into the distance. He appeared to experience no problem in getting away from the town, which made her think she could have done it as well. To what end though? Solomon was right. If the hunters were attacking the Mar-trollid, there wasn’t much she could do about it. Not that she thought he could either, if it came to that.
Friedrich and the kids were hauling the rope back in, making a game of it. Not for the first time, she wondered when simple laughter had last been heard here. Others walked by, scowls on their faces as they watched what was happening.
“Come on,” Friedrich said. “We’ve got the rope, now let’s go home and get some food.”
Christoph and the others took turns carrying the heavy coil of rope, sometimes two of them taking it together. Celia followed, glad to see the healing effect they were having on the two older people. They weren’t forgetting Lyssa, but they were letting their affection shower the kids they were suddenly surrounded with. Kids who needed someone to do that.
Again, it struck Celia how good these two truly were, and how many others in this place could be if they were given the chance.
Back at the house, Friedrich set to work undoing the splices he had put in the rope, showing the younger ones gathered around him.
“Now we bring it back to those you took it from, right?”
He eyed Christoph, who nodded. “Yeah. I guess so.”
“Good.”
They set about coiling up the shorter individual ropes and handing them out to be carried.
“Wait a moment,” Celia said. She reached for one of the shorter lengths. “I want to hold on to this one. Just for another day. Then we can return it.”
Friedrich scowled then shook his head. “If you really need it, I don’t suppose one more day could hurt anything. It is only rope after all. What do you say, Christoph?”
The boy considered, his hand on his chin. “Well…I guess it’s okay. But we’ll return it tomorrow for sure?”
Celia smiled at the change in the boy. A change that was obviously for Friedrich’s benefit.
“Yes, for sure,” she said. “And if something happens to it, we’ll pay the owner more than it’s worth for his trouble. Deal?”
“Deal.”
With that, Friedrich and the kids left, off to return the purloined rope to their rightful owners.
“What are you planning, dear?” Greta was getting lunch together, assembling a hearty meal from the items Solomon brought in the day before.
“What makes you think I’m planning anything?”
“Oh. You just wanted the rope to play with?”
Celia laughed. “Of course not. I don’t want to worry you, though.”
“The only person I know of that I worry about less than you is that young man who ran through the gates this morning, although that doesn’t mean I want to see you in danger.”
Celia laughed again at Solomon being called a young man. He was much older than Greta or Friedrich. For that matter, so was Celia herself. Appearances sometimes made all the difference.
“I’m not going to sit here waiting for him to come back. There are still problems here, no matter what Solomon finds out there.”
“Like that one remaining hunter.”
“Yes. Like that.”
“And your plan is?”
“I’m not quite sure yet, but I think it’s time for the hunter to become the prey.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Close to dusk, Celia walked to the manor and stood in a nearby doorway where she could keep watch, the rope coiled at her waist. Word must have gotten around Dunfield. Several men watched her, a couple with a challenge in their stares, but no one approached her or tried to physically accost her in any way. As always, she kept her eye out for the man who tried to trap her inside. She saw no sign of him. If he was even still alive— and who knew around here?— then he was keeping far away from her.
The sun went down behind the buildings and the shadows started to lengthen. Soon, the door to the manor swung open, revealing only darkness within. A moment later, the red hunter appeared, moved down the steps and along the street.
Celia followed, staying close to the buildings. She wasn’t afraid of it. Not much, anyway. She’d already shown that it could be beat, twice as a matter of fact. But she didn’t want to confront it too close to the manor, where she’d have to keep an eye on the building also. There could be others in there, hidden until they were needed, or even worse things.
No, she’d follow this thing, then take it when it was well on its own.
The hunter walked slowly down the street, whistling softly. The tune, as always, was jarring. If they did use it to communicate with each other, this one was talking to itself.
Finally, it turned off the main road and down a side street, its head turning to look between buildings as it passed them. Hunting for prey, although what it did with them was still lost on Celia.
As she watched it, she fel
t any lingering fear disappear, to be replaced by anger. A fire flared up in her stomach, and her fists balled up so tightly that she was afraid her fingernails would draw blood from her palms.
How dare this— thing— terrorize the town, attack people for no reason Whatever it was. And whatever was controlling it.
It was time for it to stop. Time for the people of Dunfield to be shown that they didn’t have to be helpless in the face of this evil.
“Hey,” she said.
The hunter stopped, then slowly turned its head to look at her from that white mask. It let out a low, long whistle and turned to her, moving cautiously.
“No one’s stopping me this time,” Celia said, and moved forward.
The hunter turned and ran.
For a moment, Celia could only stare in shock.
She never expected the thing to flee. She thought it would come for her, try to take her, but apparently, this one had enough of her.
She ran after it, chasing it down the street and into the next intersection. Faces peered out of dirty windows or from hiding places as she flew by. Well, good. Let them see that the hunters could be afraid, too.
It was fast. Probably faster than anyone in Dunfield, except for Celia. With Solomon out of town, she was probably the only one who could catch it.
And she did. The hunter turned the corner and hesitated as if trying to pick a new direction, and that was all she needed. With a lunge, she jumped on it, wrapping her arm across the hunter’s throat from behind.
Like the other times, she felt a hard body moving beneath her, with very little give to it, even when she squeezed her arm as tightly as she could, trying to choke it. She didn’t know if the thing breathed, but it certainly didn’t like what she was doing.
The hunter spun, ran backwards for a couple of steps and slammed Celia into a wall. Her breath exploded from her, but she held on, getting her hand wrapped around the arm she was using to strangle it, pulling it tighter.
She was slammed into the wall again, then a third time, but the hunter was moving slower. Her back felt like it was one giant bruise and she was trying hard to draw in large gulps of air.
She stuck her leg in between the hunter’s, and the two of them fell to the ground in a heap. That was enough to dislodge her, but she was still faster than the thing.
In a flash, she rolled over, getting some distance between them. As the hunter scrambled up, Celia moved in, fists flying. It was like pounding on a tree trunk, but her blows were having an effect. The hunter staggered; short, sharp whistles bursting from it with each punch it took.
Celia kicked it in the leg, and then unleashed a powerful uppercut that caught the hunter right under the mask. Its head snapped back and the whistle was cut off. Like the last time, it fell, its body staying stiff like it was a tree that had been cut down.
Unlike the last time, Celia was now ready for it.
She undid the rope and started tying the thing, starting with its legs. Once they were securely lashed together so that it couldn’t run, or even rise easily, she moved up, tying its arms behind its back.
It wasn’t easy. She needed to roll the thing back and forth to get the rope around it, but she managed. Finally, the hunter was bound tightly, and she stood up straight, stretching against the ache in her back and taking a deep breath.
“Now,” she said out loud. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
She squatted next to the hunter’s head and reached for the edge of the mask, and then stopped. Last time, she’d only gotten the tips of her fingers under it and it had been…unpleasant, to say the least.
“Drat.” She hadn’t thought of that.
She looked around for something to protect her fingers but saw nothing. Raising her head, she saw that several people were watching, none of whom seemed inclined to offer assistance.
Then, she looked back at the hunter and his bizarre red outfit. Including red gloves.
“Good enough,” she muttered and pulled off the one on its right hand. Inside were pale, slender, long fingers, with no fingernails. Celia shuddered. They felt wrong, like an unfinished sculpture of a person.
She pulled the other glove off and after a moment’s hesitation slid the right one on her own hand. She braced herself, ready to pull it off at the first inkling of trouble or unease. It was nothing more than rough, red, fabric. Not particularly comfortable, but nothing dangerous either.
Now she was ready. She moved so that she was straddling the hunter’s chest and reached for the mask.
It stirred as she grabbed the sides of it and started to pull. The mask stayed stuck to the head, although she still didn’t see anything holding it here.
Maybe I’m trying to pull its actual face off, she thought. Then, it gave slightly. Like last time, the hunter went crazy. It bucked and thrashed beneath her, but she held on, pushing down with her legs while pulling steadily on the mask. Shrill whistles rang out, and she was sure that if others were around, they would be coming to this one’s aid. But there were no others.
The mask lifted further, making a moist, sucking sound that she could hear even over the increasingly desperate whistles.
Finally, with a last yank, she ripped it free, and the hunter went completely still, the whistle cut off in mid-tone.
Celia panted, staring at the white mask in her hand. It seemed like an ordinary porcelain mask, smooth and unblemished, with only slight indications of where a face’s features would be. It was cold, totally inanimate.
Then she turned back to the hunter.
It had no face, but Celia recoiled in horror anyway, sliding off it and scrambling to get away.
Under the mask was mud like you would pull up from the bottom of a swamp. It was dark brown, almost black, and it stank. As she watched, a long, plump white worm came up out of it, then burrowed back down. Another soon followed.
Celia leaned over and gagged, both from the smell and the sight. She noticed the mud clinging to the gloves and ripped them from her hands with a cry, throwing them across the street.
She remembered the muck on her actual fingers from last time and shuddered, holding them up before her, sure that there would be some sign of disease or rot on them. They were fine and she lowered them to her lap with a sigh.
There was a strange, quiet, cracking noise from the hunter. She watched in fascination as the muck where its face should be started to harden. It turned a lighter shade and began to set, cracks appearing in it. Another worm came halfway out, struggling against the rapidly stiffening mud around it. It thrashed for a moment, then flopped to the side and went still.
The hunter was dead. Whatever it had been, it was no longer a person of any sort. Celia was sure that if she stripped the rest of the strange, red outfit from it, she would only find more mud, worms and perhaps rotten wood.
Tears burst from her.
Some of it was from simple relief at having actually beaten the thing. But more was from thoughts of Lyssa.
Either those that were taken were turned into these things, or somehow replaced by them. Whichever it was, Lyssa wasn’t under that mask. And Celia needed to be the one to tell Greta and Friedrich what she had found.
Chapter 57
“Jamshir,” Jocasta called over her shoulder. “What is this?”
“What is what, my dear?”
“This. This thing out here.”
“Oh, that. It’s one of my statues.”
“Why is it moving?”
“They do that. Sometimes. It’s probably coming to play with you and the Lady Shireen there.”
She shook her head, reminded again of Jamshir’s madness. As if she needed any more.
“What’s he talking about?” Shireen asked.
“He’s got these weird statues in a room upstairs. Except I guess they’re not statues. Or not all the time. Or something.”
“Nice cart you’ve hooked your horse to,” Shireen sneered.
Jocasta glanced over at her. The temporary Head of House T
owering Oaks still stood ready to fight, but whether it was with her or the figure in green coming slowly toward them she couldn’t tell.
“This isn’t over,” Jocasta said. “Between you and me. But right now, I need to know what’s going on here.”
“I agree with the last part. The rest I have no idea what you’re talking about. Don’t think I care either. You’re as crazy as that lunatic in there.”
Without waiting, Shireen turned and started to approach the green figure. Jocasta cursed under her breath and hurried to catch up.
The two spread out without discussing it, so that they presented the widest front they could. Jocasta had to admit to a grudging modicum of respect for Shireen for that. Then again, she was Towering Oaks and for all their other faults and high-mindedness, their discipline and fighting ability was never in question.
“What do you want?” Jocasta called out.
There was no answer from the thing, other than a low whistle that changed tunes in a displeasing manner.
“Who cares?” Shireen muttered and launched herself at the thing.
Her movement took Jocasta by surprise. From all reports, Shireen was somewhat hot-headed, but coldly calculating in battle.
Then again, maybe it was for the better. Jocasta leaned against the wall and watched, wanting to see what Shireen was made of. The Towering Oaks scout glanced back quickly, then seemed to dismiss her.
The figure in green stood its ground, making no threatening moves.
Shireen neared, tensed and ready for action, until she stood directly in front of it.
“Who are you?” she growled.
The figure made no movement, a quiet whistle coming from the blank white mask it wore.
It was a standoff. The one in green didn’t try to advance and Shireen seemed unwilling to attack it without further provocation.
“Oh, for…” Jocasta muttered.
She pushed herself off the wall, stepped to the far side of the corridor so that she had a clean line of sight, pulled one of her daggers from her belt and let it fly. It darted through the air, past Shireen’s right shoulder and into the left shoulder of the figure in green.
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