“Where?”
Talen pointed at a tree in front of them. Something was standing in the boughs about halfway up. It was not a mountain cat. Not nearly that large. Nor was it one of those troublesome monkeys that were expert in stealing everything from knives to fruit. It was about the size of a small dog, hunched, and long-limbed.
He looked closer. It was a light gray, the color of shadow and bark, and its limbs seemed awkward and long. Or maybe it was just the light. “What is it?”
Nettle followed Talen’s gaze and stared. “Well, it’s kind of hard to say. I can’t be sure, but it looks like a tree to me.”
“Goh, in the tree. About fifteen feet up that pine. There’s something looking at us.”
Nettle looked at Talen, he looked back at the tree, squinted, and looked back at Talen.
“Nothing’s there.”
“It’s right in front of your face.”
“Hallucinations.” Nettle said. “Maybe those stupid ginger abominations did have come-backs.”
Talen wasn’t seeing things. It was right there.
“I never have this problem with bread pudding,” said Nettle.
Whatever it was moved out of the shadows of the trees and into the waning light.
Talen blinked. It was still there.
Iron Boy chuffed.
“See that?” Talen asked. “Iron Boy didn’t have any ginger.”
He had to admit the coloring of the thing made it difficult to see. It put him in mind of insects that camouflaged themselves to look exactly like bark or leaves.
“There’s nothing in the tree,” said Nettle. “Nothing on the trail. Let’s just get home.”
Talen flicked the reins and started Iron Boy into a trot. The mule protested and tried to turn away, but Talen gave the reins a good tug and shake and put Iron Boy in motion.
When they passed by the pine, the creature began to move again.
Iron Boy whinnied and picked up his gait.
The creature swung down the limbs of the tree to the needle-strewn road. Then it began scampering after the wagon in an odd, hunched gait, quickly closing the distance.
“You’re right,” said Talen, “I’m hallucinating.”
Because if he wasn’t, that meant they’d attracted the attention of a small nightmare. What else could it be? As the thing drew nearer, Talen could more easily discern the eyes, hands, and feet. But they were misshapen. The nose was flat and crooked. The fingers too long.
There were creatures not wholly of this world. There were the mighty skir that the Divines enthralled and the souls of the dead. But there were also other things, some of which could, under certain circumstances, be seen with the naked eye. This thing matched the descriptions of one of those. Talen had never seen one before, but he’d heard about them. They fed upon the Fire of the weak and dying. Like the creatures that ate carrion of the flesh, they were attracted by death and disease. They shadowed the edges of armies and hid in cellars and the thatch roofs of villages smitten by pestilence. They did not flock in great numbers like crows and ravens. At least, he’d never heard tell of anyone seeing more than a handful together at once. But did numbers matter? When they got a hold of you, they burrowed in like ticks to gorge upon your Fire. And like ticks they were hard to dislodge and sometimes left bits of themselves behind.
Godsweed was supposed to keep them at bay, which is one of the reasons why soldiers smoked themselves with it before battle. Drinking it in a tea was also supposed to help, but such a tea gave men horrible cramps. Talen reached up and felt the godsweed braid on his arm. Even wearing it was supposed to have an effect.
Iron Boy trotted down the road, nervously turning his head to the left then right so he could get a better view of what was behind him. The odd-limbed thing was only a few paces behind them.
“I believe,” Talen said, “that we’ve just attracted ourselves a fright.”
At that moment the creature closed the final distance. It grabbed the wagon bed with one long-fingered hand and disappeared underneath.
30
Will you shut up?” said Nettle. “You’re giving me the willies.”
Iron Boy kicked, then jerked into a canter. It would not do to lose control of the wagon. He braced himself, but Talen felt like he did after an exceedingly hard day’s worth of work. Then a wave of weariness fell upon him, and he could not keep his eyes open. He sagged into Nettle.
Nettle elbowed him back to his senses. “What are you doing?”
“The come-backs have finally worked their way through,” said Talen. “Take the reins. I’ve got to lie down.”
“What about your fright?” asked Nettle.
Talen looked down at the boards beneath his feet. Frights did not have power to steal from a healthy man. He and Nettle had nothing to fear. And panicking might only lead to them crashing the wagon. Besides, they had godsweed with them.
“It’s gone,” said Talen. “A vapor of my mind.”
“I’ve never heard of come-backs like this,” Nettle said. He cursed. “I’m getting you home.”
Talen wasn’t going to argue, “Sure,” he said. Then he handed the reins to Nettle and half climbed, half fell into the wagon bed.
He rode that way, flat on his back, looking up at the tops of the pines and the darkening sky beyond. Nettle took the reins and drove. He drove too fast. Once, Talen almost bumped completely out of the wagon bed. But he couldn’t bring himself to object. Nettle kept turning around to look at him. At one point he reached down to feel Talen’s forehead for fever, then turned back and spurred Iron Boy even faster.
Talen said nothing. The moon and the stars shone through the breaks in the tops of the trees. After a time he realized something cold lay on his ankle. Talen looked down. There, squatting in the back corner of the wagon bed was the fright. It was a hideous thing, all twisted and gray like a piece of knotty driftwood. One of its long fingers touched Talen on the bare skin of his ankle.
He kicked, and the thing released him, but it stretched out its finger once again.
“Nettle,” he said. Or at least he thought he’d spoken. “Nettle!”
But Nettle did not turn.
Then Talen remembered the godsweed charm about his arm. He could brandish it and chase the thing off. He yanked on the charm, but it would not tear free, and the knot was suddenly too complicated for his fingers.
He was so very tired. The touch of the fright was so very cold. It wasn’t supposed to touch him, not with the godsweed. So maybe this wasn’t a fright. Or maybe it was and godsweed didn’t have the virtue everyone claimed it did. Besides, what if it did take some of his Fire? At least it didn’t have the power to eat his soul.
The creature reached out with another finger.
Talen kicked again. But he could not kick a third time-he was exhausted and in a cold sweat. His thirst was beyond anything he’d ever experienced. There was not enough spittle to wet his tongue, much less swallow.
Then Talen recognized the trees and the run of the slope to his left. He twisted around and saw their barn ahead.
Nettle did not slow quickly enough and almost crashed into the well. When he finally got Iron Boy to stop, he turned around and looked down at Talen. “Goh, you look rotted through. This isn’t come-backs. This is some plague. Can you stand?”
“I can get up,” said Talen.
But he couldn’t. He could hardly move. His lower left leg was ice. The fright had elongated its fingers, split and multiplied them, and wrapped them around his calf. It looked as if the spidering root of a young tree had attached itself to him.
Nettle called out for help. Then he jumped into the wagon bed and helped Talen sit up. The fright moved slightly, but it did not disengage.
“The fright,” Talen said.