Page 60 of Wench

Their nostrils flare. ‘Looking for the one who’s supposed to be protecting Elswyth. Imagine my surprise at finding him writhing in the dirt with a girl who hasn’t even decided whose side of the war she’s on.’

‘Will—’ he begins.

The sound is swallowed by a roar that shudders the forest floor.

Lox’s expression shifts in an instant. Whatever fire had burned behind his eyes a moment ago is replaced by something colder, sharper. His head snaps toward the sound, shoulders squaring, gaze darting beyond Will to the trees.

Marian’s heart stutters in her chest. ‘What was that?’

‘The reason I’m here.’ Will grimaces. ‘Trappers breached the western causeway.’

Lox turns to Marian, all tenderness gone. ‘Get back to the village. Now.’

‘I can help?—’

‘No!’ Lox snaps so fast it steals the rest of the sentence from her throat. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring. ‘Please.’

The unspoken weight of his plea settles between them. She nods and his expressions softens. Marian thinks she sees a flash of desperation in his eyes, but it’s gone between blinks. He turns, snatches his bow and quiver from where they still lean against the tree, and vanishes into the woods with Will at his heels.

Marian stands in the clearing, alone, heart thudding in her ears. All the fire she’s kindled in herself these last few days, with every bruised knuckle and hard-won breath of confidence, vanishes in an instant.

‘Shit,’ she swears, turning toward Elswyth.

The trees are too quiet. There’s no birdsong or breeze.

Even the branches seem to hold their breath.

Tell Allen. Tell Little John. Get help. She repeats it in her head as she hustles through the wood.That’s all you can do and that’s enough.

But it doesn’tfeellike enough.

A curdling, familiar scream tears through the canopy like lightning, turning her blood to ice.

‘Lox.’

She runs toward the sound before she can second-guess herself. The underbrush moves beneath her feet, roots and stones easing out of her way and directing her steps, as if Sherwood is as desperate for her to reach them as she is.

Finally, she crashes into a meadow no more than a few hundred paces from the glade they’d left, and the sight that greets her stops her cold.

Lox and Will are trapped beneath an iron net with thick black hooks that sink into the soil. It’s laced with iron-ore and everywhere the metallic threads press into flesh, smoke rises. Lox’s body covers Will’s, as though he meant to shield them from the brunt of the net’s destruction. His shoulder is pinned awkwardly, skin blistering where it touches the mesh; his bow and quiver are lying just a few feet out of reach. Beneath him, Will is snarling, writhing, trying to tear free, but every movement only makes it worse for both of them. The stench of scorched flesh turns Marian’s stomach.

Behind them, a massive iron cage stands in the centre of the meadow. And inside it a creature, unlike anything she’s ever seen, paces.

Standing twice the height of a stag, it moves with the deliberate grace of something that knows the forest itself yields before it. Its hide is dark as peat, shot through with veins of faint green light. Vast, branching antlers crown its skull. Massive feathered wings try to expand, but contract when they meet the edge of its prison. Its eyes are four too many, clustered like those of an insect and blinking out of sync. When it roars, its mouth splits wide to reveal rows of curved, gleaming teeth, and two tongues that lash with fury.

Without anyone telling her, Marian knows this is the Fellhart that Lox warned her about.

It throws itself against the bars with a bellow that rattles the marrow in her bones. The metal groans, but somehow manages to hold.

Lox lifts his head, eyes wild with pain. ‘Run, Marian!’

‘There she is,’ a voice drawls from the shadows at the edge of the meadow.

Marian jerks toward the sound to see Aengus’s slimy self emerging from the treeline. His helmet is tucked under one arm, smirk carved deep into his rodent-like face.

‘Well, well,’ Aengus purrs, spreading his arms like a benevolent host. ‘Seems my prize has walked right into my snare.’ His gaze slides over Marian, slow and oily, lingering on her muddied tunic still askew. ‘My, it seems you’ve made yourself right at home with these mongrels.’

Two armoured soldiers fan out behind him, crossbows slung, blades glinting at their sides.