Page 94 of The Sun King's Noon

Good gods.I have become quite ill.

He lowered his hands. Warmth fled, replaced by a chill that froze his blood.

The spring, with its embankment of flat stones and moss, was empty.

“Jeya?”

From the undergrowth, a bird startled from cover and fluttered up through the canopy.

“Pip. Penn. Puck.”

Nothing.

“Daisy!”

There came a sob from behind a boulder. Richard spun and crossed the distance in three strides, dropping to one knee.

Daisy was crouched in the ferns, tears streaming.

“Daisy.” He grabbed her shoulders. “Where are they?”

“I told them not to go. Told them not to—” She wailed.

Richard hugged her to his chest. “Tell me what has happened, Daisy. Quickly.”

“The old lady,” Daisy hiccupped into his shoulder. “The old lady was at the trees.” She pointed a trembling finger past the spring and into the dim of the forest where the path disappeared and tall trees loomed. “The old lady waved at the boys when Jeya wasn’t looking. And Pip—Pip said it was just an old granny and she had sweets and they could just look quick. And Jeya said ‘no’. Jeya said come back, but they ran. They ran into the trees. And Jeya went after them. But she didn’t come back. She didn’t come back, she didn’t come back, she didn’t come back!”

Richard’s jaw clenched. He pulled Daisy back from him by the shoulders. “You shall run back to the camp. Tell them a stranger has lured the children into the forest, and that I have gone after them. Tell them to bring blades. Tell them to come quickly. Do you understand?”

Daisy was crying too hard to speak, but she nodded.

“Good girl.” He stood and drew his sword. “Go.”

Daisy bolted as Richard turned to the trees. On the other side of the spring’s bank, the earth had been scuffed by many feet.And beyond that, bent fern stems and a broken bramble branch led deeper into the woods. A trail.

Richard followed.

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.