Page 43 of The Knucker King

Mournful howls of the Faeries stung his ears.

“What has happened?” he shouted, hoping anyone might answer.

Trewoofe scanned the gathering area. It had a central fire pit next to a towering pink geode, with carved tables and chairs. It was normally a warm and welcoming place where he had sought the company of the Wulver in the past. The space seemed empty, until he spotted something that made his stomach drop.

Two bodies, covered with the white mourning pelts of Wulver-kind.

No.

He tossed his head from side-to-side, looking for their Queen. “Olwilla!”

She spilled out from her fur-skinned home. She was followed by her stocky mate, Elfa, who carried a fussing Boarden wrapped in a deer pelt in the crook of her arm.

“What has happened?” Trewoofe asked.

Gratitude warmed the Knucker’s chest as he heard the grunting baby, relieved that he had not been inflicted by whatever killed the two Wulver.

“The villagers,” Olwilla snarled, her greying lips pulled back to reveal sharp fangs. “They put something in the healing waters: stinking, human oils mixed with—”

“Iron.” Trewoofe flicked his tongue out. “I can taste it in the air.”

Iron.

The only thing that gave humans power over the Faeries. A brutal, manmade metal that killed, maimed, poisoned, and drained their natural magics. The meandering scar along his belly stung at the memory of it.

Elfa adjusted Boarden in her arms. “You must do something.” She turned her desperate gaze, tears gathering in the corners of her blue eyes, to Trewoofe. “Two, King. Two of us gone. We are so few now and…” She let out a strangled sob.

“They could have poured it into the river that runs through their village,” Olwilla guessed. “From there it must have flowed here. When Luc and Palla went to gather water earlier, it erupted in this” – she waved her paw through the air – “miasma. It killed them outright. We could not even stay by the dead to properly mourn them. We have not been able to howl our songs to send their spirits through the veil.”

“The air is not so foul in our homes.” Elfa dropped her gaze to Boarden in her arm. “I must get him inside. He is partly Wulver now, and so little, it may hurt him.”

Just before she turned away, Trewoofe called out, “A moment.” He lowered his head. “I would like to see him.”

Elfa, face wrought with concern, nodded her assent. “But quickly, Lord. This air…”

“Of course.”

Trewoofe’s gaze softened as Elfa pulled back the swaddle. Boarden had doubled in size, the hair on his downy head had thickened into fur and the very tips of his ears were fluffy and pointed. Trewoofe pressed the end of his snout to his head and felt the steady pulse of his fontanelle. All things considered, Boarden looked in perfect health. Relieved, he turned his gaze towards the poisoned river.

“Take him now.”

Elfa bowed and scurried back inside her home.

“You as well.”

Olwilla jolted at his order. “What will you do, King?”

“Reverse this mess, if I can.” He gestured his head over to her home. “Go back inside, now. If this does not work, head to my nesting chamber, and if this pollution follows you there: run, leave, and warn others on your way out.”

“Thank you,” Olwilla said, bowing low before joining her mate inside.

Trewoofe watched her go. With a heavy heart he turned to what had been his beautiful healing waters. He marched to the riverbank and studied the damage inflicted by the iron poison. The acrid tar choked the soothing blue. The rivers were life in the Underneath. They kept his Faeries healthy, slowed their aging, and drinking from it meant they did not have to go to the surface as often to gather food. It kept them safe. Trewoofe ached at the idea of Boarden and Hope hurt. He and Avice had only just saved them. He could not bear it if more younglings died, as the loss of his own were enough.

Trewoofe’s talons brushed the waterline. He paused for a flicker of a moment. He knew it was going to hurt. His only regret was that he might not keep his appointment with his little witch.

The Knucker stepped into the river, immediately feeling the sting of the sludge. It burnt most along his scar, where the iron swords of soldiers had tried to gut him so many turns of seasons ago. He squashed down every instinct that urged him to run, to get out of the Underneath, and save every soul he could on his way out.

In he swam. His tail propelled him to where he knew the deepest point of the river was. Trewoofe took a scalding breath, the miasma choking his lungs, and dove down. He plunged through the poison. Then, where he sensed it was at its worst, he opened his gills, the space between his scales, and his mouth.