Rumpelstiltskin (Timeless Fairy Tales Book 4) (18 page)

“That was her voice,” Gemma argued. “I haven’t known her for long, and even
I
recognized it as hers.”

By the dim light the starfire shed, Gemma could see the unease in Stil’s eyes. He was worried about her.

“Let’s investigate,” Gemma said.

“You’re staying here,” Stil said.

“No,” Gemma said. “You said the rider is taken care of. There is no danger.”

“There is
less
danger, but it hasn’t all disappeared. Verglas is still crawling with soldiers,” Stil argued.

“Angelique’s scream was surely past the border. We’re wasting time,” Gemma said.

“It may be a trap,” Stil said.

“I can bet you it’s a trap,” Gemma agreed. “But are you willing to chance it that Angelique is unharmed?”

Still inhaled and fussed with his sleeves as he thought. “Fine. Let me grab supplies from inside, and we can go,” he said, disappearing into the tent.

Gemma picketed Pricker Patch to a tent pole and dragged the water to his side. “Be good. Guard the camp,” she said.

The donkey flicked an ear but kept eating his hay.

“Ready,” Stil said, reappeared with a length of rope hanging from his elbow. “Would you put out your starfire? I would prefer to approach the situation undetected.”

“Sure,” Gemma said, shaking the starfire to clear away the light. When it stopped glowing, she slipped it back in a pocket on the side of her cape. It clinked like glass when it landed on several other starfires.

“Come here,” Stil said, holding his cape out after pulling up his hood.

Gemma frowned. “It’s not going to cover both of us.”

“It will,” Stil promised. When he dropped the cloth over Gemma, she felt warmer—as though she were standing with her back to the fire—and was able to see through the black silk lining and wool cape as if it were made of gauze even though she knew it
wasn’t
.

“Is this the invisibility you mentioned to Angelique?”

“It is,” Stil affirmed. “We still leave a scent to track, not to mention foot prints, but it is better than nothing.”

“How far away did the scream sound?” Gemma asked.

“I’m not certain. I imagine it is over the Loire border, though,” Stil said, guiding them through the trees so they stayed in the shadows but didn’t brush any foliage or greenery to give away their position. Looking back, Gemma could occasionally see their footprints if the moonlight landed just so, but it was dark, and they were creeping soundlessly. She doubted anyone would see their path.

They moved slowly, creeping their way closer and closer in the direction from which they heard the scream. They had nearly turned the wrong way when they heard the scream again.

“Angelique,” Stil whispered.

Though she couldn’t see his face, Gemma felt all of Stil’s muscles stiffen in worry.

“You must really care for her,” Gemma whispered. Her slowness to speak was gone, burned away by the concern lining Stil’s face.

“It’s not what you think,” Stil said. “Or maybe it was when I first met her and was enrolled in the Conclave’s school. She saved me, you know? But I haven’t thought of her in that way in years,” Stil said. “I outgrew it.”

“Like you will outgrow me,” Gemma said.

“No,” Stil said, his voice soft and patient. “I was a child back then. Now, I am a grown man. My love for you is far different and far greater.”

“This isn’t the time to discuss it.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t know when you
will
discuss it—” Stil hushed himself when a branch snapped somewhere past the wall of pine trees along which they crept. Stil peeled back the cape long enough to show Gemma his finger pressed to his lips before he drew her back in the depths of the cloak.

They crouched and crawled under the tree branches, careful not to scrape anything or make a noise. They made it through the tree wall and squinted in the darkness. Gemma didn’t see the tell-tale glow of Angelique’s dress anywhere. Perhaps the Lady Enchantress had already escaped?

Stil and Gemma took two steps into the dark clearing before the hellhound jumped them from behind. The animal pounced on Stil, knocking Gemma out of the warmth of the craftmage’s cape and into the cold snow. Gemma gasped at the temperature change and the jarring pain in her knees and arms from catching herself, but she scrambled to her feet.

The hellhound had Stil pinned beneath him, its giant claws digging into Stil’s shoulders—but oddly not piercing through the cloth of Stil’s cape as it lowered is massive head. Stil caught the thing by the throat and jaws, keeping it from snapping at his face.

While the two struggled, Gemma tucked her chin and ran. She rammed into the hellhound’s side, knocking the beast off Stil.

“
Cudere
,” Stil shouted, his voice hoarse as he tossed a metal bar into the air. He grabbed Gemma’s arm and dragged her to the side, barely moving aside in time to miss the hellhound lunging at their legs.

“Blaze!” Stil said before he caught his bar—which had transformed into a double tipped spear while in the air. Gemma couldn’t say she noticed how or when. The spear glowed with the intensity of lightning. It crackled as Stil swiped it through the air, narrowing missing the hellhound.

The beast leap backwards and growled. Its hackles raised as it crouched on the ground.

And then Angelique screamed again.

A nightmareish horse skulked into the clearing. Its eyes were milky white; its nostrils flared red, and it was thin and wretched looking.

On its back was a rider clothed in black with a hood shadowing its face. He—or it—had a grievous chest wound that oozed a black, tarry substance, and its breath came in pained wheezes. The rider held a small orb of black fire, and when it squeezed the fire, the scream was produced.

Angelique wasn’t injured at all. It was a trick to draw Stil across the border.

“Gemma, run back Verglas,” Stil whispered as he stepped between Gemma and the black creatures. “Get to the tent. Stay there until daylight. Then send word for Angelique.”

“Contact her yourself,” Gemma hissed, picking up a large rock.

“Gemma, I can’t protect you. I’m not the right kind of mage!” he said before bringing his spear up to take a blow from the hellhound. He twisted, using momentum and his weight to send the beast flying.

“Then we run together,” Gemma said.

Stil mirthlessly laughed. “Fine. Stay close,” he said, twirling his spear.

There was no exchange of insults with the rider. There was no attempt to reason or speak because there was no need. As Gemma stared at the cloaked figure, she could feel nothing but evil and an endless thirst for bloodshed. The rider could not be reasoned with. He and his beasts were made entirely of darkness. Stil fought the hellhound, alternating between blinding the beast with his weapon and driving it away with his spear. The dog snarled, foam dripping from its mouth as it blindly lunged at Stil. Stil rammed the pole of his spear into the beast’s mouth. The dog snapped its jaws around the pole, but Stil threw his weight into the weapon and flipped the beast backwards.

The rider loaded a black bolt into its crossbow and aimed the weapon.

Gemma threw her rock. It missed the rider but hit its horse, making the animal shriek and dance sideways. The rider released the bolt from his crossbow, but Stil dodged it, running forward to spear the hellhound.

The dog slipped under Stil’s spear and lunged for him, but it missed and locked its jaws on Stil’s new cape.

“Blaze!” Stil said, slamming his weapon on the beast’s skull while lighting the clearing up like a fire.

Gemma threw her second rock at the rider—this time pelting him in the chest. The rider turned its horse in a circle and hissed.

The hellhound disengaged from Stil and ran at Gemma.

“Climb a tree!” Stil shouted, chasing the hound. He managed to land a blow on the beast’s shoulder, opening a deep wound, but the mongrel ignored it and scrabbled for Gemma. Gemma had just enough time to throw herself on the trunk of a tree and clear the first branch. The hellhound caught the hem of her cape and pulled, yanking her back by the clasp at her neck.

She choked and almost lost hold of the tree, but the hellhound let go and leapt backwards to avoid the spear Stil tossed at it like a javelin. The spear missed.

“
Cudere
,” Stil called, holding his arm out in front of him. The spear shook before flying out of the ground in which it was impaled and hurtling back to the craftmage. Stil spun around and thrust the spear out in front just in time to intercept another bolt from the rider.

The hellhound growled and snapped at Gemma’s feet; she kept her cloak wrapped tightly around herself so none of it draped. She pulled a fairly sizable dead branch off the tree and dropped it on the hellhound. It cracked in half after hitting the animal’s skull.

The hound snarled, but it held its ground between Stil and Gemma.

Stil faked a jab to the beast’s left before carrying through, turning the jab into a slash that landed squarely on its already-wounded shoulder. The beast yelped and scrambled backwards. Stil was about to finish the animal off with a well-placed jab when he froze. He turned to face the rider before he fell to his knees, letting Gemma see the black arrow that poked out of his left shoulder.

Stil fell face forward into the ground, his breath rattling in his chest.

No, no, NO!

“NO!” Gemma shouted, leaping from the tree. She landed on the injured hellhound that was dragging itself towards Stil. Her entire body jarred when she hit the animal, making a faint clinking noise.

Panic poured through her, unleashed by the sight of Stil’s bleeding shoulder. Her usual calm abandoned her like warmth in a snowstorm.

Not Stil! Anything—except that!

Gemma grabbed the idea and used it to push her mind into motion. She needed to understand what was happening! There was a distinct pattern to the battle, and more than the obvious tactic that the hellhound attacked while the rider shot arrows. There was something missing—like hems and seams, hidden from sight but stitching cloth together.
Wait, could it be…?

“Gemma, run,” Stil grimaced as Gemma scrambled the few feet to him.

“Its weakness is light, right?” Gemma asked, her breath coming in heavy pants as her heart pounded in her throat.

“What?” Stil groaned as the nightmare mount sauntered in their direction.

“The rider and hellhound! They cannot abide light, right?”

“Right.”

“Good,” Gemma said, digging in her pockets as the hellhound dragged itself in their direction.

“What are you doing? Run, you mule,” Stil coughed.

“It’s easier to take apart a piece of clothing if you rip out the seams. We were just stabbing at the cloth,” Gemma said.

“What?” Stil said, confused by Gemma’s babble

The rider was almost on them when Gemma’s fingers closed on what she was looking for. Gemma plucked at least four starfires out and shouted “SHINE! Shine your brightest!”

The prisms glowed with the intensity of the sun, bathing the clearing in light so brilliant, even Gemma couldn’t see. The hellhound, nightmare,
and
the rider shrieked with pain as the light poured over their bodies, invading every crevice.

Gemma dropped the prisms on the ground and turned her back to the light to pick two more starfires out of her pocket. “SHINE!” she shouted when she realized she faced the blinded, injured hellhound. The animal scrunched its eyes shut and leapt at her, mouth gaping. It latched down on Gemma’s arm, making her scream when its fangs sank into the flesh of her arm.

Gemma gritted her teeth and kneed the creature in the chest, trying to make it release her. It flopped but didn’t let go. Gemma punched its head with her fist that held the starfires. The animal released her and choked, writhing on the ground when one of the prisms fell down its throat.

Light erupted from its mouth, and the hellhound howled.

“Dim!” Gemma shouted.

The star fires dimmed enough that Gemma could see without stars in her eyes.

It was still too much for the nightmare mount; it reared, unseating the rider, and took off, galloping through the dark woods with angry screams.

Gemma glanced over her shoulder at the writhing hellhound, her shoulders heaving as she observed the creature’s pain while light invaded it from the inside out.

Gemma’s fist tightened around an unlit starfire. She ran towards the rider, kicking up snow. “SHINE!” she shouted, grabbing the thrown rider by its cloak.

The rider was even more terrifying to behold than Gemma had steeled herself for. Instead of a flesh-covered face it had a bare skull. The rider’s jaw was square and blocky to support its bloated incisors that were coated with a red so dark and rusty, it was almost black. There were gaping holes instead of eyes, and its breath reeked of sulfur and brimstone.

The rider wasn’t a mindless creature—like the hellhound or the horse—nor was it crazed and mad with greed—like King Torgen. Instead it was a hole of darkness, seeking to devour everything good and righteous in its path.