7.

The Poachers Return

I motioned for the wobbyk to stay low—unnecessary, given that a wobbyk standing on tiptoes is still shorter than a dairne creeping on all fours. Leading the way, tree trunk to tree trunk, I calculated each step for silence.

The scents of human and horse and dog grew stronger. I strained my ears but heard nothing but my thudding heart.

It was the dogs I feared. The nose of a dog is almost as talented as a dairne’s. But the breeze was my friend, blowing them to me and concealing us. One human was nearer, I was sure of it. The others were farther back with the horses.

With movements so slow and cautious that I doubted any predator, human or otherwise, could detect them, I pushed aside the brambles of a billerberry bush.

And there he was.

He stood alone near a fallen log in a small clearing, intense concentration on his face. Slender and tall, he was dressed in simple peasant clothes: a faded brown shirt beneath a leather jerkin, fastened with a belt, woolen trousers, and tall buff leather boots.

I knew almost nothing about human emotions, and yet I sensed, somehow, that this one was anxious.

No, more than that: he was angry.

“Did ya ever catch sight of it again, guide?” It was not the slender boy but a yell from deeper in the forest.

“No, master,” the boy called back. “Drownt in the sea, most likely.”

I heard the faint sound of horses stamping their hooves impatiently. Nearby I heard two sets of feet—human, I thought—plodding through the underbrush.

Two bearded men came into view on either side of the boy. One was short and heavyset. The other, tall and gaunt, I recognized as the leader of the poachers. They were dressed in cast-off bits of armor over leather jerkins. Each had a sword, a bow, and two knives.

“What was it, d’ya think?” asked the leader.

“Thought it was a wolf, or a dog, maybe,” said the other. “But the way it practically flew right off that cliff? I’m thinkin’ it had to be a dairne.”

“Never seen a dairne in my life. Never met a soul who’s seen one.” The leader leaned against a thick pine tree, arms crossed. “Boy, what d’ya think it was?”

“I’m not sure,” the guide answered. “S’pose we’ll never know.”

“They say dairne fur’s the softest and warmest in the world. One pelt’d feed us all for a year, and then some,” said the short man.

“True,” said the guide, “but I daresay a dairne would fetch far more alive, rare as they are.”

“Cursed creatures.” The short man spit. “My grandfather saw two back when he was a boy. Claimed their noses were bewitched. They can smell a fart a hundred furlongs off.”

The leader grunted a laugh. “Here’s hopin’ where there’s one dairne, there’s more.”

“If we do catch sight of one,” said the boy, “please don’t kill it.” He paused when the leader sent him a dark look. “I just mean to say it’ll be more coin in our pockets if we can capture it.”

“Worth plenty dead, and quicker by half,” the leader grumbled. “Speakin’ o’ which, I ever hear you scream, ‘Don’t kill it!’ in the middle of a hunt again, and it’ll be your pelt we’re takin’ to market.”

The boy looked at the ground. “Yes, master.”

“Where to, then, boy,” asked the leader, “seein’ as you’re so clever?”

The guide turned, then stood still as stone, staring into the trees.

He was looking in our direction. Despite the thick cover of the billerberry bush, I sensed that he saw us.

The men fell silent.

The guide closed his eyes.

“He’s catchin’ the trackin’ spell again,” the first man said.

“Then shut your gob and let him at it.”

The guide’s eyes opened. In spite of the distance between us, I could see that they were deep brown, heavy lidded and thoughtful.

“Head north,” he called to the men. “I’ll grab my mount and catch up with you.”

The older men moved away. The boy waited in silence, taking in the scene. Then he, too, departed.

But before he disappeared into the trees, he stopped and glanced back toward us, and I thought, though I could not be sure, that he was smiling.