"Goyl!"
The peasant pointed his rifle at Will, as if only he could have called them, but Jacob shot him before the man could pull the trigger. Three of the Goyl, riding at full gallop, drew their sabers. They still preferred fighting with their swords, though their battles were now won with guns. Clara stared, dumbfounded, at the stone faces — and then she looked at Jacob. Yes, that's what he's becoming. You still love him now?
The bandits sought cover behind a toppled cart. They had clearly forgotten about their prisoners, and Jacob quickly pushed Will and Clara toward the horses.
"Fox!" he yelled, grabbing the mare's reins. Where was she?
Two of the Goyl fell off their horses; the others took cover behind the barn. Threefingers was a good shot.
Clara was already sitting on her horse, but Will was just standing there, staring across the yard at the Goyl.
"Get on your horse, Will!" Jacob screamed as he swung himself onto his mare.
But his brother didn't stir.
Jacob was about to drive his horse toward Will when he saw Fox scamper out of the barn. She was hobbling, and Jacob saw the weasel aim his rifle at her. He shot the man down, but just as he reined in the mare and leaned forward to grab Fox by her nape, he was hit on his injured shoulder by the butt of a rifle. The boy. He was standing there, holding his empty rifle by the barrel. He was already striking out again, as if by killing Jacob he could slay his own fear. The pain made everything swim in front of Jacob's eyes. He managed to draw his pistol, but the Goyl were quicker. They swarmed out from behind the barn, and one of their bullets struck the boy in the back.
was grateful for all the abandoned farms, for by now it would have been perfectly obvious to anyone looking at Will what was growing in his flesh. It had been raining on and off since they had come out of the forest, and the green stone on his face shimmered like the glaze of some sinister potter.
Jacob had still not told Will where he was leading him, and he was glad that Will didn't ask. It was already enough that Fox knew that their destination was the only place in the world he had sworn never to return to.
Soon the rain was falling so mercilessly that even the vixen's fur no longer gave her any protection. Jacob's shoulder throbbed with every movement, as if the Tailor was jabbing his needles into it again, but with every glance at Will's face, Jacob pushed away any thought of rest. They were running out of time.
Maybe it was the pain that made him careless. He barely noticed the abandoned farm when it appeared by the side of the road, and Fox only caught the scent when it was already too late. Eight men, ragged but armed. They suddenly emerged from one of the dilapidated barns and had their rifles trained on the travelers before Jacob could draw his pistol. Two of the men were wearing imperial tunics, and a third the gray jacket of a Goyl soldier. Plunderers and deserters. The human debris of war. Two more had hung on their belts the same trophies imperial soldiers liked to display: the fingers of their stone-skinned enemies, in all the colors they could find.
For one brief moment, Jacob hoped they wouldn't notice the stone. Because of the rain, Will had drawn the hood of his coat well over his face. However, one of them, a scrawny weasel of a man, noticed the infected hand as he dragged Will from his horse, and he yanked the hood off his head.
Clara attempted to shield him, but the one with the Goyl jacket pushed her out of the way, and Will's face turned into that of a stranger. Never before had Jacob seen in his brother's features such a powerful desire to hurt someone. Will struggled to free himself, but the weasel punched him in the face, and when Jacob's hand went for his pistol, their leader quickly put the muzzle of his rifle to Jacob's chest.
He was a heavyset fellow with only three fingers on his left hand. His threadbare jacket was covered with the semi-precious stones Goyl officers wore on their collars to denote rank. There was a lot of booty to be grabbed on the battlefields once the living left the dead behind.
"Why haven't you shot that Man-Goyl yet?" the leader asked while he searched Jacob's pockets. "Haven't you heard? There are no more rewards to be had for this lot, now that they've started negotiating with them."
He pulled out Jacob's handkerchief but shoved it back heedlessly before a gold sovereign could drop into his calloused hand. Behind them, Fox scurried into the ruined stable. Jacob could feel Clara looking at him pleadingly, but what did she expect? That he could take on eight men at once?
Threefingers poured out the contents of Jacob's purse and gave a disappointed grunt when all he found were a few copper coins. The others, however, were still staring at Will. They were going to kill him. Just for kicks. And put his fingers on their belts. Do something, Jacob! But what?
Talk, play for time, wait for a miracle.
"I am taking him to someone who will give him back his skin." The rain was running down his face, and the weasel was jabbing his rifle into Will's side. Keep talking, Jacob! "He's my brother. Let us go, and in a week's time I'll be back with a sack of gold."
"Sure!" Threefingers nodded to the others. "Take them behind the barn, and shoot this one in the head. I like his clothes."
Jacob pushed away the two men who reached out to grab him, but a third put a knife to his throat. The man was wearing the clothes of a peasant. They hadn't always been robbers.
"What are you talking about?" he hissed into Jacob's ear. "Nothing can give them their skin back. I shot my own son when the moonstone started growing on his forehead!"
The blade was pushed against his throat with such ferocity that Jacob could barely breathe.
"It's the curse of the Dark Fairy!" he croaked. "So I'm taking him to her sister. She'll break it."
How they all stared at him. Fairy. Just a word. Five letters, which contained all the magic and all the terror of this world.
The pressure of the knife eased a little, but the face of the man was still contorted with rage and helpless grief. Jacob was tempted to ask him how old his son had been.
"Nobody just goes to see a Fairy." The boy who stammered these words was fifteen at the most. "They come and get you."
"I know a way. Keep talking, Jacob. I've been there before."