quietly, perched on the surrounding trees.
Ahead, the hill sloped upward into dry, uncharted terrain. He'd never gone this far into the Sleeping Lands before, both because it was a horrible place and because it was incredibly dangerous, even if you could talk to monsters. He wasn't even sure he was in the Sleeping Lands anymore since he hadn't seen a grave or a floating corpse for nearly fifteen minutes-a record for the night, by his estimates. When had his life gotten so odd that the absence of a dead body was more noticeable than its presence?
He shook the thought away and turned his attention back to the feathers.
"CAW?" the Piebalds inquired.
"No, not the Darkhorn," said Sky, inspecting a broken branch covered in wax. "Though I suppose the Darkhorn could've attacked both of them . . .. Does the Darkhorn eat Marrowicks?"
"CAW! CAW!"
"I didn't think so," Sky replied, dropping the branch. "I suspect the Marrowick would give the Darkhorn horrible indigestion."
Sky stared thoughtfully at the battleground, noting that the trail of feathers and wax seemed to veer off to the east. He reached out with his senses, but there was no sign of Fred anywhere. "Where are you, Fred?"
The Piebalds squawked and cawed, gossiping amongst themselves about Fred and horror stories they'd heard about unprovoked Darkhorn attacks on innocent Piebalds. By the sounds of it, Piebalds were the Darkhorn's favorite food.
As Sky continued surveying the grove, his eyes settled on an old oak tree and something sticking out of the trunk. When he reached it, he found a thick, gray hunter's arrow wedged deep into the bark. The shaft was coated in fine white powder that numbed his fingers in an all-too-familiar way-not the tingling of the Marrowick wax, but a numbing weariness that made him want to give up, lie down, and sleep.
Dovetail.
Last year the gargantuan Dovetail maze had poked him so many times, he couldn't help but recognize it. A little Dovetail put you to sleep so the plant could eat you at its leisure. A lot of Dovetail made you hallucinate . A little more and you never woke up.
The arrow, though, was the wrong color for Dovetail-gray, not jet-black. And it was strangely gnarled and twisted, like a corkscrew-not at all like the sleek green-flame and glossy black arrows the hunters had shot at him.
And yet it was definitely a hunter's arrow; it was too crazy not to be.
Near the tip, Sky spotted a piece of torn cloak like those the hunters wore and a streak of fresh blood smeared length wise across the bark, pointing north. He backtracked, re-creating the scene in his mind: two hunters, one the shooter, the other the prey. The prey is shot-grazed by the looks of it-and flees north. And Fred and the Marrowick-how did they fit in? When Sky saw the Marrowick earlier, it'd looked like it was stalking something-one of the two hunters, possibly. Fred must've caught up to the Marrowick, and then ... what?
Sky analyzed the angle of the arrow and found the likely s pot where the shooter had stood. The ground was covered in feathers and wax, which meant that Fred and the Marrowick had either attacked the shooter together, or that one had attacked the shooter and the other had defended the shooter from the attack. Either way, the prey had fled north while Fred and the Marrowick followed the shooter east.
Sky scratched his head. What in the world was going on here? Sky reached out for Fred again. Nothing. He reached out further through the Edge, striving to touch Fred's mind and get a sense of his whereabouts. As he focused on Fred, the grove suddenly grew very, very quiet. Sky gave up his search and glanced at the Piebalds, wondering why they'd ceased their incessant gossiping. What he saw chilled him. Not a single feather moved, not an eye twitched. The Piebalds sat, tense and perfectly still, their beaks raised to the night.
Sky looked up and saw a shadow streak across the
Ahead, the hill sloped upward into dry, uncharted terrain. He'd never gone this far into the Sleeping Lands before, both because it was a horrible place and because it was incredibly dangerous, even if you could talk to monsters. He wasn't even sure he was in the Sleeping Lands anymore since he hadn't seen a grave or a floating corpse for nearly fifteen minutes-a record for the night, by his estimates. When had his life gotten so odd that the absence of a dead body was more noticeable than its presence?
He shook the thought away and turned his attention back to the feathers.
"CAW?" the Piebalds inquired.
"No, not the Darkhorn," said Sky, inspecting a broken branch covered in wax. "Though I suppose the Darkhorn could've attacked both of them . . .. Does the Darkhorn eat Marrowicks?"
"CAW! CAW!"
"I didn't think so," Sky replied, dropping the branch. "I suspect the Marrowick would give the Darkhorn horrible indigestion."
Sky stared thoughtfully at the battleground, noting that the trail of feathers and wax seemed to veer off to the east. He reached out with his senses, but there was no sign of Fred anywhere. "Where are you, Fred?"
The Piebalds squawked and cawed, gossiping amongst themselves about Fred and horror stories they'd heard about unprovoked Darkhorn attacks on innocent Piebalds. By the sounds of it, Piebalds were the Darkhorn's favorite food.
As Sky continued surveying the grove, his eyes settled on an old oak tree and something sticking out of the trunk. When he reached it, he found a thick, gray hunter's arrow wedged deep into the bark. The shaft was coated in fine white powder that numbed his fingers in an all-too-familiar way-not the tingling of the Marrowick wax, but a numbing weariness that made him want to give up, lie down, and sleep.
Dovetail.
Last year the gargantuan Dovetail maze had poked him so many times, he couldn't help but recognize it. A little Dovetail put you to sleep so the plant could eat you at its leisure. A lot of Dovetail made you hallucinate . A little more and you never woke up.
The arrow, though, was the wrong color for Dovetail-gray, not jet-black. And it was strangely gnarled and twisted, like a corkscrew-not at all like the sleek green-flame and glossy black arrows the hunters had shot at him.
And yet it was definitely a hunter's arrow; it was too crazy not to be.
Near the tip, Sky spotted a piece of torn cloak like those the hunters wore and a streak of fresh blood smeared length wise across the bark, pointing north. He backtracked, re-creating the scene in his mind: two hunters, one the shooter, the other the prey. The prey is shot-grazed by the looks of it-and flees north. And Fred and the Marrowick-how did they fit in? When Sky saw the Marrowick earlier, it'd looked like it was stalking something-one of the two hunters, possibly. Fred must've caught up to the Marrowick, and then ... what?
Sky analyzed the angle of the arrow and found the likely s pot where the shooter had stood. The ground was covered in feathers and wax, which meant that Fred and the Marrowick had either attacked the shooter together, or that one had attacked the shooter and the other had defended the shooter from the attack. Either way, the prey had fled north while Fred and the Marrowick followed the shooter east.
Sky scratched his head. What in the world was going on here? Sky reached out for Fred again. Nothing. He reached out further through the Edge, striving to touch Fred's mind and get a sense of his whereabouts. As he focused on Fred, the grove suddenly grew very, very quiet. Sky gave up his search and glanced at the Piebalds, wondering why they'd ceased their incessant gossiping. What he saw chilled him. Not a single feather moved, not an eye twitched. The Piebalds sat, tense and perfectly still, their beaks raised to the night.
Sky looked up and saw a shadow streak across the
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