Toad Words(47)

Someone was making a terrible noise—ahh-hunggh—ahh-hunhggh—with a gurgle in it. Snow had a dreadful feeling that if she listened too closely, she’d find that it was coming from her own throat.

I have to do something—help Ashes—the poker, in the fireplace—

The old woman screamed again—and then Ashes squealed and there was a sharp crack! Snow thought she must be going mad, or she was going to faint, because it seemed to her that something picked Ashes up and flung her—flung her across the den, into the wall, where she struck and slid down and lay boneless against the floor.

(It was the witchblood, of course. Witchblood protects itself, even if the owner can’t. If you don’t believe me, go out and spill a great deal of it, and see how long you keep hold of the knife.)

Panting, the old woman staggered back to her feet. One leg dragged useless behind her, but she was too close and too fast and Snow was too far from the door.

“Tell me who is fair!” she cried, and her tree-root fingers reached for Snow again.

“I don’t know!” Snow tried to say, but her throat was ruined and she gagged on blood when she tried to speak.

The old woman slammed into her, half-falling. Snow went to one knee, feeling blindly for the poker.

“Fair,” said her attacker, “fair fair fair!” It no longer sounded like words, but like the hunting cry of some strange beast.

Snow’s hands closed over something, just as the old woman’s hands closed over her throat.

It was a bad angle for both of them. The woman had to adjust her grip, and that gave Snow time to grab with the other hand, brace herself, and swing.

Not with the poker. With the gigantic frying pan that the boars used to cook potatoes.

The great iron slab struck the old woman in the side, and one corner caught the wound where Ashes had bit her. Iron touched witchblood and set it burning.

The old woman made a sound that Snow had never heard before and hoped to never hear again, a high, bitter wail, and fell to the floor. She fell partly on top of Snow, still wailing, and Snow croaked her disgust and scrabbled backward, dropping the pan, unable to think of anything except the desperate need to get away.

But it was over. The old woman’s limbs drew in on themselves, jerkily, like a dying spider. Her flesh collapsed as the witchblood boiled away, splitting across her cheeks and puckering into the hollows of her bones.

Snow thought she looked as if she had died a long time ago.

But what do I know? I can barely breathe…and those spots on my eyes weren’t there a minute ago…

Her whole body buckled. It was a very strange sensation and she seemed to fall over very slowly onto her side, and then even that was too much, and she was lying on her back.

Two things, thought Snow, gazing up at the ceiling. There was a darkness seeping in around the corners of her vision. My life came down to two things. Knowing that truffles are worth more than potatoes, and knowing that you don’t get ripe apples in spring.

I will have to tell Arrin, she thought, and she would have laughed if her throat were not in ruins.

There was a dragging, scuffling sound. Snow listened to it coming closer.

Something was crawling across the floor toward her.

Not the old woman. Please, not her. She must be dead. I am probably going to die anyway, but please let me have taken the old woman with me.

Something touched her elbow.

The pain took her breath away—or would have, if she could breathe—but Snow turned her head.

It was Ashes.

The little sow’s eyes were glazed with pain and her breath was ragged, but she had crawled across the floor to Snow. As Snow watched, she tilted her head so that her snout fit under Snow’s elbow, and she nudged it upward, so that Snow’s hand laid against her skin.

Snow smiled. In all the world, there were only two living creatures, and perhaps neither of them would be living for much longer.

The darkness closed in around her eyes, until she seemed to see Ashes at the end of a long tunnel, and the two of them lay on the floor in the earthen den and waited for death to come for them.





When Arrin returned to the boar’s den with Puffball and Greatspot, the house was dark and cold.

The boars moved more quickly than he did. Arrin swung off his mare and had one foot on the ground when he heard a squealing cry of dismay.

The huntsman’s mind was full of the king’s words, and when he heard it, he did not run immediately toward the den. Instead he bent his forehead to his mare’s neck and failure engulfed him.

The king had not been kind.

But Arrin was a good and responsible man, so he pushed himself away and hurried to the den.

“We didn’t know how to move her!” Hoofblack was saying miserably. “What else could we do? We can’t make her eat wild garlic until she throws up or pack her with mud and what else is there?”