The Stumpwork Robe (The Chronicles of Eirie 1) by Prue Batten Read Free Book Online Page A

against a tree. Recognition followed quickly as he observed the man. His eyes snapped wide, his mouth opening wider as Liam laughed, irony bouncing around the clearing.
    ‘Indeed, sir. He does have a mind of his own.’
    Bellingham’s breathing quickened as he tried to swing a leg over the rump, pushing his hands at the neck to give himself purchase. But he was stuck. Firmly, irredeemably, as sure as if a bookbinder had melded him with book-glue. The realisation of what his mount truly was blanched his face milk-white and he turned screaming to Liam, spittle frothing at the corner of his mouth. ‘IT’S THE CABYLL USHTEY! HELP ME, PLEASE. IT’S THE CABYLL USHTEY!’ The horse began to gain speed and headed for the side of the beck. As Bellingham screeched, so the black coat became greener and the fine head thickened and broadened. The horse’s eyes filled with madness, the lips drew back over teeth as sharp as those of the killer whales in the Pymm waters. The weed in his mane and tail streamed as he cantered.
    Liam watched, a satisfied glimmer around his lips and a coldness reminiscent of the glacial cool of the Goti ice plains in his eyes. Bellingham’s screams had degenerated into a mad burble of hysteria as he struggled and writhed on the broad back, the reality of his plight lending vigour to his actions. But to no avail as the more he howled and contorted, the angrier the malevolent horse became, twisting its evil head and taking bites out of the legs stuck to its sides, Bellingham screamed like a stuck pig and the forest around him fell as silent as the graveyard. Blood dripped and as the beast tasted so it hungered for more. Circling in front of Liam it spun quickly to launch itself at one of the dark ponds. Abruptly, the unintelligible yowls of fear ended with a gurgling shriek as the unfortunate man disappeared on the back of the water monster, the beck closing over him, bubbles rising in a maelstrom. Liam sauntered to the side of the pool where he watched the fizz and waited, counting. In a passage of five moments, the bubbles became pink tinged and then a red-brown stain spread up and out across the surface of the pool. Small pieces of carcass drifted in the stain.
    Liam had seen enough. Bellingham would never assault Ana or any other woman again. He caught the exchanged horse and ran his hands soothingly over the damaged beast, over scorings from spurs that had bloodied its sides, over the sore leg. He unlatched the bridle and threw it into the beck and then cast the saddle after it. Whispering, the horse having lowered his head into the kind hands, he bade it track through the Weald and away. It would be safe. He called for his own mount and with nary a backward glance, trotted away whistling, uninterested in the bloody wavelets that stroked the banks of the beck and in the offal that floated back and forth.
    Because whilst the Cabyll Ushtey devoured all mortal flesh, it never ever ate entrails.

 
    C hapter Seven
     
     
    Ana shivered, sporadic trembles shaking her bed as she refused her family’s entreaties. Her bruises ached far deeper than a mere stiffness and tenderness, they pained right through to a heart that beat a solid tattoo against her chest. As she tried to think, to assimilate, she felt as if she walked a narrow path on a foggy day, the mist thickening like soup all around. The occasional shriek issued from the Weald accompanied by the call of owls as they hunted for mice to pad out their bellies. From the Long Field a bleat funnelled upward - deep, laborious, as a solitary wandering ewe called to the rest of the flock. A dark shade of navy coloured the night-sky, the stain unmarked by sparkle or glimmer. A crescent moon shaped like a piece of bitten fingernail had risen earlier and tracked west. At the moment it hung delicately in the sky, a lone adornment in the vast firmament. Bad weather approached, the edges of the lunar landscape blurred as if a large and careless hand had rubbed at