by CC Hogan
Chapter 15 – Monster
“Sister?”
Mistry walked as if she was tiptoeing over glass. Everything hurt. Her head pounded, her stomach ached, her arms were sore and her knees wanted to buckle. She had woken at dawn with a raging thirst to find herself in a warm bed. She had sat up far too fast and her head had exploded. She had nearly yelled out. Looking around with blurred eyes, she had seen Farthing, curled up in the corner of the room, cramped and uncomfortable. It had taken her several minutes to work out where she was and what had happened, but when she had, she had just felt all the worse.
“Why did you tell them I was your sister? I am just a person you met a few days ago in a slave market.”
Farthing turned to the small, aching girl and held her gently by the arms, looking straight into her red eyes. “Mistry, I don’t care how little time I have known you. I will keep you safe, I will give you a home if I can and I will try and give you some sort of future, whatever happens. If nothing else, I owe you that; you kept me safe and strong, and were prepared to give up even the most precious thing for me. But besides that, I really like you. You are very special. So, yes, sister, whether you like it or not. And if I have to sign something to make you believe it, I will.” Farthing didn’t do long speeches often and had no idea how to sign his name.
The girl looked at her feet, then up into the young face of the tall man who said he wanted to be her big brother. She reached up and kissed him on the cheek softly and tried to look sweet. Her hangover spoilt the effect and she just looked ill.
“How much trouble are we in?” she groaned.
“Terminal,” he said, and took her by the hand and walked her down the road.
Fren-Eirol ignored the girl as she and Mab-Tok disassembled the camp, and Mistry was confused whether this was a good thing or a bad thing. Farthing just smiled at the sea dragon, grateful that his own hangover was small enough to be covered up, and took Weasel aside to work out their next moves. The little lecture he had given Mistry had cleared his mind. He was confused by the young girl; he enjoyed the attention and loved her company, but he had found his loyalty split between the mission to rescue his sister and worry over this girl and her future now her father was dead and she was probably homeless. It wasn’t his fault, but it felt like it was. Making her part of his family, at least in his own head, made it all just the one single problem again. Now he needed to get on with solving it.
“I spoke to Mab-Tok last night,” Weasel told him as they sat on a log a little way from the packing. “I put him on the spot and it has left him rather less talkative this morning, which I can live with.” Weasel grinned. “However, he did come clean at least about what he knows, and I now have a better idea of the geography.” Weasel laid out his small map and notes and showed Farthing the route they needed to take. It looked so easy on the map, but Farthing was well aware that it would not be so simple.
“What is this X?”
“That is important, apparently, but that was about as much as I was going to get out of the dragon last night. When I asked him what it was, he just said it was help, whatever that meant.”
“Do you trust him?” Farthing had been worrying about Mab-Tok since they first met him, even though he knew he owed him his life.
“Maybe more now, to be fair. I had the feeling that he was telling me things he wanted to say to me rather than things he should say. He looked genuinely conflicted, to be honest; worried even. Farthing, I think when we get up to Wessen we will be flying into trouble. You might want to think about that before you drag your girlfriend with us.”
“Sister.”
“Hmm?”
“I told her she is my sister. She is not my girlfriend, Weasel.”
“Oh. How did she take that?”
“Fine, I think. She is not very well.” Farthing grinned.
“Fren-Eirol will have something to say about that.”
“I think she has come up with a better punishment than a lecture.”
“Really? Do tell!”
“She is smiling like a sunny day and letting Mistry suffer alone.”
“Ah, that old ruse,” Weasel said. “Used to do that to Aneirin. She is good at letting people rot in their own guilt. She and Geezen are very similar in that way.”
“I thought it was familiar.” The more Farthing learned about the close friendship that existed between Geezen and Fren-Eirol, the more he wondered that he had never met the dragon before. Then again, aside from Truk, he didn’t know much about Geezen’s life. She had lots of packages of people that she watched over in all kinds of places around Wead, but kept them all separate. She had made the Farthing children feel special when they had thought they had lost their entire world, and they would be ever grateful for that.
“Hunt first?” Farthing asked.
“Yep,” the magician said, rolling up his notes and stashing them in his bag. “Mab-Tok is on his last legs and needs to eat. My plan is to get up to the moors now and let the two of them hunt and feast while we work out anything else that needs doing. They will want to rest for a couple of hours before we set off and then we head straight to the foot of the Black Hills and camp. We will get there near dark, I suspect, because the wind has come up overnight and it’s blowing the wrong way.”
“I’ll make up torches and get kindling ready before we leave the moors,” Farthing said. “I might make the beginnings of supper too so we don’t have to do more than put up the canvas and light a fire.”
“Good idea,” replied the magician. “And perhaps Mab-Tok will be more forthcoming about his mysterious X once we get to the hills.”
Farthing looked over to Mistry, who was leaning against a tree fighting with her insides. “I think someone is going to need to sleep before she faces a long flight.”
“It was good beer, though,” the magician pointed out. Farthing smiled and rubbed his own temples.
“Very good!”
It took but minutes to fly up to the head of the valley and land at the edge of the Moors. The wind was stronger up here and a fine, misty drizzle blew across the rough grass and heather of the moorland. The two dragons set off immediately to search for their feast while Weasel, Farthing and Mistry backed under the cover of the huge, dense firs. The trees of the forest were mostly ancient cedars, many giants infilled with eager saplings battling for the light. It made for good shelter and Farthing lit a small fire in the lee of an especially rotund giant between two huge roots. No sooner had he put their blankets and bags into the dry hollow where the roots met the trunk than Mistry dumped herself on top of them, groaned like an old boat and shut her eyes tight.
“Very sweet,” commented Weasel, wryly.
“And smelling like a brewery,” added Farthing, turning up his nose.
“It’s all your fault!” slurred the unhappy girl, and fell to snoring.
Farthing had always been a hard worker, between rare bouts of swimming and sharing beers with Barkles. But over the last few weeks he had become much more organised. He quickly had a bean stew up to the boil and put out into the rain to cool, and was sitting shaving some dry sticks into kindling. Weasel appeared with a large armful of thin, dry timber and proceeded to clean it up so it could be bundled easily. Travelling by dragon might be fast, but they could not carry as much as if they had a line of packhorses behind them. What they did carry had to take up as little space as possible and not weigh too much. They had all learned to roll rather than fold their clothes to fit into the soft bags, and the canvases were scraped free of moss, leaves and water before being tightly folded, rolled and stored. It was a routine that Mistry fitted into well, and Farthing suspected that her farm was going to turn out to be a tiny smallholding; she behaved like someone who had little coin and not much space. For the moment, however, she was no help at all other than peppering the woodland with entertaining grunts and snorts, and other less ladylike emissions.
“I suppose it has to do with scale,” Weasel speculated. “Her body is less than half your mass, I would guess, so, in reality, she has consumed twice as much as you.”
“Doesn’t explain why she is four times as drunk for four times as long!”
“You didn’t get this drunk when you were fifteen?”
“Never had the coin, mate. And you haven’t been beaten up by my sister.”
“I haven’t even met her,” the magician pointed out, then looked up at the boy, now very much the man. “But I will, you know Johnson. I will meet her.”
Weasel once again tried to work out what was wrong, what was missing in this entire affair. When he thought about Rusty and her brother, something didn’t add up. The connection between them should have made finding, if not easier, then, at least, a little more accurate, but he was struggling to get a proper link between them at all. He would almost doubt their ancestry except that Geezen had been midwife to the mother and had brought both children into the world. Having said all that, when he had first found the boat, he had definitely sensed something from someone. He pushed the confusion to the back of his mind. With the weak connection he had made through the slaver back at the market, he was now certain he was following the right trail, and any problems he had had before were now unimportant.
Farthing put down his knife and stretched. “Why are you here, Weasel? I mean, you earned your bar bill back before we were even half way to Taken. I know you and Fren-Eirol are on a personal mission, and there is something important about the Prelate’s daughter which I don’t understand, but still, there is no need for you to be here, other than we need you to be.”
Weasel sat down and grinned. “And that is why I am here; all of those things! Look, the bar bill was neither here nor there. Geezen only did that to get my attention, though trust me, I am grateful. But as I heard more, it reminded me of how I used to live my life, before I even met Fren-Eirol. There is a lot I don’t really talk about, but I and Mab-Aneirin, as he was then, were a real team. He was this huge, tough, red dragon, like a lot of the reds, but he was also an idealist. His village thought he was nuts. I think that is why we got on so well. He was on this mission to make the world right, and I loved it. I am pretty certain we made as much worse as we made better, but we were doing something and it was important; well, we thought it was.
“Anyway, after he died, and he died quite young for a red, my reasons for doing became fewer and fewer. The arguments between the dragons were just pointless, and when it got to the stage that even Fren-Eirol and I fell out, well, I had had enough and I left. I have been suffering from having enough of other people’s problems ever since. Seeing Fren-Eirol reminded me that I was meant to be doing something and not just sitting around achieving nothing. So here I am.”
“And the daughter?”
“Not for me to talk about, Farthing. You need to ask Fren-Eirol about that. And what the hell was that?” Weasel turned towards the moor at the sound of an enormous crack of wood. Farthing leapt to his feet just in time to see the monster.
“Bloody hell!” Farthing shouted. “Mistry, wake up!”
“What is it?” Weasel shouted.
“You are asking me? Mistry, wake up, now!”
“It's big.”
“Yeah, I got that. What’s it doing?”
The monster, or whatever it was, was thrashing around in the undergrowth at the edge of the trees, howling and roaring in anger.
“It doesn’t like the trees! Look, it isn’t coming in,” Weasel said.
“Why? And why is it here? That forester has never seen it, and he’s been working up here for years.”
“I don’t know. Oh, bollocks!”
“What?”
“It is trying to come in!” The beast was feinting at the trees, half pushing in and then pulling back again. “What has attracted it?”
“Our fire?”
“Surely the forester had fires!” Weasel shouted. The roar of the monster was getting louder.
“Maybe not. He is a forester, remember. He is probably more careful than that, and when do you light a fire for just yourself when you are working?”
“Okay, doesn’t like fire? Does like trees? The Stew?”
“Oh, come on, Weasel! You can’t honestly be saying it likes a small pot of bean stew!”
“What … what is happening?” Mistry had eventually woken up and staggered up next to Farthing, burying herself meekly under his arm. The beast went crazy. Farthing and Weasel looked at each other.
“Mistry!”
“What?”
Farthing didn’t wait to explain, he simply grabbed the girl, threw her over his shoulder and ran down the hill deeper into the forest, Weasel on his heels. Still in a daze, Mistry raised her head just in time to see the huge teeth of the monster bite a small tree at the edge of the moor completely in half.
“Farthing! Run!” she shouted, bashing on his back like he was a horse.
“What do you think I am doing?” Farthing crashed down through the woods and skidded onto a trail. He turned right, heading downhill and ran faster.
“Farthing, slow, stop!” Weasel shouted at him. “It isn’t following.” Farthing slid to a halt, panting like a wild pig on the run, and feeling hunted like one. Mistry slipped from his shoulder and looked into his face.
“Alright?” He nodded. “Good,” she said, and went behind a tree and puked. Weasel sat down on the bank by the trail, picking bits of forest from his hair and robe. Farthing flopped down next to him.
“Weasel?”
“I have never seen anything like it, Farthing,” the magician told him, shaking his head. “I couldn’t work out what it was. Its head looked a bit like, I don’t know, a bit like a red dragon? But without the crests and different colour. But the rest? I couldn’t see properly. I didn’t see any legs. Snake like?”
“Worm?” Farthing suggested.
“What those little wriggly things?”
“Well, bigger, lots bigger, obviously,” Farthing said, wishing he hadn’t suggested it.
Weasels face suddenly lit up. “Of course, wyrm!”
“That is what I just said!”
“Yes, I mean no, different spelling. And it can’t be!”
“Can’t be what?”
“A wyrm. Related to dragons, but can’t fly and has no legs, but it’s a myth, well, extinct anyway.”
“Weasel, I have gone off your definition of what is a myth. We spent two very wet days stuck on an island that was not meant to exist.”
Weasel shrugged with a touch of embarrassment. “Well, if it is such a thing, or the thing the myth is based on, then the legend says nothing about hating trees or getting worked up over skinny young girls.”
“I am not skinny!” Mistry appeared from behind the tree. “Does puking always make you feel better after drinking?” She looked around for something to wash her mouth out with and Weasel chucked her a skin from his ever-present bag. “What is that thing? And has it gone?”
“No idea to both,” said Farthing. “But I think I am going to have to go peek; it’s gone quiet.”
“I will go with you,” volunteered the girl.
“No!” both said.
“What?”
“We think it is you that attracted it in the first place,” said Weasel.
“Oh, that was what you were talking about,” she said. “But why?”
“That is the one thing I am sure we have no idea about,” Farthing said dryly. He stood up. “Both of you wait here.”
“I can go more quietly than you,” Weasel pointed out.
“Maybe, but I can run faster. I think that is probably more important.”
Farthing crept back to the camp but found no sign of the wyrm, or whatever it was. He grabbed a few of their things and quietly packed up as much as he could into Fren-Eirol’s huge bag. Worrying about where the dragons were, he threw some lea
ves on the fire to create more smoke, then headed back down to the trail. It was a testament to how fast he had run down the hill that it took him a good thirty minutes to make the round trip.
“How long will the dragons be?” he asked Weasel when he returned with another bag of water and Mistry’s jacket. She took it gratefully as it was cold and damp in the forest.
“Depends on how long they took to find some game. With Mab-Tok’s hunger and eyesight, probably not long now.”
“Okay, I am going back up. I have put some leaves on the fire, but I am going to build it up so the dragons see the smoke. When they get back I will send Mab-Tok down to fetch you, and then we should leave quickly before we have another visit from whatever it was. We can stop just after the moor to let the dragons digest their breakfast.”
“Good plan, Farthing,” Weasel said. Mistry had disappeared behind the tree again.
“Can you help with that?” Farthing asked the magician.
“Yeah, I will settle her down. At least she won’t have to suffer one of Mab-Tok’s purges.”
“Don’t tell Fren-Eirol that!” said Farthing. “She might like the idea of the cure being worse than the affliction.” A groan of agreement came from behind the tree.
Back up at the camp, Farthing fuelled the fire with some of the dried wood Weasel had collected, then added damp, lichen-covered wood and armfuls of pine needles and ferns. The thick smoke made its way up through the trees and he hoped it would not be whipped away too quickly by the growing wind. They generally kept their fires small, so he was hoping that the smoke would alert the dragons to trouble. Since it was a short stop, there was little to pack, but he sealed the lid of the stewpot with flour paste and wrapped it up in sacking. He had done this before and it had not leaked yet. Everything as ready as it could be, he crept slowly to the edge of the forest and looked out on the moor. The ground was flattened where the monster had had its tantrum, but Weasel was right, there were no signs of any footprints. A noise behind him made him jump.
“Sorry,” said the magician.
“Where is Mistry? Have you left her down there on her own?”
“Did you know young farm girls can climb trees like squirrels?”
“What?”
“Well, I sorted out the rest of her headache and gave her some biscuits to chew, but she was worried about you. There was no way I was letting her back up here in case she is the attraction. So, she just shot up this tree and sat on a high branch, leaning against the trunk, legs swinging, nibbling at the biscuits like a little rodent. Where is her farm?”
“Right next to a forest and they have problems with wolves.”
“That would hone your tree climbing abilities I would think,” commented the magician. “Very impressive, though.”
“Is she going to be alright?”
“She is fine. Anyway, if she screams I am sure you can run down that hill at speed.” Farthing glared at him. “More seriously, when Fren-Eirol gets back, we need to organise quickly. I suggest we help her with her pack, and Mab-Tok can take the saddle and fetch the girl. There was a clearing just down the path from where she is hiding so they can fly from there. We can then load up Fren-Eirol and get out of here. This place is making me nervous.”
Farthing had to agree. Coming from a dry country like Redust, most of the last few days had been alien to the young man. This moorland might not be as strange as the plateau had been, but there was something about the constant wind and thin rain that was unnerving.
“Look, up there!” Weasel pointed high in the sky. Farthing looked up and saw the long, graceful wings of the sea dragon and the smaller, flapping form of Mab-Tok.
“Why are they so high?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Weasel said. “Oh, here they come. Damn, they are diving fast!”
The two dragons came screaming down from the sky, landing with a crash on the edge of the forest.
“Wyrms!” Fren-Eirol shouted.
“We know, there was one here earlier,” Weasel told her.
“Well, there are five more coming this way. Where is Mistry?”
In answer, Farthing turned to the small dragon and threw him the saddle. “Down the hill, run! Turn right when you hit the trail and call; she will find you. You can take off a bit lower down in a clearing.”
Mab-Tok tucked his wings in and ran down the hill, crashing through the undergrowth.
“Help me, Farthing.” Weasel was dragging over the large bag. “Snowy, drop down!” Fren Eirol lay down nearly flat, pulling her wings in, and the two men, working either side of her, dragged the bag unceremoniously over her tail and up her back. She stood up, reached down to grab the straps and tied them around her waist.
“Get on!” she shouted, already walking out of the forest and spreading her wings. The two jumped up onto the bag and she ran to take off. She had only taken three paces when a massive head shot out of a ditch and grabbed her by the leg, pulling her hard down to the ground. The dragon's head snapped around and bit straight into the Wyrm’s neck. Farthing rolled off backwards.
“Fire,” the magician called to him. “Everything hates fire!” Farthing ran back to the campsite, kicked the leaves from the fire and using a shirt out of his bag, beat at it until the flames rose. He grabbed two flaming branches and ran straight under the dragon, shoving them into the eyes of the Wyrm. The beast howled and let go and Fren-Eirol fell back, blood gushing out of her leg.
The angry, black and brown and muddy Wyrm, lunged again and Weasel stuck it with his knife, but the beast seemed totally uninterested in the men; he wanted the dragon. Weasel looked panicked for a moment and started muttering. “Why is he … Mystery … Eirol … Snowy! You are a girl! Stop fighting and get out of here!”
“I can’t leave you!”
“You have to! We will be alright; it is females it wants. They are attracted to female anything! Farthing, drive it back! Snowy, fly back into the forest; find the clearing.”
“Follow me!” Mab-Tok was overhead with Mistry and saw what was happening. Fren-Eirol cursed and leapt into the air, flapping madly, nearly sending the two men flying. Blood was pouring out of her wound, female blood, and the other wyrms were screaming from the distance.
“Weasel we have to get out of here!” Farthing threw his burning branches at the wyrm and it reared up and danced backwards. The two men ran down into the forest. Farthing turned and watched as five huge, snake-like beasts screamed and danced at the edge of the trees.
“Why don’t they follow?”
Weasel stopped and watched, then slapped Farthing on the back. “Roots! Did you see how that one leapt out the ditch?” Farthing nodded, panting. “He was far too big to hide there, he must have burrowed. They can’t do that here; these trees are massive and so are their roots. It’s like a barrier.”
“But they could slide over the top.”
“And risk not being able to burrow?” He let his breath out. “They won’t follow; I am sure of it. Come on, Fren-Eirol is in big trouble.
The two ran down to the small clearing to be greeted by a terrible sight. Fren-Eirol was lying on the ground, an enormous gash in her leg and her wing bent backwards. She looked half dead. Mistry was on top of her, pulling cloths out of the bag as fast as she could.
“Weasel, I need you now!” Mab-Tok ordered. Weasel just obeyed. When it came to injury, Mab-Tok was the boss. “I can’t stop the bleeding,” the Draig Bach-Iachawr said. “That thing you did?”
“What thing?”
“When you healed yourself from that sword?”
“But that was just a cut!”
“No, it wasn’t, magician.” Mab-Tok’s face was hard. “You should have been dead and you know it.” Weasel looked from face to face. “How did you survive? How did you do it?”
“I … I don’t know, I willed myself into the wound.”
“You can do that?” Mab-Tok looked stu
nned
“Yes, I think so. I don’t know!”
“Right, I need you to do it again, but I will help and try to clean as you do it.” He turned to Farthing. “Get a fire up, a big one. Get water on and boil those rags. And I need herbs.” Farthing looked lost; he knew nothing about herbs.
“Which ones?” asked Mistry.
“Tindel, raithsporn and ….er … fillenton?”
“In a wood?”
“Good point …er, you know the Hithe mushroom?” The girl nodded.
“Get me the stalks.”
“They are poisonous!”
“They are? Oh, to humans, yes, not to us.”
“On my way!” Mistry ran off, grabbing Weasels knife smoothly from his belt as she passed.
“Remind me to buy her one, someone.” The humour was not in the joke however and Weasel took off his robe, sat on the ground and held the dragon’s leg. Fren-Eirol howled. “Are you ready, Mab-Tok?” the magician asked. The small dragon squatted down and put his large, leathery hands over Weasel’s.
“Try it.”
“Snowy, I love you like mad,” the magician murmured. “And this is going to hurt like hell. I am so sorry.” He closed his eyes and pushed down on the leg.
“All the gods,” Mab-Tok whispered. “How is he doing this?”
Fren-Eirol screamed. It was not the roar of a beast or a shout of anger or even a howl of rage, it was a low, guttural cry. It started deep within her huge body, flowed up through her neck and poured out of her mouth. It was filled with death and pain. Farthing froze, arms full of wood to tend his small fire. The scream sliced through his body like a sword, echoed through the trees then flooded the valley. And then it stopped like it had been cut off, and the world fell silent. Farthing looked at the dragon. She was out cold. Mab-Tok stood unsteadily and lifted up the unconscious form of Weasel and laid him gently against the dragon.
“Get the fire going,” he said softly.
Mistry came running out of the forest, tears streaming down her face.
“It’s alright, girl,” Mab-Tok held her. “That was the healing. Have you the herbs?” The girl nodded.
“I got you tind root too.”
The dragon smiled. “You know your herbs!”
“I have to. My goats are always hurting themselves, as is my dad. Was my dad.” She looked up into the dark eyes of the dragon. “Is she going to be alright?”
“For now, but I cannot say more than that. Help me make a dressing, then I need to look at her wing.” Weasel stirred and the small dragon gave him some water.”
“Did we do it?”
“You did, though I don’t know how, and with a dragon as well.” The Draig Bach-Iachawr had a puzzled look in his eyes.
Weasel chuckled. “The crazy thing is neither do I.” The dazed magician handed over a huge crescent-shaped white object. “This was in the wound,” he said. “It’s a tooth.” And he passed out again.
Farthing boiled the strips of cloth that Mistry tore up for him. It was a ridiculous job, he thought. The wound on the dragon was nearly four feet in length and although it was mostly closed, it was still oozing blood and gore.
“I have cleaned it as much as I could while Weasel closed it,” Mab-Tok explained. “But it is not clean enough. The dressing should help, but I am worried that the weight of the leg will pull the wound open again. The wing is another matter.”
“What has she done?” Farthing asked.
“She lost loads of blood, it was pouring out of her, and she simply fainted in mid-air and crashed to the ground. Her wing is broken and dislocated. I have no way of getting it back in.”
“Then how?” Farthing stood, his hopes crashing around him once again.
“I need help.” Mab-Tok looked up at the sky. “I hope my night sight is up to this.”
“Why?”
“When the magician comes around, he and I are going to get help. You and Mistry will have to stay here with Fren-Eirol. We will be gone for two days at least. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” Farthing said. “But what about her?”
The small dragon handed over the tooth to Farthing then picked up the Hithe mushroom stalks and rubbed them together with something from his bag and some water till they were made a paste. He went to Fren-Eirol’s head and put his hand deep into her mouth, spreading the paste all over her tongue. He removed his hand and gently closed her mouth.
“There, that will keep her unconscious. Get a canvas over her and keep her warm, Farthing.” He looked over at the girl who was trying to bind the dragon’s leg on her own. “And take care of her too. She is special.”
Mab-Tok helped Mistry finish the dressing and gave her instructions about tending the wound. They would have to remove the dressing, clean it, boil the rags and redress it every few hours to fight infection. He then slapped Weasel round the face.
“Wake up, we need to fly.”
The magician stood unsteadily and shook his head to clear it.
“Where to?”
“The X. Can you help me fly very high?”
The magician nodded. “You won’t like it much.”
“Why?”
“It is like being drunk.”
“That applies to you too!”
“Yes, but I like being drunk,” Weasel pointed out. “Are you really going to carry me the entire way to the Black Hills?”
“If we can get up to the winds where the Scimra fly, then yes, I can make it, I think. But I cannot do it on my own and stay up there, and I haven’t Fren-Eirol to follow. I suspect you can make the difference; am I right?” His look challenged the magician. “After that, it will be mostly gliding and I will be fine with that.”
“What is at the X?”
“You will find out. I really don’t have time to explain now and I want to concentrate on getting there. Help is there, and at the moment, we are in desperate need of it.”
Farthing and Mistry watched as the small dragon carrying the magician spiralled up and out of view, heading into the highest winds they could find. A gentle rustle of leaves made the two turn suddenly.
“Can I help?” Seb Dawfoot asked with a smile as big as his hairy face.