Fynn tracked the Dyrel scouts as far as the edge of the forest, keeping careful watch over them as they moved Leila to their camp. The wolf padded silently beside the unconscious girl, and the Dyrel scouts did their best to ignore him. When they were out of sight, Fynn sighed painfully and made his way back into the depths of the woods.
He knew his strength would not last as long as the iron arrowhead remained inside him. He moved as quickly as he could through the trees, ignoring the forest spirits who were watching him curiously. He was in no mood for their immaturity right now. He made his way to a small clearing where a clump of toadstools grew in a rough circle shape. Smiling to himself, he stepped into the ring and closed his eyes. A familiar surge of power coursed through him, but abruptly stopped and he doubled over in pain. The magic of the ring dissipated and Fynn found himself still in the forest. He inhaled sharply and staggered to a nearby tree, leaning heavily against it. In a moment, he regained his breath and straightened, but found he could not go where he need to be.
“You seem to be in quite a pinch, my lord.”
Fynn smiled wryly and turned. Standing behind him, completely unafraid, was a woman wearing a brown dress covered in animal hides. Her brown hair was messy, but her eyes sparkled with intelligence.
“Ruella,” Fynn greeted her. “You’re as lovely as ever.”
The witch of the forest almost blushed at the remark. She glanced around. “Where’s your new lass? Sold her soul already, have ye?”
Fynn frowned. “Now now, Ruella. That’s not fair.”
He hunched over in a fit of coughing and the witch was at his side in a moment. She placed her hand on his back, and he winced visibly. Ruella nodded and tapped the spot where the arrowhead lay hidden.
“Quite a pinch indeed, my lord,” Ruella murmured. “And why would the Woodwalker have a piece of iron under his skin?”
“Can you remove it?” Fynn asked almost pleadingly.
The witch nodded. “Aye, lord. But you know my fee.”
“I can’t do that,” Fynn told her quietly. “I can’t give back what I’ve already taken.”
The witch shrugged. “Never hurts to ask, do it? Come along. Let’s get the iron out of you so you can go back to your lass.”
Gratefully, Fynn followed Ruella into the small cottage that had appeared as if by magic behind her. He sat at a table as the witch rummaged around for suitable instruments to use. She had a silver knife and bowl, and various herbs and poultices to apply to the wound after.
“You’re so certain this lass is the one, you’d take iron for her, eh?” Ruella asked conversationally.
“The spirits call to her, and she can hear them. They answer to her when she speaks. She is the one they’ve been waiting for,” Fynn said, “but you knew that after meeting her.”
The witch smiled as she sharpened her blade. “Seems frail, poor thing. Has she seen the Queen yet?”
“I haven’t taken her,” Fynn replied. “She has much to understand before she can face the Queen. I’m not certain she can handle it.”
“You must be, lord,” Ruella told him, “else you wouldn’t be sitting here now, eh?”
Fynn said nothing and waited for the silver blade to pierce his skin.