“Something else,” Wiz said, sniffing again. “Burned meat, I think.”
But Moira was already running across the meadow. Wiz cast a nervous eye to the clear blue sky, then shifted his pack and followed.
When he caught up with her, Moira was standing in the space between the remains of the house and the smoldering heap of ashes that had been the barn, casting this way and that.
“What about dragons?” Wiz asked, looking up.
Moira’s suggestion on what to do with dragons was unladylike, probably impractical and almost certainly no fun at all.
“Did a dragon do this?” Wiz asked as they walked around the remains of the house.
“Probably not,” Moira said distractedly. “Dragons might attack cattle in the fields or swine in their pen, but they seldom burn whole farms. This was done from the ground, I think.”
“Well, then who?”
“Who is not important, Sparrow. The important thing is what happened to the people.”
“I don’t see anyone,” Wiz said dubiously.
“They may all have escaped. But perhaps some are lying hurt nearby and in need of aid. I wish I had not been so quick to discard parts of my kit this morning.”
“There doesn’t seem to be anyone here.”
“Then search more closely.”
Moira didn’t call out and Wiz didn’t suggest it. He felt conspicuous enough as it was.
While Moira searched near the house and log building, Wiz wandered around the remains of the barn. The heaps of ashes were unusually high there and from the remains he guessed the barn had been full of hay when it went up. He wondered what had happened to the animals.
Wiz stumbled over something in the debris. He looked down and saw it was an arm, roasted golden crisp and then obviously gnawed. A child’s arm. Wiz opened his mouth to scream and vomited instead.
“What is it?” Moira came rushing up as he heaved his guts out. “What did you . . . Oh.” She stopped short as she saw what lay on the ground between them.
“Oh my God,” he moaned, retching the last bit of liquid from his stomach. “Oh my God.”
“Trolls,” Moira said, her face white and drawn, her freckles standing out vividly against the suddenly pale skin. “They burned this place and put the flames to use.”
“They ate them,” Wiz said
“Trolls are not choosy about their fare,” Moira said looking out over the smoldering ruins.
“Hey! Do you think they’re still around?”
“Possibly,” Moira said abstractedly. “After a meal like this trolls would be disinclined to go far.”
“Then let’s get out of here before they come back for dessert.”
“No!”
Moira shouted. Wiz started and turned to see tears in her eyes. “We go nowhere until we bury these folk.”
“But . . .”
“There was no one to do it for my family.”
“Did your family end up . . . like that?” Wiz finally asked.
Moira’s face clouded. “I do not know. We never found them.”
“What happened?”
“It was a summer day, much like today only later in the year. I had gone into the wood to pick berries. I filled my apron with them that my mother might make preserves. My father had found a bee tree, you see.
“It took me all the afternoon to gather enough berries. I was away for hours. And when I returned . . . there was no one there.
“The door to the cottage stood open and the cream was still in the churn, but my parents and brother and sisters were gone. I looked and called and searched until after nightfall. For three days I looked, but I never found them.”
“What happened to them?”
“I don’t know. But there are worse things on the Fringe of the Wild Wood than being eaten by trolls.”
Without thinking, Wiz clasped his arms around the hedge witch and hugged her to him. Without thinking she settled into his arms to be hugged and buried her head in his shoulder. They stood like that for a long minute and then Moira straightened suddenly and pulled away.
“Come on!” she said sharply. “Find something to dig with.”
There was a charred spade leaning against the remains of the log building and Moira set Wiz to work digging a grave in what had been the kitchen garden. The tilled loam turned easily, but Wiz was red-faced and sweating before he had a hole large enough to suit Moira.