Patricia Briggs by The Hob's Bargain Page B

moment. “About whatever it was that killed that thing?”
    I shook my head. “I don’t even know how badly I’m hurt. I could have sworn it nearly tore my—well, at least it did a lot more damage than it looks like.” I snatched Kith’s knife from his boot sheath and slid it under the strips of cloth that wrapped my arm.
    It was a mess. On either side was a deep slice that ran the length of my forearm, but the splinters of bone weren’t there. It hurt when I closed my hand and started bleeding sluggishly—all right, it hurt more when I closed my hand, but that was all.
    I’d butchered enough animals to know there was a lot more odd about my arm than the fact I knew the bones had been broken. For one thing, there should have been more blood. There were arteries close to the surface that should have been severed with cuts that deep. Without a pressure bandage, blood should be pouring out.
    â€œWhen it bit down,” I said distinctly, as much to convince myself as anyone else, “it broke my arm; I heard the bones go. When it twisted its head, my arm bent here.” I didn’t quite touch the wound just below my elbow.
    Kith held my arm still and examined it. When he was through, he shook his head. “I can’t tell that the bone’s ever been broken—and right here it should have cut through an artery”—he ran his fingers over one of the cuts—“and again here. I’d say he can work magic I’ve never seen a bloodmage do.”
    â€œNot that they would feel inspired to help anyone,” I said. Kith smiled at me tiredly.
    Wandel opened a pouch on his belt and took out a tin before rounding the fire to my side. He took the bandaging I’d cut off and spread a layer of salve from the container on part of it.
    â€œPut this back around your arm,” he said, fitting the bandage back around the wound.
    With my assistance, he tore another strip from my poor tunic and used it to hold the bandaging in place. “From all appearances, your wounds have already been cleaned—so there’s no use putting you through it again tonight. I have some brandy in my bags, and I’ll clean it again in the morning. Bite wounds are always difficult to get to heal if you don’t keep them clean.”
    When he was finished with me, I stretched out on my blanket, staring up into the night sky. “Wandel,” I asked, “do you think that thing that rescued me was a hob? Like the runes we found?”
    Wandel took up his harp and plucked a string delicately. “I don’t know. I told you, I only know a song about them.” He began to play a sprightly tune on his harp, one of the kind that’s difficult not to hum along with. By the third verse I was singing with the chorus. Kith didn’t join in.
    The gist of the song was that there was a rich farmer who owed his success to the hob living in his barn. The farmer, due to his wealth, found himself a wife from a well-to-do town family. They lived happily enough until the hob surprised her in the barn. They disliked each other on sight; she tried to rid the barn of the hob, and the hob tried to rid the farmer of his wife. The wife was clever, but the hob was more clever still: everything she tried to do to him, he turned back on her. At last the farmer stepped in, kept the hob, and got rid of his wife. With the help of the hob he found a farm-bred wife who put out milk and bread every night for the fey folk, and they all lived happily ever after.
    The most interesting feature of the song, as far as I was concerned, was the detailed description of the hob: a little man with skin like old oak, eyes blue as the sky, and a head too big for its body. It sounded like my attacker, but….
    â€œSo,” said Wandel, finishing the last chord with a flourish, “the creature who attacked you could have been a hob.”
    â€œNo,” I said, suddenly remembering