Reckless (Free Preview) by Cornelia Funke Page A

destination was the only place in the world he had sworn never to
return to.
    Soon the rain
was falling so mercilessly that even the vixen's fur no longer gave her any
protection.   Jacob's shoulder throbbed
with every movement, as if the Tailor was jabbing his needles into it again,
but with every glance at Will's face, Jacob pushed away any thought of
rest.   They were running out of time.
    Maybe it was
the pain that made him careless.   He
barely noticed the abandoned farm when it appeared by the side of the road, and
Fox only caught the scent when it was already too late.   Eight men, ragged
but armed.   They suddenly emerged from
one of the dilapidated barns and had their rifles trained on the travelers
before Jacob could draw his pistol.   Two
of the men were wearing imperial tunics, and a third the gray jacket of a Goyl
soldier.   Plunderers
and deserters.   The
human debris of war.   Two more had
hung on their belts the same trophies imperial soldiers liked to display:   the fingers of their stone-skinned enemies,
in all the colors they could find.
    For one brief
moment, Jacob hoped they wouldn't notice the stone.   Because of the rain, Will had drawn the hood
of his coat well over his face.   However,
one of them, a scrawny weasel of a man, noticed the infected hand as he dragged
Will from his horse, and he yanked the hood off his head.
    Clara
attempted to shield him, but the one with the Goyl jacket pushed her out of the
way, and Will's face turned into that of a stranger.   Never before had Jacob seen in his brother's
features such a powerful desire to hurt someone.   Will struggled to free himself, but the
weasel punched him in the face, and when Jacob's hand went for his pistol,
their leader quickly put the muzzle of his rifle to Jacob's chest.
    He was a
heavyset fellow with only three fingers on his left hand.   His threadbare jacket was covered with the
semi-precious stones Goyl officers wore on their collars to denote rank.   There was a lot of booty to be grabbed on the
battlefields once the living left the dead behind.
    "Why haven't
you shot that Man-Goyl yet?" the leader asked while he searched Jacob's
pockets.   "Haven't you heard?   There are no more rewards to be had for this
lot, now that they've started negotiating with them."
    He pulled out
Jacob's handkerchief but shoved it back heedlessly before a gold sovereign
could drop into his calloused hand.   Behind them, Fox scurried into the ruined stable.   Jacob could feel Clara looking at him
pleadingly, but what did she expect?   That he could take on eight men at once?
    Threefingers
poured out the contents of Jacob's purse and gave a disappointed grunt when all
he found were a few copper coins.   The
others, however, were still staring at Will.   They were going to kill him.   Just
for kicks.   And put his fingers on their
belts.   Do something, Jacob!   But what?
    Talk, play for time, wait for a miracle .
    "I am
taking him to someone who will give him back his skin."   The rain was running down his face, and the
weasel was jabbing his rifle into Will's side.   Keep talking, Jacob!   "He's my brother.   Let us go, and in a week's time I'll be back
with a sack of gold."
    "Sure!"   Threefingers nodded to the others.   "Take them behind the barn, and shoot
this one in the head.   I like his
clothes."
    Jacob pushed
away the two men who reached out to grab him, but a third put a knife to his
throat.   The man was wearing the clothes
of a peasant.   They hadn't always been
robbers.
    "What are
you talking about?" he hissed into Jacob's ear.   "Nothing can give them their skin
back.   I shot my own son when the moonstone
started growing on his forehead!"
    The blade was
pushed against his throat with such ferocity that Jacob could barely breathe.
    "It's the
curse of the Dark Fairy!" he croaked.   "So I'm taking him to her sister.   She'll break it."
    How they all
stared at him.   Fairy.   Just a word.   Five letters,