Raveler: The Dark God Book 3
Author: John D. Brown
Date: 2014-08-31T05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Teen & Young Adult; coming of age; dark; Fantasy; sword & sorcery; epic fantasy; action & adventure; magic & wizards
Description: Talen is in the hands of a powerful half-beast, a creature twisted for war, who is convinced the most merciful thing to do with Talen is kill him. But he might not have that chance, for Nashrud, the Divine sleth hunter, is hot on their trail. As they flee, the two can only hope the perils of the Wilds will save them, for if they are taken, both will become the tools of Mokad. Back on the coast, Sugar is sent to guide Argoth and a handful of warriors on a mission to assassinate Mokad’s Skir Master. To succeed they’re going to have to get through an army, patrols of dogmen, and at least 3,000 dr
Publisher: Blacksword Books
Rights: Copyright © 2014 by John D. Brown, all rights reserved

THE WAR WITH MOKAD BEGINS!

Harnock leaned in close and sniffed. Then he dragged his rough tongue up Talen’s cheek, and the smell of Harnock’s soul mixed with the odor of fish on his breath.

“Not nearly enough fat,” Harnock said, “but you’ll hang and ripen nicely.”

“We need help,” Talen pleaded.

“I don’t help thralls,” Harnock said. “I kill them.”

For Nellie

Contents

Teaser

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

Map

1. House of Bones

2. Blend

3. Hungers

4. Ferrets and Vipers

5. Spiderhawks

6. Tanglewood

7. Darkfall

8. Weem

9. Blue Towers

10. Prisoners

11. Hunting

12. The Bull's Ring

13. Argoth's Choice

14. Thrall and Flesh

15. On the Road to Whitecliff

16. Upon the Lion

17. Sooth's Plain

18. Feeding the Wind

19. Fort Echo

20. Outriders

21. Champion

22. Traitor

23. Last Chance

24. Stone Giants

25. To Ground

26. Assault

27. Soul Warrior

28. The Raveler

29. Seafire

30. Flax

31. Old Enemies

32. Wraiths

33. The Harvest

34. Swarms of the Queen

35. The People of Shim

Dear Reader

Terms & People

Acknowledgements

By John D. Brown

About the Author

Copyright

1

House of Bones

TALEN WOKE ON the stone floor of a small, dark shed that smelled of blood and hanging meat. His ankles and wrists were lashed together. His head pounded like someone had been at it with a mallet.

He brought his bound hands up and felt for damage. One side of his head was tender, but there wasn’t any blood. Nor was the bone broken underneath. So he still had his brains, the little good they did him.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position against one of the walls and felt a stab of pain shoot down his left side. Then the image of River on the forest floor came to him. Grief welled up again. Tears sprang to his eyes. He sat for some time thinking of her and the creature he’d tried to protect her from.

He knew that beast wasn’t a woodikin. It was far too tall. And no woodikin he’d ever heard of built sheds. They lived in great trees or burrowed in the ground. Which meant the creature had to be Harnock. Or was it something else that lived in the Wilds?

Either way, he had to get out of this shed. He had to find her. He explored the darkness and found the skinned and headless carcass of a large animal hanging by its hind quarters on the other side. He ran his bound hands along its length, felt the hooves at the top, and confirmed it was a deer. The carcass explained the smell. It also suggested exactly what was going to happen to Talen in the not too distant future.

The image of his own carcass skinned and hanging next to the deer’s set his heart beating a little faster. There had to be a way out of here. He felt his way to a door and carefully tried it, but it was barred from the outside. He pushed harder. The door gave just a little, but the bar was solid and held fast. Maybe there was a window. He felt about for one, but the shed was wattle and daub from top to bottom. And it was thick wattle, which meant it wasn’t going to be an easy thing to kick through. The floor was made out of slabs of stone cemented together with mortar. Such a floor was a good defense against animals wanting to dig their way in. It was also good against young men with nothing but their fingernails to use as pry bars.

The beating of Talen’s heart kicked up a notch.

He took a breath to calm himself and realized that even if he did get out, he wouldn’t be running far with his ankles and wrists bound. So he went to work on the lashing around his wrists, picking and pulling with his teeth. The knots were tight, but they weren’t impossible, and he finally succeeded in loosening one of them. It took only a few minutes longer to defeat the lash completely and wriggle his swollen hands free. He rubbed them, then went to work on the lashings around his ankles. When his legs were free, he stood, and realized that not only was it quite possible he’d missed something feeling about in the dark, but also that he had the eyes to see despite the blackness about him.

He concentrated and tried to separate the part of himself he’d used to attack River and escape the dreadmen, but his other part eluded him. He thought back to when he was by the dreadmen’s campfire, tried to remember what he’d done, and felt for that part of himself again. This time he felt the odd shift, and a part of himself detached. A moment later the interior of the shed revealed itself in a dim yellow light. And then, to his surprise, two more parts of himself joined the first.

He suddenly perceived the shed from three different angles, and the competing views disoriented him, made him dizzy.

He let out a cry and pulled his parts back in and was once again plunged into darkness.

Regrets eyes! What kind of a freak was he?

He felt a panic rising inside, then told himself that running about like a chicken wouldn’t do anyone any good. Whatever his affliction, it wouldn’t go away by him setting his hair on fire. Besides, his freakish parts had allowed him to escape Nashrud and those dreadmen. Whatever he was becoming, he would deal with it later. Right now he needed to see.

He calmed his breathing, sent his parts back out. Again, the dizzying view of the yellow world rushed upon him, but this time he tried to relax. When he did, he realized he could focus on the view seen by just one of these parts. It was like bringing your thumb up in front of you and switching your gaze between it, something a few feet away, and a scene in the distance beyond—when focusing on one of the views, the others faded into his periphery.

Talen settled on the view closest to his body and gazed at the other two parts of himself. They were long and eel-like. They reminded him, to his horror, of the shining eel-like creatures that had surrounded the Mother down in her cave. Then his anger rose, and he told himself he didn’t rotting care what they were or what he was. If some cursed creature had twisted him, he would use that power to his advantage. He could see in the darkness with these things. Could attack and spy. In time, he might be able to do more.

He looked about the shed and saw nothing that would help him dig through the floor. Saw no easy way through the roof. So it was back to the door. It had given a little; maybe he could force it. If he was multiplied, he was sure he could.

Talen prepared to multiply himself, then remembered the king’s collar about his neck. He yanked on it, tried to break it by brute force, but the metal was strong and resisted him. He thought a moment. Maybe the weave could be broken by Fire. After all, that’s how he’d destroyed the monster in the cave. He tried to multiply himself, to pour forth a flood of Fire, but the surge only flowed away from him. He tried again, but it was like trying to hold the wind in your hand, and it was clear that if there was a lore for breaking the bond, this wasn’t it. He’d have to break the door down unaided.

However, it would do little good to start banging around with his captor right outside, so he held still and listened for what might be there. He stilled his breathing, focused on sound, and heard nothing outside the shed.

After a few minutes, he decided there was no reason to delay further. He tested the door again, then shoved it hard with his shoulder. He thought he felt it give just a little, and his hopes rose. He shoved again, but failed to move it more. He squared himself to the door and kicked it as hard as he could, and the thinnest of cracks of light appeared around the side and bottom. He kicked again and saw the cracks of light widen.

He pulled himself up and prepared to kick one more time with all his might when the bar scraped up and the door flew open. The creature that had throttled him in the piney wood stood there, the sun silhouetting its massive frame.

The light rushed in and gave Talen a fourth pair of eyes—the eyes of his three roaming parts and the eyes of his flesh. The quadruple vision turned everything into a terrifying sight. In reflex, Talen struck at the beast with his roamlings.

And with that strike, the scent of the creature’s soul shot through Talen, and his hunger for it sharpened. The creature smelled delicious.

The creature snarled and bared its fangs. “That tells the whole story,” it growled.

It was the height and build of a tall man. Its body was covered in a short-haired fur that lightened toward its belly and loins but darkened and lengthened along its back and legs. As for clothing, it wore nothing but a loincloth below and a cord around its neck above. A small bone that looked like it belonged to a human finger hung from the cord. Above the cord, its face was strange, feline with a nose that was a little too broad. And seeing all of this in the yellow and blue worlds at the same time made it even stranger.

Talen stepped back into the wall behind him. His roamlings prepared to attack. The scent of soul was right there in reach. “Please,” he said. “I’m a friend.”

“Who are you?” the creature snarled. “Who sent you?”

This had to be Harnock.

“Speak!” it shouted and grabbed Talen’s face. Its hand was strong, its claws sharp. And its touch only intensified the smell of its soul.

“Harnock,” Talen said.

The creature slammed Talen’s head into the wall. “Answer my question!” it growled.

“River,” Talen said in alarm. “She wanted to ask for your aid. She brought us here. I’m part of the Grove. I’m her brother.”

“You weren’t with any Grove,” it said. “You were with Mokad.” Its claws dug into Talen’s cheek.

“No,” Talen said. “The dreadmen poisoned River. They took me.”

Harnock leaned in close and sniffed. Then he dragged his rough tongue up Talen’s cheek, and the smell of Harnock’s soul mixed with the odor of fish on his breath.

“Not nearly enough fat,” Harnock said, “but you’ll hang and ripen nicely.”

“We need help,” Talen pleaded.

“I don’t help thralls,” Harnock said. “I kill them.” He leaned in close to Talen’s ear. “Do you hear me? Send who you will, they’ll all meet the same fate. I will not be taken.”

“I didn’t send anybody; I’m not a thrall.”

“I’m not talking to you,” Harnock said, then he turned Talen’s head to look into his eyes. “You don’t have to worry anymore, brother. I know how it is, being on their tether. It’s no life at all. Which is why I’m going to set you free.” Then he forced Talen around and shoved him up against the wall. With one hand he grabbed Talen by the hair and pulled his head back to expose his throat.

“Travel safely,” Harnock said.

“No,” Talen said.

Harnock drew his knife.

Talen tried to twist free, but it was like trying to pull free of iron fetters. “Harnock!” he cried.

“Quiet,” Harnock said and raised the knife.

Talen’s panic rose, and he lashed out, striking Harnock with all three roamlings, looking for a way to bite into his soul.

Harnock flinched. “Oh, but they’ve turned you into a vile thing,” he growled, then slammed Talen into the wall again.

“No!” Talen shouted. He struck again with his roamlings, but Harnock just gritted his teeth, hunched his shoulders against the attack, and brought his knife to Talen’s throat.

At that moment, a cabbage flew through the open door, struck Harnock in the head, and thumped to the floor.

Another flew in and struck Harnock in the shoulder.

Harnock turned and snarled, his knife still at Talen’s throat.

“Harnock!” a woman yelled.

Cabbages? Talen surely must be dreaming. Which meant the situation would probably soon shift, and he’d be listening to a group of singing pigs or standing naked and mortified in some impossible public situation.

“Let him be!” the woman commanded.

That voice—

“I know a creature of the Divines when I smell one,” Harnock said, “and this one has their filthy fingers all over him.”

“He’s our weapon,” said the woman. “Not theirs. Let him go!”

“He will never be our weapon. He’s designed for their hand, just as I am.”

“River?” Talen asked, not daring to hope.

He turned his head to see out the door. River stood outside the shed, holding a formidable turnip. She cocked her arm.

It was impossible! “River!” Talen shouted.

“Release him!” River commanded. “You’re better than this.”

Harnock wrinkled his broad, catlike nose. He growled in frustration, pressed the knife closer, and for a moment Talen thought Harnock was going to pull it across and slice through.

Then Harnock pulled the knife away and spun Talen around so they were standing nose to nose. “You try to enter me again,” he growled, his breath still thick with fish, “and I’ll gut you and string your innards out for the crows.” Then he gave Talen a shove that sent him reeling into the hanging deer and strode out of the meat shed.

Talen detangled himself from the deer and turned.

Outside, Harnock stormed past River. “Sooner or later he’s going to need killing,” he called back. “Better to get it over with now.” Then he crossed the yard and entered his house.

Talen rushed to the door. “You were dead!” he said. “I myself felt for your pulse. There was no breath.”

“No,” said River.

The lurid vision of both the yellow and blue worlds together sent a wave of dizziness over him, so he pulled his roamlings back. They retreated through his wrists, and suddenly the multiple views of the yellow world winked out, and the scene became normal again. And there stood River in the blue world, a bit pale, but looking far better than the last time he’d seen her. He thought he’d known how much he valued her when she died. But the joy of seeing her now went beyond even that clear insight. He ran to her, hugged her tight, pulled her off her feet, and swung her around.

Underneath it all was the smell of her soul and his desire, but he ignored it.

“Careful,” she said.

He put her down. “How?”

“Harnock found me,” she said. “He brought me here and revived me.”

“From the dead? He brought you back from the dead?” It was astonishing. “Did you see anything? Lords, was Da there?”

“He didn’t revive me from the dead,” River explained. “I never died. There was still breath and pulse in me, but very slow. Exceedingly slow. I told you I was diminishing.”

“Well, yes, but there was nothing there. Why didn’t you respond to me?”

“Just as you can multiply your Fire and powers to the very brink, so you can diminish them until the Fire is but an ember, almost a memory. I had to go that far to slow the workings of the poison. But when you do that, you go into a place that’s difficult to leave. Harnock found me and called me back.”

“Then bless him,” Talen said. He turned to the open door of Harnock’s house and raised his voice. “Bless you!” he called.

“I’m thirsty,” River said. “And I’m not quite a hundred percent. Give me your arm.”

Talen did not want the desire that came with the touch, but he stuck his elbow out anyway. She took it and kept her balance. Then he helped her over to a well that stood in the yard. He tried to focus on the bucket and well instead of his hunger for her soul. It was a relief when she let him go. He dropped the bucket, let it sink and fill, then cranked it back up. While she drank, he looked about the little farm.

It was small and tidy in Koramite style. It lay in a small clearing. There was a main house, a few outbuildings, including a small stone shrine for the dead with flowering vines that had grown up the sides and were blooming white. Across the way stood a garden with a high fence to keep deer out. Next to it were some goats in a pen. Talen had expected a larger garden, but perhaps Harnock was more lion than man and just needed meat.

Everything was made with quality construction. It was exactly what you’d expect from a home on the coast, except for one thing: all along the eaves of the main house and sheds hung cords to which had been tied all manner of bones. There were dozens and dozens of lines hanging at different levels. Hundreds of bones. It was like some odd festival decoration. Some of the bones were tiny, those of a bird’s wing or a mouse’s rib cage. Others were larger, the thigh bone of a deer or the jaw of what looked like a bear. The bones were of varying ages; some were old, bleached by the sun and white as snow. Others were still yellow. A few had tufts of flesh and fur yet clinging to them. The multitude of bones turned in the breeze, some of them knocking together like wooden wind chimes. Then Talen noticed the human skulls at the peak of the main house.

“That’s a lot of bones,” Talen said.

“They’re special to Harnock,” River said.

“Trophies?” Talen asked.

“These are from creatures he’s killed and eaten,” she said.

Talen looked at the human skulls again. “All of them?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Goh,” he said and pitched his voice low. “You didn’t tell me he was a cannibal.”

“I don’t know if ‘cannibal’ is technically correct,” River said. “He’s only part human.”

“Right,” said Talen. “What was I thinking? I feel so much better now.”

“He’s not going to eat you, Talen.”

“No, first he’s going to fatten me up. Then he’s going to eat me.”

“He’s going to help us,” River said.

“He said that?”

“Not yet.” She looked at the king’s collar about his neck. “We need to get that off.”

“I can’t break it.”

“It was secured by lore, and requires lore to remove it.” She moved around in front of him and studied it for a moment, then reached up and took hold of the thick part that acted as a clasp. “There are a variety of designs, but most are variations of the same pattern.” She concentrated. “Yes, there it is.”

A moment later, Talen felt a prick of pain, and then River removed the collar from his neck. “You’re free,” she said.

Except Talen didn’t feel any different. And when he tried to reach out to his Fire, it didn’t respond. “Are you sure it’s gone?” Talen asked.

She held up the weave like one might a dead rat. “It’s gone,” she said.

At that moment Harnock walked back out of his house with a burlap sack and a waterskin. “You two are going to leave now. Here’s some food and water. If you hurry, you might make it out before the sun sets.”

River slipped the king’s collar into a leather pouch at her waist, then turned to Harnock. “We need your help,” she said.

“I already told Argoth—I’m not interested in your little war.”

“It’s not a little war. And that’s not my whole purpose in coming here.”

He held out the sack. “That poison will give your joints some trouble, but it will eventually work its way out. I’ve put some herbs in the sack that will speed the healing.”

Talen thought about Nashrud’s crows and dog and wondered where they were. He didn’t think he and River would get far with them on their tail. He said, “You need to know the men that took me, they’re not just dreadmen. Their leader is some sort of Divine.”

Harnock’s brow furrowed in anger, and he turned on River. “You brought a Divine to my door?”

“I didn’t know,” she said.

“We can ambush them when night falls,” Talen said. “It’s clear you can see in the dark. I can as well. We could—”

“I don’t care what perversion the Divines have worked in you,” said Harnock. “My answer’s no.” He held out the sack. “Leave. Now.”

“It will be easy pickings,” Talen said. “We can take them.”

“You didn’t hear me, boy. I want you out of here. You bring a Divine to my door, and poison is going to be the least of your worries.”

River looked up at the sky. “I think it’s too late,” she said.

Talen followed her gaze and saw two hooded crows fly over the little farm, then circle round to see it again. He swallowed.

Harnock narrowed his eyes. “What are those?”

Talen knew he was not going to be pleased. “I think they’re Nashrud’s, the Divine’s.”

Harnock looked back down at Talen. “I should just give you to them. Pay them off.”

“Harnock,” River said.

“You stay out of this. You knew better.”

“It wasn’t our intent.”

“Intent?” he bellowed. “These last years I finally found some measure of peace. And now you’ve destroyed it.”

“Then I am more sorry than you can imagine,” she said.

“I won’t fight a Divine.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Yes, you are,” he said. “Nobody can know about this vale. But now they do. Which means I will have to kill them. But I can’t kill a Divine.”

“I would say you could probably kill whomever you pleased,” said Talen.

Harnock ignored him.

“Help us escape these dreadmen,” River said. “Then come with us. It’s time, well past time. Time to open the Book. Time to come out in the open. We need your help. You need help.”

“There is no helping me,” he said.

“You don’t know that,” said River.

“I know it,” he said. “I know it in my bones. It’s all written in the bones.”

“The Book holds wisdom we cannot imagine,” she said. “And the Grove is about to rise. You cannot give up hope now.”

“Argoth is a fool. He was always rash. And now that Hogan is gone, there is none to speak reason. I do not want to pay for your mistakes. You should have never let the Grove come out of hiding.”

“All we need is time,” said River. “If we can make it through the winter, we will have an army the likes of which has not been seen since the ancient days.”

“The armies of the righteous failed before.”

“Better to die trying, than to never try at all.”

“That’s a load of glib pap,” said Harnock.

Every moment they delayed put them in more danger. “If you won’t guide us,” Talen said, “then tell us where to go.”

“It would do you no good,” said Harnock. “Even if you knew the Wilds, you’re not going to get past the woodikin. You will never make it.”

“Harnock,” River pleaded. “I’m begging you. What would Moon do?”

“Don’t bring her into this.”

“You know what she would say—draw these hunters in; they don’t know the dangers of the Wilds. Lead them on a path that will take them to their deaths.”

“She wouldn’t say that.”

“Oh, really?”

Harnock growled in frustration.

“You can’t let them have Talen.”

“Why not?”

“He was bred to be a Glory. Do you want to give them that?”

Harnock looked at Talen. “I could kill him now, put him beyond their reach.”

“That doesn’t save the Grove. It doesn’t help the Koramite women and children. We’ve never had a better opportunity to strike those who twisted you. This is your moment, Harnock. Your time to deal out justice.”

Harnock looked back up at the crows. Then he came to a decision and let out a long frustrated sigh of resignation. “Fine. I’ll get you through the woodikin. But I won’t promise one bit more.”

Relief flooded Talen. “Ancestors bless you. We’re in your debt.”

“Boy, if you bless me one more time, I promise I will kill and eat you.”

Talen shut his mouth and blinked.

Harnock looked Talen from head to toe and shook his head. “They want to make that into a Glory?”

“Yes,” said River.

“What did they do? Run out of the regulars and turn to the droolers and halfwits?”

“Something like that,” said River.

Harnock turned back to Talen. “Well, Glory, I hope you know how to deal with a Divine, because I’ve never been able to beat one.”

Talen cleared his throat. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it,” said Harnock. “If that Divine you brought to my door gets a hold of me, then you’re all done for.”

2

Blend

HARNOCK SENT TALEN to fill the waterskins while he and River filled three packs with food and supplies. As Talen pulled the water up from the well, he tried repeatedly to reach his Fire, but it still wouldn’t respond. By the time he returned to the front of the house with the waterskins, he was worried the collar had done some real damage.

Inside the house, Harnock slipped a small dark wooden box into his pack. The box was carved on the outside and weathered, but from the care with which Harnock handled it, Talen suspected it held weaves. Maybe even the Book itself.

“Don’t just stand there and gawp,” Harnock said. “Get in here and arm yourself.”

Talen walked under the bones hanging from the eaves into a room that was as tidy as any he’s seen in any Koramite dwelling. There was a hearth and table and a bit of lace on top of it. The floor was made of planks of wood, and every square foot of it was clean. Tools hung on neat pegs on one wall. A cloth embroidered with an intricate design and cluster of red flowers hung on another. Off the main room lay a bedroom with a normal rope and tick bed that was all made up. A bearskin blanket was rolled up at the foot of it. For some reason, he’d expected a hovel, something to go along with the bones hanging about outside.

Harnock pointed at the wall behind Talen where a number of fine bowstaves lay across wooden pegs. “I’m assuming your father taught you how to shoot?” Harnock asked.

“Yes,” said Talen.

“I’m sure he also taught you how to follow orders. We’re going into dangerous territory, and I don’t want to waste one arrow. And I don’t want you provoking the inhabitants. So you won’t think about shooting until I tell you.”

“I’ll wait for your command.”

“Take a bow and as many arrows as you can carry.”

The bows all had fine profiles, excellent tillering. Two were made of maple. One hickory. Another was backed with sinew. One was slender and white with silver filigree, something for a woman to hunt small game. Talen turned to the bigger bows. The maples were tempting, but Talen decided on the dark hickory bowstave. Hanging by the bows were small sacks of oiled skin which kept the bow strings. He took three of those and two quivers that held twenty arrows each with fine hunting points.

Meanwhile Harnock shuttered up the two windows. When he was done, he picked up a couple of long-knives, then buckled on a sword of fine steel with gold worked into the hilt and pommel. It was a lord’s sword.

Harnock looked around his tidy house one last time, glared at Talen, then walked to the door and motioned Talen out. Talen exited, hurrying past the big man-beast into the sun. Harnock followed and shut the door behind him.

River held a pack out to Talen. She was sweating, looking a bit haggard.

He took the pack and slipped it over his shoulders. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked.

“She’s going to have to be okay,” said Harnock. “Now let’s move.”

“I’m a little dizzy,” said River. “But I’ll be fine.”

Harnock pointed toward one end of the vale. “I want you two to follow the path at that end. Just follow it straight.”

“Where are you going?” asked River.

“I’m going to circle back, find out exactly where they are.”

“Those crows will see you,” said Talen. “They’ll lead the Divine to you. Let me do it.”

Harnock looked at him. “What, you think you have better woodcraft here in the Wilds? Maybe you’re planning on walking into a wurm field again?”

“No,” said Talen. “It’s not like that.”

Harnock turned to River. “You’re brother’s an idiot.”

“Most of the time,” River said, trying to diffuse the situation with a bit of humor.

Harnock shook his head and turned to leave. “Keep on the trail,” he said to River. “I’ll catch up.”

“I can travel in the yellow world,” Talen said.

Harnock ignored him, made sure his knife was strapped tight.

Talen raised his voice. “I said I can travel in the skir world.”

Harnock stopped and looked over at him.

“At least that’s what I think it is. There are these parts of me—I can send them out. It’s how I found River in the pitch black of night.” He turned to her. “It’s what I attacked you with in the barn.”

“Parts?” Harnock asked.

“Well”—he didn’t know how to describe them—“eel-like things. I call them roamlings.”

Both River and Harnock stood there trying to process what he’d just said. The silence stretched long, and then Harnock asked, “They come out of you?”

“Yes,” said Talen.

He shook his head in disgust. “No wonder you reek.”

“What is it?” River asked.

“He’s a blend,” Harnock said. “With what, I don’t know. But a blend all the same, made to be their dog.”

“You’re a blend,” River pointed out to Harnock.

“And?” Harnock demanded.

“You can show him the way.”

“There is no way,” Harnock said.

Talen looked at the crows above. “So I’ll just go and see where our friends are, okay?”

Harnock said to River. “If he shows any sign of turning, we’ll need to be quick. They might have him on a leash at this very moment. In fact, I’ll bet on it.” He put his hand on the pommel of his sword. “Let me do it now, put him out of his misery. Put him out of mine.” He turned back to Talen. “What do you say?”

“Well,” Talen said. “I’d say you’re an extremely generous fellow, but I’m kind of hoping to avoid the death thing for a while. It’s a little overrated.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Actually,” said Talen, “I do.”

Harnock shook his head. “It’s a mercy I’m promising. In fact, if you want my help, you’ll promise a mercy in return.”

“You need only ask,” River said.

“If I’m taken, you’re going to kill me. And you’re going to do it quick. I will not be their thrall again. Swear to me by your ancestors you will do it.”

“I swear,” River said.

Harnock leveled his gaze at Talen. “Swear.”

If a Divine took Harnock, then Talen would have to fight Harnock. How could he—

“Swear!” Harnock commanded.

Talen jumped. “I’ll murder you straight out,” he said. “I swear it.”

“Good,” Harnock said, satisfied. “Send your eel things forth, but know I’m watching you.”

“That term,” Talen said. “‘Eel things’ makes me feel like some sort of squid. Why don’t we call them roamlings?”

Harnock looked at him like he was a bug. Like he might squish him.

“Right,” Talen said. “Eel things, I’ll just send them out.” But the two of them staring at him made him uncomfortable, so he turned around. He loosened his shoulders, took a breath, and felt after his parts. A moment later, two of the roamlings emerged from his wrists. Except they weren’t separate from him. They were him. Just like an arm or leg.

The yellow world mixed with the blue in his multiple vision. He closed the eyes of his flesh to concentrate better and soared up past the roof on Harnock’s house and into the lavender-tinged sky to see at a distance, to see what others could not.

Above him the crows started to caw, then something spooked them, and they fled. Talen continued to rise until Harnock, River, and the houses below all looked like small carved figurines. He scanned the hills and woods about him with both roamlings. In the distance, he saw some pale orange creatures, skir probably. From the sun, he knew which way was East and West. Nashrud and his dreadmen would probably be coming from the East, the direction of the clan lands. So he flew that way, above the hill on that side of the vale, and scanned the trees, rills, and slopes below him. A minute or so later, he found the dreadmen.

“They’re about two miles back, east southeast,” he said with his body. “They’re working their way up a slope.”

“You’re sure it’s them and not some troop of woodikin?”

“Positive. They’re mounted. I can see Scruff.”

“Our horse,” River clarified.

“Fine,” Harnock said. “Keep an eye on them. I think it’s time they get introduced to the Wilds properly.”

Talen opened his eyes. While the triple vision didn’t overwhelm him as he thought it might, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to run looking multiple ways. So he pulled one roamling back.

He expected Harnock to move out, but he walked over to the stone shrine instead and knelt next to the grave there. He clasped the bone that hung from his necklace and began to murmur something under his breath.

“Whose grave is that?” Talen asked.

“Moon’s, she was his wife.”

“He had a wife?”

“Moon was not your average woman,” she said. “She was a beautiful copper-skinned beauty that could gut you as easily as she could look at you. A smuggler from a rough family.”

“She was married to him? In his blended form?”

“It’s a long story,” said River.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s his to tell,” she said.

Talen thought of the lace in Harnock’s house and the tidy rooms.

Harnock spoke some final words, then rose and came back to them. “We’re going to set a fast pace,” he said.

“I’ll go as fast as I can, but you should know they took my weaves,” Talen said.

“You don’t know how to multiply?”

He reached for his Fire again, but it was sluggish. “I think the collar did something to me.”

“Oh, that’s just grand,” Harnock said.

“It’s probably just a lingering effect,” said River. “I’m sure it will fade with time.”

Harnock pointed at Talen. “Don’t fall behind.”

“What’s the plan?” River asked.

“We’re going to chum the waters, and see what rises.”

That did not sound auspicious, but Talen wasn’t about to press Harnock with questions.

“And you,” Harnock said to Talen. “One false move, and I feed you to the wurms.”

“Likewise,” Talen said, remembering his earlier promise, and immediately felt like an imbecile for saying it.

Harnock narrowed his eyes at him, shook his head at River, then turned and set off at a jog.

“Did we not promise him a mercy?” Talen asked.

“We did.”

“I think he’s going to kill me.”

“Probably,” said River.

“Maybe we should go it alone,” Talen suggested.

“Get moving,” she said and gave him a shove.

* * *

They had to run to keep up with Harnock, and it was tricky watching both the trail ahead and keeping an eye on Nashrud, but he soon realized that problem was also a blessing because focusing on it kept his mind off his hunger and the smell of River’s and Harnock’s souls.

They sped through the woods. However, their pace was evidently too slow, for after a few miles, Nashrud began to gain on them. Talen reported this to Harnock who only growled and lengthened his stride. Talen tried to reach for his Fire again, and this time was able to nudge it, but only just a little. However, he wasn’t the one to hold them back. River was the first to flag. Even though she could multiply, she was still weak from her poisonous brush with death, and she called for a stop. She bent over panting, resting her hands on her knees. Talen wiped his brow and put his hands on his hips, happy for the breather.

Harnock doubled back. “We can’t rest,” he said.

“She’s doing the best she can,” Talen said.

“It’s not good enough,” Harnock said. He turned to River. “Give him your pack.”

When she didn’t comply quickly enough, he pulled it from her and handed it to Talen.

“Raise one arm,” he said to her.

River raised her arm. Harnock grabbed her wrist and leg, then picked her up and laid her across his broad shoulders like she was a beam. He sniffed. “You’re in heat,” he said.

“I . . .” River said, a bit taken aback. “I don’t know. I guess it could be that time.”

“It’s that time,” he said and growled, then set off at a lope.

In heat? Talen thought. Lords. Then he realized Harnock was disappearing fast. Talen reached out for his Fire, despairing that he was truly damaged, but this time his Fire responded. It didn’t leap to his command, but something was much better than nothing at all. Vigor slowly began to trickle into his limbs. He shouldered River’s pack and struck out after the two of them.

Up to this point, he had trusted weaves to keep him safe. To limit him. But Nashrud had all of them now, so Talen was going to have to watch himself. He let his Fire slowly build and increased his pace to keep up with Harnock.

All the while, he watched behind them with his roamling. It was so strange, and yet it felt natural. He experimented with this new part of himself—swimming, flying high and then diving back down. He moved through the tops of the trees, watched Nashrud and his men, and observed that the small flock of pale orange skir in the distance had moved closer.

He ran up hill and down dale, the two packs bouncing on his shoulders, crossed a number of streams. And as he ran, his physical thirst grew. He told himself he’d drink at the next stream, but they didn’t come to a stream. They came to a valley with a large meadow instead. One that stretched for hundreds of yards in all directions. This was another wurm field, a massive one, crisscrossed with worn trails.

Talen immediately stopped. Harnock continued with River on his shoulders.

“Hey,” Talen hissed.

“Keep up,” Harnock growled.

Talen followed him down to the edge of the meadow, then pitched his voice low. “What are we doing here?”

“We’re losing our tail,” Harnock replied. Then he set River down and sniffed the air.

“Och,” River said, putting her hands to the small of her back. “That’s a rough way to travel.”

Harnock said, “If we’re quick, there’s a way through.”

Talen thought back on his narrow escape from the previous wurm field. He thought of the creatures tearing into the dreadmen and their horses. He thought of their terrible speed. “I’m sure that’s what all the animals think.”

“Where are our visitors?” Harnock asked.

Talen had been resting his roamling in the crook of a tree. He sent it higher and looked down. A moment later, he saw Nashrud. “About a mile back.” The sickly orange skir were also closer, striking at something in another tree a few hundred yards away.

“Perfect,” Harnock said.

“You’re really sure we want to go in there?” Talen asked.

Harnock said, “Sometimes I come out here to steal their eggs. Moon was very good at it. The woodikin think they’re a delicacy. Maybe later I can show you how. Take you wurm hunting myself.”

Feed him to the wurms was more like it. “Actually,” Talen said, “I’m happy with chickens, potatoes—things that don’t try to drag you down and devour you in their holes.”

Harnock just grinned. “You’re going to go to the other side and up that slope. When you get to the top, you’ll see a white ridge a short distance to the southwest. That’s the border of the Orange Slayer woodikin tribe. I’ll meet you there. Now follow me exactly.” He turned and moved into the tall grass.

River grabbed a bowstave and one of the packs from Talen and followed Harnock into the grass.

Talen imagined the wurms below, but knew he didn’t have a choice and walked into the meadow after her. After a bit of winding, they came to a fork in the wurm trail and found a hole big enough for a horse. Harnock motioned for them to wait while he walked a bit farther down the trail.

All Talen could do was stare into the dark depths of the huge hole. He swore he saw something move down there and knew some beast was going to shoot forth at any second and grab them in its maw.

Harnock listened, sniffed the air. Then he motioned them forward. Talen was more than happy to move away from that hole until he saw that Harnock had brought them to a nest of three more holes just as large. His heart began pumping. They were deep into the meadow now.

Harnock leaned in close. “When I say run, you sprint with all the speed you can muster for the far side.”

Talen and River nodded, and then Harnock moved forward, silent as a cat, and led them down a narrow path. A short distance later, he followed a branch to the left. And then they crisscrossed over another. How Harnock knew which forks and paths to take, Talen could not guess. About them the wind hissed through the belly-high grass. A wurm sounded down in one of the holes.

Harnock led them past a disgusting mass of half-decomposed bones and fur. At first, Talen couldn’t figure out what it was, then realized it must be wurm excrement. Mixed in with the fur were teeth that looked like they came from a bear. He was still thinking on that when they came up on a hole that was making a popping sound.

Harnock raised his hand for them to stop and motioned them to step back. They waited for a moment, and then Harnock led them in another direction. Not long after that, some distance down the meadow, a thin wurm shot up into the air, trying to catch a bird that had landed in a tree. The bird fled in a storm of flapping wings, but it was too slow, and the wurm caught it midair and fell back to the ground.

The trail led them through a spot of chest-high grass. Then Talen took a step and felt the ground give way a little underneath him. He let out a small yelp of surprise and jumped to the side, rustling the dry grass loudly.

A beat passed, and then a moaning wind rose from their left, but it was not wind making the sound. Talen’s heart beat faster in his chest. Then the moaning stopped, and Talen breathed out in relief.

“Run!” Harnock shouted and pointed to the far side. “That way!”

Talen jolted with alarm, and he and River shot out along a wurm trail. Harnock bounded off along another path, yelling like a madman.

Talen glanced to see where Harnock was going and almost fell into a wurm hole, but he caught himself at the last moment and focused on keeping up with River who was running for all she was worth.

They sprinted for a hundred yards, following a winding trail. The edge of the field drew closer. And then they were out of the grass. But Talen knew they weren’t out of danger, and he urged River to keep running until they were well up the slope in front of them.

Behind them, the moaning in the field grew louder. Talen glanced back to see what was happening. Harnock ran with incredible speed at an angle away from the course they’d taken, drawing the wurms after him. He was all grace and muscle, his fur shining in the sun. A wurm chased through the grass toward him, but Harnock moved faster.

Another wurm rose up in front of him. Harnock drew his sword. The steel flashed, and the wurm fell into two pieces. Another wurm rose. Harnock whooped and flew straight into it, his lord’s sword glinting in the sun.

“By the Goat King’s hairy hind,” Talen said. “He truly is mad.”

River pulled on Talen. “Come on,” she said.

When they reached the top, they paused. Talen looked down with his roamling. The whole meadow hissed and moaned and roiled with wurms. Harnock was at one end shouting down a hole. He was like someone poking a wasp nest with a stick. “Should we wait for him?” Talen asked.

“He said to keep moving. And from that cacophony below, I don’t think we’ll be safe until we’re miles away from here. Let’s get to that ridge.” Then she began to jog down a well-worn animal trail.

Talen was about to follow her when an orange skir broke from its pack and swooped low over his roamling. Talen startled, darted his roamling away. But the orange skir just flew past. It was as long as a horse, and undulated, moving like a leech. Talen looked for the other skir and found them in a group a short distance off.

That had been a bit of a scare. He determined to keep his eye on the skir, blew out a breath, and headed after River. In the blue world, he kept his eyes on the trail. In the yellow world, he watched the the orange skir. It danced in the air, swooped in circles, and made a hideous odd clacking. Talen wondered if it was trying to communicate, like dolphins sometimes did with sailors. He tentatively moved his roamling toward it.

Suddenly, he felt another presence behind his roamling. He turned. Two other sickly orange skir dove at him. He thought of hawks diving at pigeons. Fear shot through him, and he turned and tried to flee, but they were moving too fast.

One of the orange skir caught him. Bit into the roamling.

Pain tore through him, and Talen gasped.

River turned. “What’s wrong?”

Talen desperately tried to break free, to escape, but the second skir fell upon him. Then the third. It felt like they were stabbing him with a dozen knives!

He cried out, and instinctively sent his other roamlings to help, to fight back. But his roamling was too far back on the trail.

He fought, yanked. The skir bit and slashed and tore. And then there was an unimaginable burning, and the whole roamling was torn away from him.

He cried out and stumbled to his knees. The pale orange skir fought over the pieces of his roamling. Then he realized his other roamlings were exposed, and he didn’t know where the other skir were. His panic swelled, and he swam his parts back down the trail for the safety of his flesh. He knew at any moment another one of the skir would rip into him, but he made it back to his body and slipped in.

Behind him, one of the large orange skir flew after his roamlings, but he was safe. He took one last look at the creature, then closed his doors and shut the yellow world out. His multiple visions focused into one view of the dirt before him. He was on his hands and knees, panting.

“Talen,” River said.

“A moment,” he said. It felt like someone had carved a huge piece out of him, leaving nothing but a screaming wound. He took a few breaths, then pushed himself up on his haunches. “We need to get away from this place.”

3

Hungers

THEY RAN DOWN the slope, their waterskins, arrow sheaves, and packs bouncing. Talen’s wound was raw with pain, and he wondered if soul bled, and if such wounds could be fatal. He thought about wolves, about one member of the pack distracting the prey while the other members sneaked up behind. Those orange skir had been working together with intelligence.

He shook his head and ran down the trail, ran beyond the sounds of the wurms in the vale and headed toward the white ridge in the distance. Every step jarred him, but as he and River ran, the tearing pain receded into a ragged ache, and he thought that maybe he wouldn’t die.

They followed animal trails and pushed through brush until they eventually worked their way up the last slope to the ridge and took shelter in a copse of trees. Talen dropped his pack and quivers and sat down. He unstopped his waterskin, and took a long drink. He still felt like someone had cut him with a knife.

River scanned the sky for crows, then turned to him. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“I hope so,” he said.

“What happened?”

He told her about the skir attack. She listened, and when he was done, she said, “A person can lose part of their soul and survive.”

Talen thought about his cousin. Poor Nettle—had this been what he felt when Uncle Argoth had taken his Fire?

River continued, “But was this part of your soul or part of the soul that you’re blended with?”

“It sure felt like my soul,” he said.

She shook her head. “Maybe Harnock will know.”

They drank more water and rooted through their packs for some food. He found nothing in his, but River retrieved a cloth sack from hers. She opened the sack’s mouth. “Ah,” she said and pulled out a fat thing the size of her thumb. It looked like some small brown root with a dark bead on one end.

River held the bag out to him. He picked one of the roots up. It smelled as if it had been fried in pig fat. “Smells good,” he said. “What is it?”

“It’s the larva of a large weevil,” River said. Then she bit the whole root part off hers and tossed the bead away.

“Larva?” Talen asked.

“Harnock gets them from the woodikin. They have . . . a different texture, but they’re good.”

Talen looked down at the one he held in his hand. He saw that the dark bead was the larva’s head and that it bore powerful jaws. He was hungry, but the thought of the fat body of the larva put a damper on it.

“You need to eat it,” River said. “With all the Fire you’ve been using today, you will begin to waste. Besides, Harnock swears they are the best food for someone who is multiplied.” She picked up another larva and bit it in half, chewing with relish. She was making a show of it, obviously trying to take his mind off his wound. Off his utterly freakish nature.

He sniffed his larva and tried to think only of pig fat. “It’s a bug,” he said. “No big deal.”

And he was a blend, something not entirely human. He tried not to let that crack his composure, told himself that it was not such a big deal, and bit into the cooked grub.

The larva was crunchy and then soft. But not squishy. Harnock had fried it in herbs. The herbs were familiar, but there was another odd flavor he couldn’t place. Still, on the whole it tasted surprisingly like . . . beef marrow.

“Lovely,” he said and tossed the grub head away and took another. Then an odd flavor welled up in his mouth and for one second his stomach almost revolted, but he told himself it was beef marrow and crunched on.

“If you like this, you’ll love it when Harnock feeds us properly.”

“I can’t wait,” he said and quickly washed the grub down with water.

River gave him another, and he found that eating these things did take his mind off his pain and the unsettling fact of what had happened back on the hill. He ended up eating two handfuls of the big weevils, then River pulled two dried apricot halves from another sack. She gave one to him and kept the other for herself. The dried apricot was tangy and sweet, and Talen made sure to take tiny bites so he could savor it. When they finished, he felt, oddly enough, quite satisfied. His pain was still there, but it wasn’t as bad.

They waited, became restless, hiked up a bit on the ridge to see if they could get a view of where they’d come, then went back down to the copse.

“Do you think he made it out?” Talen asked. “Do you think the Divine took him?”

“Harnock knows what he’s doing,” she said.

“I hope.”

Something moved through the leaves on the forest floor just down the slope from the two of them, and Talen remembered yet again that these were not like the woods back home. He peered into the trees. Anything at all could be hiding out there in the shadows of the wood. Harnock had said this ridge was at the border of woodikin lands, so it might be a woodikin, maybe even a patrol.

They waited in silence, and whatever it was moved on.

“One of us should be scouting,” River said, “keeping an eye out.”

“Traipsing about would just draw unwanted attention,” Talen replied.

“Can you still look with your other roamlings?” she asked.

He didn’t want to. He didn’t want a repeat with those orange skir. But the two of them were just sitting here like ducks in a pond. “I’ll look,” he said.

He peeked his roamlings out of his wrists. The yellow world opened before him. He looked about for the orange skir, but there were none, so he rose to the tops of the trees in the copse. In the distance, above the wurm vale, the flock of orange skir dove and fought over things they were picking up from the vale below. The souls of dead wurms, Talen thought. Maybe those of dead dreadmen as well.

He realized he had learned firsthand why they called the yellow world perilous. He’d been a fool not to be on guard. And so now, as he rose higher into the sky, he made sure to keep one roamling turning, watching for danger in all directions.

Talen looked down and saw the shapes of what must be birds and squirrels in the blue world. He saw a family of spotted boar rooting about a tree. He did not see any woodikin, nor did he see Harnock. His wound still hurt, and the pain mixed in with his hunger for soul. He thought of Harnock’s earlier comment about smelling River in heat. Talen thought himself not much different, for he could smell River’s soul.

He tried to put it out of his mind and focus on circling their position, keeping an eye out for Harnock or woodikin, but his thought kept turning to the smell of her. His roamlings began to circle a bit closer to her. And he realized that when his roamlings were outside of his body, his hunger for her soul felt sharper, more compelling.

“What do you see?” she asked.

He told her about the animals. His roamlings continued to circle, the hunger looping about him. He needed to eat. Somehow he knew a bit of soul would ease his pain. And yet to eat soul was the very essence of abomination. “I think I’m going to pull them back in,” he said.

As the roamlings came in close, the smell of River’s soul overpowered him, filling him with a desire stronger than it had ever been with Sugar or Black Knee or those rotted goats he’d had to milk. He hesitated, letting the roamlings linger outside himself for a moment, letting them take in the scent of soul like one might stand outside a baker’s oven and smell the bread.

It was lovely.

River put her hand on his shoulder. “You don’t look well,” she said. “Are you okay?”

Her touch was like fire to dry brush, and the desire to rip into her surged. He cried out in alarm and stepped back.

All he had to do was strike. His roamlings moved in close, looped about her. Maybe he could just savor the scent.

“No!” he said and backed up. “Rot and Regret, I will not!”

River stepped forward, concern on her face.

“Stay back!” he shouted. He wanted to rip and tear, but he dragged the roamlings away from her and forced himself to pull them back into his wrists. As he did, the yellow world winked out, and then he slammed his doors shut.

Immediately, the desire lessened, but it did not depart. Not by a long shot.

He panted. What was happening to him?

Something broke a branch in the trees behind them.

They glanced at each other, then snatched up their bows and nocked arrows. Talen scanned the woods.

Another sound.

They both swung their bows in the direction of the sound.

Then Harnock came into view. His fur was matted with sweat, and there was a wild gleam of joy in his eyes.

“Thank the Creators,” River said and lowered her bow. “We were beginning to worry.”

“You think you two could make any more noise?” Harnock asked.

“Did you stop them?” River asked.

“We got at least one of them, and the wurms are now swarming. Most of the time, they’re happy to stay in their holes. But these are riled up. They’re going to be swarming the countryside all around that vale, looking for food and vengeance. What’s more, I have this.” He held up something gray the size and shape of a very small loaf of bread.

Talen and River just looked at it.

“A wurm’s egg,” Harnock said in delight. “It’s going to come in very handy when bargaining with the woodikin.”

The smell of Harnock’s soul wafted over to Talen, and he grimaced.

“What, you don’t like eggs?” Harnock asked and grinned.

“He was attacked by skir,” River said.

“It’s not that,” said Talen.

Harnock waited.

Talen didn’t want to reveal what he’d almost done to River. He was ashamed of it. But he thought of Harnock, blended with a lion. He thought he might not be able to hold back next time. “How do you fight the lion in you? How do you fight its desires?”

“It’s awakening, isn’t it?” Harnock asked. “The thing you’re blended with.”

“I don’t know what’s happening. That’s the whole problem.”

“Every day, you become more the tool they fashioned you to be,” Harnock said.

“I don’t want to be someone’s rotted tool.”

“There is a way out.”

“No,” River said. “We’re going to work through this just like you did. You need to help him.”

Harnock looked over at Talen. “Tell me what happened,” he said.

Talen didn’t want to reveal anything, but what good would keeping it secret do? He sighed. “I can smell Fire and soul.” He took a breath and screwed up his courage. “Just now I almost attacked River. I wanted to tear her apart. I wanted to devour her.” He looked down, ashamed and horrified.

Harnock licked his lips.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Talen asked.

“It is what it is.” Harnock said and put his hand on the hilt of his knife.

“You want to kill me, don’t you?”

“I don’t know, Hogan’s son. Do you want to die?”

“I want to be rid of these desires.”

“The only way to do that is not to become a blend in the first place.”

“A little too late for that,” Talen said. He remembered talking with those in his fist about those who were true sleth. Some had speculated about how fearsome they might be if they consumed the soul of a bear or bull or horse. He now saw how foolish they’d been.

“Surely, there’s something,” River said to Harnock. “You’ve avoided giving into the lion.”

“Have I?” Harnock asked.

“I see a man standing before me.”

“You and Moon,” Harnock said, shaking his head. “You water a plant and feed your animals, and they grow. They multiply. You withhold food and they don’t. There are things that trigger passions. That feed them, urge them on. A man who has been twisted to crave drink, why, the very scent of an ale house awakens his hunger. And so he goes in. He tells himself he doesn’t want to give in. And maybe he doesn’t. But every moment he’s there, he’s looking at the froth, watching the men lick their lips. Every moment he’s there, he undermines that resolve. Every moment he stays, he’s feeding the other part of himself, bit by bit, until his thirst grows into something he has no desire at all to put away. Until it becomes his master. Stay away from the ale house, my abominable friend. Stay away from the things that quicken the passion. That’s what I have to offer you.”

Talen thought about it, but when had he ever fed his desire? It came and went of its own accord. Touch sometimes brought it to life. As did proximity to living things. So how did one avoid life? He didn’t know what triggered it, but he was sure that he had not bidden it to come.

“I haven’t fed this,” said Talen, “but it grows nevertheless.”

“That’s what I would say to Moon. And then she would ask, are you sure? Aren’t you feeding it now by making it out to be a monster? Fear only gives it power. Fear turns you into prey.”

“What kind of mumbo jumbo is that?”

“I don’t know what lives in you, Hogan’s son. I don’t know the nature of this particular thrall. You will have to test it for yourself. Be vigilant, watch for those things that inflame it. Flee them if you must. Do it in the first moments when you still have a choice. Before it rises up and fights to be the master.”

“And if you can’t?”

“Then pray to the Creators and hold on until the desire, sooner or later, crests and passes.”

Hold on? That was his advice? Had Harnock held on when he ate those men? Talen shook his head.

“You don’t have to take the hard road, Hogan’s son.”

“Men do hard things,” River said.

Harnock looked at Talen. “Are you a man?”

“I’m trying.”

“Trying won’t be enough.”

“Trying is the first step toward doing,” River said. “That’s what it means to be a man. A man tries even when he knows he’s got a long road of failure between him and his destination. A man fights.”

“And a woman?” asked Harnock. “What does she do?”

“What she always does,” River said and glowered. “She knocks sense into the men.”

Harnock grunted, then turned to Talen. “Whatever you decide, Hogan’s son, we need to get moving. The wurms will delay the Divine, but they’re not going to stop his crows. We need to disappear while we have the chance.”

“Where are we going?” River asked.

Harnock picked up the sack of larva, pulled out a few and popped them into his mouth. “We’re going to visit some blood-thirsty friends.”

4

Ferrets and Vipers

SUGAR WALKED INTO Shim’s chamber and immediately felt she’d made the wrong choice.

The room was lit only by candles. The windows had been shuttered and a thick drape pulled across so no sound could escape into the bailey. Shim, Eresh, the Creek Widow, and a number of the more powerful dreadmen were there, the candles casting odd shadows behind them. A woman stood at the table in the middle of the room. She had the kind of figure men liked, but her hair had been cut too short and ragged. And while her face might have been beautiful once, it was now crossed with lines and planes of pain and weariness. The woman smiled at Sugar and revealed she was missing a few more teeth than most.

Argoth followed Sugar in and closed the door behind him. “Our eyes arrive,” he said.

There were enough soldiers in the room to make a fist. She spotted Oaks, the only mature dreadman among them, and suspected that these were the men who had been selected to try to break into Blue Towers with her and assassinate the Skir Master.

She shook her head. A fist of men against patrols of dogmen and maulers and Walkers and who knew what else. A fist of men against five legions.

Deep down in the pit of her gut, her misgivings grew. Urban was right: Shim’s army had no chance against the might of Mokad. There was no way this mission could succeed.

Argoth walked up next to her and put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a fatherly squeeze. “As bold as the mother that bore her. She’s going to lead us in.”

Eresh turned the gaze of his one good eye upon her. “She looks like she’s about to faint. Are we really sure we want to trust all of our lives to some weak paste of a girl?”

Despite her misgivings, Sugar bridled at the insult.

“She’s not going into battle,” the Creek Widow said. “She’s going in to ferret.”

“She’s not going to do much ferreting if she wilts along the wayside, is she?”

Sugar spoke. “I’m not going to wilt, Zu.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m Sugar, Sparrow’s daughter. Wilting is not in my blood.”

“It had better not be,” Eresh said. “Because if you fail, we might as well throw our hats onto the water and go stand underneath them. There’s not going to be a second chance. If you fail, Mokad will rise in fury and devour us.”

“I’m Purity’s daughter, and I wear Purity’s weave. I will see us in.”

“Indeed she shall,” said Argoth.

“Perhaps it’s time to bring Flax into our circle,” Shim suggested. “He could be a great asset on this venture.”

“No,” Eresh said. “That is what we must not do. That snake is hiding something. Time after time, he slips my men. Where does he go? Who does he see?”

“He’s a spy,” Shim said.

“He’s more than that, my lord.”

“We don’t need him,” the Creek Widow said. “I can go.”

“You can’t,” Eresh said.

She gave him a withering look. “Do not presume to tell me what I can and can’t do.”

“No,” Argoth said. “He’s right. You know you can’t go. If something goes wrong, you need to bear off the Grove. We have enough dreadmen. We’ll make do. You and Eresh need to be ready.”

Eresh looked over at her and leered. “I’m ready, but is she ready for me?”

She groaned and rolled her eyes.

Eresh grinned. “I think that’s a good sign. I think she’s warming up to me.”

“Indeed,” said Shim, “there are nothing but twinkling stars in her eyes. Now, let us get to the matter at hand.”

Argoth motioned Sugar to the table. Upon it lay a large piece of linen. An outline of the Blue Towers fortress had been sketched upon the linen with charcoal. Argoth turned to the woman. “Let’s go through it again. Explain what you told us to Sugar and the other dreadmen.”

The woman stepped up to the table and pointed at a spot by the river. “Here,” she said through her missing teeth. “The rocks here hide an escape from the lord’s tower. Lord Hash often has guards posted at the corners of the fortress here and here. But there’s a way up the cliff between them.”

Cliff? Sugar thought, and her dread returned.

The woman said, “The way in is across the face above the cliff, into the secret door under the tower, then up to Lord Hash’s room.”

“Do we know how many soldiers accompany the Skir Master?” Oaks asked.

Shim said, “Our eyes say there are at least three thousand stationed in the fortress itself. Thousands more outside.”

A handful of men against an army.

They were going to die. There was no doubt about it. And Urban was going to sail away. And she could have been on that ship, both she and Legs. She could still be on that ship.

Sugar clenched her jaw and focused on her friends here. Focused on the fact that if she fled, all those that remained would die. But if she stayed, if she saw this through, if they could actually eliminate the Skir Master, then the thousands who followed Shim just might have a chance to survive.

She looked at the map. “And where is the Skir Master?”

Argoth pointed at a grand apartment down the hallway from Lord Hash’s chamber. “We’re fairly sure he’s here.”

“Fairly sure?” she asked.

“They are the best rooms in the fortress,” the woman said.

And if the Skir Master hadn’t taken the best rooms, then they’d have to find him in a fortress filled with three thousand dreadmen.

“Right,” said Sugar. “Let’s go through this again.”

They went through it again. And again. They talked about how they would cross the river below the fortress, where they would land, and the trail she needed to look for that would lead them up the steep slope above the cliff. They brought out other maps and talked about the escape. They talked about what to do if they were separated. And when Sugar and the others could recite it all from memory, they let her go to get some rest.

Sugar walked out of Shim’s chambers, down the stairs to the clerk’s table, and out into the sunlit bailey. She blinked in the sunlight.

A normal ferret was sent in to scare up rabbits into the teeth of dogs. But they weren’t sending her in to scare up rabbits. They were sending her into a pit of vipers. Fat vipers that would like nothing better than to swallow her whole.

* * *

Sugar found Legs in their cellar quarters, but the barrels had been moved out. All that was left was their bedding and the ferrets, which she was sure the ferret master would soon be along to pick up.

Legs had been sitting on the bed. He rose. “Where are they sending you? It’s something big, isn’t it?”

She thought about Urban’s comments about traitors in their midst and said, “I’ve been sworn to silence. I’m sorry.”

“Silence with even me?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, then moved over and gave him a hug. She looked down at him, his honest face and wild hair. “I love you, brother.”

“I kind of like you too,” he said.

A beat passed.

“I want to behold your face,” he said. “I want to see your hair. Will you let me try the weave?”

“We talked about this—”

“You might not come back,” he said.

“I need some sleep.”

“Just let me try.”

Everything was high risk, she thought. Why not give him this one thing? She couldn’t come up with a good reason, so she removed the necklace from the pouch she carried about her neck and handed it to him. She yawned. “Follow the thread,” she said, “and find the mouth.”

Legs tried for almost an hour. He found the thread easily enough, but the weave would not accept him. Every time he tried to feed it, he said it seemed to sprout thorns.

He tried once more, then yelped and dropped the weave to the cobbled floor. Tears sprang to his eyes.

“I don’t understand,” he said. He turned to the weave. “Mother, it’s me.”

“I don’t think she can hear you, if it is even her in there at all.”

“Why won’t it accept me?”

“I don’t know,” said Sugar. It was puzzling. “But I’d wager Withers would.”

“You must take me to him.”

She paused, then told him Urban’s opinion of their odds as well as his offer.

When she finished, Legs was disgusted. “Fat lot of good Withers will do us now,” he said. “The cowards.”

“We could join them.”

“What are you talking about?” Legs asked.

“Urban’s not a coward; he’s prudent.”

“He’s running when he’s needed most.”

“A mouse might pip and squeak at a cat, but the cat is still a cat, and the mouse is a fool not to run and hide.”

“Flax is staying as are all his men of the Hand,” Legs said.

“He told you this?”

“He thinks we can win. And I trust that Flax and Argoth and Eresh have experience we don’t.”

“Urban has experience as well,” she said.

Legs sighed in frustration and slumped. “What do I know? I’m just a blind boy. I sing and joke. And while Flax has been nice to me, I’ve no better friend than you, sister. If you think the right course is to run, then I will happily trust your decision. You’ve never led me astray before.”

“Oh? Not even that one time when I led you into that patch of thistle so I could ditch you?”

“Well,” he said.

Sugar reached out and stroked his hair, then held him close.

Her misgivings about her choice to stay and fight this fight had not gone away. If anything, her doubts had increased. She knew if she failed, she would lose Legs. And it wouldn’t be just to death.

In death, the soul separated from the flesh and was then free to find one of the Ways that led to the brightness of the Creators. Such a soul would face all manner of peril. But if that soul could overcome or elude the dangers it encountered in that new world, it would be gathered into the company of the ancestors.

With death there was possibility. But she was not walking toward death. She’d seen the skir collect the souls for their masters. She’d heard the horn. She’d felt it call to her. She knew what awaited her in Blue Towers if she did not come back alive. She was walking toward oblivion. They all were.

“It’s just my luck,” Legs said, “to lose the one man who can help me precisely when I need him the most.”

“There might be others who have similar wisdom.”

“I wanted to walk,” Leg said. “If I die, how will I even know what you look like to find you? How will I find Mother and Da?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But we know one thing: there will be no finding anybody if Mokad is allowed to continue its harvest of the land.” The image of the souls trapped like flies in the hair along the bellies of the horrible golden skir rose in her.

She picked the weave up off the floor. “Don’t give up. I’m sure it just takes some practice.”

“Maybe Flax knows,” Legs said. “Maybe Withers isn’t the only one who can help.”

“Maybe,” Sugar said.

Next to them, one of the ferrets woke and yawned, showing its sharp fangs.

Sugar yawned as well. “I need a little bit of a nap,” she said. “Will you make sure I’m not disturbed?”

Legs rose. “I’ll slay anyone who tries to enter with my vast wit and charm.”

Sugar slipped her candidate’s weave over her arm to multiply her rest and fell asleep as soon as she hit the pillow.

5

Spiderhawks

ABOUT A MILE from the white ridge beyond the wurm vale, Harnock halted at a rock face that wept clear water. Talen slurped a number of mouthfuls of the sweet and cold water off the rock, then found a spot where the water dripped off a ledge, unstopped his waterskin, and began to fill it.

Harnock retrieved more of his cooked grubs. He didn’t eat them one by one, but took a handful and tossed them in his mouth, chewing them, bead heads and all, like a normal person might eat a handful of nuts. “This was Moon’s recipe,” he said. “Nobody made them better.”

Talen was going to say that was because nobody else made them at all, but he kept his mouth shut.

“What about the crows?” asked River.

“If those two pests find us, the woodikin have birds that can deal with them,” said Harnock. His fur was damp with sweat, and Talen could smell him in the breeze. He was pungent. He didn’t smell as strongly as a wet dog or horse, but he smelled. Talen wondered if Harnock bathed like a man or a cat. The ridiculous image of Harnock licking himself with that rough tongue made Talen smile.

“What’s so funny?” Harnock asked.

“Nothing,” Talen said. “I’m just in shock. Here I am in the Wilds, eating grubs with a sleth who stirs up wurms for entertainment.”

Harnock grunted. “You keep that smile off your face when we meet with the woodikin. There’s more than grubs they like to eat.”

“I’ll be sober as a cow,” said Talen. “And when we’re done, even if you don’t want our gratitude, we will repay your efforts.”

“You’ll bring back my peace and solitude, will you?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Harnock looked at River and shook his head. “If anyone gets us killed,” he said, “it’ll be that one.”

“Give him a chance,” said River.

“He’s hopeless,” Harnock said. “But you”—he reached out and took her gently by the jaw as if appreciating a flower—“you’re another matter.”

River politely, but firmly moved his hand away. “We should get moving,” she said.

Harnock grunted, then turned to his pack. “Indeed.”

Talen said, “I don’t understand why we’re running from them. You’re more powerful than any dreadman. More powerful than that Divine.”

Harnock shook his head. “You know nothing, Hogan’s son.”

“Then educate me.”

In the distance a squirrel chittered.

Harnock batted a horsefly away from the back of his arm. “The lion is strong. He’s changed everything. My skin, my eyes, the power of my nostrils. He turned my muscles and sinews into iron. I can do things no man, no dreadman could ever dream of. Lumen wanted brawn and brains, cunning and ruthlessness. And he got it. He figured it out, something few Divines have managed, although he killed plenty of us before he twisted me. But as strong as this twist is, I was his creature. The Divines always work something into a thrall to bind what they’ve wrought, to keep it in their control. Which is why I cannot fight this Nashrud. He’ll know my weakness. He’ll know how to pick up my chain. And then it won’t matter—man or lion, I will not be my own. And neither will you.”

“Nashrud didn’t enthrall me.”

“He didn’t have to. Where were you going to run? What were you going to do? He was probably forbidden to make you his thrall. In fact, I’m sure of it. You were destined to be at the end of someone else’s chain.”

“Can’t you fight a thrall?”

“I’ve tried closing my doors, but there’s something in the weave of the tattoos.” He pulled back the fur at his neck to reveal a tattoo there. He held out his wrist. “Neck, chest, wrist—it doesn’t matter. They enter the flesh there. That’s what a thrall does. It comes in, inserts itself into you, mind and soul, and takes command.”

Harnock’s wrists were tattooed in the normal Koramite fashion, but there were scars all over them. “Are those scars part of your thrall?”

“When Lumen had me, I thought if I could break the pattern of the tattoo, I could break his control, but the tattoo is not just ink. The thrall weave grows deep, all the way down to the bone. You can’t just cut it out. I’ve tried.”

Talen looked down at his own wrists. Harnock was right. The tattoos weren’t just brands—they were living things. And his had been changing, growing.

River spoke. “You have to wonder why the Divines seed every child with them. We’re not all thralls. So what other purpose do they serve?”

Harnock shrugged. “There are insects like the weem that lay their eggs in the bodies of their prey. Is that what the Divines are doing for their masters? Or is it something else? I don’t know.”

“Surely, there has to be a way to diminish a thrall’s power,” Talen said.

“Distance,” said Harnock. “For some reason, the pull lessens when the distance between the master and thrall increases, but it doesn’t disappear altogether.”

“But you broke Lumen’s thrall upon you.”

“Lumen wasn’t my direct master. Mine was a lazy-eyed priest Lumen had chosen. One day he choked on a hard bit of bread. Choked good and died. When he did, the link broke, and I ran. And because Lumen could not catch me, he could not shackle me with his own fetter.”

“But the Devourer said I was not a thrall. She said thralls were only good to be used and then devoured.”

“And you believed that creature? Why create a blend if you cannot control it? Do not deceive yourself. You’re a horse, all bridled and saddled up, waiting for a rider. Somewhere, something wants to take hold of the reins to your soul. And the best thing to do is avoid them.”

Talen and River finished filling their waterskins. When he hung his over his shoulder, a bird’s shadow passed over the rock. Talen looked up, expecting to see the crows, but saw a vulture high up instead.

“We’re getting close now to some woodikin orchards,” Harnock said. “Don’t take anything. Don’t say or do anything unless I tell you. Do you understand?”

Talen and River nodded.

“This tribe owes me. I’ll get you through their lands, and then you’re on your own.”

“Why don’t you come back with us, back to the settlements?” River asked.

Harnock looked at her. “Why don’t you stay with me instead?”

“This is the Grove’s moment,” River replied.

“No man will make you happier,” Harnock said.

“War is not the time to wed.”

Harnock shook his head. “Come on, then. Time to meet some grub-eating friends.”

They set off at a pace that was fast, but Talen’s Fire was responding better now, and he was able to keep up.

Talen had never seen a woodikin. Decades ago, woodikin and humans had spilled much of each other’s blood when the first settlers came to the New Lands. It was said that when you killed one woodikin, you obligated whole tribes and families to come after you. But they never really fought in open formal battle. Instead, the woodikin loved to ambush. They’d surprise a company of men, attacking from tree tops, sending in swarms of hornets and wasps. They’d sneak in at night with their poison darts and stone knives and murder you as you slept. But they’d mostly destroyed farms and crops, killed cattle, absconded with chickens, and sometimes children. There was a two-year stretch in that long war when the early settlers, having been starved nearly to death, had almost lost.

But with the coming of a Divine, the woodikin were beaten back, and the hostilities ceased. A line had been drawn and marked with the giant border obelisks. Woodikin and humans were to have no contact unless approved by the Divine. Only a few families were given charters to trade, and most of these were temporary. Furthermore, the families were allowed to trade only with the Orange Slayer woodikin, the most powerful tribe.

Talen and River followed Harnock for perhaps another mile or three, but Talen couldn’t tell for sure because the Wilds were nothing more than an endless puzzle of hills, ravines, and hollows. Distance was hard to gauge. As they ran, his anticipation grew. He was about to be one of the few humans to ever see the woodikin in their tree villages.

They crossed yet another creek, walked partway up a gentle wooded slope, and then Harnock stopped. “We’re here,” he said.

Talen looked around. This didn’t look like any orchard. “I thought the woodikin ate bugs.”

“They eat a lot of things,” said Harnock, “but they love tango nuts. They farm them just as we farm carrots or apples.”

Talen had been expecting neat rows, but this didn’t look any different than the rest of the woods. Then he saw a regularity of one type of tree growing among all the others.

Harnock pointed. “The woodikin have paths up there. You see the other trees between the tango nuts. They use the branches as walkways.”

Now that he’d pointed it out, Talen did see them. The closer Talen looked, the more signs he saw of cultivation. He even saw ropes and a platform up in one of the bridge trees. A number of wooden collars ringed some of the trees’ trunks. Talen asked what they were for, and was told they were there to keep other animals from climbing up and getting the fruit.

Talen remembered River saying that Moon was a smuggler. “You trade with them despite the restrictions, don’t you?”

“You think I’m going to follow the law set down by some Mokaddian Divine?”

“That’s how you made a living with your wife, smuggling woodikin goods outside.”

Harnock gave him a look and said nothing.

Talen continued, “Which means you’ve got a contact out on the coast. But I thought you didn’t want to get close to the settlements. I thought you said that was dangerous.”

Harnock looked at River. “Does he always talk this much?”

“Yes,” she said.

Harnock grunted, then said, “Follow me, and keep quiet.” Then he began to walk up through the orchard.

As they walked, Talen spotted many more ropes and platforms in the distance and realized the orchard was large, even if it wasn’t kept in the fashion of the clans. And they didn’t have to walk far before Talen saw his first woodikin. The creature sat high up in a tree, watching them. It was hairy, but wore some kind of tunic and carried a small bow. It had a mane of white fur.

Harnock shouted up to it in a language Talen did not understand. The woodikin blew a whistle of sorts, then continued to watch them.

“What do we do now?” asked Talen.

“We wait. There will be some discussion and barter, but this tribe of Orange Slayers owes me. They’ll give us passage through the borders of their tanglewood and out to the other side.”

The woodikin tribes and nations named themselves for various things. There were the Long-bodies, Bear Eaters, Toadmen, and dozens of others. The Orange Slayers were named after a giant hornet with an orange head. The hornet sometimes grew as long as a man’s palm and had a wing span of almost five inches. They looked like sparrows when they flew. Everyone knew about orange slayers and their dagger stings—it’s what the woodikin had sent against the humans in the old wars.

Which was why the clans destroyed their nests whenever they were found. In the old wars, some of the Koramite settlers had died from the stings, but in battle the woodikin wasp lords had used them more to strike fear in the hearts of their enemies, distracting them, injuring them, breaking their lines, making it easy for the woodikin warriors to pick them off. How the woodikin controlled the wasps, nobody knew.

Talen himself had seen the bodies of a small nest of wild orange slayers. A farmer had destroyed the nest at night by knocking it into a large barrel of water, putting a lid on it, and drowning the creatures. Afterwards, the farmer had cooked some up for eating and sold others for a fine price. At the time, the sight of the wasps’ large bodies and stingers and powerful-looking jaws had filled Talen with dread. He couldn’t imagine facing a swarm of thousands of the creatures. The old settlers had worn thick clothing and special hats with netting as defenses, but even those sometimes failed. Talen had nothing of the sort here—just his tunic and trousers. Furthermore, his head, neck, arms, and feet were bare. He began to feel very exposed.

“What do we do if they send their hornets at us?” Talen asked.

“We run,” said Harnock.

Talen looked at River in alarm.

“Relax,” River said. “I doubt they use wasp lords to protect orchards.”

“Not unless they’re expecting a raid from an enemy tribe,” said Harnock. “We’re very close to Spiderhawk territory.”

“Spiderhawks?” Talen asked.

“Another tribe, named after the black wasps that attack large spiders and drag them down into their holes.”

An insect flew by, and Talen jumped, but it was just a plain old fly.

Above them the woodikin made more calls. Flute-like whistles responded from deeper within the forest. A look of concern crossed Harnock’s face. He yelled up to the woodikin watching them from above. His voice seemed full of anger.

The woodikin yelled back down.

“He says we’re thieves, and that we are now property of their queen,” said Harnock.

“We didn’t touch anything,” said Talen.

“Of course, we didn’t,” said Harnock.

In the tops of the branches in the distance, a troop of woodikin moved into view. They were carrying sticks. Then Talen realized they weren’t sticks. They were blow pipes. The woodikin were famous for their poison darts.

Talen increased his Fire.

Harnock yelled up at the woodikin again. They exchanged a number of words. Then Harnock grimaced. All the while, the troop of armed woodikin came closer. “He says to give up the boy, and our debt will be paid.”

“You can’t be serious,” said Talen.

“It’s tempting,” Harnock said.

“What would woodikin want with Talen?” asked River.

“Woodikin like human slaves,” said Harnock. “It’s a status thing. They might put him to work on the ground in their orchards. Or turn him into a pack animal and make him haul things about. But my bet is they’d use him in their weapons practice. They’d pit their ring warriors against him in a spectacle. He’d be released when he was dead.”

“Ring warriors?” Talen asked.

“You ever wonder why the woodikin stay out of our lands? It’s not just the threat of Skir Masters blowing their hornets away. Mokad buys them off with weaves of might.”

“They have dreadmen?” Talen asked.

“Some, but they also use the weaves for healing.”

“Do they give weaves to all the tribes?”

“Oh, no. Just the Orange Slayers. It’s what keeps the Orange Slayers in power, and the other tribes in submission.”

The woodikin above them yelled down again.

“They want the boy,” Harnock said.

River said, “This isn’t about slaves and spectacles, is it? Could they know about Talen? Could they have been sent word?”

“How would they have gotten word?”

“The crows?” River offered. “A patrol?”

“Gah,” Harnock said and sighed in frustration.

“That troop is getting close,” Talen said.

“You think I can’t see?” Harnock growled.

The woodikin yelled down at them again.

Harnock replied with a strange arm gesture.

“What was that?” asked Talen.

“That’s how woodikin say ‘I’m going to eat your grandmother’s brain you worthless bird-copulator.’”

“That’s a lot for one gesture,” Talen said.

The woodikin in the tree answered by bringing up its small bow and letting loose one if its shafts.

They all scrambled for cover. Talen darted behind a tree. Harnock behind another. The short arrow thocked into the tree a few inches from Harnock’s hand.

“Hogan’s son,” Harnock said, “you are a massive boil on my arse.”

“That wasn’t my strategy,” Talen replied.

“I don’t think boils have strategies,” Harnock said. “They just are.”

“We can talk about beauty treatments later,” River said. “I think now’s the time for an exit.”

“Those rotted hairy blighters,” Harnock said. “I healed their chief tree warrior. They’re going to pay.”

“Not now,” said River. “And don’t you think of sending us out on our own. We have no idea where to run.”

“We’re running down to the river,” Harnock said. “Now, stick close. This is going to be tight.” Then he bolted back down the path. River followed. Talen ran after them. He glanced back at the woodikin only to realize the creature had loosed another arrow. He tried to jump out of the way, but was too late. The arrow sank into the pack on his back. If it hadn’t been for the folded-up blanket inside, he was sure it would have gone all the way through. Talen’s heart thumped in his throat.

Talen had already multiplied himself beyond what he was used to with the candidate weave. But he was not going to be left behind. He increased his Fire. Then increased it a bit more, and flew down the gentle slope, dodging past the trees, trying to catch up to Harnock and River.

Behind them, the woodikin began shouting and hooting, blowing their whistles, filling the trees with noise. A number began to run along the branches after them, sometimes making great leaps from one branch to the next.

Talen caught up to River, the packs and quivers jostling about him, and broke from the last tango nut tree to a clearing by a creek.

Harnock stood ready with a sling and a number of stones the size of bird eggs.

“Should I string the bows?” Talen asked.

“Run,” Harnock said. “Follow the creek to the river!”

River sprinted along the creek trail. Talen followed.

Behind them, Harnock yelled something in woodikin and slung his first stone. The stone whistled through the air. Moments later a woodikin cried out.

“Maggot bird-lovers,” Harnock said and slung another stone.

River and Talen whipped through branches and brush. Harnock and his insults faded behind them; however, the hoots of the woodikin in the woods grew more numerous. There was the original troop back where Harnock was, but a new group began shouting up the slope to the right. Another blew whistles somewhere else in the forest. That group was farther away, but it didn’t take any great brains to know that the woodikin were trying to get ahead of them and cut them off.

They flew down the trail for what must have been a quarter of a mile, the hoots and hollering of the woodikin growing. Then the creek emptied into a river that was maybe fifty yards across.

River charged into it, splashing in water that came up to her calves. Talen followed. The bottom here was a shelf of stone, and the small rocks that lay on top of it hurt his feet.

Talen had only run halfway into the river when something splashed into the water behind them. He glanced back, and saw Harnock high-stepping it through the water.

The calls of the woodikin grew close. A number leapt in the heights of the trees behind Harnock. Talen picked up his pace. Suddenly, River sank under the surface. A moment later she bobbed back up again. Then he too came to the end of the rock shelf and the bottom dropped out from underneath him. He tried to keep the bows high, but plunged beneath the cold current.

The river ran much faster here in the channel and carried him along. He kicked and broke the surface, shrugged out of his pack. Soon it and the wicker quivers would fill with water and begin to drag on him.

In front of him, River pushed her pack along as she swam. Then one of the wicker quivers broke free, floating away. He turned to swim after it, but Harnock yelled from behind. “Let it go!”

A short arrow zipped into the water not two yards from where Talen labored. Back on the bank of the river, woodikin poured out of the wood and charged out into the water.

Talen kicked as hard as he could, and swam for the far bank. The earth there was shorn away by the current. But there were plenty of exposed tree roots and shrubbery to grab onto. Ahead of him, River grabbed a thick root and pulled herself out of the cold water. Then she jumped to her feet and immediately strung her bow. A short woodikin arrow snicked into the brush by her. Others cut into the water next to Talen.

She fetched out three arrows, gave them a sharp tap to knock the water out of the feathers, then nocked one, drew, and released. The feathers and bow string were still wet, and the arrow didn’t fly as hard or as straight as it should have.

River moved to the side, refusing to give them a stationary target and shot another arrow. Two more arrows snicked into the brush beside her.

Talen kicked hard for the bank. He wanted a tree root and aimed for one, but the current was too fast. He missed and got a handful of scrub instead. He pulled on it, but it broke away in his hands, and he splashed back down into the water. He grabbed another handful of branches, and this time felt a shove from behind as Harnock sent him flying up and over the edge.

Talen rolled in the bushes with his packs and quiver. He turned to help Harnock up, but Harnock was already heaving himself out of the water. “Into the trees!” he bellowed.

River and Talen turned and sped up the bank.

Behind Harnock the woodikin raced across the shallow portion of the river.

“Keep going!” Harnock yelled.

An arrow struck the quiver Talen held in his hand. Another came flying for him, and he dodged, then ran for the wall of thick foliage at the top of the river’s bank. He scrambled up through the trees a number of yards, then plowed into River who was standing frozen.

In front of her, three dozen woodikin were arrayed in a semicircle with bows up and ready to be drawn, ready to release a flurry of what surely were poisoned arrows.

Most of these woodikin were a lighter brown than those in the orchard. Some had the white mane. Others had two white streaks that ran up the neck and rose to a point on either side of their heads. They wore necklaces of feathers and some type of breast armor made of wooden and metal slats sewn onto leather.

Harnock crashed up behind Talen. “What are you doing?” he growled in anger.

“Um,” Talen said and pointed at the woodikin.

Harnock stopped.

There were too many woodikin behind them crossing the river. Too many bows in front pointed at their chests.

A woodikin who was bedecked in a collar encrusted with iridescent jewel bugs hooted once loudly and made a hand gesture. The line of woodikin immediately yelled and raced forward.

Talen drew his knife and took a defensive position. There was no way they were going to survive this. Not unless Harnock truly was a nightmare. But Harnock put his hand on Talen’s shoulder and pulled him back.

The woodikin streamed around Talen and the others toward the river. They disappeared into the brush. Moments later the cries and barks of the woodikin changed in pitch, then turned into a racket as this new woodikin troop began to engage the one on the other side of the river.

Talen turned back around. A dozen woodikin remained where Talen had first spotted them.

“You!” said the leader and pointed at Harnock. “Today you are lucky.” He spoke his Mokaddian with such a thick accent and different cadence that Talen could barely make out what he was saying.

“No,” Harnock said.

“Yes,” said the woodikin. “Today you owe plenty.”

Harnock let out a sigh. “Lords and lice,” he said.

“Who is he?” asked Talen.

“A Spiderhawk,” said Harnock. “Sworn enemy of the Orange Slayers.”

“That sounds good,” said Talen.

“Unless you’re a human,” said Harnock, “because then all they really want to do is eat your liver.”

6

Tanglewood

THE COLD RIVER water dripped out of Talen’s saturated clothes and onto the ground. His Fire raged. He’d multiplied himself far beyond where he’d ever gone. He was ready to attack. Ready to flee. He said, “How are we going to get out of this?”

“We?” asked Harnock. “I’m not human; they’re not looking to eat my liver.”

“Harnock,” River reprimanded.

“I don’t know if I can save even you,” Harnock said to her. “So be quiet.”

Down by the river, the fighting broke off, and it sounded like the Orange Slayers were retreating to the bank on the far side. In front of Talen, the Spiderhawk woodikin leader folded his arms. He swayed from side to side, thinking. His collar was resplendent with the shining carapaces of a multitude of jewel bugs that glistened in lines of turquoise, gold, and green.

“You will come with us,” said the leader. “You fight, we will kill you.”

“We will not fight,” said Harnock.

“You try to escape, we will kill you.”

“We will not try,” Harnock said. “We will talk of trade.”

“Yes,” the leader said. “You owe plenty.”

The leader said something in woodikin, and three of the soldiers walked forward with cords.

“Let them bind you,” said Harnock.

The three woodikin came forward, teeth bared, moving with a smooth grace. These wore necklaces strung with the bodies of jewel bugs and the fat pincers of black, tree scorpions. Talen expected the woodikin to stink, but they smelled vaguely of pine.

The woodikin bound Talen’s hands behind his back. They did the same to the others. Then they searched them all and took their packs. One of the woodikin found the wurm’s egg Harnock had stolen, and the other woodikin soldiers chirped a loud approval. The woodikin leader came forward, took the egg, and smiled.

When the other woodikin finished searching the trio and their belongings, the leader walked up to Talen. A long white moustache fell past both edges of his mouth to his jaw. Three rings pierced one of his ears. He stood only as high as Talen’s chest, but he was thick-limbed, powerfully built.

He slapped Talen’s chest, prodded his belly, felt his arms. He walked around behind and prodded him where his liver would be and pinched him as if gauging his quality. He shouted something in woodikin. The other woodikin hooted soft and low.

“What did he say?” asked Talen.

“He said they’d probably have to make jerky out of you to make you palatable.”

“Yes,” Talen said addressing the leader. “I’m very bad meat.”

The leader struck Talen in the side, the pain sending Talen to one knee.

“You will be quiet,” said the leader.

“Chot,” said Harnock inclining his head in respect. “He is a stupid boy.”

“So says the man-lion,” said the leader. His face curled in disgust. “The friend of the Orange Slayers.”

“I would be a Spiderhawk friend,” said Harnock.

“Ssa!” said the woodikin and held up his hand for Harnock to be quiet. “You will run now. And you will not try to escape.”

* * *

Talen and the others did run. Their path followed a worn trail that took them deeper into the Wilds. Before and behind them loped the woodikin warriors, sometimes on two legs, sometimes using their long arms as a third and fourth leg. As they ran, other troops appeared out of the woods and joined them until it seemed the woods and trees surged with Spiderhawks.

River stumbled once, tumbling into the dust. Harnock told the woodikin she was sick, but the Spiderhawks didn’t care. They hauled her to her feet and prodded her until she was running again as fast as they had gone before. They led their captives up and down hills, along hollows. As they ran the miles, Talen’s bindings chafed. And because he couldn’t move his arms freely, they began to fall asleep.

They skirted a small lake where a group of woodikin fished with nets. After the lake, the woods changed, showing more signs of cultivation and more woodikin. More than he would have imagined.

The group ran alongside a large tango nut orchard, woodikin high up in the trees shouting down to the troop that hustled Talen and the others along. Talen’s thirst and hunger grew. He kept waiting for a chance to escape, for Harnock to do something, but he realized their best chance had been at the river. So he diminished his Fire until it was elevated just enough for him to keep up with the troop.

And that was another puzzling thing. The woodikin ran with great speed, but didn’t seem to be multiplied. He looked for signs of lore, but none of the woodikin wore anything that remotely looked like a weave. They were running under their own power.

Above him, a woodikin took a flying leap from the fat branch of a large tree. The branch was at least twenty feet off the ground, but the woodikin landed with a roll and was immediately up and running. He saw another younger, smaller woodikin do the same not one minute later.

Talen was astounded. What human could match that without being multiplied? He ran on, pondering the strength of these creatures.

The autumn wind blew through the woods and swirled a light rain of bright fluttering leaves upon them. Soon the trail widened into a main thoroughfare. Up ahead in the distance, a huge mass of giant trees rose above the rest of the forest. The tree trunks were dark at the bottom but lightened as they rose until the wood at the top seemed white. The leaves were a deep blue green. The span of their branches stretched out dozens of yards on either side.

“A tanglewood,” said River.

“Aye,” said Harnock.

Talen was in awe. He’d known tanglewoods were supposed to be large, but this one looked like it stretched a mile wide, maybe more. And each of the trees reached hundreds of feet into the air. Some tribes of woodikin lived in burrows in the ground. But the majority of woodikin lived in towns built in the giant tanglewood trees. The trees were evergreen, but not of the pine family. Instead, their leaves were flat and arranged into large fan shapes. At one time, mature tanglewoods had existed out on the coast in the human lands, but after the wars with the woodikin ended, the Divines had ordered them cut down. Ever since that time, every Mokaddian and Koramite was duty bound to chop down any tanglewood tree they found. Over the decades, tanglewood trees had become scarce in the settled lands.

Talen avoided a stone in the path. He said, “Is this a major tanglewood?”

“The Spiderhawks are a powerful tribe,” said Harnock. “Their territory stretches past the southern end of the clan lands. They have five tanglewoods. This is their largest; it’s the queen’s seat.”

“How many woodikin live here?”

“Ten, twenty thousand,” said Harnock.

The woodikin leader smacked Talen with a rod. “Ssa!” he said. “You will be quiet.”

Talen shut his mouth and looked down at the ground, running with his hands still tied behind his back.

The leader said, “You will go to the queen, then I will get you, skinman. I will make your hide into fine leather. This winter you will keep me warm.” Then he hooted and ran to the head of the warriors.

Wonderful, Talen thought, watching the leader’s back. I hope my skin gives you enough for shirt and trousers. He looked over at River, but she appeared not to have heard the brief exchange. She was tiring. He wanted to comfort her, but didn’t dare open his mouth.

They continued to follow the wide thoroughfare toward the tanglewood. As they approached, more woodikin flocked to the sides of the roads to view them. Only then did the leader slow the procession. Then the forest gave way to patches of open land.

Talen had not expected the woodikin to farm, but autumn fields and gardens surrounded the tanglewood. However, the gardens were planted in clumps and masses, not in straight lines like those of the Clans.

Up ahead, a few dozen woodikin worked on the side of the road braiding ropes. In a tree above the braiders, small woodikin children played some game that involved a pig bladder. As Talen jogged past, he saw the children were no taller than the calf of his leg. A bit farther down the road, they passed a group of woodikin pulling crocks out of a large clay oven. The crocks were stuffed with some kind of baked insect. One of the woodikin there wore a shawl of feathers, black at the shoulders and white below. All over the fields hundreds of woodikin worked.

Talen was amazed at what he was seeing. He’d never imagined there were so many bloodthirsty brutes just beyond the borders. Of course, he could see why few who ventured deep into the Wilds ever came back to tell the tale.

A cluster of eight smaller tanglewood trees stood off the side of the road. Talen and the others jogged under the shade of the soaring branches. Each tree was of a different height, the dark bark running to white high above. Ropes and odd bridges connected many branches.

The main tree in this tiny tangle was immense. Twelve people might hold hands and still not reach around its circumference. A small flock of birds wheeled around the upper portion of the tree, but he could not see the top. He was trying to gauge how far up the birds were, when a woodikin leapt out of the tanglewood tree into the air.

“Goh,” he said.

Talen waited for the woodikin to plummet to its death. A twenty foot drop was one thing, but that woodikin had to be over a hundred feet in the air. However, the woodikin didn’t fall. It extended its arms and legs and, with some fabric that made it look like a flying squirrel, glided to a platform on another tree.

“Did you see that?” Talen asked.

“They weave those wings from some kind of silk,” said Harnock. “And so woodikin can, for short distances, fly.”

Talen was astounded yet again.

They continued forward, moving beyond the small tangle, woodikin coming to get a look at them. Some tried to throw things at Talen and the others, but the troop leader hollered at them, and the hazing stopped. They crossed a stream, then proceeded up the road leading to the massive tanglewood.

The shouts and hoots of many creatures came from the tanglewood. A flock of birds wheeled about the canopy of leaves. In the heights, woodikin moved along ropes and platforms that led between lines of small, low huts that were cantilevered out from a number of thick branches. In the higher branches of the tanglewood, all was light and activity. Below on the ground was different. The thick tangle of branches above crowded out the light, plunging the floor of the wood into a deep gloom, allowing very little to grow there.

Talen and the others came to the outer edge of the wood, and the leader halted them. The many woodikin who had continued to follow them gathered around, watching. The woodikin troop leader yelled at the crowd. He yelled again, and the crowd moved back.

The lowest branches of this part of the tanglewood soared forty feet above the ground. Woodikin on one of the largest branches threw down a dozen ropes that were knotted every foot or so. A number of the warriors that had captured Talen and the others began to swarm up the ropes.

The leader watched them climb, then produced a knife and turned to Talen and the others. He licked his lips. “You will climb,” he said. “You will follow me. If you run, I will kill you. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Harnock.

“Agreed?” the leader prompted again, looking at Talen and River.

“Agreed,” Talen and River both said.

The leader bared his teeth, stroked his long moustache, then walked up to each of them and untied their bonds. He stepped back, watching them as if he expected them to run.

Talen rolled his back and shoulders. He rubbed his wrists where the cords had bit into them and swung his arms trying to get the feeling back into his fingers. He was parched. His spittle had dried at the corners of his mouth and around his lips. “Do you have water?” he asked the leader.

“You will not speak,” said the leader. “You will climb.”

Talen’s tongue was sticking to the roof of his dry mouth. But he didn’t want to provoke the leader. Nor did he want to fall. So despite his thirst, he began to increase his Fire.

“Up,” said the leader and motioned toward the branch.

Harnock motioned for Talen and River to take a rope.

Talen grabbed one that was close; he grasped the knots with his hands, pressed down on others with the soles of his feet, and began to climb. The leader watched them for a while, then took another rope. Like the other woodikin, he seemed to race up the rope with great ease. He beat Talen to the top and climbed onto the wide branch just as Harnock did.

Talen climbed onto the branch, then turned to help River up. She was sweating and grimacing and clearly not yet fully recovered from her brush with death.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She gritted her teeth. “I’ll make it,” she said.

But he took her hand anyway to keep her from falling.

The top of the fat tree branch was lined with a crisscrossed runner of thin rope, almost like a long mat. As they walked, he became grateful for the traction it provided. There were also guide ropes looped through small sturdy branches that seemed to have been grown just for that purpose. However, the guide ropes were built for woodikin and were too low to use without crouching.

Talen looked down at the ground forty feet below and the crowd of woodikin looking up at them. Hundreds of feet above, woodikin traversed rope bridges and branches. It made him dizzy, and he focused on the branch in front of him.

“Come,” said the leader.

They followed the fat branch to the trunk of the massive tree, walked straight through a tunnel to the other side and followed another branch leading away. The branches did indeed tangle, growing from one tree to the next, wrapping and intertwining. However, it appeared that the growth wasn’t haphazard. There was an order to it. In the distance a perfectly arched bridge spanned a gap in the tanglewood. The arched bridge was still alive with greenery. In fact, the whole length was covered with living wood that had been trained into lattices.

They came to a branch that sloped from the lower branch to a higher one. Rope mats lined the surface. Guide posts grew out of the sides to hold the safety ropes. There were also bumps protruding at even intervals along the upper length of the branch. They weren’t blocky human stairs, but the leader and the other woodikin scrambled up the branch using them as steps. Talen and the others followed.

They traveled along another branch that split, up a bridge, across another branch, up a rope, another bridge—always up. Talen was sweating and panting from the climb. He watched River, making sure she didn’t stumble.

They finally joined a wide road, formed where numerous branches from two parallel curving lines of trees met. The road was wide and flat on the top, wide enough for ten woodikin to run abreast with ease. Supporting branches grew in arches above the road. Branches acting as struts grew up to it from beneath. As before, the rope mats lined the wood walkway although the rope here was more worn. He looked over the side of the railing to the gloom below. They were at least a hundred and fifty feet in the air.

Half of him was scared to death of what the woodikin might do to them. But the other half looked about in wonder at what the woodikin did with their tanglewood trees. From the outside, he’d expected all to be a dense wild tangle, like a huge briar. But here it was all graceful order. Great open spaces reached to the the sky and let in the light. There were houses, walkways, flowers and fronds growing in the crooks of limbs, and other plants growing into the flesh of the tanglewood tree itself. Tree limbs had been trained into a variety of shapes.

He passed a branch that led away from this main road to a line of huts standing perhaps twenty yards away on another branch. The huts had been, not built, but grown from a curving lattice of limbs and daubed with something to make them tight. A small flock of bright red and white birds perched atop a limb that grew out of one of the houses. They startled and took flight.

To the side of another house grew a knot of branches. A small woodikin child played among them. As they walked, the sound of odd pipes or flutes carried to them from the distance as did the hoots and chattering of other woodikin.

They finally came to the massive trunk of a tree and stopped. In the crook of a branch was a dry oval basin. Wooden cups were tied to the railing. The leader unplugged a tube that was embedded into the bark of the tree above the dry basin. Water flowed out of the tube. He filled his cup and drank. There were four other tubes. The warriors unplugged these and drank as well. Talen wondered how much water moved up and down the length of such a massive tree.

Talen tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. He despaired that the leader would refuse them a drink, but when all the warriors had finished, the leader motioned Talen and the others forward.

Talen took the cup from the leader’s hand and filled it. The sap was clear and fluid as water, but when he drank it, there was a slight bitter and leafy taste to it. Nevertheless, it was cool and felt wonderful on his throat.

He went to fill his cup again, but the leader plugged the tube.

Talen bowed. “Thank you,” he said, wanting so much to beg him to unplug the tube again.

The leader glared at him. “You will move.”

Talen and the others continued along this wide road, deeper and deeper into the wood, until they came to a place where an oval gap in the trees stretched at least fifty yards across. On the ground at the bottom way below, a few woodikin tended a small herd of spotted boar. From there to the top of the tanglewood, the branches of the trees surrounding the gap were filled with woodikin structures. Many were larger than the huts he’d seen to this point. However one at the top stood out from all the rest.

Up another level from Talen, at the top of a gigantic tree, grew a building five times the size of any of the others. Its limbs had been trained into graceful whirls and fanciful shapes. There was a wildcat, a bear, a flock of birds, a snake, and one bough that wrapped around the whole thing that looked like a trailing swarm of wasps. Flowers and vines grew from crooks and crannies, trailing down into the air below, although some had turned brown with the change in season.

Armed woodikin stood on platforms below and around this building. The only path to the entrance was to follow a short bridge, wide enough for only one person, to a platform, and then a wider path from that first platform to another at the front of the house.

The leader left them and ascended to the house. As they waited, Talen listened to an odd but beautiful tune being played on some kind of flute in the distance with drums and then to a noisy flock of birds that flew into a tree only to rush out again.

The leader soon returned. He said, “You will put your hands behind your backs.”

Talen and the others did so. The leader bound them tightly with cords. “When you see the Great Queen, you will go upon the floor. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Talen and the others.

The leader grunted and walked up the bridge to the first platform. Harnock and River followed. Talen brought up the rear, but with his hands tied behind his back, it was difficult to keep his balance. He tried to soften his focus so he couldn’t see how far below the ground was. He watched River, hoping she didn’t fall. From a variety of positions around the clearing, a number of inhabitants of the tanglewood stopped to watch Talen and the others. The leader ascended to the second platform in front of the large house. Talen and the others followed and found a number of warriors standing there as well as some woodikin females.

On a large branch to the side of the platform sat a woodikin wearing a mantle of black feathers worked with others that were cornflower blue. A rope festooned with silver bangles hung at his waist. Behind him was a long rent in the tree. Wasps flew in and out of it, and Talen suspected the woodikin was one of the famed wasp lords.

The troop leader halted them in the middle of the platform before the house. It was obviously an audience area. Now that Talen was closer to the house, he saw that the figures of the wasps and other animals around the house had not been carved in the wood. The wood had instead been grown into those shapes. The skill to do such a thing was amazing. A silken cushion lay on a raised dais in front of the house. Behind that stood a door beautifully carved in filigree.

A large woodikin stood by the cushion. He and the troop leader exchanged words, and then the troop leader turned to Talen and the others. “You will go down.”

Harnock knelt on the platform. Talen and River followed his lead.

“Down,” said the leader and pushed their heads to the floor.

“Leave the talking to me,” said Harnock.

As they prostrated themselves, a shrunken old female arrayed in bright, multi-colored feathers appeared from one side of the wide recess and took her seat on the silken cushion. The woodikin on the platform bowed.

The old queen spoke to the troop leader for a few minutes. He presented her with the wurm’s egg. A number of the woodikin chirped at the sight of it. Then she turned to Talen and the others. “We finally meet, Strange Trader. The trees favor those who love them.”

Talen was surprised, not only to hear her speak Mokaddian, but that she spoke it so clearly. She had an accent, but he’d heard Mokaddian uplanders that were harder to understand than she.

“We cannot love like those who dance in their boughs, but we respect,” said Harnock.

“Maybe,” said the queen. “But maybe you still deserve death.”

Harnock did not reply.

“What did you and these other skinmen do to anger the Orange Slayers?”

One of the woodikin females spoke in low tones to the others on the platform. Talen suspected she was translating for the other woodikin.

Harnock did not look up, but spoke to the floor in front of his face. “I did nothing, Great Mother. The Orange Slayers are excrement eaters and do not honor their obligations.”

“Some would argue woodikin are fools to bind themselves to skinmen. Honor is not in a skinman’s nature. We might as well bind ourselves to toads.”

“I am not so wise as to be able to argue with a Great Mother,” said Harnock, still looking down.

“True,” she said. “And who are these with you?”

“A wife, Great One,” said Harnock. “And her brother.”

“Just a brother?”

“Nothing more,” said Harnock.

“And that is how easily skinmen lie,” said the queen. “The Orange Slayers seek him for their masters.”

Talen swallowed.

From the side of his eye, Harnock glanced over at Talen. He paused, made some decision, and addressed the floor in front of him again. “I ask you Great Mother to look at him. He’s a sack of skin and bones. A skinman child. If the Orange Slayers said they want him, I believe they did it to mislead you.”

“And why would they do that, Strange Trader.”

Harnock’s face turned bitter. He glanced over at Talen. “To hide the true thing they value.”

“And what is that?”

“Me,” Harnock lied.

“You?”

“What do they offer?” asked Harnock. “I’m sure I can pay you more.”

“Why do they want you?”

“Because they fear me,” said Harnock.

“And yet you run from them. Besides, you are an Orange Slayer friend. Why should they fear a friend?”

“There is a war among the skinmen, Great One. Me and mine fight against Mokad. Against those who raised your Orange Face enemies to power. The woodikin do not want me. Their masters do. Have your spies look. They will see Mokaddian warriors in your lands. They will see a Divine who uses two crows for eyes.”

“No Divine is supposed to come into our lands. That is the land agreement.”

“Nevertheless, he is there. You will see. You will see his crows. Help us, and we can strike a blow against your enemies.”

The queen thought. “Or I can give you to them to show our goodwill. I can make an ally.”

“Mokad does not make allies,” said Harnock. “Mokad only makes slaves. Just as it has made a slave of the Great Mother of the Orange Slayers.”

The translator finished Harnock’s words. Murmurs rose among the woodikin on the platform. The queen hooted once and silenced them.

Harnock said, “The Great Mother of the Orange Slayers wears a collar made by skinmen. The skinmen of Mokad use this to bind the wearer to its master. But not with the obligations of the woodikin. It binds the wearer against her will. Turns her traitor to all but the collar’s will.”

The queen considered Harnock for a moment. She said, “I have seen this collar you speak of. It gives the Orange Face Mother great power. But I have seen no master.”

“Do you think those who slaughtered your ancestors would give great power without a great price?”

The translator finished Harnock’s statement and the platform fell silent. In the distance, woodikin chattered and howled.

“Great Mother, what is their offer? I’ll give you more.”

She ignored him and said something in woodikin to the troop leader. Moments later he and a few of the warriors brought forward the packs Talen and the others had carried. They spread the contents out on the floor in front of the queen.

There was netting for hammock beds, some rope, food, flint for starting fires. All of the normal things travelers would carry. The leader opened Harnock’s sack and pulled out the small rough box Talen had seen and a sack with a few other things that looked like jewelry, but what were probably weaves.

The queen stood and surveyed the contents spread out on the floor. She opened the rough box with her toe to reveal another box of silver inlaid with graceful loops and whirls of gold. That had to be the Book of Hismayas. The queen picked it up.

“I beg the Great Mother to be careful,” said Harnock. “There is an evil power in that thing. It has killed many skinmen.”

The queen turned it over in her hands. It wasn’t like a regular codex with a spine and pages. Nor was it a scroll. Uncle Argoth had told him stories of those who had died trying to open it. Talen’s own father had barely escaped that fate.

“What is this?” the queen asked.

Talen glanced at River.

Harnock said, “It carries the soul of a dead one who had great power. We go to deliver it to those that can set it free. I beg the Great Mother to close it up again. To put the evil away.”

The queen ran her hand over the silver and gold pattern once more. Then she put the book back. She looked at the other weaves and stirred them with her toe. She motioned at the contents of the packs on the floor. “This is what you offer? I can get more from those that live in holes.”

“I can get you wurm eggs,” he said.

She dismissed him. “You will go to the Orange Slayers.”

“Great Mother,” Harnock said, but she was walking away, back into her splendid house.

River spoke. “I can give you one of the black rings,” she said. “The ones that turn the Orange Face warriors into terrors.”

The queen stopped.

“River,” Harnock warned.

“I can make you a ring,” River said.

The translator finished this statement. There was a pause, a silence, and then the woodikin on the platform began to hoot and jabber loudly in their language. The queen considered River for a moment, then silenced the other woodikin on the platform. “Skinwoman, do you think I am a stupid grub?”

“It is a bold claim,” said River. “But it is true.”

The queen bared her teeth. “And I must trust your word alone that you can do this thing?”

“I do not make promises I cannot keep,” said River.

“That is what you say,” scoffed the queen. The wasp lord said something in a low voice to the queen. The queen considered it. “If you can make a ring, then you can awaken one.”

“Here we go,” said Harnock under his breath.

“I will give you a chance to prove you do not lie. Bring this to life.” The queen reached in the folds of her silken tunic and produced a small ring.

The queen motioned for the troop leader to take the ring to River. The metal was gold. Not a speck of black on it. If it was a weave of might, its Fire had run dry.

“You stole this from the Orange Slayers?” asked Harnock.

“It is not important how we got it,” said the queen. “What is important is that you fix it.”

“Put it in my hand,” River said. The leader looked to the queen who nodded her approval. He placed the small ring in River’s hand behind her back.

“You’re going to get us all killed,” Harnock said under his breath.

“No,” said River. “I’m going to win us an ally.”

Talen knew that you couldn’t put a human weave on an animal. Each kind of beast required a slightly different pattern. And just because you knew one pattern, didn’t mean you knew another.

River bowed her head, closed her eyes. The whole platform of woodikin waited in silence, every eye focused on her. The warriors stood ready with their knives should any of them try some trick.

“Is it even a weave of might?” Harnock asked.

“What are you saying?” the queen asked.

“A moment, Great One,” River said. She concentrated. A minute passed, then two, and three. The wait seemed to stretch on forever. Then River raised her head. “It is done.”

The troop leader bent over and plucked the ring from her hand and held it up for all to see. A thin line of black now ran around the ring.

“I have placed power into it,” River said. “Put it on. You will see.”

When the translator finished this statement, a number of the woodikin stood and shouted angrily, pointing at River. The queen exchanged words with them, then turned to her. “They say you want to bind me, make me a slave. They say you just confessed that’s what these do. That this is a trick.”

“This is not a thrall,” said River. “But do not take my word. Let one of your people test it.”

The queen turned to the troop leader.

The troop leader bowed to the queen. He tossed his knife to another warrior, apparently so he wouldn’t have a weapon should the ring enslave him, then slipped the ring onto his thumb and waited.

A moment later he startled, looked down at his hand.

“So it begins,” said River. “The power is now flowing into him. Into his arms. Into his legs.”

The troop leader bared his teeth at her, flinched and cried out as if someone had stabbed him in the back. Pain and fear wracked his face.

“It’s his first time,” River said, “and it’s a full dreadman’s weave. It’s to be expected.”

“What is dreadman?” asked the queen.

“Skinmen ring warriors.”

“Oh, that’s splendid,” Harnock said. “You’re just going to force him and kill him out right.”

The troop leader fell to his knees, gritting his teeth and panting.

“What have you done?” the queen asked.

“Power does not come easily, Great Mother. Give him time to adjust. A few moments more.”

Talen looked at River; there was a good chance this woodikin would die. But River had her eyes closed, and Talen knew she was praying to the ancestors.

One of the other woodikin warriors on the platform bared his teeth and drew his wooden dirk. Other warriors put their hands on their dirks and knives, waiting for an order.

“If you lie to me,” the Queen said, “we will string your guts for the birds.”

Talen swallowed.

The troop leader said something, but it was too soft to understand.

The queen asked him a question in woodikin. The troop leader spoke louder this time. And then he looked up, a gleam of intensity in his eyes.

“The firejoy,” Talen said.

The troop leader rose to his feet. He held his arms out, looked down at his body, and grinned. With a hoot, he sprung high into the air, flipped and landed on his feet again, but only barely. There was a clumsiness to him. He shook his arms, rubbed them as if they were cold. He bounced on the balls of his feet. Then he darted away from the platform, along the bridge that led from the queen’s hall. He ran on all four limbs, picking up speed. He reached the edge, sprang to the guard railing, and leapt.

Talen’s heart dropped. That woodikin had gone mad and just jumped to his death. This was the end for all of them.

But the woodikin didn’t fall to his death. He flew in a huge arc and landed on a branch a few dozen yards away. He turned, shouted in triumph and scampered up the branch like a squirrel. Moments later he dropped from a great height down to the wide tree-limb road below, landing in a crouch. The woodikin on the platform murmured their amazement.

The troop leader returned to the platform. He was shaking a little bit, breathing quickly, but he walked across the platform to where the queen stood, removed the ring from his thumb, and held it out to her.

The queen took the ring. She asked the troop leader a question in woodikin. He answered. She asked another. He answered again.

“So, Great Mother,” River said, “you see I do not lie.”

The queen looked at the three of them. “The Orange Slayers have ten rings,” she said. “I want a hundred.”

“Great Mother,” said River, “that would kill me. Though you threatened me and all I love with death, I cannot provide such a number.”

“How many?”

“Why do you want to depend on us? We fight a common enemy. Give us our freedom; give us safe passage through your lands, become our friends, and we will not only give you weaves, we will teach you how to make your own without the need of any skinman.”

The woodikin translator finished River’s statement. There was a pause, and then the woodikin on the platform erupted.

“River,” Harnock groaned under his breath. “What are you doing? Now they’ll never let us leave.”

“Won’t they?” she asked. “Do you think they want to be subjected to the Devourers any more than we do? Now is a time for new alliances. We need all the help we can get.”

The woodikin on the platform quieted down. The troop leader bared his teeth. “The female lies,” he said. “All skinmen lie. She will not return. She will teach us nothing.”

“I do not lie,” River said.

“Ssa!” the troop leader said.

The queen continued to sit and think. Finally, she came to a decision. “When will you teach,” she asked, “if you are running? You must stay here.”

“Great Mother,” Harnock said, “those chasing us are powerful. They will waken the rings of the Orange Slayers. They know you took us and will come here. You do not want the Orange Slayers coming here with their ring warriors. They will take the great skinwoman from you. If you let us go, you can say instead we escaped by our evil magics. The Orange Slayers will not punish you. Later, when you have many rings of your own making, you can rise up and resist them.”

The queen thought it over. “Chot is right; you will not return.”

“Send a troop of your mightiest warriors to watch us,” Harnock said.

“There must be more,” said the queen. “You must leave something of great worth behind.” She looked at Talen for a moment, then the contents of their packs. Her eyes fell on the Book of Hismayas. She reached out with her foot and brought it to her. “This I will keep.”

“Great Mother,” Harnock said, “it is a terrible danger.”

“I will keep it,” the queen said.

Talen, Harnock, and River exchanged glances.

Harnock pitched his voice low. “Hundreds of our people died to obtain that, and we’re going to lose it to the woodikin?”

“What other option do we have?” River asked.

“None,” Harnock said. He sighed in frustration, then said, “Great Mother, you will return it when the mighty skinwoman comes back to teach you. Is it agreed?”

“It is agreed,” said the Queen.

“Faa,” said the troop leader in disgust.

“She will stay with you for one month and teach you every day how to make the rings. Agreed?”

“She will come back in fourteen days and will stay until the winter snows leave,” said the Queen. “And she will answer all my questions with truth.”

“Agreed,” River said.

“Good,” said the Queen. “I will wait until morning. I will watch to see what happens with those that wear this skinman ring. If they live, my warriors will see you back to your lands. If not, then I will trade you to the Orange Slayers.”

7

Darkfall

SUGAR WOKE to Legs lightly patting her cheek.

“Let me sleep,” she said and rolled over.

“Argoth came by and said you’re going to be moving out soon,” Legs said.

Her weariness was as heavy as a millstone. Despite the candidate’s weave, it felt like she hadn’t rested in weeks. “I’m not getting up.”

Legs picked up her hand and guided it to a wooden cup. “He told me to give you this. I think it’s a strong brew of watchman’s tea. He told me not to take even a sniff.”

Sugar groaned, then rolled over and looked at Legs. A thin crack of light came in through the doors and illuminated a line of his face in the dark cellar. Outside the doors was the din of folks working in the bailey.

Sugar sat up and accepted the cup from him, her eyelids almost refusing to open. She held the brew in the line of light. It was reddish. She sniffed it, then drank. It was warm, sickly sweet with honey, and tasted awful. “That’s more than watchman’s tea,” she said. A bitter aftertaste kicked in that put chokecherry to shame. Her stomach almost revolted, and she groaned.

“He said to get some swamp. It goes better with something in your stomach.”

“Oh, now you tell me,” she said, then forced her legs off the bed to the cold bricks of the floor.

Legs took her hand. “Come on,” he said.

She followed him out and found the sun hanging low in the west. They picked up bowls of swamp with some bread and cheese from the great hall, then retired to the top of a wall to eat.

A breeze blew in from the bay, bringing with it the smell of the sea. Sugar ate the thick, almost pudding-like stew and hard bread and watched the sky in the direction of Potter’s Crossing. She knew Urban was out there at the crossroad. He was probably watching for her with Soddam.

Part of her shouted for her to get up now and run to them. If she and Legs hurried, they just might make it. But she didn’t run. She stayed and ate her swamp and cheese.

The setting sun illuminated the bottoms of the clouds, making them shine like brass. The sun sank lower, and the brass began to change, the whole belly of the rippled clouds beginning to turn to red and pink. A minute later, the whole sky from north to south turned into one splendid scene of brightly colored grandeur, and then the sun dipped below the mountains and the colors began to fade.

The urge to flee the fortress struck her again, but she knew it was too late. Nor was it her lot. She watched the light continue to fade and finished her swamp. Urban would know by now she wasn’t coming.

Below in the bailey, the grooms began to bring a number of horses out of the stables and tie them to the hitching posts. Those would probably be the mounts she and the others would use. “Come on,” she said to Legs. “Time for the ferret to go hunting.”

She looked one last time in the direction of Potter’s Crossing and imagined Urban and Soddam glancing at each other in the lengthening shadows, then turning their mounts and urging them away. Tonight, while she and the others were making their way to Blue Towers, Urban and his crew would sail into the dark sea.

“May the Creators send you fair winds,” she said. Then she turned her back, and, with Legs, descended from the parapet to the bailey below, praying with every step that the ancestors would help this impossible mission succeed.

* * *

Berosus walked down the hall to the grand chamber in Blue Towers fortress. Three of his dreadmen walked in front of him, three behind. They entered the chamber, and all those within stood. There were about twenty men, including his Divines and warlords, the Divines of the other three Glorydoms, and the three leaders of the dogmen.

The chamber was lit by oil lamps set in sconces around the walls, illuminating the room with a soft glow. He motioned for the men to sit. When they were all settled, he said, “The power we came to destroy is not in this Grove.”

The men waited.

“But Shim and his army pose a threat to our sublime masters nevertheless. We are going to harvest a tremendous number of these people starting tomorrow. We mean to cull all of the clans that follow Shim.”

One of the Nilliam Divines spoke. He wore light-colored clothing with tassels. “Shim’s sleth will scatter.”

Berosus smiled. This was one reason why he himself infiltrated the Groves, instead of sitting back like some Divines did and sending another. It was one thing to listen to the assessment of a spy. It was quite another to make that assessment yourself. “No, Shim will not. He is not that type. We’ll herd the people to one place. Shim will come to protect them. And when they are all gathered together, we’ll cut them down.”

“You’re talking tens of thousands of souls,” Loyal, the chief Divine of Nilliam, said.

“A large harvest,” Berosus said, “and your masters will each get their share as agreed on.”

The Divines nodded.

“What about the power that killed Lumen and Rubaloth?” Loyal asked.

Berosus looked at the other Divines. Any one of their Sublimes might have done it; there was no reason to trust any of them. Or maybe the Bone Faces had something to do with it, although he doubted that. Or maybe it was something else entirely; the New Lands presented a vast unexplored wilderness. “That is a separate matter. Our mission was to quell this herd, to quash the uprising. When that is finished, your task is done, and you may return to your Sublimes with your treasure.”

The Divines seemed satisfied. Berosus motioned at one of his dreadmen to unroll a map on the table in the center of the room. Then Berosus explained his strategy. They would go into the Shoka lands and kill all the humans in the villages he identified. They’d make sure word of the massacres traveled. Other villages, seeing the slaughter, would sue for peace. But they’d slaughter them as well. That should put all the clans that allied with Shim into a panic.

But they wouldn’t be able to flee because he’d move ships into the various harbors. And then he’d position the armies of Urz, Cath, and Nilliam to block all the main roads except for those leading to the place he wanted to push them. He wanted a line many miles long, driving the people to one place. The dogmen would work the gaps between the four armies, looking for strays and putting fear into the hearts of those who tried to flee. Shim would come to their aid. And Berosus would leave an escape route open until he had them where he wanted them. Then he would close the trap, just as you closed the gate on a group of cattle you’d herded into a paddock.

When he finished explaining the strategy, Loyal of Nilliam asked, “How can you be sure Shim won’t figure out exactly what you’re doing?” He pointed at the map. “If they get around us here and head south, it will be a chore fetching them out of those woods.”

“Just organize your men. Be ready to march on the morrow.”

8

Weem

THE WOODIKIN TOOK Talen, River, and Harnock to another level of the tanglewood and locked them in a tiny, one-room hut that looked like a hollowed-out onion. When they entered, a single green lizard scampered up a wall and out a small window. The hut itself was so small none of them could stand up. They barely had room for all of them to sit.

Like all the other structures they’d seen, this one had been grown from the fat limb of the tanglewood tree it rested upon. It appeared the builders had first grown four limbs straight out from the side of the branch. These became the main beams for the floor. Smaller limbs had then been urged to grow from the sides of these four to tangle together, filling in the gaps to form a solid floor. A similar technique had been used to grow the walls. The small window at the back and another in the door provided ventilation.

River ran her hand over the smoothed wood. “How do they do this?”

Harnock shook his head. “I don’t know. Grafts maybe. There must be some lore to make the tree sprout a limb precisely where they want it to.”

“You’d think our carpenters would want a look here,” said Talen. “I don’t understand why we don’t let the tanglewood trees grow on the coast.”

“Because you don’t have tanglewoods without woodikin coming to live in them,” said Harnock.

“It’s a shame,” said Talen.

Harnock scratched the fur on his chest. “I think the early settlers would have said different.”

Talen looked at Harnock. He had turned all attention away from Talen in the meeting with the Queen. “You saved us back there,” Talen said. “Saved me again. I thank you.”

Harnock groaned. “Here we go again. I thought I told you I didn’t want your thanks.”

“I’m sorry, but this is twice now.”

“Three times, actually,” said Harnock. “That’s all I ever seem to do nowadays. But you can save your breath, Hogan’s son. Your sister’s put us into a precarious position. That weave may yet kill one of them, including the queen. We’re not safe until we’re well away from here.”

“You told the queen you were fighting the Mokaddians,” River said. “Does that mean you’ve changed your mind? Are you coming back with us?”

“She has the Book. We need to get it back. Which means you have to return. Which means I’m going to stick with you until you do.”

“I have a good feeling about this,” River said.

“I don’t,” Harnock said. “Do you know what you just promised them?”

“We are natural allies.”

Harnock shook his head. “You don’t know woodikin.”

“I’m amazed at the queen’s command of Mokaddian,” River said. “Where did she learn the language?”

“Human hunters and youths wander over the borders. When they do, the woodikin capture them. This queen is known for wanting her skinmen alive. She wants to know her enemy, so she makes them tutor her. Sometimes they live. Sometimes they die. Sometimes she trades them off to other tanglewoods.”

Talen tried to imagine living among the woodikin. “Are there human slaves here now?”

“Who knows?”

“Do you think she will actually let us go?” asked River.

“The Spiderhawks used to be the ruling tribe. But most of their tanglewoods were out along the coast. It was Spiderhawks who fought most against the early colonists. And so when Mokad finally beat them back, the Divines gave weaves of might to the Orange Slayers, their enemies. The Orange Slayers took out their revenge, stole Spiderhawk tanglewoods, slaughtered their warriors. But I’m sure the queen is motivated by more than hate. The Great Mothers of these tribes are shrewd. I’m positive she has some long game.”

“What about the Orange Slayer dreadmen?” Talen asked. “The woodikin are powerful creatures without any lore. I can’t imagine them with it.”

“Their ring warriors are horrors, but we don’t have to worry too much about that right now. Every year the Orange Slayers meet with the Divine of Mokad and his priests at a place a few miles inside The Wilds. The woodikin give Mokad valuables and renew their promises to stay clear of the borders. They also bring three woodikin with them for sacrifice.”

Talen already knew where this was leading. “And Lumen, or whoever the Divine was, would drain the sacrificial woodikin of their Fire and refill the Orange Slayer weaves with it.”

“Exactly,” said Harnock. “So Lumen was killed. The annual meeting that was to occur many months ago never happened. The weaves weren’t replenished. And now I suspect the Orange Slayers weaves are running dry. They might be completely empty. It’s a huge blow for them. The warriors and promises of healing helped the Orange Slayers maintain their power. Quite a number of the vassal tribes are bound to them because someone important fell sick and the Orange Slayers healed them with the weaves. And now that source of power is gone.”

River said, “I think alliances would shift very quickly if another tribe had the lore. Think of the possibility of an alliance between the woodikin and the Groves.”

“The only reason the woodikin stay out of skinmen lands is because they are dependent on us,” Harnock said. “Remove that dependence, raise up a tribe of ring warriors, and you just murdered half of the clans.”

“Not if Shim rises.”

Harnock grunted.

Talen said, “So if the weaves were only given to Orange Slayers, how did this queen get hers?”

“That’s an interesting question,” Harnock said. “I don’t know. But you can be sure the Spiderhawk queen is thinking right now how she can bring her tribe back to power. Although she still could trade us to win some concession from the Orange Slayers. My bet is the warrior dies, and we end up having our eyes plucked out. But this is enough talk. We need to eat and sleep while we have the chance. Who knows what the next hour might bring?”

Food sounded mighty good to Talen. He’d been hungry for hours. The woodikin had searched their packs, keeping their weapons, the Book, the other weaves, and wurm egg, but they had returned their food and bedding. They had also supplied them with a large wooden jug of the tree water. Harnock opened the jug and began to drink. River pulled weevil out of a pack.

As River handed him his portion, their fingers brushed, and he smelled her soul. He sighed and took the grubs from her. His thirst was still raging, but he popped one of the weevil in his mouth and chewed. He was surprised how much better they tasted the second time. Or maybe they tasted the same, but he was just that much more hungry.

Harnock passed the jug to him, and Talen took a long drink of the sappy water. They continued to pass the water and weevil until the jug of tree water was dry and their supplies of grub were mostly gone. The meal didn’t totally slake his hunger and thirst, but it was enough. He lay back on the wooden floor and looked out the small window. River settled up against the wall. Harnock lay on his side and draped an arm over one pack.

The sound of the tanglewood about them came in through the windows. In the distance, there was music and squeals of delight, hoots, and drums. He looked out and saw, through the tanglewood limbs above, the first stars appearing in the evening sky.

He turned on his side and soon fell into that relaxation that comes before full sleep. While he still wanted River to weave him a governor, he felt much more in control of his Fire. Weeks ago, it had responded clumsily. Now, except for the effects of the king’s collar earlier, he could multiply and diminish now almost as easily as he could raise and lower his arm. He lowered his Fire so it was only slightly elevated, which would help him recover during sleep.

As he relaxed, he smelled the soul and Fire in River and Harnock. Running with the woodikin, he’d been frightened and stressed, and hadn’t paid those senses much attention. But now, with the three of them packed into the small hut, the scent filled the place.

Talen scooted as far away from both of them as he could and tried to think of other things. He thought of the wonders he’d seen today among the woodikin. The wurms, the orange skir, and the attack on his roamling. He wished Nettle were whole so he could tell him all.

An insect flew in, buzzed around the small hut twice, then flew back out. And Talen’s mind drifted to River and Harnock and the tempting smell of their souls.

Da had always said that when you ran from your fears, you only gave them power. So he wasn’t going to run. He had to face them. But not here. There was a whole tanglewood to explore. He breathed out and released his roamlings from his wrists and entered the yellow world.

The room looked different, felt different. He could feel the life in the wood, smell its soul and Fire. He tested the floor and walls, probed them, and found the wood wasn’t solid. However, no matter how he pushed, the Fire in the wood seemed to elude him. He explored the hut a moment more, then floated over River and looked down upon her. He looked down upon Harnock with another roamling, which shone with a faint luminescence.

Talen moved his roamlings closer to Harnock. He felt the life beneath the fur and skin. There was a pattern to it all. An urge to touch it swelled in him. Maybe if he was careful—he brushed against Harnock, and his desire for Harnock’s soul rose. He told himself he should pull back, but he followed Harnock’s pattern instead. It was said all living things were weaves, and he could now see it was true.

Harnock stirred.

Talen paused. He realized the weaves down by Harnock’s wrists were different, and so he moved down Harnock’s arms and probed there, wrapping himself around Harnock’s wrist. He could almost taste Harnock’s Fire. He knew he shouldn’t be here. Knew he should back away. But maybe he could get insight into the thralls. The first step in controlling weaves was to see the pattern. If he could see the pattern, maybe he could change it. Maybe he—

“Hogan’s son,” Harnock growled.

Talen pulled back.

Harnock cracked an eye. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” said Talen.

“What’s going on?” asked River.

“Something is here,” said Harnock. “I felt it at the doors of my soul, scrabbling to get in.”

Talen’s mouth went dry. What was he doing? Harnock was going to kill him for sure.

“Frights?” River asked.

“I don’t know,” Harnock said and pushed himself up on one elbow. He pinned Talen with a suspicious gaze. “What’s out there, Hogan’s son? What’s in the yellow world?”

Talen lay petrified. “Give me a moment,” he said, then pretended to send his roamlings out. “The room’s empty,” he reported. But, of course, that was a lie. He was there. “Whatever was here must have fled.”

“It had better have fled,” Harnock said and lay back down.

Talen closed his eyes in relief. He had to get out, get away from the two of them. He needed to focus his mind on something else. So he sent his two roamlings out through the window and past a woodikin guarding the door to the hut.

The trees of the tanglewood were lovely in the yellow world. They glistened unlike any other tree he’d seen so far. Talen sent one roamling to the canopy of the trees to look at the stars that shone in the lavender-tinged sky and search for orange skir. He found no orange skir, but he did see a group of pale blue creatures far above the tanglewood, flying across the yellow sky.

Back by the hut, his other roamling moved in close to examine the woodikin guard and sniff his soul.

No, Talen thought. Stop. This was the whole ale house thing Harnock had been talking about. He wasn’t going to tempt himself. Of course, how was he not going to tempt himself? There were a hundred things alive around him. The trees, animals on the forest floor, the moths. But he turned his roamling away from the guard nevertheless. If things went wrong, they’d need an escape route, a quick way to the forest floor. He could scout that now. That was a good task to keep his mind clear.

Talen moved out into the tanglewood with his roamlings, exploring the trees. There were branches with many huts that had been grown along them. There were roads. Pens for animals and birds. He found in addition to a variety of birds, the woodikin kept squirrels, snakes, frogs, and various insects as well. He searched for a path down. While many roads crisscrossed up in the trees, very few led to the forest floor. He supposed that was one way to keep the trees more secure from attack. In fact, many of the tree trunks had wooden platforms built just under the first set of branches with woodikin guard on them.

Talen followed the paths about his hut, backtracked, and finally found a way down. He dropped his roamlings to the forest floor. There were some small gossamer butterfly creatures clinging to one tree. He suspected they were soul, for things housed in flesh had an aura about them. He watched them for a time, then moved out between the trees. There were a scattering of plants, but the growth down here was thin. He soon found a footpath and snaked along it.

He passed a cluster of rats gnawing on the bones and carrion skin of a small deer long dead. He passed through a half-woven spider web. Then he saw a weem, one of the long, many-footed creatures, that lays its eggs in its victims.

Talen moved in close, smelled its Fire and soul. The weem seemed to be sniffing something itself, following some trail. This one wasn’t as big as some of those in the stories, maybe only a span in size, but maybe it would lead him to others. Talen snaked along with it, examining it ever closer, smelling the Fire and soul within it. He attached his roamling to it, felt its weave like fabric in his hand. It was finely textured, but not all smooth. He found a small snag, a rent. Saw the pattern.

Talen pulled on the rent. The weem froze. Talen pulled again, making it wider. The weem flinched, tried to shake him. Talen pulled again.

From the tear, Fire sprayed into the night, and before he could think, he breathed it in. The taste thrilled him; it was like drinking water flavored by apple slices and strawberries after a long thirst.

Talen knew he should pull back, but he tore at the rent again. The weem thrashed, but it couldn’t throw him. Talen tore the rent wider, and a spray of Fire gushed forth along with a flicker of something shining. Talen’s roamling, like a fish, gulped in the Fire and that shining with it.

The weem spasmed and shuddered, then lay still on the forest floor.

Talen sniffed at it, but the soul and Fire he’d smelled before was gone. The weem was dead.

Talen paused, shocked.

He’d just stolen Fire. His mind reeled. And that shining—had he eaten its soul? That’s the last thing he needed, to start growing insect eyes and chitin skin.

Holy creators, he thought.

But his hunger surged; he wanted to feed again. It had been so . . . delicious.

Back in the hut, another small roamling exited his wrist. Then another. They hovered over River.

No! Talen thought. No! He fought the two new roamlings, pulled them back into his wrists, then pulled the others back as well. He dragged all his parts back in and slammed his doors shut.

He opened his eyes to the darkness of the hut and held up his arms. What were these things? His mind cast back to the battle with the Devourer and the monster stuffing his parts back in. Had it stuffed a part of itself back in with him?

The Devourer had said the Glory would oversee the harvest of souls. He hadn’t known exactly what that meant. But he knew he desired it.

He’d been bred to be a butcher. The truth of that sounded through him—he’d been bred to be a butcher, and to go at it with an appetite.

Sleep fled him, and he lay in the dark hut, listening to the breathing of Harnock and River, holding his roamlings tight in his flesh. His blend was awakening. Surely tonight he’d crossed some line. How long would it be before he lost control?

9

Blue Towers

SUGAR CLUNG in the darkness to the precarious slope that fell away from the outer wall of Blue Towers and ran to the edge of a cliff. At the bottom of the cliff flowed The Lion River. The wind was blowing, and there was nothing but starlight to see by. Unless, of course, you could see in the yellow world.

Behind her, Argoth and a fist of dreadmen clung to the face of the slope. There were eleven of them in all: strong men, hardened by many battles. Oaks was there, as were two other dreadmen that had been raised long before Shim had started his rebellion. Urban and his men were not there. Even though Sugar hadn’t said one word about him, Argoth knew they’d deserted, and it infuriated him.

The wind whipped about the men clinging to the steep slope. Sugar peered out of her body and waited for Argoth, who was below her, to feel his way to where she stood. The whole fist of men had tied themselves together so that if one fell, he would be supported by his brethren. They could not afford to lose members here, much less make the noise a fall would create.

At the top of the slope above the fist, a dogman and his pack paused. Sugar would not have known he was coming, but his dogs had barked. Argoth said the dogmen could see in darkness, not as well as other animals, but better than the men of the Western Glorydoms. She was sure the dogs would have better sight, and so she froze where she was. The dreadmen behind her clung to the rocks, all of them clad in the darkest of grays and black. They were lucky the dogs stood upwind, otherwise she suspected they would have smelled her and the fist of men.

Sugar wasn’t at an angle to see the dogman, but she could hear his beasts panting and sniffing above the wind. One barked and growled deeply. The dogman said something in his language and came to the edge of the slope above.

She peered at him with the eyes of her soul. From this angle, he looked taller than seven feet. Huge, broad shouldered. His dark hair was long and shone in the yellow world. He carried a poleax. The wind carried his musk. It was strong and peculiar.

Despite the fact that she was multiplied, her left leg began to burn with the strain of holding her. She wanted to shift position, but didn’t dare. The dogman took in a big breath through his nose, sniffing the wind. He paused to look down, but obviously did not see them in the darkness, for he turned and began to walk upriver with his hounds.

Even after she lost sight of him, Sugar waited just to be sure. Then she scanned the parapet for Walkers. When she saw all was clear, she continued to traverse the slope. The fist took what seemed like an hour, working their way across the rocky face, until they came to a spot just west of the south tower. Then they began to climb straight up.

Luckily, they did not have to worry about dogmen in this location for the slope joined with the fortress wall, and there was no place for a patrol to walk. They continued to climb in the darkness, slowly, carefully. Later a thin moon would come out and give them a bit more to see by, but now it was black as pitch, and the men behind her could do nothing but feel their way along.

She undershot the stone the woman who had escaped Lord Hash had told them about by a number of yards. But Sugar eventually found it in the yellow twilight and rolled the stone away to reveal an opening that looked like a large burrow. She crawled through the narrow entrance and found that the cavity opened up farther in, allowing her to easily rise up on her hands and knees and then stand with a crouch. A few yards later, she came to a wooden door set in the rock ceiling under the thick fortress wall.

The abused servant woman claimed a secret spiral staircase led up from the door to the lord’s chambers on the second floor of the tower. If the fortress ever fell, each tower could be sealed off and defended independently. It appeared Lord Hash had planned a retreat for himself should that fail as well. But the woman had discovered the secret passage when Lord Hash had used it to hide the dead body of a man he’d killed.

There was another secret passage, she said, leading from the lord’s chamber to the apartments that had been built inside the walls at that corner of the castle. Tonight, the grandest of those apartments on the second floor was their destination. Lords often took the upper levels of a tower for their living quarters. But Lord Hash saw no reason to limit himself to the small space of the tower. So he had built himself a grand apartment that connected to the tower by a hallway. It was the finest accommodation in the fortress. And, therefore, it would have been an insult had Lord Hash remained there while a Divine was visiting. Shim’s spies had confirmed that Mokad’s Skir Master had taken it. There were other lesser Divines in the army, but this is the one that controlled the urgom, the skir that they used in battle.

Sugar wondered if Ke had been taken. If so, he might be in the fortress as well. She would keep her eyes out for him, but didn’t have much hope he’d be with the Skir Master.

The first step in tonight’s plan was to get up to Lord Hash’s room in the tower. “I’m going to look above,” she whispered.

“Don’t we need to open the door?” asked Argoth.

“We’ll see,” she said.

Up to this point, she’d been merely peering out into the yellow world. Now she walked out of herself. As she did so, she felt a great tearing, a pain more intense than what she normally felt. It took her breath away, and she had to pause for a few moments. She wondered if she wasn’t wounding herself every time she walked, and if there would come a time when the wound wouldn’t heal. But she couldn’t worry about that now. They had a job to do.

She unpacked the skenning and put it on. The skenning felt good, better than naked soul, but she knew that she wouldn’t be able to wear it at all times on tonight’s mission. She could not take the skenning with her back into her body, and she suspected there would be times when she would need to beat a hasty retreat, and it took time to take the garment off and stow it. Still, she didn’t want to walk through a door unprotected.

With the skenning snug about her, she tested the wood of the door above. Even though it was thick and banded with iron, this old wood gave like sand, just as the wood of the trees did. In fact, it was easier to push through than living wood, and she soon pulled herself up through the door and into the end of a narrow and dark passage built inside the outer wall of the fortress. The passage ran forward for a few yards to a staircase. Out on the slope, it was twilight in the yellow world. In here, it was darker. However, there was still enough light to see by. It certainly wasn’t the rays of light from the moon and stars illuminating the stone walls of the passageway. It seemed the rocks themselves produced the illumination. She walked over to the low spiral staircase and looked up. It was clear as far as she could see.

She reported it all with the mouth of her flesh, and then Argoth asked about the door at her feet.

She explained the door was barred with a stout piece of wood. Argoth called for the saw and two-handed carpenter’s auger he’d had his men bring. He carefully bored a hole through the wood, then inserted the saw to finish the job. When the hole was big enough, he reached through, unbarred the door, and pushed it open.

Sugar went back to her body, then climbed through the opening in the flesh. The passage was black as pitch, but they dared not use any flame for fear of revealing their presence. So she peered out of her body again as she’d done on the slope. Behind her, each man held the hem of the tunic of the man in front of him. In this way, she led them up the stairs.

None of them were wearing heavy armor. Mail would clink with each movement. Plate was out of the question. So each man wore a thick padded tunic as well as leather gloves and a boiled leather cap. What they needed was silence and speed. Each of them carried a knife and a short sword or war axe, weapons suited for the close spaces of hallways and rooms.

Up the stairs they climbed, past what she estimated was the ground floor of the tower to the second level where the stairs exited onto a short landing that could accommodate no more than Sugar and three other men.

The wooden door she faced was about chest high. Lord Hash, soldiers, Divines—anyone could be on the other side. This was where the real mission began. Whoever was in this room would need to be silenced and the door leading from the room to the rest of the tower barred from the inside. Then Argoth could find the second door that opened to the secret passage to the apartments.

Sugar braced herself. Skir masters lost the ability to see with the eyes of their flesh, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t see the world of flesh. It only meant they looked with the eyes of the soul. And, in fact, Withers had said that was exactly why their eyes turned black. But Withers said it was possible to lose the ability to see with the eyes of the soul as well. They could be gouged out or burned, just as someone who looked into the sun could burn the sight of his normal eyes. Or they could dim with age. Skir masters spent most of their waking hours in that world, and so it was no surprise when some went blind. Withers himself had been partially blinded by a great mysterious flash in the soul world. But the Skir Master here was not old, nor reported to have a guide, which meant she needed to be careful.

She leaned out of herself until her head and torso were free. Then she slowly pushed through the door. When her face emerged on the other side, she stopped and looked around. The door to the wide tower room was shut. No candles or lamps burned; however, a large window did let in some of the starlight. More importantly, a fire burned low on the hearth. There would be enough light in there to see by. A woman slept on her side in the large bed. A medium-sized dog lay on floor beside her. The dog was awake, alert, looking in her direction. It must have heard them as they ascended the stairs.

Sugar whispered with her body, “There’s a woman in bed and a dog on the floor to the right of us. No more.”

Argoth whispered for her to move back.

She pulled herself back in, then whispered into Argoth’s ear and explained how the door worked and guided his hand to the locking mechanism.

Inside the room, the dog woofed.

Sugar then moved back onto the stairs to make room for those that would go in first. Argoth whispered his command, which was whispered down the line. Then he knelt and gently felt for the lever that would open the door. The plan was six men in, followed by Sugar and the rest.

Argoth gently pulled the lever and swung the door inward. The dog woofed tentatively, but Argoth shot through the gap with multiplied speed. The next five men followed. The dog had time to bark once, loud and clear, before it was Sugar’s turn to go through. But by the time she was into the room and moving away to give those behind her space, Argoth had already silenced the dog. Two of the dreadmen had taken care of the woman. One held a pillow to her face, the second was pulling his knife from her chest.

Sugar’s stomach lurched. She tried to tell herself the sleeping woman was nothing more than a Fir-Noy, but she couldn’t help but feel the horror of it—what had that woman done to them? Another dreadman rushed to the shut door that opened to hallway and carefully lowered the bar into place.

Then all of the fist stood still and listened. The fire in the large hearth popped. The murmur of men’s voices could be heard outside the door, but they were very distant, as if they were down a hallway or stair. Sugar and the others had rehearsed this. A guard was likely to be posted in the hallway outside the door. Even though the bar would prevent them from coming in, a man outside could hear and rouse the castle. And so they waited for a few minutes more to let anyone who might be there assume whatever noise had been heard was nothing.

The room had a high ceiling. The walls had been covered with a thick plaster above and dark wood paneling below. The plaster had been painted with a brightly colored landscape mural and festooned with the heads and horns of various animals. The dark wooden paneling ran around the bottom. The secret door had been disguised as part of that paneling.

Argoth signaled to his men, then walked to the section of the paneling the woman had told him about and searched for the entrance to the other passage. Sugar looked at the dead woman lying in her blankets and cringed at the murder. The woman in the bed could have been another abused servant just like the woman who had escaped.

Argoth found the other door and clicked it open. He motioned for Sugar to come. Again, they walked without light, for who was to say Lord Hash himself wasn’t in the passageway, spying on his guests?

The men followed Sugar into the narrow passage in the tower wall, leaving one person behind to watch the room and alert them should anything happen. She pressed her face out of her body to see. The walls here showed raw stone and mortar that ran along the back of the apartments. However, Blue Towers was not shaped in a perfect rectangle. It was forced to follow the rocky ledge it was built upon. So the passage ran straight for a number of yards, then turned. The grand apartment was behind the bend up ahead.

She and the others crept along the narrow passage, each man holding the shoulder of the man in front. A few mice scurried away at their coming, and she caught a strand of spider web on her face, but the passage was clear of anything larger. The grand apartment was preceded by a number of smaller apartments for clerks, guards, and other ranking officials. They passed by these, some with peep holes, others with hidden doors. She wondered if Ke was being held in any of these, but knew finding him wasn’t their mission.

Before they reached the bend in the passage, they came upon a spiral staircase descending to a lower level. Sugar paused. She couldn’t imagine anyone patrolling these passageways, but if Lord Hash or someone else were down there, she needed to know it. It wouldn’t do to be surprised. So she walked out of her flesh and quickly descended the spiral stairs.

A group of the amber knuckle skir clung to the stair wall and scurried into the rock at her coming. When she reached the bottom, she found a passageway stretching left and right, shining in the dim stone light, but it too was empty. She walked down the passageway to her right and peeked around the bend. The way was clear as far as she could see, so she climbed back up the stairway where Argoth and the others waited. She was about to move forward when she heard a grunt with the ears of her soul. The sound came from around the corner of the passageway ahead. She reached out to feel with her hair, but could only sense the people in the rooms about her.

Sugar carefully moved forward, peered around the bend, but found nothing. Had the grunt come from one of the apartments? Ahead on her left stood a secret door to the grand apartment. She could feel people there, but her sense wasn’t exact. Stone blocked it to a great degree. So she moved forward and found a peephole, which she ever so slowly opened. Behind it lay a room lit with lamps. The fat Skir Master and another man sat in chairs before the hearth. Two guards flanked the inside of the door. Another man sat at a table. All three wore dreadmen weaves.

She moved to the side to see if there were others in the room, but there were only five here at the moment. Other dreadmen probably stood guard outside the main door to the apartment. She scanned the large room once again, then slowly closed the peephole. She moved her mouth to Argoth’s ear and whispered the layout of the room. He in turn whispered her report to the man behind him, who whispered it down the line. When they were ready, Sugar guided Argoth’s hand to the latch, then stepped past the door. A moment later she sensed something farther down the secret passage approaching.

Argoth drew his long knife with one hand, then gently pulled the lever and swung the hidden door into the secret passage, but found the opening was blocked. Argoth put his hand forward and felt. It looked like the back of a chest or wardrobe, but Sugar couldn’t tell because she was focused on the passageway. She could feel something coming. Something large.

And then two howlers, the creatures that looked like whippets with thorns and spikes for hair, came around the bend followed by something in the rough shape of a man. It was jagged and horned all over. Its head was a slash of spikes. Its hide was a mottled red that ran to ochre and bone at the points of the horns and spikes.

It turned its head and revealed its face, and Sugar took a step back—it was the face of a nightmare, like something had eaten the soul of a man and was wearing it about. But then she perceived that the horned hide was not part of the body. The rough exterior was armor, fashioned like plate or scale, but instead of being smooth, this armor was jagged like the skin of a horned toad or the exterior of a rough crab. The spikes on its head were simply part of some kind of helmet. The man in the armor carried a weapon in his hand—a smoky red blade. This was one of the Mokaddian Walkers!

“We’ve been spotted,” Sugar hissed.

Someone shouted a warning in the grand apartment.

Argoth threw himself against the obstruction. It scraped a few inches across the floor. Two of the other dreadmen men joined him, pushing whatever it was out of the way.

The Walker yelled and the black angular howlers shot forward, growling.

Sugar pulled her soul back into her body and slammed her doors shut. The passage was suddenly dark, lit only by the lamplight spilling in from the secret doorway. Moments later she felt a chill run through her.

Argoth charged through the door followed by three of his dreadmen. Sugar’s job was not to fight. They needed her eyes, and so she waited as the others poured into the room. Then she felt the chill of the howlers again as they pressed about her and tried to bite through to get to her soul. She squeezed her doors as tightly as they would go.

Inside the room, one of the Skir Master’s guards raced forward to meet the attack. The other flung open the door to the fortress hallway and shouted for help. The Skir Master turned and backed up, his black eyes glittering in the lamplight. Three more guards rushed into the room.

The guard sitting slumped at the table suddenly raised his head and looked straight at Sugar.

The Walker, she thought. That’s his body.

Shouts rose in the hallway outside the grand apartment. Right now it was Argoth and his nine against the Skir Master and his seven. But most of Argoth’s men, although battle-hardened, were new dreadmen, which meant that if someone didn’t bar the door to the hallway, more of Mokad’s dreadmen would pour into the room, and this fight would turn ugly very quickly.

One of the red clad Mokaddian guards swung a short sword, cutting one of Shim’s men across the face. Shim’s man fell to the floor. Argoth swung his axe at the man who’d been sitting at the fire with the Skir Master. The man parried with a fire poker. Another of the Skir Master’s guards chopped down spider-quick with his sword and sliced the gloved fingers off the hand of one of Shim’s men. The man cried out and fell back, but another Shimsman pressed the attack in his place.

The battle in the room surged to one side, clearing a path to the door. Sugar shot into the room and ran straight for it.

The guard who was the Walker stood and charged her. Like all of the Skir Master’s men, the Walker wore mail, but it didn’t seem to slow him down. The Walker moved lightning quick, thrusting at her with the point of his axe.

She twisted away and dodged past him.

He turned, cocked his arm.

Sugar grabbed the door, saw half a dozen men round the corner at the far end of the lamplit hallway, then slammed the door shut.

The Walker hurled his axe.

Sugar lunged to the side, and the axe buried itself in the wood where her head had been. She wrenched it out, grabbed the crossbar, and shoved it down tight. When she turned, the Walker smashed her in the face with a fist that felt like a stone. Her nose broke. Pain shot across the bridge of her brow. She reeled to the side, dazed.

He struck her in the gut, knocking the breath out of her, and took her axe.

The Walker raised the axe to brain her.

Sugar kicked his knee, blood pouring out of her nose, and turned him so the blow missed.

He swung again to finish her, but Oaks slammed into the red-clad Walker from the side, grabbing his weapon hand, and knocking him up against the door. He slammed the guard’s hand hard against the wood.

The man lost his grip on the axe, and it fell to the floor. But he struck Oaks in the face with a forearm, pulled a knife and slashed at him, forcing him back.

Outside, men shouted and pounded on the door.

Sugar was dizzy, her hearing muffled. At her feet lay the Walker’s axe. She snatched it up and turned.

Across the room, Argoth fought with the Skir Master’s guard. In front of her, Oaks took another step back, blood running down a wound along his ear, and stumbled over a chair.

The Walker rushed forward and fell upon Oaks, but Sugar charged him. She took two steps, raised the axe high, then brought it down with all her multiplied might upon his back. It bit partway through the mail. The Walker jerked, faltered, turned to meet the new attack.

Oaks, who was one of the more mature dreadmen, struck him like an anvil on the jaw. He struck him again, and the Walker’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he slumped to the floor.

Another guard charged Oaks from behind, but Sugar stepped forward and swung the axe, stopping his blow. Then one of Argoth’s men stabbed this new attacker with a short sword.

Sugar turned. Another red-clad guard fell, and suddenly the only fight in the room was with the Skir Master’s personal guard by the doors to a balcony. The Skir Master stood behind the man, looking on with anger and disdain.

Two of Argoth’s dreadmen closed on the last guard. One of them threw a chair. When the guard tried to bat it away, the second dreadman lunged. The guard was exceedingly quick, parrying the strike, but he could not parry the blow from the first Shimsman to his head and fell to his knees.

Argoth turned on the Skir Master.

Blood poured out of Sugar’s nose, over her lips to her chin. She plugged her nose, trying to stop the bleeding. Outside the room, the door thudded under the cut of an axe.

The Skir Master said, “You will be disemboweled. I will see to that personally.”

Outside a wind gusted and whistled along the eaves. The pitch of the wind rose until it sounded like a faint scream. The fire in the hearth flared. The Skir Master sneered. “You are worms,” he said with disdain.

Argoth lunged with his long knife, but the Skir Master batted it away, then slapped Argoth open-handed to the ground.

“Pathetic,” he said. Outside, the wind surged, full of fury. The balcony doors behind the Skir Master suddenly flew inward banging against the walls on either side, tearing from their hinges. On the balcony, half the wooden railing ripped away and was thrown to the open bailey below. The wind howled into the room, guttering the lamps, whipping the tapestries.

The Skir Master took a step back. “You and your ridiculous Groves. You are all meat. Pathetic meat.”

Argoth growled, rose like a snake, long knife glinting. The Skir Master turned, but Argoth was too quick and slid the knife deep into the Skir Master’s side, pressing him out onto the balcony and broken railing. The Skir Master’s cry of pain mixed with the howl of the wind.

The wind blasted Argoth, making him stagger, but he surged forward and shoved his knife in deeper. “Take that to your masters!” he roared over the wind. “Tell them it’s a gift from their pathetic meat!”

The Skir Master took a step back. The wind rose in full fury, banging the balcony doors, tearing a tapestry from the wall, whipping debris about the room.

Argoth stepped forward to stab the Skir Master again, but wind blasted into him, and he brought his arm up to protect his eyes and was forced a few steps back into the room.

Then the Skir Master stumbled backward off the balcony, but he did not drop to the bailey below—the wind caught him and carried him aloft.

Debris slammed into Sugar’s eye, blinding her.

For a moment the wind howled, filling the room with its screams until Sugar thought it would drag them all out.

“Back!” Argoth roared into the gale. “Back!”

Then the wind lessened, the pitch of its rage fell to a whistle, and then it was gone.

Outside the room, men still hacked at the thick door.

Sugar blinked the tears out of her eyes and rushed to the secret panel. Argoth paused by the three Shimsmen that had fallen. Each wore a braid on his belt. Argoth knelt, cut the braids, then shoved them in his pocket and hurried to the door. He was the last man out.

The blade of an axe broke through the door to the hallway just as they closed the secret panel.

“No running,” hissed Argoth in the passageway. “Quickly, quietly. Let’s not reveal our positions.” Sugar’s nose was still bleeding. She pinched it and breathed out of her mouth. Behind her, the dreadman who’d lost three of his fingers held onto her shoulder with the two he still had.

Sugar knew the passageway and could feel her way back without entering the yellow world. But it would do no good to flee if a Walker simply followed them out and reported their location. Sugar did not feel the howlers, but that didn’t mean they weren’t close by. She had to look.

She quickened the weave and risked a peek. They were not there. Relief flooded her, and she began to walk forward, following the passage as quickly as she could. They turned the corner, passed the stairway, and hurried back to the tower. Despite Argoth’s warning, they rushed, and Sugar was sure some in the apartments heard their passing.

They ran into the tower room, past the dead woman on the bed, to the doorway leading down to the slope. As they ran through the room, howls rose from the passageway behind them.

“Close the door behind you!” she said as they filed into the passage leading out. The door wouldn’t stop the Walker and his beasts. But it might slow them. However, she knew slowing this new Walker wouldn’t be enough. As long as he was alive, he would simply follow them in soul and guide the defenders and those awful dogmen to their position.

There was only one way to stop him, but she needed to get everyone through the door to the slope first.

Sugar and the others rushed down the stairs. Somebody stumbled behind her, knocking the whole line forward.

“Calm!” said Argoth. “Calm.”

They exited the base of the staircase, and then each man dropped through the doorway in the floor. When it was her turn, she stepped aside. “I will catch up,” she said.

In the yellow world, the howling behind them grew, and then it changed its tone, became louder, and she knew the wicked beasts were pressing through the secret door in Lord Hash’s room above.

The last of Argoth’s men disappeared through the floor just as the howlers and the Walker reached the top of the stairs above. The howlers surged forward grunting and rattling.

Sugar jumped through the hole, then swung the door shut. She knew the wood wouldn’t stop them, but she hoped it would give her enough time.

She sat down and stepped out of her body. Above her, the howlers reached the door and began to force their way through. She hastily removed the blackspine from its bindings, then turned. The first howler pushed its hideous head through the door, gnashing at her. She waited until it was about to break free, then shoved the blackspine into its thorny side. The howler hissed and fell to the floor. She stabbed it again, and again. The second howler pushed through, and she stabbed it in the head. It fell next to her body of flesh and writhed in pain. She realized the doors of her flesh were open, and she closed them, not wanting it to find a way inside.

She waited, blackspine in hand, for the Walker to show himself, but nothing else pushed through the wood. She wondered if the Walker could sense her presence. Having seen what she’d done to his howlers, he’d probably hold back until she was gone.

Sugar walked back to her body, laid down the blackspine, merged, and scrambled out of the passage onto the slope. A sliver of moon had risen, allowing her to make out the barest shapes of the slope about her. A small rock tumbled below in the darkness. Argoth and the others must already be descending.

“Looks like it’s me and you again.”

Sugar turned and found Oaks.

“Every time I’m with you,” he said, “we’re running for our lives.”

“We still have a Walker on our tail,” she said.

“What do you want me to do?”

She could cover the hole with the rock, preventing the Walker from coming this way. But then he would simply return the way he’d come and reappear on the parapet, watching their every move in the darkness and reporting it to those chasing them. She had to kill him as he exited the hole. “We can’t leave yet,” she said.

“I feared you’d say that,” he said.

On the parapet above, men called to each other, but they hadn’t spotted her.

“Back away from the opening,” she whispered. “I don’t want him to feel you.”

Oaks moved away and squatted next to the outer wall of the fortress. She sat down and tore her soul away from her body yet again. This time the pain did not fade, even when she pulled on her skenning. She turned to retrieve the blackspine, but it was gone. Dismay filled her. She frantically looked around, then realized, in her haste, she’d left it in the cavity.

Far above, three red and black skir chuffed and passed over the castle. Something else groaned in the distance. Below her, Argoth and the others made their way across the rock.

If she was going to deal with Walkers and howlers, she needed a weapon. She had to go back.

She shot through the hole and found the Walker already halfway through the wood, his spiked head and torso hanging from above. He saw her, and pushed harder to free the rest of his body.

Sugar ran for the blackspine and picked it up.

The Walker pushed through past his waist.

She changed her grip and stabbed two-handed, but the Walker drew his smoky red blade and turned her thrust. Then he shoved with one leg and slipped the rest of the way through the wood and tumbled to the floor. He immediately rolled up and sprang at her.

Sugar stabbed at him, but he deflected the point with his armored hand. This exposed her side. He slashed at her with the smoky red blade.

She braced herself for the pain, but his stroke only felt like someone had struck her and knocked her to the side. She looked down. The blade had slightly cut the skenning, but it had not sliced through.

Surprise briefly flashed across the Walker’s face, but it was immediately replaced by resolve.

Sugar yelled and feinted a jab at his face.

He raised his blade and tried to block it. When he did, instead of trying to skewer him, she brought the end of the staff around and struck him on the side of his crab-armored head. He reeled back a step.

Sugar struck him again. Hard. She went to strike him a third time, but he lunged for her and took her by the throat. She tried to strike him with the blackspine, but struck the horned side of his helmet with her hand instead, piercing her soul.

She cried out, pulled the hand of her soul back.

It was the moment he was looking for. He slammed his horned elbow into her face. Pain shot through her. Then he slammed her to the ground and pinned her below him, a few of the spines of his armor pressing through the skenning.

His face was full of murder. “Whore,” he said, his voice sounding like the rustling of leaves.

She clawed at his eyes, but he punched her in the face. The blow dazed her.

She looked for her weapon and saw the blackspine lying only a few feet away.

From some pocket he retrieved a length of cord woven with some bright material, but it wasn’t a cord. It was alive, twisting. “I’ll bind your soul now. I’ll get your pretty body later. You and I are going to have a good time.” Then he grabbed her by the top of the head and pulled her exposed neck back to wrap the thing about it.

With her free hand Sugar reached out, fumbling, and seized the blackspine four or five inches from its point.

He brought the twisting collar around.

Sugar yelled and stabbed the point of the blackspine straight into his face.

With a body of flesh, her thrust would have been stopped by the bones of the skull. Not so with the soul. The point of the blackspine sank deep. The Walker reeled back and dropped the living cord.

Sugar rolled to her knees, grabbed the shaft with both hands, and shoved it forward as hard as she could, sinking the point to the back of his spiny helmet.

He screamed with that rustling voice—it was no sound a human could make—then toppled to the side, writhing in pain.

She pulled the blackspine out, then shoved it through the armor into his chest. On the floor, the living cord snaked toward her. Sugar pinned it with the point of the blackspine, then whipped it out through the mouth of the cavity and into the night.

The Walker rolled over, tried to rise, but fell to the ground again.

A dark substance rose from the wounds she’d inflicted on him. It spread in the air like ink in water. She noticed a similar substance rising from the howlers.

She wanted to retrieve the Walker’s blade, wanted to steal his armor and anything else of value, take it all to see what she might do with them, but she didn’t dare delay. The inky substance began to fill the cavity like smoke.

Sugar backed away from it, scrambled out. Oaks was still waiting for her. Argoth’s men were below her and far to the right, but there were only four of them with him, which meant one must have fallen to the river below.

Above her the fortress rang with shouts. Dogs barked. At the corner of the fortress wall, just where the rocky slope began, a giant dogman held a lantern aloft and looked down. He had two of the massive maulers with him. At the opposite corner, a group of soldiers with torches began to climb out on the rocky slope toward her and Oaks.

Sugar took off her skenning and merged with her body, still feeling the wound of the tear. “Oaks,” she hissed with the mouth of her flesh.

“About time,” he said.

“We need to go down. Follow me.”

“I wasn’t planning on doing anything else,” he said.

Sugar turned to face the slope and, still looking in the yellow world, began to back her way down, guiding Oaks as best she could. She tried to be careful and not give their exact position away, but she kicked loose a rock. The Mokaddian soldiers above heard it and shouted. She and Oaks continued to descend, then angled toward Argoth and the others.

But the dogman was joined by another, and then both began to climb down the slope angling toward her and Oaks.

“That dogman’s coming for us, isn’t he?” hissed Oaks.

“And bringing a friend,” Sugar said.

They quickened their pace. The dogmen and maulers scrambled down the slope, gaining on them.

Sugar knocked a few more rocks loose, and then a whole section of rock and soil broke loose underneath her, and she was sliding, falling. She tumbled the last twenty feet and wheeled over the edge of the cliff, Oaks tumbling behind her.

The rush of the river echoed off the face of the cliff. She yelled as she fell, but managed to pull her soul completely in. The yellow world winked out, leaving her in darkness, robbing her of the ability to see where the surface of the river was. A moment later she smacked into it, the cold water slapping her hard in the side and face. Pain shot through her broken nose again, and she went under, startled at the shock of cold water. She tumbled, took in a mouthful of water and came up coughing. Above her, the two dogmen sprang from the edge of the cliff.

Sugar turned and swam downstream with the current. Then Oaks called out some distance to her right, telling her to swim for the far side. She was magnified, but the current was cold and strong, sapping at her strength, and the river was wide. How were they going to make it all that way?

Behind them the dogmen splashed into the water.

The current carried her downstream, but she swam for all she was worth in the freezing flow and suspected she and Oaks would be swept out into the bay. But then she heard one of the dogmen behind her and realized they would probably catch her first.

She put on a burst of speed, but the dogman was faster, cutting through the water with huge strokes. At the last moment, she reached for her knife and turned. But he grabbed her knife arm with his huge hand and pushed her under. She struggled, but he took her knife, then grabbed her around the throat, his hand like a massive collar.

She thought she would drown, but he yanked her back up, held her to his chest, and backstroked toward the shore. She flailed once, but he growled and put her under the water until she stopped struggling. She came up coughing, and he continued on. A minute or so later, they reached the rocky shore downriver from the fortress. The dogman stood and dragged her up out of the water. Upon his arm he wore a weave of might, a big metal bracelet woven with big open gaps.

He dragged her up onto the rocky bank, flung her into a wet heap, and barked something at her.

Sugar looked around. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. He was larger, faster, stronger. Out in the water, two of the huge maulers were paddling toward shore. He whistled and they quickened their pace. Then they too climbed up the bank and shook the water out of their large coats. Their eyes were small, their huge mouths full of teeth.

The dogman issued a command and the two monstrous animals woofed and padded over to her, growling. They stood above her, rigid, tense, teeth bared, waiting for her to move. Their breath stank of rotten things, and she was positive they could bolt her down with two bites of those massive mouths. Every inch of her flesh prickled, and Sugar looked away from their eyes for fear of provoking them.

A few minutes later the other dogman hauled a half-drowned Oaks ashore. The second dogman grinned, said something that made Sugar’s dogman laugh. Then the first dark-haired giant turned to her.

“Up,” he said.

10

Prisoners

ONE DOGMAN LED Sugar and Oaks up the hill to the town gate. The other walked behind. One of the maulers stayed close. Every so often it would growl and send a shock of fear coursing through her. The other giant dog roamed as they walked. Oaks held his forearm. The dogman had broken it in the water to subdue him.

They came to the town wall and were stopped at the gate by a Fir-Noy captain of the guard and five others who, with spears and torches, barred the way. The captain said, “Well done. Leave them with us. We’ll take them up.”

The dogman laughed, deep and full-throated. “And take our pay?” He turned to his dog. “What think you about that?”

The huge mauler walked forward until it stood before the captain and sniffed the man’s chest, then his face. The captain stepped back. The second mauler stopped its roaming, turned to watch, and growled. The soldiers looked nervous.

“Find your own booty,” said the dogman. “Or should I call to my brothers walking your streets?”

The captain hesitated a moment, then ordered his men to back off.

The big dogman pushed through. Sugar and Oaks followed. The second dogman brought up the rear. As Sugar walked past the Fir-Noy, one of them said, “The sleth girl from Plum.”

Sugar ignored him and kept moving forward through the gate. The wind blew down through the moonlit houses and cobblestone streets, cutting like ice through her wet clothes and hair. The dogmen led them past another group of Fir-Noy soldiers huddled around a fire and then onto the wide winding road that led up the hill to the castle. As before, one mauler stayed close to Sugar and Oaks while the other roamed. They hadn’t traveled far when horse hooves beat on the cobblestones behind them. A rider wearing the colors of the gate guards galloped past.

“Shum,” said the dogman behind her. He and the other dogman exchanged a few more words in their language, then the lead dogman howled. A moment later a howl rose in the distance, and was picked up farther away. When the calls died down, they continued on. Even with her broken nose, she could smell the musk of the dogmen. It was pungent, earthy, mixed with the tang of sweat. She expected such large men to lumber, but they walked with power and grace.

They passed houses, a town square, more houses. She could see guards and fires down a number of lanes. As they approached the castle, they were met by a troop of at least fifty Mokaddian dreadmen led by a man wearing a scarlet and white padded tunic over mail. The eye of Mokad was embroidered in the fabric of his tunic. But it was the sash he wore over his shoulder that proclaimed him a Guardian, a Divine who led dreadmen to war. He rode a white horse. Another mounted man burst from the castle gate behind the troop and galloped his horse forward. He was bald with a thick black beard. As he came forward, Sugar recognized him as Lord Hash.

“They’re mine!” he roared.

The Guardian paid him no mind. He rode up to the lead dogman and said something in their tongue. The dogman replied.

Lord Hash trotted up in a huff and reined in his mount. “They murdered my wife!”

The Guardian looked at the Lord. He did not raise his voice. “You will go away now, Lord Hash.”

“Zu,” said Lord Hash, “I demand blood!”

“You do not demand anything. Now you will go away.” He turned back to the dogman and asked him a question in the man’s language. The dogman responded.

“I—”

But before Lord Hash could say more, a number of the dreadmen turned their spears on him. He looked at their spears, looked at the Divine who had turned back to the dogman. He leveled a gaze of hate at Sugar and Oaks, then turned his horse and gave it his heels.

The Guardian dismounted, handed the reins of his horse to one of his soldiers, called for a torch. While he was waiting, she quickly adjusted the collar of her tunic to hide the weave.

The Guardian walked over and looked down at her. He examined her broken nose in the torchlight, then must have seen something, for he fished the necklace out of her tunic and fingered the weave.

His hair was trimmed short and tidy. The cords of his muscles stood out on his arms and throat. He didn’t say a word to her, just retrieved a silver collar from his pocket and clasped it about her neck. Sugar closed her doors as tightly as she could, but moments later she found it increasingly difficult to maintain her Fire. The Guardian put another such collar around Oaks’s neck, then pointed at a dreadman. “Take their names. Make a full report.”

Then the Divine turned and mounted his horse. Other dreadmen came forward and bound Sugar’s wrists behind her back. They bound Oaks’s as well, even though his arm was broken. Then they led them up to and through the gate of Blue Towers.

As they crossed the inner bailey, she spotted the outside of the grand apartment and the wind-torn balcony. Then they were led through a door at the base of one of the towers and down a stair into a dark cellar below. Sugar was still wet and freezing, and the stones of this dungeon only offered more cold on her bare feet, but she felt relief being out of the cold wind.

The dreadmen exited the pitch black room and barred the door behind them with a ka-thunk. The silence was thick, and then she heard the wind moaning softly over the edges of an opening somewhere high in the wall.

Oaks said, “You think you might ease my knots?”

Sugar used her shoulder and elbow to locate him next to her in the darkness. Then she turned her back to his so she could feel his knots with her own bound hands. She ran her fingers along the knot. It took some time and some gritting of teeth on Oaks’s part to loosen the cord. When it was off him, he moaned a thanks. Then he turned and with his free hand worked her bond. He said, “Six of us for a Skir Master. I’d say that’s a good trade. Although I’m not too happy about being one of the six.”

“I suppose,” Sugar said and thought of Urban and his ship fleeing over the waves in the moonlight. She’d been a fool. Maybe she had needed to stay, but Legs hadn’t. Why hadn’t she sent him with Urban?

“It’s not going to be pretty,” said Oaks. “You and I are in for some hard experience.”

* * *

She didn’t know how long they sat there on the cold stone floor of the dungeon, wet and freezing, but it was still dark outside the small window when the door opened and three dreadmen came for her. One held a lamp, the other two handled her roughly, binding her again. Then they barred the door, leaving Oaks behind, and led her up the stairs and out onto the bailey.

The moon had moved to the west and so she knew she’d been down there a few hours. They crossed the bailey, away from the grand apartment and Lord Hash’s tower, to another one of the towers, and led her up to a room on the second level. A fire blazing in the hearth and a number of candles on corbel shelves illuminated the room.

There was no bed, only a few tables, chairs, and a desk. A bear skin lay on the floor. There were casements for books and other objects. Like Lord Hash’s room, the walls were plastered and painted with a mural, this one depicting a great battle where men wore livery of bright yellows and oranges. The warmth of the fire felt good, and she desperately wanted to edge closer, but the two men held her between them and waited.

A few minutes later, a tall hooded figure walked in holding a cup of steaming liquid on a saucer. He dismissed the two guards with a wave of his hand. She couldn’t see his face clearly in the fire and candlelight. But when the two guards were gone and the door shut, he pulled back his hood and smiled at her.

It was Flax.

She couldn’t believe her eyes. “How did you . . .” It was impossible. Truly, the Hand was amazing.

He led her over to a chair. She sat, her wrists still bound behind her, and tried to get closer to the lovely warmth of the fire.

“Take a sip,” he said and raised the cup he was holding to her lips. “You must be very cold.” He tipped the cup, and she couldn’t help but take a sip. The liquid was warm and bitter and felt good going down her throat.

She pitched her voice low so she wouldn’t be overheard outside the room. “How are we going to get out of here?”

“One more drink,” he said and tipped the cup again.

When she’d swallowed, he set the cup aside and pulled up a chair. “Your broken nose is unfortunate; it mars an otherwise beautiful face. Not a stunning face, mind you, but coupled with your courage and grit, it all works together into something quite nice. You are someone who needs to be known to be appreciated.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m appreciating your breeding,” he said. “Which brings me to your brother. He’s an interesting study. He doesn’t have a fully developed seed in him, but he has power. I want to know what happened to him.”

Why wasn’t he asking about the attack? Why didn’t he release her bonds? “How are we going to get out?” she asked.

“My dear, you’re not getting out.”

“But—”

“No, you’ve done quite enough damage for one night’s work. I have to hand it to Shim. We didn’t see the attack coming. Not like this.”

She tried to process what he had just said, and then the dreadful truth came to her. “You? You’re allied with Mokad?”

He smiled.

“You’re the traitor?”

“No,” he said as if patiently instructing a child. “I am loyalty itself. My job is to protect and preserve.”

Alarm filled her. She tried to get out of the chair but he pushed her down.

“You made your first mistake drinking the tea,” he said. “There are herbs that ease the process. By now you will find it’s a bit more difficult to close your doors.”

Sugar tried to close the doors of her soul, but they were sluggish to respond. “No,” she said.

He reached forward and felt her mother’s weave. Then he turned it, undid the clasp, and held it up. “This whole Grove is full of surprises and unexpected skills,” he said. He looked at it a few moments more, then set her mother’s necklace on the small table. He rolled the cuff of his left shirt sleeve up.

How could this be? How could they not have detected a Divine among them?

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“You will now have the pleasure of a seeking. Let’s see how well they taught you to resist.”

“You won’t get anything from me.”

Flax raised his hand. In the palm, standing out from all the tattoos there, was the burning eye of Mokad. Flax placed the palm of his hand on her forehead.

“No,” she said. It was barely a whisper.

Then he forced himself into her flesh and through the closed doors of her soul as if they were made of paper. She tried to shut him out, but it was like trying to hold back a stream of water with your hand—he just flowed around her. The weight of him pressed in upon her, and she felt as if she were suffocating. Then she heard him in her mind.

“You shall begin,” he said, “by telling me about your mother.”

* * *

Sugar told Flax everything: her mother’s history, what happened with her little brother Cotton, Legs. She told him about Urban and his crew and the strap Withers gave her that she wore across her back. Through it all Flax stood above her, the palm of his hand on her forehead, the eye burning in her mind. There were no threats or shouts. Only methodical questions.

When he finished, Flax removed his hand and rubbed his palm. He was sweating. He stood back, picked up a large mug he’d left on the table, and drank its contents. He pulled his hood up, hiding his face in its shadows, and called for the guards to bring him a bowl of water and a towel. All the while he looked at her.

She felt defiled. Horrified. She was sure she’d just endangered her friends in ways she probably couldn’t comprehend. And she’d done it with hardly a fight.

Sugar had never been raped, but she wondered if this was how it felt. Her mind was raw. For a few moments she could do nothing but curl in over herself.

“If it were up to me, I’d put a thrall on you and let you help me from the inside when the fighting starts. But I don’t want you to die by accident because I think you’d be put to much better use in a bit of a spectacle we’ll hold in Whitecliff. You know, at first, we thought the attack tonight was Nilliam. But this couldn’t be better. We’ll let all of the herd in this land see the Divine killers brought to justice. Let them see Mokad has power to protect. We’ll sacrifice you on the altar at Whitecliff. When the priests finish, your body will go to the dogmen. And in that way, not a scrap of you will be wasted.”

“It was worth it,” she said. “A trade of six dreadmen for one Skir Master.”

“That is a good trade, except our fat friend is not quite dead yet. There are gifts given to those who serve the Mother. If you’d cut off his head, or burned him alive like you did those Kains, that might be one thing. But his wounds were not enough to overcome the grace that grows in the Mother’s servants. He will be with us tomorrow when we begin the harvest. Injured, but very much present. He will be with us when Shim and the others fall into our trap.”

Her heart sank, and she thought of Urban—why hadn’t she listened?

Flax’s man opened the door and walked in with his bowl of water and wash cloth.

Sugar saw her chance and bolted for the open door, but Flax snatched her arm before she’d taken two steps. She struggled, but he wrestled her to the floor.

“I wish half the sleth I have taken were as lively as you,” Flax said, then told his man to call her escort. A moment later the guards came and bound her.

Flax picked up her mother’s necklace from the table by the hearth and put it in a red lacquered box on the desk. Next to the box lay the strap Withers had given her. She wondered if it still held the blackspine.

“You should know I was going to preserve your brother. But our glorious Sublime wants him culled. He will be in the spectacle with you. That should give you comfort—knowing you’ll see him again before the end.”

* * *

When they returned Sugar to the tower dungeon, she found Oaks gone. They chained her to rings bolted to the stone walls and shut the door, leaving her with nothing but the cold stone floor, the darkness, and the wind murmuring over the edges of the small opening.

She sat and contemplated her end. Everyone’s end. Argoth, Shim, the Creek Widow, the Mistress—they were all going to die. Ke had never returned. Nobody knew where River and Talen were. Sugar herself would be torn to pieces in body and soul. She had always thought of death as a doorway to something better, and maybe for some it was, but for her there would be no happy reunion. No perilous adventure to brightness. She’d seen the skir harvesting the souls, and she knew that, for her, death would be the end.

She thought about killing herself to escape the devouring. She could flee this place, hide in the mountains. But there was no way to hang herself with the chains. Besides, she needed to be there for Legs. She would not leave him to face his last moments alone.

They brought Oaks back some time later and chained him to another spot on the wall. In the lamplight she saw his arm had been splinted. When the guards closed the door again, she said, “I told Flax everything I knew. Everything I’d sworn to keep secret.”

“Yes,” he said in defeat. He sighed. “Who could have guessed that a Divine was right there sharing our swamp and bread? He had them splint my arm. They want me whole. I’m to be put in the arena, pitted against a lion or mauler.”

“Part of a spectacle,” she said.

“Which won’t end with me hacking off the dog’s head. They’ll be sure of that.”

“Did he tell you about the Skir Master?”

“No.”

“He’s not dead.”

“Of course not,” Oaks said with a sigh. “Why should mankind get any breaks? The Creators are set against us.”

There wasn’t much to say after that. Sugar sat in the darkness next to Oaks. Eventually, she too concluded the Creators must be set against humankind. After all, hadn’t the Creators given life to the Devourers? All this time, humans thought they were the masters of the earth. But they were exactly what the Skir Master called them—meat for beings of greater power.

11

Hunting

TALEN LAY IN the darkness of the onion-shaped hut contemplating what he’d done to that weem. He was slipping into a vile blackness. He was crawling slowly to his own doom because even if he didn’t give into his lusts tomorrow or the next day or the next, he was bound to slip up again sometime. Maybe a few days from now. Maybe a few hours. A little slip here, another there. They would add up, and in a few years what would he be? Some horrid amalgamation of insects and people and animals. He would go mad. And when he’d lost his mind, what would he do then?

He sighed. All those nights he thought he was dreaming of a yellow world—it had been nothing more than his roamling on the prowl.

He wanted fresh air. He wanted out of the hut, but that wasn’t going to happen, so he recited poems to himself and cataloged the day’s events. He did push-ups and sit-ups in the little space that was his until he lost count. When he couldn’t do another, he stood and pinched himself mercilessly to keep himself awake. From the turning of the stars, he knew a few hours had passed. But he also knew there were more to come, and his weariness was growing. He’d been multiplied for almost a whole day, consumed perhaps a week of his life, and his body needed rest. But if he slept, who knew where his roamlings would go?

He closed one eye, thinking that maybe he could rest them in turns, but the other eye soon followed. He told himself that he would open his eyes again in just a moment, just one moment.

He roused himself. Slapped his face hard, but the sting could not remove his weariness. He was going to lose this fight. In the end, he was going to lose. But not tonight. Not here. He moved over to the little window and knelt before it, letting the cool air refresh his face and began mumbling what he could remember of the Proverbs of Hismayas.

* * *

A scream shocked Talen from his slumber.

He jumped and banged the back of his head against the wall of their onion shaped hut and thanked the Six he hadn’t been sleeping on one of the many tree platforms he’d seen. If he had been, he would have startled himself right over the side and to his death.

Something large inside the hut screamed again, a long, hideous caterwaul that sent a surge of fear through him and made the hairs on his neck stand on end. He scrabbled back, away from the sound. In reflex, he sent forth a roamling to see what it was.

Harnock was standing up in the center of the hut, stooping from the low ceiling. It was Harnock making the noise!

“Harnock,” River said rolling up from her sleep. She threw a pack at him.

The caterwaul changed pitch to a moan. Then a growl.

“Harnock!” River shouted.

The growling stopped.

Outside the hut, the woodikin guard shouted something. He banged on the door, shouted something again. Harnock replied to the guard in Woodikin.

“What’s going on?” Talen asked, his heart still thumping.

Harnock was breathing hard. He hissed in anger and slammed the side of the hut with his fist. The walls shuddered. “Sometimes we hate it,” he spat. “Sometimes we both hate it.”

“You were sleep walking, weren’t you?” River asked.

“I was running,” he said. “We were running, and I was caught.”

Talen assumed the “we” Harnock was talking about included the lion.

“One of these days,” said Harnock, “the lion will be free. I will be free.” He yelled something at the woodikin outside, then stomped the door with his foot. The door buckled. He stomped again and broke it open.

“Harnock,” River said in alarm. She grabbed him by his belt, failed to move him, then put herself between him and the door.

Outside the shouts of many woodikin rose, racing to the hut.

“You will stay!” a woodikin shouted. It was the troop leader who had captured them.

“I will not be caged,” Harnock said.

The troop leader held a short spear. “You will stay, or you will die. It was agreed.”

“He’s not running away,” River said.

“You will die,” said the troop leader.

“It was agreed,” River said, and she pushed Harnock back.

More armed woodikin began to arrive on branches around them.

Harnock clenched his fists, and looked like he was going to charge past River through the small door, but he sighed heavily instead and snarled in resignation.

“You will stay,” the troop leader said.

Harnock barked some comment back in woodikin, but he sat down. The troop leader lingered a bit longer at the door, his spear ready and said something to the woodikin outside. It sounded like there were at least twenty of them out there. They scampered about, some taking positions on the roof of the hut, others spread out along the limbs.

Talen wasn’t sure they’d be able to stop Harnock if he wanted to leave. But he had no doubt they’d fill him and River full of poisoned darts should they try anything.

Harnock sat down, then lay on his back.

“What was that all about?” Talen asked.

River said, “Moon told us that a number of times she found him miles away from the house still caught in some awful dream.”

“Not a dream,” said Harnock. “A reality. Lords, but I hate the Divines.”

There wasn’t much to say after that. River and Harnock eventually slept. The woodikin stood guard outside. And Talen thought about his own new reality.

* * *

It was still dark when a woodikin arrived and talked to the troop leader outside their hut. When that woodikin left, the troop leader gave orders, then squatted at the broken door. “You will get up,” he said and poked Harnock with the butt end of his spear.

The troop leader poked at Harnock again, but Harnock caught the spear in his hand and growled. River rolled up.

“You will go through these lands,” the troop leader said. “We will take you back to your skinmen. Then the female will return. The queen has agreed.”

Harnock shoved the spear away.

They exited the hut out into the cool night air. Stars shone above. Talen stretched and rubbed his weary eyes.

“I can barely see to walk,” River said.

It was dark, and one wrong step would send them falling to their deaths. Despite his reservation, Talen sent one roamling out to see with. “Give me your hand,” he said. He didn’t want to touch her, but what else could he do?

She took it, and the smell of her soul filled him. He gritted his teeth, but held on. And soon they were moving out. He found it interesting that neither the woodikin nor Harnock seemed to be having any trouble seeing in the darkness. They easily made their way through the tanglewood, down branches, along a wide road, over bridges. River stumbled once, but Talen caught her.

The tanglewood was quiet except for a small breeze blowing through the boughs. At one point, some woodikin cried out in the night, but then the cry stilled. As they moved, Talen’s night vision improved until he was able to make out the rough shapes of the light-colored tree limbs with his natural eyes, and he pulled his roamling back in. Not much later River let go of his hand.

He sighed in relief, and they proceeded forward. He’d been thinking all night long, weighing his options, and all of them ran to one place: sooner or later, he’d have to be destroyed.

He leaned over to River. “How are blends made?”

“I don’t know the specifics,” she said.

Harnock cut in. “You graft one soul onto the other. You start with an animal and graft in the soul of a man. Or vice versa. But you can’t do bits. That just leads to odd manifestations. A patch of skin, some fingernails turning into claws. You have to take the whole animal. There are some that try to do it in the womb or with babes. Lumen did it with full-grown men. He tried it first by putting the souls of men into animals. But the animals only panicked, and the blends died. Then he tried putting the beasts into humans.”

“What did Lumen use for blends?” Talen asked.

“Bears, stags, sharks,” Harnock said. “Whatever took his fancy. Frogs.”

River shook her head. “The Divines are monsters.”

“How many of you survived?” Talen asked.

“Only one. Another might have made it—good old Amak—but he killed himself to spite Lumen. I suppose I would have done the same, but I wanted revenge.”

“Which was impossible,” Talen said. “Because you can’t get close.”

“No,” Harnock replied, “Regret rot them.”

They stopped to fill their water bladders with tree water and then at some wide stalls with holes in the floor that stretched out away from the limb to relieve themselves. When the troop finished, he said, “I pity the woodikin below.”

“It drops straight to the forest floor,” said Harnock. “Sooner or later, a gang of their dungers collect it to use in the mushroom beds or dig into the earth about the tanglewood to fertilize the trees. The trees give to them, and they give right back.”

Talen nodded. The trees were so massive the ground must become barren without some form of replenishment. Then he realized the tanglewood probably could not grow as large as it did without the woodikin living in it.

A few minutes later they passed by a smaller road that was half grown, the limbs still reaching to meet each other from the parallel lines of trees. Not long after that they came to the edge of the tanglewood. The woodikin lowered ropes and descended. Talen and the others followed. A few more woodikin brought up the rear, carrying weapons and packs and wearing their odd segmented armor.

By this time the sky had lightened just a bit in the east. When Talen reached the forest floor, the troop leader gave them their knives and bows and arrows. Then two more woodikin joined them. One wore black silks and a mantle of gray and white feathers. Over his shoulder he held a short pole. At the end of the pole hung a medium-sized basket woven of grass. The other woodikin was clearly a servant. The troop leader bowed to the woodikin in black silks. They exchanged a few words, and then the troop set out—twenty-two woodikin and three humans.

Talen motioned at the woodikin with the pole and basket. “They’ve sent a wasp lord with us?”

“It appears the queen wants to protect her investment,” Harnock said and motioned at River.

Talen was fascinated with the basket. He was also horrified it would come loose or be knocked off the pole and the wasps would fly out, angry and looking for something to sting. But the basket only swayed gently with the woodikin’s gait.

As they walked, Harnock instructed them to call the troop leader “Chot,” for that was his title in woodikin. He also tried to teach them some basics of the language. “Twa” meant “yes.” “Zim” meant “no.” The word for food was “hala.” If they saw danger or wanted to alert the others, they should say “toom.” Eventually, the troop leader told them to be quiet.

As they walked, Talen looked back at the massive and towering tanglewood in the early morning light. He could not believe he’d been in one and lived to tell about it. Legs and Sugar would be jealous. He could lord this over Ke. Then his thoughts turned to Nettle, the best friend he supposed anyone might have. Nettle would have loved this, back when he was whole. Maybe he might yet enjoy it. Perhaps there was something in the book of Hismayas that would help him. Once they got the book back, he would make Uncle Argoth try to open it again. Surely there would be something in there for Nettle. He looked down at his wrists. There might even be something for him.

* * *

They walked many miles through the woods before they stopped for lunch. Talen removed his pack and sat beside it. He felt brittle, weary all the way to his bones.

Chot walked back to him. “No sitting, Skinman.” He pointed at a number of bushes around them. “You will pick plenty massal.”

“What is massal?” asked Talen.

“Massal,” Chot said and pointed around himself. “Massal.” And he grabbed the stem of a bush and brought it down for Talen to see. Massal was some type of small fruit that looked like currants. “You will pick plenty.”

Talen nodded, and Chot walked off.

Talen picked one berry and ate it. It was very bitter. “Which ones are ripe?”

“They’re all ripe,” said Harnock. “But we’re not picking them for us. They’re for our woodikin escort. You and I eat too many of these, and we’ll be doing nothing but hanging our bums out over the river.”

“I fancy the weevil anyway,” said Talen.

“We’re getting down to the last of that,” Harnock said. “We’re going to need some flesh.”

River looked over at Talen. “You look awful,” she said.

“I didn’t sleep much.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“He’s not,” said Harnock. “You don’t run a whole day on Fire and not sleep.”

Talen took the bottom hem of his tunic and brought it up to form a make-shift basket.

“I know why you didn’t sleep, Hogan’s son.”

Talen ignored him and picked a cluster of massal berries and dropped them in his tunic.

Harnock said, “It was you poking around my doors last night, wasn’t it?”

Talen picked another handful of berries and realized there was no point in lying. Sooner or later, all his paths led to one place. He needed to stand up in the sunlight and face the day. “I sent my roamlings out of the hut to get away from the temptation I felt there. But it didn’t help. Down in the bottoms of the tanglewood, I . . .”

“You what?”

Talen screwed up his courage. “I raveled a weem and devoured its Fire, maybe some of its soul.”

Harnock whistled lightly and shook his head.

River’s face filled with dismay. “Oh, Talen. Why didn’t you wake us?”

“What could you have done?”

Harnock said, “Sometimes Moon would talk to me. Sometimes that’s all that was needed.”

River said, “It takes large quantities of soul to turn someone into true sleth. I’m sure this won’t do much damage.”

“You’d be surprised,” Harnock said.

“It’s only going to get worse,” Talen said. He looked at Harnock. “Maybe it’s time for your mercy.”

“Maybe,” Harnock said.

“Stop that,” River said. “One mistake does not cast a man’s future in iron.”

“But the consequences—I ate soul. I’m turning into the very blackness we fight against.”

“You’re turning, or you’re choosing?”

“I can’t just wish this blend away.”

“I never said you could.”

Talen shook his head. Nobody knew what this was like. Even Harnock wasn’t dealing with the same thing.

“Maybe you should put a thrall on me,” Talen said. “That way we can be sure—”

“No,” Harnock said. “You fool. You might as well give yourself over to Mokad. And who would hold your thrall? Your sister? Think what it would do to her. A thrall is not something that only grows just into the slave.”

“But what if I lose control?”

“You can always die. But you can’t always be free. Put on a thrall, and you hand over your freedom. Every day you wear a thrall, it eats at your will until one day you find you have no will whatsoever.”

“My blend is not like yours.”

“You have no idea what my blend is. Stand up and fight, Hogan’s son. Be a man like your father.”

Talen’s anger rose. “What do you think I’ve been doing?”

“Whining,” Harnock said.

Talen bristled.

“You pick plenty massal,” Harnock said. “I’m going to go catch us some fish.” Then he walked off toward the stream.

Talen had not been whining. That rotted halfbeast whoreson. That pus brain. That—

“Don’t say it,” River said.

“He—”

“He saved my life. Saved yours. You’ve got a mountain in front of you, Talen. I think he wants to see that you’re committed to climbing it.”

“Committed?” Talen grumbled. “What does he know about commitment?”

River smiled wryly and said, “Chot’s going to be back soon. Let’s get these berries picked.” Then she brought up the hem of her own tunic and grabbed a cluster of massal.

Talen sighed and joined her, and as he picked, he calmed down and thought about Da. Thought about Da teaching him to shoot a bow. He’d made many mistakes in the beginning. He supposed it was unreasonable to expect he wouldn’t make mistakes now. It was just that the mistakes he made now had tremendous consequences.

“You might fail in the end,” River said. “But Harnock is right: you won’t have a chance to succeed if you don’t stand back up to fight every time you’re knocked down.”

“I hate the Divines,” Talen said.

“Maybe they are blends as well,” River said.

“Then I hate their masters.”

* * *

Harnock came back with a load of fish that made Talen salivate, and the meal might have been delicious, but Harnock made a point to sit right next to Talen. And that wouldn’t have been such a problem, but Harnock liked to suck the eyes out of his raw fish and chomp them. He sucked yet another eye out, gave it a chomp, and let out a sigh of satisfaction. He pointed at the head of Talen’s fish. “Are you going to eat that?”

Talen said, “I’ll give it to you if you promise to move about twenty yards away.”

Harnock plucked the head up, put it in his mouth, and began to munch. “The brain is the best part.”

Talen groaned.

Across the way, the wasp lord sat next to the basket that housed his wasps and laid out an array of pouches. He chewed something, spat it out, then rolled it in some powder he poured out of one pouch. He masticated something from another pouch and added it to his mixture.

Chot noticed Talen watching. “Hala,” Chot said.

The wasp lord said something to Chot. The other woodikin grunted their laughter. Chot turned to Talen. “He wants to know if the skinman wants a taste.”

Talen didn’t know if this was a joke or a real offer. He looked at Harnock who was grinning at him. River shook her head.

“No thank you,” said Talen. “But tell him I’m honored he asked.”

Chot said something, supposedly a translation of Talen’s words, and the other woodikin laughed again. The wasp lord carefully opened the side of the basket, revealing a large wasp comb inside with hundreds of little cells and wasps crawling over them. A number of wasps clung to the open basket door.

He’d expected the wasps to be the big orange slayers, but these wasps were long and thin and moved in a jerky way. The wasp lord made a clicking sound, then rolled a pea-sized ball of his mixture and stuck it on the point of a tiny stick built into the inside of the basket. A few wasps buzzed over to the mixture. One moved to the outside of the basket, flexed its amber wings. The wasp lord made another sound and herded it back into the interior with one finger. Then he rolled two more peas and stuck them on other sticks.

The wasps began to flit to the meal. One clung to the lord’s finger. The wasp lord held his finger up and watched as the insect ate the residue of the meal that was there.

“They feed them different things depending on the need,” said Harnock.

“What do you mean?”

Chot spoke. “War, heal, pleasure—all are hala.”

“You use wasps for medicine?”

“These are not small browns,” Chot said. He pointed at the long-bodied wasps in the basket. “These are huk. These are for war. One sting. Skinman dies.”

“Hardly,” said Harnock.

“You want a sting? You want to try?”

“Not today,” said Harnock.

Chot shook his head in disgust. He held up his hand. “Thirty-three stings, I did not die. Come try, Skinman.”

“To become warriors,” said Harnock, “woodikin youths subject themselves to stings. They smear some paste on their hands and stick them into a basket of wasps. I’ve seen it. Their hands swell up and turn black. But they don’t do it with these huk. Not those that have eaten war hala.”

Chot motioned for Talen to try.

Talen wasn’t going to prove anything to that little hairy man. But he was curious. “How do the wasps know who to sting? How do they know enemy?”

“Wasp lord knows enemy,” said Chot. “The wasps will obey.”

Talen turned to Harnock. “Do they use a thrall?”

Harnock shrugged. “Probably, but only the woodikin know that lore. And their control is amazing. I was trading once. A huge commotion arose. A woodikin thief had been discovered. The woodikin soldiers chased after him, but one of the wasp lords was also there. He opened his basket, coaxed three insects onto his fingers and sent them after the thief. The enemy woodikin was already many yards away and running fast, running into the wind because he knew what was coming. The wasps sped past all the other warriors. Ignored them. They caught the thief and began to sting him in the face. The distraction was all the warriors needed to catch him.”

Talen shook his head. “That’s amazing. How can you fight that? It makes me want to bundle up in thick clothing.”

“No good,” said Chot. “Wasps will get you when you pee.” He laughed and told his joke to the others. This time even the wasp lord chuckled.

“Funny,” Talen said and remembered that all of these little men had sworn to eat his liver. “But there still must be some defense.”

Harnock said, “Some wasps fight other wasps. And there are birds. The tanglewoods maintain what’s called a queen’s flock. They’re pale red birds with blue heads and long black beaks. They’re murder on insects.”

“Bee-eaters,” said River.

“Exactly,” said Harnock.

“Birds to eat birds,” said Chot.

Talen thought about that. A bird to attack the birds that ate the wasps. He wondered: were there yet other animals to attack those attacking birds?

Chot gave Talen a sly look, then went back to his eating.

When they finished, Talen looped his quiver over his back, then took his knife and bowstave and went down to the stream to wash his hands. The breeze coming off the sparkling water was cool. Talen plunged his hands in the water, grabbed up a handful of sandy dirt, and began to scrub his hands and lower arms. Harnock followed him and washed his hands as well, but he also licked a spot on his upper arm with his great tongue.

“Your sister,” Harnock said. “The lion wants her.”

Talen’s brain stuttered for a moment. “Right,” he said.

“She’s a fine woman, your sister.”

“Yes, well, she’s also got a war going on, and a woodikin queen she has to teach. Tell the lion she’s going to be very busy for some time.”

“The turn of her ankles and her naked feet are very attractive,” Harnock said.

“Will you stop it,” Talen said. “If this is what goes for humor with hermits, I can tell you—”

Harnock raised a hand to silence Talen and snapped his attention at something downstream.

Talen followed Harnock’s gaze but couldn’t see or hear anything. “What?” he whispered.

Harnock motioned for him to shush and listened, his eyes bright. A few moments later he pitched his voice to a whisper. “Come with me, Hogan’s son. And keep quiet.” Then he moved back away from the shore, away from the thick brush at the tree line, and began to head downstream, slipping through the trees.

Talen followed, watching the shadows play along Harnock’s brindled fur. They crept a few dozen yards, and then Harnock suddenly stopped, his muscles bunching like a cat preparing to pounce on something. “In the tree down by the bend,” Harnock whispered. “Do you see it?”

Talen searched and did indeed see something move. A dark shadow.

“Woodikin,” Harnock whispered. “Send your eels out.”

“Roamlings,” Talen corrected.

“Go,” Harnock said.

Talen realized that while his twisted blend was a curse, it also had its advantages. He sent his roamlings forth over the moving face of the water, down to the bend, watching for skir as he went. When he was close, he rose and peered at the woodikin. But it wasn’t just the one in the tree. There were four more down below. Talen had noticed that his Spiderhawk escort all wore necklaces. There was a variety to them, but they all had at their center a wooden carving of a five pointed flower. None of these five woodikin carried that. “They’re not ours,” he said. “The carving on their necklaces is a fang.”

“Orange Slayers,” Harnock said.

“Do you think they’re hunting us?”

“I don’t know. We’re deep in Spiderhawk territory. I don’t think raiding parties would come this far. Can you fly high, get a birds-eye view and see if there are others?”

Talen sent his roamlings up until the canopy of the forest lay below him like a rolling carpet. He was uneasy up here and checked every direction for the pale orange skir. There weren’t any about. There were a couple of larger dark skir flying high up in the distance. And there were other small creatures flitting here and there like insects. One long swarm of them looked like bits of spider web hovering over a tree.

He turned his attention to the forest below him. From this height he could see River and the woodikin escort. He could see two of the woodikin sentries Chot had sent out to watch while the rest ate. Beyond them a river wound around a hill. Some distance downstream, a large number of woodikin forded the river.

Talen said, “There are at least fifty woodikin downstream. More in the woods behind them.”

“Same colors as these?”

“Colors are different here,” Talen said. “But the head feathers and garb all look the same.”

“This isn’t a raiding party,” Harnock hissed. “This is a hunt. They picked up our trail.”

“How is that possible?”

“They can smell. They can see the signs. The queen slipped us out at night, but they must have had scouts watching. Regret’s stones, they might have had their own eyes and ears in the tanglewood. I bet Mokad has offered a very large reward.”

Below Talen’s roamling, the Orange Slayer woodikin in the tree made hand signs to the woodikin on the ground. All of them looked in the direction of one of Chot’s sentries. Three began to carefully move forward.

“I think they just spotted Chot’s sentry up ahead,” Talen said.

Harnock rumbled deep in his throat.

“Three of the Orange Slayers are advancing. Another is running away, down a path toward the main body.”

“He’s going to alert the others,” said Harnock. “Bring reinforcements. Do you see any others close by?”

“Just the one in the tree and the four below.”

Harnock bared his teeth. “Good. That’s going to make this easier.”

Talen began to build his Fire. “Should I go back and warn the others.”

“No,” said Harnock. “No time. And I’m going to need your eyes. Which direction is the one running to report?”

Talen pointed out the line that would intercept the woodikin.

“Get your bow strung,” said Harnock, “and keep up. Then he raced up the slope of the hill through the trees.

Talen strung his bow and chased after, but he found he could not keep up. He increased his Fire. Increased it again. He increased his Fire even more, felt the vigor seep into his limbs, and sped forth.

Directly on the other side of the hill ran the lone Orange Slayer. To the right, by the stream, the others continued to sneak up on the Spiderhawk sentry.

Harnock moved with huge powerful strides. He topped the hill in a very short time, then stopped and waited for Talen to catch up.

“Where?” Harnock asked.

Talen pointed in the direction of the fleeing Orange Slayer. He was only one or two hundred yards ahead. Harnock raced down the hill. Talen’s body sang with Fire. He was more than doubled. But he could not match Harnock’s speed nor his twenty-foot strides down the slope. But Talen didn’t want to match those long strides; he was having a hard enough time keeping himself from smacking into a tree at his own pace.

They covered the first hundred yards quickly, leaves crunching under each step. The Orange Slayer scout heard the noise, glanced back, then put on more speed, using his long arms to run in a sort of lope. He reached the bottom of a shallow dale and began to run up another hill. With his roamling, Talen could see Harnock about to close in on the woodikin. It was an odd sensation, seeing himself, Harnock, and the woodikin from above.

The woodikin scout nocked an arrow to his bow, drew the string back to his cheek, and spun around. But he was too late. Harnock was upon him. He hurled his long knife, which cut through the woodikin’s wooden armor and buried itself deep in its chest. The woodikin jerked, released his arrow that flew wide. Then Harnock was upon him, another long knife in hand, and slashed the woodikin’s throat.

The creature staggered back, then fell to the leaves below.

Harnock made another cut, and a great spray of Fire rose up from the woodikin’s body; it was followed by the shining of its soul. A moment later, as if carried on the wind, the scent of both Fire and soul reached Talen. He wanted them both, but he kept his roamlings on a tight rein and watched as Harnock picked up the woodikin’s body and hid it under a fat spruce.

The Fire dissipated on the wind. The soul lingered by its flesh and tried to attack Harnock to no avail. By the time Talen reached the site with his body of flesh, Harnock was covering up the blood-splattered autumn leaves.

“Where are the rest?” Harnock asked.

Talen looked. “They’re still back by the stream, approaching our sentry.”

“Now’s the time to see how well your father trained you,” Harnock said. “We can’t let them give any signal. They’ll have heard us running, and will be alert. So you keep your footsteps quiet. You let me know when we start to get close. Are you ready?”

Talen nodded and they set off down the animal trail back toward the other scouts. With his roamling, he kept an eye upon the woodikin and the surrounding area. He saw birds, squirrels, a cluster of deer. In the distance he heard the awful chuffing he’d heard before his roamling had been eaten. His pulse quickened, and he frantically looked about, but he didn’t see the orange skir.

Nevertheless, he kept an eye out. As they ran along, he also sent a roamling back over the hill to make sure another Orange Slayer scouting party hadn’t stumbled upon River and the others. He found her and Chot’s escort still oblivious of the small army of woodikin approaching.

Talen and Harnock quietly padded along an animal path until they were about a hundred yards away from the other woodikin scouts, and then Talen hissed softly, and they stopped.

Talen drew a map in the dirt of the Orange Slayer positions.

“We’re going to have one chance to keep this quiet,” Harnock said. “Be quick and sure. And stay downwind.” Harnock pointed at the mark representing the Orange Slayer scout the closest to them. “You’re going to shoot that one. I’ll take the others. If any escape me, it’s your job to take them down.”

Talen nodded. He nocked an arrow, and they continued forward. When they were about fifty yards from the scouting party, Harnock moved away from Talen to circle around through the trees. Talen watched him with his roamling, then turned his attention to his task. He saw where the woodikin were headed, saw a break in the trees that would give him an excellent line of sight and quietly moved into position.

The power these roamlings gave him was immense—to see afar off in many directions, to know your enemy’s movements. If he was careful, he could sneak past any picket. Avoid any enemy. With him, an army could surround and ambush with confidence. They could strike when and where the enemy least suspected it.

Talen stepped on a branch that popped loudly. He froze. Two of the woodikin looked in his direction. He cursed himself. Fat lot of good all his eyes did if he didn’t watch his feet. He waited, and the woodikin eventually looked away.

Behind the woodikin, Harnock crept close, low, like a cat preparing to pounce on its prey.

Talen moved forward, carefully watching his step this time, found a spot next to a tree, knelt into position, and readied himself for the shot. It was a perfect line.

Up the slope, the Spiderhawk sentry scratched his leg. Below, the closest Orange Slayer did not expose himself in the break Talen thought he would. Instead, he took position next to a tree not in Talen’s line of fire, and slowly raised his bow to shoot the sentry.

Why couldn’t the rotted Orange Slayers follow the plan? Talen stepped to the side to find a shot that avoided the many twigs and branches between him and his target.

The woodikin nocked an arrow, most likely laced with some poison, and raised his bow.

Talen raised his own bow, drew, sighted the woodikin, and released. He immediately nocked another arrow, sighted, and released. The first arrow glanced off of the branch of a tree with a clack, shot off at another angle, and sank deep into the trunk of a tree with a loud thwup.

The woodikin turned toward the sound, exposing his full upper body. The second arrow took him in the chest, but Talen knew that it sometimes took many arrows to kill a large animal, so he drew another arrow, aimed, released. But the woodikin fell backward to the forest floor, and the arrow sped past him.

Talen nocked another arrow, tried to find a target, and noticed the woodikin’s Fire curling up and away from his wound. He tore his eyes away from the Fire and saw the other three woodikin scouts draw their knives. Then one of the woodikin spotted him and barked a warning. At that moment Harnock sprang.

One of the woodikin snarled and turned to meet him, but Harnock slashed him in the neck as he’d done to the other. He followed that same motion through and struck the next woodikin a massive blow to his chin, sending him flying. The last woodikin charged, but Harnock side-stepped him, grabbed him by the back of the head and slammed his face into a tree. The tree shook with the skull-breaking blow, and the woodikin crumpled.

All of the woodikin began to bleed Fire. The soul of the first struggled out of its flesh. A few moments later the smell of the Fire and soul filled Talen.

“Gah,” Talen said, and then the woodikin that Talen had first shot staggered up, Fire rising from its wounds.

Talen shot again and sank an arrow into the creature’s side.

It bared its teeth and howled an alarm. The sound echoed about the hill. So much for stealth, Talen thought.

Then Harnock was there with his long knife. The blade flashed in the sun, and then the woodikin’s head toppled from its body.

A gout of Fire billowed up into the sky, and Talen’s heart fluttered with desire. Just before the Fire began to wash over him, he remembered his roamlings, and sent them high into the sky, far above the maddening, tantalizing smells.

On the ground, Harnock knelt down by the creature, sliced open its belly, then reached up and in and ripped out the woodikin’s heart. The wet organ glistened in his hand.

Talen stopped, and almost lost the fish he’d eaten.

Harnock looked up, blood staining his arm. “Help me hide the bodies.”

A little distance away, one orange skir searched along the tops of the trees. Talen realized it must be able to scent Fire and soul just as he could. Probably better. He watched it with one of his roamlings and moved to help Harnock.

12

The Bull’s Ring

TALEN AND HARNOCK finished hiding the last body with the souls of the dead woodikin looking on. Above them, the orange skir caught their scent and came to investigate. It darted above the trees, then made a fluting sound. The souls of the dead woodikin looked up. A few moments later, the creature began a horrid clacking, the same sound Talen had heard just before his roamling had been torn from him. Talen sped his parts back to his body and quickly pulled them in and shut his door. The sights and sounds and multiple views of the yellow world vanished, and Talen’s world resolved to the refreshing simplicity of the blue world.

Harnock found some weed with giant leaves that reminded Talen of rhubarb and began to wrap the bloody woodikin hearts in them.

The sight sickened Talen. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Harnock ignored the question. “Tell me what happened to the Fire and soul of those woodikin.”

“The last I saw, one of those orange sharks was coming in to sniff.”

Harnock wrapped another huge leaf around his bundle. “And did it chase another predator away?”

“No, it was the only thing about.”

“That’s not true,” Harnock said. “You can’t fool yourself in this game, Hogan’s son. That’s the sure way to failure.”

How was he fooling himself? Then Talen realized what Harnock was driving at. “I did not imbibe,” he said.

“Not even a sniff?”

“You can’t avoid smelling it,” Talen said.

“What about tasting?”

“I wanted to, but I did not.”

“Maybe you are Hogan’s son after all,” said Harnock. “Maybe I can put off killing you until tomorrow.”

Talen pointed at the hearts. “And what about you?”

Harnock just smiled.

They hurried back to River and the others. When they arrived, Harnock explained what had happened, then he unfolded the leaves he’d wrapped the wet sticky hearts in and held one out to Chot.

Chot took it and held it up for the others to see, then gave it to one of his troops, who carried it over to the wasp lord. The wasp lord took a bite, the bloody juices dripping onto his fingers and nodded his approval. He took some of the meat he’d masticated and gave it to his wasps. Chot tossed the other hearts around to his troops. They all hooted, each taking his portion. When they were done, Chot held the bloody remains of one heart out to Talen.

Talen waved it off.

“Do not offend them,” Harnock growled.

“I can’t,” Talen said.

Chot shook his head and held the flesh out to Harnock who took the heart and bit in with relish.

“Stupid skinman,” Chot said. “You will be haunted. The heart gives power over the dead.”

Talen nodded, but didn’t think now was the right time to tell Chot the truth.

River waved off the piece of heart offered to her. She turned to Talen with a concerned question on her face.

“I’m okay,” he said. Although he was a bit uneasy with Harnock’s frightful power. Woodikin were stronger and faster than men. But Harnock had handled them as if they were children. He motioned at Harnock with his chin. “He’s not just a loreman, River. Not some mad sleth.”

“No,” said River. “He’s a creature twisted for killing.”

“He’s murder itself. He was terrifying.”

“Aren’t you glad he’s on our side?”

“I’m something,” he said, thinking about the relish with which Harnock had eaten the woodikin’s heart. He was going to say more, but Chot ordered them to move out, and they were soon running, the woodikin leading them down a narrow valley between two hills with steep slopes and outcroppings of rock.

When they were down the path a ways, Talen carefully sent his roamlings out to make sure they had made a clean escape. They hadn’t. There were some woodikin higher up on the slope that he hadn’t seen the first time. One up in a tree spotted them and blew a horn. Moments later another horn answered in the direction of the woodikin army.

Chot barked something in woodikin, and his troops moved faster.

Talen leapt over a rock in the path. “Where are we going?” he asked Harnock.

“I think we’re headed for another Spiderhawk tanglewood.”

“How far away?” asked River.

“If it’s the place I’m thinking, we’ve got a few hours yet in this race.”

Talen looked back with his roamlings and saw the woodikin army turn. “I think we’d better move faster.”

* * *

A few miles later, Talen said, “They’re still gaining on us.”

Talen and the others were running as fast as they were able. Talen and River were panting. Harnock’s short fur was slick with sweat. But the three lead Orange Slayer woodikin had almost closed the distance between themselves and Chot’s band.

Talen glanced back again.

“Ring warriors,” Chot said and bared his teeth.

“I thought their weaves were dry,” Talen said.

“Obviously not,” Harnock said.

The three ring warriors were running only a few hundred yards behind. They were wearing wooden slat armor and bright feathers in a band around their heads. Their faces had been dyed blue. A few hundred yards behind them ran another fifty or so woodikin warriors. Beyond that, Talen didn’t dare look because a good number of orange skir were tracking the woodikin army. Obviously, like crows, they knew troops sooner or later provided food.

Talen and the others were running in a valley with steep slopes and cliffs on either side. Talen had been looking, but couldn’t see any easy way over them. Ahead, the cliffs narrowed, creating a gap maybe only fifty feet wide. A streambed ran through the gap on one side. Talen’s group splashed across the stream and entered the narrows. The cliffs on either side rose at least a hundred feet above them. But the narrow gap wasn’t very long, and they soon exited it and found hilly terrain on the other side.

The wasp lord said something in woodikin, and Chot barked orders at his troops. His twenty woodikin began to fan out in a half circle.

Chot pointed at some rocks and brush up the slope on Talen’s left. “You three will go there. You will shoot with your bows. Go!”

Talen, River, and Harnock sped up the hill. They found a good area with some flat ground and positioned themselves about five feet apart. Harnock, for the first time since they’d left his home, strung his bow. Talen and River checked the fletchings of their own arrows, making sure they were all tight, then shoved a dozen point-first into the ground; it would be quicker to retrieve them that way than pulling them from the quiver.

The wasp lord climbed to a spot about three-quarters of the way around the half-circle, opened the little door to his basket, and began calling his wasps out. He motioned to them, as if urging them on, and the wasps rose above him.

Talen had just finished checking all of his arrows when he heard the ring warriors coming, charging across the stream, their panting and footfalls echoing off the cliff walls. He nocked an arrow.

Moments later the three woodikin with blue-dyed faces rushed out of the gap. They were moving incredibly fast.

Talen singled one of the ring warriors out, drew his string, tried to lead the creature, and let his arrow fly. He retrieved another arrow, nocked it, and drew. All about him bows hummed. Twenty arrows poured down at the warriors, but the warriors changed directions or increased their speed, and all the shots missed.

The Orange Slayers bounded up the hill so quickly Talen didn’t think he was going to be able to get off another shot. Small black bodies dove down at the Orange Slayers’ faces, delaying one long enough for River to sink a shaft into him.

Talen took aim again, released, missed. He’d never been in a true battle before, and he realized it was making him rush. He tried to calm his breathing and retrieved another arrow.

A ring warrior bounded up the hill and with a piercing cry fell upon one of the Spiderhawks and skewered him with an iron Mokaddian blade. He turned, leapt to the top of a boulder and sprang at least twenty feet at another one of Chot’s woodikin, bore him to the ground and bit a huge piece out of the side of his neck.

“Goh,” Talen said. A few moments more, and that ring warrior would have all of Chot’s warriors lying in their own blood. A surge of fear coursed through him.

Chot yelled and charged the creature.

The Orange Slayer River had hit chased one of Chot’s woodikin up the slope, caught him, jumped upon his back, and slit his throat. One of the other Spiderhawks shot an arrow into his back.

The third ring warrior spotted Talen and let out a bloodcurdling cry.

Talen drew and shot, but the arrow went wide. He tried to calm himself, but his fingers were fumbling. Talen cursed himself, shouted in frustration.

The ring warrior rushed up the hill past another Spiderhawk, leapt up into the branch of a tree, and then out again, a huge flying leap that brought him more than halfway to Talen’s position.

Talen was finally able to get his fingers to pick up another arrow. He fumbled it onto the bowstring with his thumb ring. Then he looked up and saw he was too late—the woodikin warrior was almost upon him. Fear washed over him. He dropped his bow and grabbed for his knife.

Talen’s Fire raged. Rot it all, he was a loreman! He wasn’t going to quail! He drew his knife and readied himself.

Then Harnock roared and rushed up the slope. The Orange Slayer warrior tried to spring over him to get at Talen, but Harnock jumped, snatched his leg, and hauled him down, slamming him to the rocky ground.

The warrior yanked himself free and lunged up at Harnock with terrific speed, knocking Harnock back.

Harnock snarled, threw the woodikin, then pounced after him. The two of them fell down the slope together in a jerking tumble of dust and scattering rocks.

The warrior was the first up, holding a knife.

Harnock swung at him, but the warrior dodged and raked Harnock’s face with its claws, drawing blood. Harnock pulled back, and the warrior slashed at Harnock’s belly with his knife.

Harnock roared and struck the warrior in the face with an open-handed blow, tearing half his jaw away. The warrior staggered back, his jaw hanging from his face, fell to a knee. He tried to stand. Then Harnock snarled and kicked the warrior in the chest so hard it sent him flying back a dozen feet. The warrior hit the ground and did not rise again.

On the other side of the half circle, one ring warrior stumbled to the ground, his face covered with wasps, his body shot with arrows. Two Spiderhawks fell upon him with knives.

Chot fought with the last ring warrior. Talen expected Chot to join the other Spiderhawks lying on the ground around the ring warrior, but Chot was quick and powerful and parried the ring warrior’s blows. The two of them locked into a snarling grapple. Then one of the other Spiderhawks flung a hatchet that buried itself in the ring warrior’s back.

The ring warrior arched in pain and reached for the hatchet. But Chot stabbed the ring warrior just under the arm, driving the blade deep into his chest. The ring warrior cried out. Chot pulled his blade out. Then another Spiderhawk charged and skewered the warrior with his short spear.

Talen looked around the hillside. Half of Chot’s woodikin lay wounded or dead. He probably would have been with them had Harnock not saved him. Talen also wondered how Chot had survived his encounter.

A few of the woodikin moved to take the weaves from the dead ring warriors, but shouts rang out by the stream, and two hammer’s worth of Orange Slayer woodikin burst through the gap. But they did not have the speed of the ring warriors and had barely cleared the gap when the wasps began to dive into their midst to sting. The surviving Spiderhawks took aim and released their arrows. Next to Talen, River’s bow sang.

Talen’s heart was thumping, his mouth dry. Part of him wanted to flee, but he yelled to shout the cowardly part of himself down, drew an arrow, found a target, and released. He shouted, drew another arrow, found another target, released. This time he did not miss. His arrows flew into the woodikin below. He shot another arrow. River and the other woodikin were doing the same, and Talen realized they might just dispatch this group and then be able to run before the full army of woodikin caught up to them.

Then a small swarm of bats flew through the gap. There were maybe twenty-five or thirty of them. One of the Spiderhawks shouted a warning, but the bats didn’t fly at Talen or the woodikin. They darted and swooped, attacking the wasps.

The wasp lord shouted.

“Take care of those bats!” Harnock ordered.

“What do you mean?”

“You raveled the weem,” Harnock said. “Ravel them!”

Talen froze for a moment—he’d never raveled a bat. He didn’t even know if he could catch one. But maybe he could do it. What other choice was there but to try?

He sent his roamlings out, found three individual bats, and wrapped himself around them, searching for an opening. But the weaves of the bats were far more complex than those of the weem. They were much tighter, and he couldn’t find anything to tear.

“Quickly!” Harnock yelled.

Then Talen found a ring in the back of one bat’s neck. He looked closer and realized he knew what these rings were. Argoth had made him and River study thralls. This wasn’t the exact pattern of those the Grove had back at Rogum’s Defense, but they were uncannily similar. And much simpler than the weave of the bat or the weem.

He felt along the pattern of the ring. A moment later he found a slight opening and tore. He ripped harder, and a little wisp of Fire shot out of the ring. It filled his senses, but he let it go and focused on ripping the weave even more. Suddenly the bat panicked and flew up and away from the fight below.

He’d raveled it. Raveled the thrall!

Talen turned to the other bats. They too had rings. His four roamlings each shot out to another target, bit into their thralls and tore them open. The bats raced away. He fell on four more of the creatures, found their rings, and freed them.

All about Talen hung the sweet smell of Fire and soul. And he wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t devoured some of it. Lords, he thought, then ripped into more of the thralls.

Chot was shouting something.

“There are more troops coming,” River said. “We need to move!”

There were three bats left. Talen fell upon their thralls and released them. When the Fire sprayed out of the last one, he couldn’t help himself and sucked it up.

Above him, the first orange skir flew over the gap. It made a terrible sound and rushed down to take one of the woodikin souls still struggling out of its flesh. Talen pulled his roamlings back.

Harnock shoved Talen. “Move, you fool.”

Talen picked up his pack and began to run, following River, Chot, and the other retreating woodikin.

On Talen’s right, a group of woodikin high up on the slope hooted and began shooting arrows down at them. They must have traveled around the gap above the cliffs. They were still some distance away, but a glancing cut with a poisoned arrowhead would do as much damage as a square hit.

Talen and the others raced for the shelter of some trees ahead. Harnock took a slightly different angle toward some huge boulders that lay at the base of the slope, as if he was going to take cover there, then race up the slope to meet the woodikin, but when he reached the boulders, a man in dark clothing shot out from behind one of the boulders and charged Harnock.

Harnock heard him, turned and snarled.

It was one of Nashrud’s dreadmen.

The dreadman flew at Harnock, but Harnock batted his head to the side. Harnock turned to go for the kill, but another dreadman sprang out and lunged. Something long and silver, like a thin chain, flashed in his hand.

Harnock spun around and knocked the dreadman to the ground, growling, but then his growl was cut short.

Harnock pulled at something on his arm, something silver. “No!” he roared.

The second dreadman rose and drew his sword, but Harnock ripped the sword from the man’s grasp and grabbed him by the head. He ran to the boulder with the dreadman and slammed the man’s head into the large rock. Harnock continued to slam it into the rock until it was broken in many places, and then he fell to his knees and clutched at the thing around his arm.

Talen and River rushed over to him.

“Sweet gods!” Harnock said in desperation, ripping at the thin chain that had wound itself around his forearm. “I can feel him in my mind!”

The chain moved, constricted, and Talen knew what it was. He sent his roamlings out and fell upon the weave.

Harnock struggled to speak. “You don’t have time. The master has the ring.”

This thrall was different yet again from those in Rogum’s Defense and in the bats. But it was similar enough. He felt along its smooth exterior until he came to the mouth. Then he ripped.

A presence was there. It attacked him.

Talen reeled back, then charged in again. He bit into the weave, pulled, and a gush of Fire sprayed out. He gulped and bit it again.

All about him, the murderous orange skir clacked and fluted. Talen bit once more, then drew his roamlings back. He kneeled next to Harnock and grabbed the weave. Talen was multiplied, and the weakened weave bent easily in his hands. In moments he wrenched it off Harnock’s forearm and sat back.

Pain shot across Harnock’s face. “Run. You need to run!”

“We’re not leaving without you,” River said. “Come on!” She grabbed his arm and helped him up.”

Harnock staggered to his feet.

An arrow thumped into the ground by River’s foot. The woodikin on the slope above had found an angle that gave them a clear shot.

“This way!” River said, and the three of them ran to catch up to Chot and the other woodikin. The arrows snicked past them, but a few yards later, they ran into a thin stand of trees that gave them cover and joined up with the wasp lord and Chot’s warriors. The small group raced forward. Behind them in the distance, the woodikin army hooted and barked as they entered the gap.

“Quickly!” Chot commanded, the Queen’s weave of might flashing gold on his finger. No wonder he had been able to fight that ring warrior.

They fled the area. Soon the hills gave way to a gentle slope that widened and flattened out into a valley, and they were able to pick up their speed, but Harnock seemed to be struggling. They entered a clearing, and Harnock stumbled to his knees in the dry grass and dirt. He picked himself up and continued to run, but it was clear something was wrong.

Talen wondered about the dreadmen. They were obviously working with the Orange Slayers, but how had they gotten ahead of Chot’s party? Then it came to him—the crows. They’d seen where Chot and the others were headed and had discovered a shortcut.

Talen and the others ran a few more minutes and came to a clearing that allowed them to see the valley ahead of them. On this side of the stream the trees were green. On the other side, for miles and miles, the trunks of the trees rose like so many gray and scorched sticks. Here and there some small bit of greenery sprouted from the earth, but most of the ground was barren and dark with ash. A massive forest fire had raged through this valley not many months ago.

They approached the stream, and Chot’s woodikin began to cross over to the burned land on the other side. Harnock stopped. “We need someone watching our rear. I’ll catch up.”

“You can’t face the Divine,” River said.

“I don’t intend to,” said Harnock. At that moment he spasmed and doubled over.

There was a line of blood along Harnock’s belly. The ring warrior must have gotten him. But the wound wasn’t running, so it must not have been very deep.

River crouched beside him. “Harnock! Was there poison on that blade?”

A moment passed. Harnock relaxed and began to breathe again. “It’s not poison,” Harnock said.

“What is going on?” Talen asked.

Harnock struggled to speak. “The master feels after the ring. Not much time before the link’s complete.”

“But I raveled it,” Talen said.

“He wasn’t growing a new one, Hogan’s son. He was simply picking up the one that was already there.”

“No,” Talen said.

River looked devastated. “You’re still your own. We’ll get you back. Matiga will know what to do.”

“It’s too late,” Harnock said.

“This can’t be,” she said. “Harnock, we never meant—”

He waved her off. “Do not take the responsibility for the deeds of wicked men. We don’t have time for long good-byes.” He clenched his teeth in pain.

“Oh, Harnock,” River said and took his hand.

“Please,” he said. “I didn’t heal you to lose you to a mob of flea-bitten woodikin. You tell Argoth and the others they are bound. Tell them to murder the whoresons that did this to me.”

“We can’t leave you,” she said.

Harnock released her hand and unsheathed his long knife. He looked down at Talen. “Better dead and free than alive and a slave to Mokad. You remember that.”

Behind them the clamor of the woodikin army rose.

“Go!” he commanded. “Let me do this in peace.”

“We will see you in brightness,” River said.

“Until glory,” he said and planted himself facing the way they had come.

The sounds of the woodikin pursuing them grew louder.

“Stupid skinmen,” Chot called after them. “You will come now!”

River wiped her eye. “You heard him,” she said. “Run!” And she turned and began to lope down toward the stream.

Talen was in shock. He didn’t want to leave, but what else could they do? The thrall was already grown into Harnock. Obviously, all that had needed to happen was for a master to establish a link to it. And that had been done the first moments the dreadman had whipped the thin chain around his arm.

Harnock had said the only way to break the thrall was to kill the master. But that was only if the person enthralled wanted to remain alive. Harnock was obviously planning to take the route his friend Amak had taken. He was going to provide his own mercy himself.

“Watch out for the orange skir on the other side,” Talen said.

Harnock nodded.

“We will avenge you,” Talen said.

“You always talked too much,” Harnock said. He grunted with pain. “Go, Hogan’s son.”

Talen turned, then ran to the stream. The river stones were large and cut his feet, but he splashed through the water and up the other side to where River and Chot stood.

They ran into the burned trees where the ash and dirt stuck to his wet feet. When they were some distance away, they ascended a knoll and Talen glanced back. Harnock was still standing in the grass, waiting, still holding his long knife out to his side.

Why was he standing there frozen like that?

Beyond him the first of the Orange Slayer woodikin appeared in the woods. They spotted Harnock and hooted.

Now! Talen thought. But Harnock remained stock still.

If Harnock had wanted to kill himself, he should have done so right after they left him. Why did he risk allowing the link to grow in strength?

The terrible answer to that question rose in Talen like a horror. Harnock wouldn’t have waited. He wouldn’t have risked it. The only reason why he would have been frozen like that was because it was already too late, because the master, even though he didn’t have total control, still had enough to keep Harnock from putting himself beyond his reach.

Talen looked over at River. She was watching Harnock, her face as hard as stone.

“Merciful Lords,” Talen said, “what have we just done? Why didn’t we keep our promise?”

A small shadow passed across the ground. Talen looked up. Two hooded crows cawed and soared over the scorched trees.

13

Argoth’s Choice

FROM ATOP THE battlement Argoth watched a scout gallop toward Shim’s temporary camp at Cold Fort. But Argoth didn’t need to hear the scout’s report to know the news he was going to bring. He could see the destruction for himself, could smell the burning on the wind.

Cold Fort stood on the crown of a tall hill far to the west of Whitecliff and had a commanding view of the all the country around it. The fort had been built to watch one of the main passes into the Wilds. But no threat had come from the woodikin through that pass in decades. The threat now was to the east, marching through Shoka lands. Five massive pillars of smoke marked its path. The village of Lister, the town of Marks, the villages of Hawks and Reason and Shady’s Point—all of them, and the homes on the road that ran through them, were burning, the smoke and smell of their destruction spreading out over the land. Other pillars of fire rose down by the coast.

Argoth walked down from the wall, filled a clay pitcher with water from a barrel, and met the haggard scout as he rode through the wooden gate. He handed the pitcher up to the man. “What’s your news?”

The scout took the pitcher. “Mokad’s Skir Master lives. I saw him with my own eyes. He conjured up a wind full of flame.”

And with those words, the small bit of hope that Argoth possessed died. He nodded. “Shim’s inside. He’ll want to hear the full report.”

The scout lifted the pitcher and drank long and deep. “Thank you, Zu,” he said and handed the pitcher back.

“Go,” said Argoth. “I’ll take care of your horse.”

The scout handed him the reins and dismounted. Then Argoth led the horse to the stables. The earlier reports had confirmed that Mokad was not taking prisoners, that their orders were to exterminate every last man, woman, child, and beast in the Shoka lands, to butcher them as sleth. Shim had sent word through all the Shoka clans to be prepared to flee, but Mokad had cut off the escape of these villages and had landed ships down south in Koramtown. To the west were the Wilds and the woodikin. To the east was the sea and Mokad’s ships. To the north was Fir-Noy lands. Where were they going to go?

It was going to be a massive slaughter. And all those souls, according to Sugar’s report, would be harvested, taken to the Mokaddian death ships.

The war was lost. He and Shim had gambled, and lost.

There were three choices at this point. He could turn his back on his friends and flee with his family, try to escape through the south lands. But Serah would balk, as well she should. Or he and Shim and their army could surrender to Mokad and beg for mercy. Mokad would slay every last man and their immediate family, but they might spare the rest of the Shoka. Or Argoth could beg for mercy from Nilliam. The people would be spared. Argoth, if Loyal was telling the truth, would be given a position of power. A position that would allow him to save some from the harvest, to do something that would not otherwise be done, for it was clear from Sugar’s report that there were no ancestors waiting to save the newly dead.

He handed the scout’s horse off to the grooms and turned to find his daughter Joy running toward him, grief and fear written all over her face. She darted heedlessly through a fist of dreadmen practicing with their swords and almost took a blow.

“Da!” she called. “It’s Nettle!”

From her expression something was terribly wrong. He rushed to her, and together they ran back to his quarters. When he flung the door wide, he found Serah at the bed.

Argoth tried to keep his voice calm. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Serah did not turn. She rubbed Nettle’s arm vigorously. “I can’t get him to respond.”

Argoth strode over to the bed and looked down upon his son.

Nettle stared glassy-eyed up at the ceiling. Drool ran in a thin line out of the corner of his mouth.

“Is he breathing?”

“Barely,” she said. “His heart is as unsteady as a drunken sailor.”

A fly landed on Nettle’s cheek, hopped to his nose, then flew away.

“Did you give him more of the tea?”

“He’s full of it. It’s not working.”

Argoth built his Fire. “We need to fetch Matiga,” he said.

“I already sent for her.”

Argoth nodded. He would give what he had. He would bestow Fire and hope it was enough. He called to Grace, his oldest daughter. “Take your sisters,” he said. “Pray to the ancestors. Pray that Nettle may be strong.”

Then he unlaced the collar of his boy’s tunic and laid his hands upon his chest.

* * *

An hour later Argoth, Matiga, and Serah stood back from Nettle. The boy’s heart had stopped twice. It was beating now weakly.

Matiga picked up a cup of a special tea she’d brewed and tried to spoon some down Nettle’s throat. None of them spoke. They all knew Nettle needed more than tea.

Argoth would not have feared Nettle’s death, but the boy would be exposed in the next world. He would enter with his soul torn.

They could burn the filtering rods in which his soul was caught and hope the parts of his soul reunited. But there was no guarantee. He would go into that world wounded, unable to defend himself. Unable to find the ancestors, if they were even there. Letting Nettle die now would send him, not to the ancestors, but into oblivion. It would be tantamount to delivering him to the Devourers.

He castigated himself for taking Nettle’s sacrifice. How could he have been so reckless with his own flesh and blood?

Matiga set her tea aside. “We’ll give him some time,” she said.

Time only brought Nettle’s destruction closer. They had no time. None of them did.

Argoth bent and kissed Nettle on the forehead. The sparrow Loyal had given Argoth rested against Nettle’s chest. Argoth reached out and touched it. Then he walked out of his quarters to the storeroom where they kept different signal flags and found a red pennant on one of the standards. It was made of sturdy canvas, dyed a rich red. The color of blood.

He carefully untied it from its pole. The sad irony that he would betray them with this rose in his mind. A standard was used on the battlefield so the men of that terror would know where they were to be and what they were to do, whether advancing, retreating, or performing some other maneuver. In the heat and dust and melee, you could look up and take your bearings from your standard. While the standard flew, you knew you were standing with your comrades in arms. Standing where you should be.

Argoth told himself he wasn’t betraying anyone. He was saving them. Which meant using the pennant wasn’t ironic at all.

He folded the cloth, stuffed it under one arm, and exited the room.

Three dreadmen passing by saluted him as he closed the storeroom door. He returned their salute and headed for the stables. He looked about at the men bravely manning their posts, cleaning their weapons. One fist was by the well, carefully preparing fireshot. But against a Skir Master, such things would be worthless.

He did not like the choice that had been placed before him. He supposed this was the bitter harvest of the wicked actions he’d sown in his past. But there was no use in looking back and wishing things were different. A man faced the current situation and took the course that looked the best from the information he had. A man made hard decisions and didn’t look back.

He entered the stables. “Saddle up Midnight,” he said to one of the grooms.

“Yes, Zu,” the man said and inclined his head.

Midnight had been his best horse for many years. The two of them had seen many battles together. This time he would take him into another kind of fight.

A couple of minutes later, the groom brought Midnight out. “Thank you,” Argoth said.

“The Six bless you,” the groom said.

“Let’s hope they bless us all,” Argoth said and mounted.

He turned Midnight and headed for the gate. Two soldiers stood there, an old veteran and his son. The son was a new man, just about Nettle’s age, a boy who had only recently received the tattoos marking him as a boy no longer. His face was full of confidence.

The father and son hailed Argoth. He returned a salute and trotted out the gate and down the road strewn with fallen autumn leaves.

He knew he would lose Serah over this. She would not follow him. She would not countenance Nettle being saved while so many died about him. Argoth would have to force her compliance. She would speak out, and then he’d have to force her silence. And the more he forced, the more she’d withdraw and resent him. And it wouldn’t end there: she’d poison the children against him. In the end, there would be nothing between them but hate.

He could accept that. If her hate was the price he had to pay to save her soul, then he would do it. If he lost Nettle and the girls forever so that they might live in brightness, then he would count his sacrifice a blessing.

Loyal of Nilliam was right. His duty was to preserve his own seed and then as many others as he could. He didn’t see any other way.

The clopping of Midnight’s hooves echoed about the hill. It was a lonely sound. Lonely as the naked trees about him clutching at the sky. The image of that father and son at the gate filled his mind. Nettle would have been as healthy as that soldier if Argoth had not chosen a forbidden path. His mind cast back to that night when he and Nettle descended into his secret chamber. He could still see Nettle so clearly, ardently choosing to give his Fire so Argoth could fight. And then the boy reaching up in pain as the filtering rods tore away his soul.

The memory stabbed his heart. His eyes watered and stung. He’d been such a fool. How he wished he’d had good counsel in that moment of crisis.

He rode around a bend in the road.

Good counsel.

How did he know that Loyal of Nilliam wasn’t lying? Deceit was the essence of the Devourers.

Certainty fled him. What was he doing? How could Argoth choose to become the very thing he was fighting against? The very thing Nettle had sacrificed his soul to overcome.

How could he not?

He thought about Serah back at the fort watching over their son. Serah, good even-keeled Serah.

Serah.

How different would things be now, if he’d counseled with her about Nettle? Why should he not honor her request and share his secrets? When had she ever proved herself anything but wise?

If this course was sound, she would see it. She might not like it, but if it was right, Serah would drink this bitter cup with him. Furthermore, she would be able to help him convince Shim and Matiga.

Argoth reined Midnight in. He looked out at the plumes of smoke and back at Cold Fort, then turned Midnight around.

* * *

He found Serah still at Nettle’s side, wiping his mouth, singing a soft lullaby that Nettle probably could not hear.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, referring to Nettle.

“That’s up to you.”

She looked at him, confused.

“I have some things you need to know,” he said. Then he sat down beside her and told her everything about his meetings with Loyal of Nilliam, about Sugar’s views into the world of soul, and the report about the Skir Master. She listened the whole time, her finger stroking Nettle’s hair back behind his ear.

When he finished, she said, “I’m not a warlord.”

“This is not a decision of tactics,” he said.

“You don’t think we can outlast Mokad through the winter?”

“The odds are vanishingly small. And even if we, through some impossible fortune, do win, that does nothing for Nettle. I know it’s selfish, but I don’t want to lose him.”

She smiled tenderly. “You don’t have to.”

Argoth was confused.

“You outlined two options: lose Nettle or join with a great wickedness. But there is a third. The root of our problem is that Nettle will be exposed in the world of the souls. But we will not lose him if he’s safe there. What he needs is a companion. A guardian.”

“Sugar has not seen any ancestors watching over us.”

“I’m not suggesting we rely on them. When the time comes, husband, Nettle will have someone with him. I will go before him. I will be with him on the other side.”

It took a moment for Argoth to realize what she was saying. She would take her own life, releasing her soul to wait for their son. “You can’t do that,” he said.

“I am his mother,” she said as if that explained everything. “Although I do not relish the idea of you raising my daughters.”

“But what do you know of the world of the souls?”

“I took some time to speak with Sugar about the yellow world when she first began to walk. She directed me to the cook in Urban’s camp. The man called Withers. I know about blackspine. There’s a sulfur spring nearby. Withers had other suggestions. I probably know as much about the world of the dead as you.”

She didn’t, but she’d had the clarity to see the one way out of this morass. She’d seen it because she possessed something far more important than the lore. She possessed clarity of heart. His blatant lack of it shamed him. He had never once considered offering himself up. The thought hadn’t even existed in his mind. He had only thought of the sacrifices others would make on his behalf.

It was Nettle who had made the sacrifice before. Now it was Serah. Good, wise Serah.

Argoth said, “Let me go and make the journey with our son. I will do it, now that you have shown me the way.”

“Are you forgetting our daughters?” she asked. “And all the people that depend on you?”

“Never,” he said.

“I want you to win this war,” she said. “I want you to raise the girls to be strong. I believe in yours and Shim’s dream. But I cannot command your men. I cannot face this enemy. You can. You almost killed the Skir Master. You might get another chance. So fight with all the hopes of mankind in your heart. If Nettle fails, I will go with him. And if Shim’s dream dies, then you will need to save our daughters from the harvest. You will need to send them into the world of souls far away from the clutches of Mokad, something I don’t think I could bear to do.”

Tears rose to Argoth’s eyes. He imagined Serenity, Joy, and Grace looking up at him with trust as he held the knife. He imagined their little hands and smooth hair.

“Promise me you will not be hasty,” he said. “You will not do this until you know the time is at hand.”

“Do you think I relish the thought?”

“I don’t want fear or despair to steal you from me.”

“Your secrets almost stole everything,” she said.

He looked down. “They have been a poison.”

She lifted his chin. “I didn’t say they did steal. I said they almost stole.”

He looked up into her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, her face shining with grief and love. “Thank you for coming back to me.”

He picked up her chapped hand. The fingernails were clean, but short and chipped. It was the hand of one who worked tirelessly. He brought it to his cheek and kissed it. He had so many memories of him and her in the youth of their marriage, and later with the children, working their land, laughing. And all the times she sat up with him in the candlelight, cleaning the leather of his saddle and bridle for a coming battle. And after making love, he would listen to the sounds of her breathing at his side, listen to the children stirring in their beds, thinking about his preparations for war and wondering how long he would have to smell her hair or touch her brow.

He wondered if it had been an ancestor whispering to him out there on the path, sending a message through some lore, through some bond of blood, turning him from his course, or was it simply his own fool sense finally coming around. He realized it didn’t matter. He thanked the Six he had listened. He would fight. He would find a way. For her, for Nettle, for the girls.

“It took you long enough,” she said. “I almost gave up on you.”

“Some of us are slow learners,” he said.

A knock sounded at the door. Grace went to the door and opened it. Flax stood there. “I think I have some news that you’re going to want to hear. There just might be a way to save some of Shim’s dream.”

Hope sprang into Serah’s face. Argoth was dubious, but he got up and followed Flax outside. When he’d shut the door behind him, Flax said, “I didn’t dare present this to Shim. Eresh, right or wrong, hates me and will fight anything I suggest. So I’d thought I’d come to you first. If you think it has merit, you can take it to the Root.”

Flax’s long blond moustaches were dusty from a hard ride. Argoth, like Eresh, had suspicions. They’d still been unable to keep a man on him, but Argoth thought Eresh’s past dealings with the Hand were clouding his vision. All sleth had secrets; that didn’t mean they were traitorous.

The fort was crowded with people, and the last thing Argoth wanted was for rumors and reports to fly about. He motioned Flax over to the horse corral. When nobody was close enough to hear, Argoth said, “What do you have?”

Flax squatted down and drew an outline of the new lands in the dirt. “They’ve split their army in two.” He drew a line from Blue Towers to Whitecliff, heading toward Koramtown. “One part is marching this way along the coast.” He drew another line cutting through the heart of Shoka lands. “The other part is striking directly inland.”

“Yes, we know this,” said Argoth.

“Right,” said Flax, “but it’s what you can’t see that’s important. They’ve emptied out Blue Towers. They’ve emptied out most of the Fir-Noy lands. They’re coming with everything.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“This battle is over. If you stay here, they’ll push you like cattle. They’ll bottle all of Shim’s people up. But what if Shim flees overland?” He drew a line from Cold Fort, across the Lion River, leading north. “You go close enough to draw the armies after you. Pull them away from their burning and pillaging. Shim escapes somewhere up here, maybe in the Warrens, makes his way to the far side and the ports of the Vargon there. A great portion of his army could escape.”

“Shim could have run with his army weeks ago. This isn’t about soldiers.”

“Exactly,” said Flax. “Mokad is arrogant. The bait will be irresistible. When they see Shim moving north, they will draw most of the troops they’ve stationed in the South away. And that’s when the people of Shim’s clans make for the the Black Wood.”

Argoth looked at the line Flax had drawn. Shim’s army could cross the Lion, travel over Sooth’s Plain in a northeasterly direction to the Chalk River estuary, the western tine of the Great Fork where two large estuaries ran into the bay. They could go directly north and cross the Chalk River bridge about fifteen miles south of Raven’s Lake. For the last four years, the lords of the Fir-Noy and Birak clans had been trying to finish a stone bridge over the Chalk River to make commerce and travel between them easier and to generate more income with tolls. The bridge that spanned the river now was made with pontoons. It regularly had issues during the rainy season, but it hadn’t rained too much. If Shim’s army could get across the pontoon bridge and destroy it behind them, they just might be able to escape north into the Warrens. It would definitely give the rest of the Shoka and Koramite clans time to flee into the Southlands.

Argoth pointed on the map. “If we can get to the Chalk River bridge here, this just might work.”

An army the size of Mokad’s was like a swarm of locust. Each soldier needed about three pounds of grain or its equivalent per day. If the estimated size of that army was correct, they’d need 150,000 pounds, seventy-five tons, of grain each and every day. 525 tons each week. An average acre produced one quarter ton of grain, which meant Mokad’s army ate 2,100 acres per week. And that wasn’t counting what they’d drink in ale. Nor did it factor in the livestock, fruit, eggs, and milk it would consume. Or the double quantities used for dreadmen. A large army consumed the land before it. And that prodigious appetite was also its weakness. Deprive such an army of its food and water, and it would very soon crumble. Without grain, they’d soon eat through the supplies they brought with them. They would eat through the clan supplies. By midwinter they’d be starved out.

“We could burn Fir-Noy granaries as we go,” Argoth continued. “Make it look like we were trying decimate their food supplies.”

“That’s exactly what they’ll think you are doing,” said Flax. “They might even pull some of their troops back from Koramtown.”

It was a good strategy, but it all depended on the Fir-Noy troops vacating the towns and villages of Sooth’s Plain. “How do you know the Fir-Noy are on the march?”

“I saw it with my own eyes. It’s all the talk of Blue Towers. But you can send others. Let them confirm.”

Argoth nodded. And to think he’d almost given up. He shook his head in disgust at how close he’d come to giving up hope.

“You don’t think it will work?” Flax asked.

“I think you just brought the Grove its salvation. We’ll have to verify the troop movements.”

“No smart commander would do otherwise,” Flax said.

* * *

Argoth finished explaining Flax’s plan to Shim, Eresh, and Matiga. They were in the command quarters, the map of the new lands spread out on the table before them.

“If we split up, the kitemen won’t be able to follow all of us in the Warrens,” said Shim. “In fact, I suspect the winds that scream through those mountains will prevent them from following most of us.”

“We can travel at night when they can’t see,” said Matiga.

“And what about your people going south?” asked Eresh. “How are they going to survive?”

“There are some scattered settlements,” said Argoth. “There’s plenty of game in the woods. Mokad isn’t going to leave its army here. If we can flee in Vargon ships, we can arrange to pick them up later, in the spring. The New Lands are vast. We could disappear.”

Shim nodded. “We’ll send word out to the Shoka and Koramite bailiffs and lords to head for the Black Woods and burn everything they leave behind.”

“They won’t all go,” said Argoth. “Only send it to the ones we know are loyal. We can’t risk Mokad finding out our plan.”

“I don’t like it,” said Eresh. “There’s something off.”

“You’re letting your distaste of the man cloud your judgment,” Matiga said.

Eresh eyed her. “I’d say you’re clouding my judgment. Because I’m going to go along with this even though everything in this brain tells me otherwise.”

* * *

Berosus stood with a group of men listening to Legs sing a sad song about the ghost of some ancestor when a messenger dashed out of the command quarters. He sprinted to where the official riders sat drinking ale and spoke to them. Almost a dozen of them rose. The messenger handed them each a note. There was a flurry of excitement, and about three minutes later those men thundered out of the fort on their mounts. Another five riders left a few minutes after that.

Legs stopped his song. He was trying to hide it, but his face was full of the worry he felt for his sister. “What’s going on?”

“Something’s up,” said Flax.

Black Knee said, “I can see it in your eyes. You came riding in, and now the whole nest is stirring. What news did you bring?”

At that moment Eresh exited the command quarters. He whistled loudly. “Form up!” he yelled.

The men all about the fort rose and gathered in the center of the bailey. Those on the walls turned to watch.

Shim and Argoth joined Eresh in front of the men.

“Ready yourselves,” Eresh called. “It’s time to give Mokad and its toadies a taste of our steel in good Kish fashion! All the terrormen not on patrol will report to the hall immediately. The rest of you will get ready for a march. It will be personal kit. There will be no baggage train. Now, go!”

The men moved, some to fetch the terrormen from their camps outside the fort, others to prepare their mounts or marching kits.

“And I’ll be left here, curse these eyes,” Legs said. “Unable to do anything for my sister.”

“Oh, no,” said Berosus. “You’ll ride with me.”

“A blind boy in a battle will just get in the way.”

“You won’t,” said Berosus. “Besides, I need to make sure you stay alive. You’re going to meet up with your sister again.”

“Don’t treat me like a child,” Legs said.

“She was still alive when I left Blue Towers,” Berosus said.

“I don’t think they’ll keep her that way for long.”

“Don’t be too sure. Now, we’ve got a march ahead. Let’s go fill our waterskins before the crowds get to the well. And then I’ll move you outside while I finish getting my gear; otherwise, I’m sure the mistress of the washer women will spirit you away with her group.”

“That’s okay,” Legs said. “I can go with them.”

“It’s dangerous to leave one learning the lore like yourself alone. It’s the perfect way to get yourself killed. You’re not a dreadmen. What you’re learning is something special, something different. And so you’re coming with me.”

The spectacle would be special. It would be a show this herd would not forget for a very long time.

Legs frowned.

“Stay right here,” Berosus said. Then he went to fetch his waterskin from his quarters. When he came back, Legs was waiting for him. Berosus took his hand, and they walked over to the well. An old soldier with a number of discs of honor on his leather straps was there. He cranked the bucket up, filled his skin, then turned with the funnel spout to fill Berosus’s.

Berosus held his skin out. As the skin filled, the soldier said, “You think they brought more than one rotted Skir Master?”

Berosus said, “An army like this usually has more skir than one man can manage. Nilliam surely brought their own.”

“If I were Mokad, I’d be watching my back. Nilliam can’t be trusted.”

“No,” said Berosus. “I’m sure they have been required to keep their skir back. I heard their masters were over in Fog Town.”

“But will they bring them to bear?”

“I don’t think so. Even if the news out of Blue Towers is correct, and the Mokaddian Skir Master was killed. I don’t think Mokad would want a Nilliamese skir at their backs.”

The water filled to the top of the skin, and the soldier set the bucket back onto the side of the well. “Major or minor skir, I don’t think it matters,” the old soldier said. “Most of these troops have not had to contend against the wind.”

“The men have visors, scarves, and brass goggles. You have armor. As long as you can see, you can fight through the havoc created by minor skir. But the plan isn’t to fight anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

A number of soldiers had come for water and were listening.

Berosus raised his voice enough so the men could hear. “Your terrorman will reveal all after his meeting with Shim. But I can say that it’s a brilliant plan.”

“Shim’s a fox,” one man said.

“Aye,” another said.

Berosus nodded. “You men are lucky. You’re going to like what you hear.” Then he turned and walked with Legs to the gate of the fort, leaving the men to speculate about what the good news might be.

Berosus smiled. About him the soldiers prepared their mounts and supplies, readying themselves to walk right into his trap. The truth was that while he’d ordered most of his army out of Blue Towers, they were not marching inland or securing Koramtown: they were waiting out in the bay for his orders. He’d only sent token forces out, to fool Shim’s other spies so they would confirm the news Berosus had brought. When Shim arrived at the Chalk River bridge tomorrow, he’d find the bulk of Mokad’s army waiting. Or maybe he’d find them even sooner.

Flax smiled. Herding humans was so easy. He looked up into the sunny blue sky, looked out at the good weather over the sea. It was going to be such a fine harvest.

He reached out to the captain of his dreadmen via the link that bound the man to him. I have a package for you to pick up, he said through the link. You need to come now.

Legs cocked his head. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing,” Berosus said, chiding himself for not being careful about focusing on the thrall he wanted to communicate with.

Legs frowned again. “There’s something odd about the ring you gave me,” he said.

“Oh?”

“I followed the pattern. Parts of it seem very similar to the thralls Argoth had us examine. I’m pretty good at feeling the weave. Some parts seemed almost exact.”

Berosus looked down at him. Such an astute little man. Berosus really wished he could have kept him. It was regrettable he was going to die in the spectacle, but then, who was Berosus to question the Sublime?

He said, “You’ll have to show me what you’ve found. Maybe we’ll have time this evening. I suspect we’re going to be busy for the next many hours.”

Then his captain responded to his mind. Where do you want us to pick up the boy?

I’m leading him out now. Meet me off the road two miles out.

Yes, Great One.

Berosus would get him into the woods on the other side of the fields that surrounded the fort. Then he would pick him up and run the two miles before anyone responded to the boy’s cries.

Legs stopped.

“What are you doing?”

“I heard—” Legs said in puzzlement, then cut himself off.

Berosus narrowed his eyes.

Legs yanked his hand free. “I forgot something,” he said. “Just wait right here.” Then he backed up, trying to mask the alarm on his face but not doing a very good job of it.

Berosus shook his head. Legs was an astute little man. It was clear he suspected. More than suspected.

Legs backed up another step. “Help!” he cried.

Soldiers turned to look.

Berosus grabbed Legs and hefted him over his shoulder. As he did, he slammed the boy’s stomach down hard on his shoulder, knocking the wind out of him.

Legs grunted.

Berosus grinned. “Master Legs,” he said loudly, “one of these days you’re going to have to find yourself another mule.”

The soldiers smiled at the joke, then turned back to their preparations.

Berosus began to jog, holding the boy on his shoulder. He ran out the gate, then began to walk the road so as not to attract attention. And every time it seemed Legs was about to catch his breath, Berosus would surreptitiously slam the boy’s gut against the point of his shoulder and knock his breath out. After a few of those, Legs stopped struggling.

Berosus grinned and hailed a fist of men he passed coming the other way. And then the road was clear. He made the woods without anyone giving him and Legs a second glance.

The little man had almost given him away. Something must have slipped with the beetle. Maybe because Legs had the seed in him, the weave had worked differently, given him more access to Berosus’s mind. He’d probably heard some of the conversation with the captain.

Legs twisted on his shoulder. There was nobody on the road here, so Berosus brought him down in front of him.

The boy’s face was full of pain and fear. “Where are you taking me?” he asked.

“I’m taking you to the battle,” Berosus said. “Just like I said I would. And then I’m going to take you to your sister.”

“You’re a thrall, aren’t you?”

“You’re very quick,” Berosus said. “I might yet be able to convince the Sublime to keep you.”

Legs said, “I’m not the one you’re looking for. The other Mother made that same mistake.”

“Oh, but you are. You’re exactly what I need. And you’ve got a performance coming up, a little part to play in the upcoming battle.”

14

Thrall and Flesh

TALEN RAN UP a hill in the burned forest, the bones of the dead trees all about him, their broken and scorched branches reaching for the sky. He hurdled a fallen, burned-out log and imagined there were a number of these trees that only needed the slightest push to fall. River ran beside him, her hair tied up and face shining with perspiration. The Spiderhawks ran just ahead.

“How much farther?” he called to Chot.

“The holy tangle is close,” Chot said.

Chot had said they were running toward some tangle where a friendly tribe’s wasp lords trained, but there was no towering tanglewood anywhere in sight.

Talen was thirsty. He was hot. Multiplied. He looked back, expecting to see Harnock chasing after them with murder on his face, but only saw the crows and the dust of the woodikin army farther back.

Ahead of him, the woodikin crested the top of the hill and began to hoot. Talen ran to the top of the hill and saw three tall tanglewood trees rising from the valley below. Like all the other trees, they were burned, although a few of the upper branches looked like they had escaped the fire and still grew the evergreen scale-like leaves.

Chot snarled in frustration.

A whole village of wasp lords would have indeed been helpful. But they were clearly not going to receive any help here.

Talen looked back down the slope. Movement through the trees caught his eye. He looked and saw mounted men.

“They’re coming,” he said.

Chot hissed, then motioned them forward, and they ran down the hill and broke out into the wide clearing around the small tanglewood. They passed the skeletons of a number of woodikin that lay strewn about the ground below the trees. They’d probably fallen from the heights in the fire. Talen and the others ran on, passing the charred remains of a cluster of wasp baskets, and headed for the far side of the clearing.

Talen glanced back. The mounted men were threading their way down the slope behind them, coming fast. Chot and his woodikin, while powerful, were flagging. They’d all been running for quite some time now. Talen unstopped his waterskin and wrung the last drops out, knowing they couldn’t go on like this for much longer.

They entered the far side of the clearing and ran into the trees, and then a white-fletched arrow whispered past and sank into the back of one of the woodikin. He stumbled, regained his gait, then took another arrow.

They ran deeper into the woods, then Chot shouted something in woodikin, and his warriors ran for the huge trunk of a burned out tree that lay ahead. The warriors sprang over it, then turned to face their attackers. Talen and River did the same.

The mounted dreadmen were riding through the trees in two groups. One group peeled off to the left. The others came forward a bit, then reined in their horses. Talen counted thirteen of what must be some of Mokad’s best dreadmen. Then there was Nashrud who was part Divine. These fourteen were pitted against Talen, River, and a handful of worn-out woodikin. And where was Harnock?

Chot hissed at his warriors who fanned out along the trunk of the fallen tree. Talen strung his bow. About him the woodikin stuck arrows in the ground or laid them on the trunk for quick retrieval. Behind them the wasp lord opened the door of the wasp basket and began to murmur to his servants inside.

The dreadmen in front of Talen had all dismounted. Then Nashrud himself rode through the trees on Scruff, his black and brown dog loping by him on one side, Harnock on the other.

“Rot them all,” River said. “We need to take him now. We owe him that at the very least.”

“Chot,” Talen said.

Chot nodded. “Harnock will slaughter all of us.”

“We must be quick,” River said. “Do not signal our intent.”

“It is agreed,” Chot said, then spoke to his warriors who silently nocked arrows.

Talen and River nocked arrows as well.

Nashrud turned his mount behind a tree and dismounted, but Harnock stood out in the open, waiting.

“Now!” River whispered.

Chot grunted. The warriors, in one fluid movement, raised their bows, drew their arrows. River and Talen drew theirs. They released their shafts in a stutter of humming, snapping strings. The arrows shot across the distance.

But Harnock saw them and immediately jumped to the side, leaving the arrows to speed past and sink into a tree behind him with a loud thwock. The woodikin nocked, drew, and released another volley. Harnock ran, the arrows missing. Both Talen and River held their second shot and led him. He disappeared behind a tree. Talen released. River released a moment later.

Harnock emerged from the other side of the tree, and Talen’s shaft would have struck and sank deep into his side, but Harnock batted it away. River’s arrow followed, but he plucked it out of the air, snapped it, and tossed the pieces to the ground.

Nashrud raised his voice. “My hat goes off to Lumen. I don’t think I’ve seen a better warrior blend. In fact, I know of very few warrior blends that survive more than a couple of months. But it’s not in the nature of a blend to be free. It needs control and guidance. Even the great ones need this, which is why our grand chase is now at an end. Come out, Holy One, and we will spare the others.”

“You lie,” said Talen.

“No, Holy One. They will live.”

“As thralls,” Talen said. “Which is no life worth its Days.”

“You’re wrong,” Nashrud said. “It is worse to be meat.”

“The word of a Divine means nothing to me,” Talen said.

“You’re coming into your powers,” said Nashrud. “You need help or you will become a threat to everyone around you.”

“You will never take him,” River said.

“We will,” said Nashrud. “One way or the other. Just as we will have Shim and all those making their silly defense. Mokad’s mighty army is already on your shores. By tomorrow or the next day, Shim’s soldiers will be food for the frights and crows.”

“Shim will be ready for you,” said Talen.

“No,” said Nashrud. “He will not. There’s a Guardian with him, right in the heart of his army. There has been for some time now. All of their careful preparations will fail. They will fall as so many have before. In fact, I suspect the battle will be over in mere minutes. Your friends will be slaughtered and thrown to the dogs. And so you have no path besides the one you were ordained to. And it is such a very bright road.”

Talen turned to River. “We’re going to kill Nashrud. That’s how we’ll free Harnock.”

“How?” River asked.

Talen sent his roamlings out into the yellow world, up above the burned out trees to see better. A number of orange skir were flying high a mile or so back. He said, “We can take away the dreadmen’s power. I’ll ravel their weaves. You and the others attack. And suddenly thirteen dreadmen turn to nine, then five, then one, and then it’s us and the wasps against one Divine and a handful of normal, unmultiplied men. We can kill him. We can free our friend.”

“You’re sure you can ravel their weaves?” asked River.

“No,” said Talen. “But what other choice do we have?”

“None.”

“We’ve got act quickly,” Talen said. “Before that army of woodikin or any orange skir show up.”

River turned to Chot, “Did you hear?”

Chot bared his teeth. “The scrawny skinman is not what he seems.”

“Come now, Holy One,” Nashrud called out. “This is your last chance.”

Talen ignored him and looked about with his roamlings. Three dreadmen had skirted around and were trying to sneak up on their flank. He turned to Chot. “Three skinmen are coming that way. Send half of your warriors. Keep the rest here to shoot at the ones in front.”

Chot passed the word down. Four woodikin crouched and headed toward the dreadmen.

“I’ll give the signal,” Talen said. He closed the eyes of his flesh to make it easier to concentrate, then quickly sent one roamling aloft to watch the skies and sent the rest to deal with the three dreadmen trying to flank them. He swam up to the dreadmen and quickly found their weaves. They were tight and beautiful. The soul and Fire burned within. He found the mouth of the first weave and bit in.

The dreadman cried out in shock.

Talen bit deeper into the weave, ripped, and suddenly a spray of Fire and soul shot past him.

He turned to the weaves of the other two dreadmen with his roamlings.

“Now!” Talen said and bit and tore.

The four woodikin charged, racing through the trees. Two paused to release arrows. Two others ran forward. The dreadmen, alarmed at the attack on their weaves, weren’t ready. The woodikin arrows sank into one of the men. Another dreadman took a defensive stance with his sword, but two woodikin evaded his swing with violent speed and bore him to the ground. The other woodikin flew at the final dreadman. They were brutal and quick, and a moment later the woodikin hooted in victory.

“Three are down,” Talen said. “Ten more to go.” And then Nashrud would be on his own. Talen’s roamlings rose and raced through the trees to the other dreadmen.

“Chot,” he said. “All of you must attack the ones in front.” Talen turned to River. “Go for Nashrud.”

And then his roamlings were in among the dreadmen. He wrapped himself around three of their weaves, bit, tore. The dreadmen yelled in dismay.

That’s right. You didn’t expect me. Surprise. He entered another weave, tore.

But as he did, pain shot through one of the roamlings. Talen flinched back, wildly looking around for an orange skir. But there were no orange skir. There was only Nashrud. He slashed at Talen with a black blade, but Talen dodged and pulled his wounded roamling back.

“He’s got a spirit blade!” Talen hissed. “Go now! Distract him.”

How Nashrud could see in the yellow world, Talen did not know. But Nashrud came after him again.

Talen sped his roamling behind a tree.

Nashrud followed.

Chot rose, hooted, and then he and his warriors sprang over the log and charged the dreadmen. River followed. The wasp lord moved forward as well.

With his two free roamlings, Talen fell upon the weaves of another pair of dreadmen, biting and tearing. Fire and soul sprayed about him. He swallowed a portion of it. It was almost impossible not to. It was like trying not to drink water while swimming.

And then seven weaves were raveled or damaged. Five more to go.

Nashrud turned to attack Talen’s other roamlings, but then the woodikin were coming, and he and his men turned to face them.

Talen tore into another pair of weaves, but then his back prickled. Someone was behind him. He spun around.

Harnock stood there, a feral look in his eyes.

“We tried to kill you,” Talen said.

“You didn’t try hard enough, Hogan’s son.”

Talen drew his knife, lunged.

Harnock easily caught his wrist. He crushed the spot just up from the wrist with his large thumb and forefinger. Pain shot up Talen’s arm, and he dropped the knife.

“It is at an end, Holy One,” Harnock said and pulled a king’s collar from the pouch at his waist.

“No,” Talen said. He pulled his roamlings away from the dreadmen and sped them toward Harnock.

Harnock grabbed both his hands in one of his and shoved Talen up against the trunk of the tree to hold him in place.

Talen’s panic rose.

Harnock hesitated, seemed to struggle with himself, but then the moment passed, and he brought the collar up. Talen’s roamlings rushed back through the trees, then they were over the log, and he used them to fall upon the collar. The collar’s weave was different. He searched along the intricate pattern with the three roamlings, frantically looking for a mouth, a weakness, anything.

Harnock whipped the collar around Talen’s neck.

Suddenly Talen found a snag. It was small, tight, but not too small for the roamling. He forced his way in. Bit. Wrenched.

Harnock brought together the two ends.

The collar weave tore. Fire shot forth.

Harnock snapped the collar clasp shut.

Talen felt a stab, a presence inside, felt the collar taking control as it had before. Then he turned on the presence, the living soul inside the collar that quickened it, and attacked. The soul tried to flee, but Talen caught it and bit. Pleasure washed through him. It was delicious, like cold, sweet well water on a parched mouth and tongue. Like succulent meat, roasted and dripping with juices on new bread.

His second roamling joined the first. And then the third. The pleasure of devouring washed through him again. He would have consumed it all, but the presence tore away. A great spray of Fire and soul shot forth, and the collar stilled, turned to mere metal. But Talen wasn’t thinking of that. He was reveling in the taste of soul. Regret’s rotted eyes, but it was wonderful!

Talen flared his Fire. Vigor shot into his limbs, and he wrenched free of Harnock’s grasp, but Harnock caught him by the arm and spun him around.

“There’s more than one way to do this, Holy One,” Harnock growled. He batted Talen’s head, knocking him dizzy, then picked him up and threw him over his shoulder.

Talen suddenly realized how exposed he’d been. Nashrud and the dreadmen were retreating, swatting at wasps; the others, including the wasp lord, were pursuing. But the dreadmen weren’t running at full speed. Nor were they attacking with all their might. He’d seen dreadmen fight. They were holding back.

They’d wanted him alone. Wanted him to expose himself so Harnock could catch him. They’d known if they’d come with overwhelming force, he would have simply killed himself. And so they came feigning weakness. It had all been a ruse.

Talen tried to struggle free, but Harnock’s arms were like bands of iron. “Harnock!” he shouted and beat on his back.

But Harnock only ran at an angle away from the fighting. With his roamlings, Talen could see clearly that the dreadmen were leading Chot and the others away from him, back toward the advancing army.

He could see the plan—Harnock would carry him away, and when he was out of the reach of the others, Nashrud would pull his dreadmen out of the fight completely. The Orange Slayers would come in with their greater numbers, and the little troop would be decimated.

“It’s a trap!” Talen shouted. “A trap!” His shout echoed among the dead trees.

“It is too late, Holy One,” said Harnock. “Too late for both of us.”

No! It couldn’t be.

Talen searched Harnock for a weave, for a collar, a thrall. But he had none. How was he linked?

He thought furiously. There had to be a way. Thralls, like any weave, were alive. They grew into you, Harnock had said.

Talen’s mind fixated on that that—thralls grew into the victim.

Yes! Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of it before? The thrall grew into the person. That meant the weave was in the flesh. The weave was right there on Harnock’s arms! Harnock himself had said that the tattoos were the points of access.

A thrall in a metal collar or a thrall living in the flesh, shouldn’t it be the same? If he could ravel the one, surely he could ravel the other.

Talen brought his roamlings to Harnock’s wrists, to the patterns there. He could feel the weave of Harnock’s flesh, but there was another pattern that ran through the flesh—a separate living thing.

Talen examined the pattern. Tendrils and roots grew from the weave into Harnock. They sank deep into the flesh, but Talen knew they went deeper: they went into his bone, into his very soul. As he examined the pattern, he saw it was different, but not so very different from the thralls on the bats. Not so very different from the thralls Argoth had shown them at Rogum’s Defense. In a moment, he found the way in, but he paused. He’d probably only have one chance to attack, for Harnock knew how to mount a defense and close his doors.

Talen brought all four roamlings to bear, mustered his courage and struck, pushing his way into Harnock’s flesh, ripping at the thing growing there.

Harnock gasped, took another stride, and stumbled. “Filth!” he said and flung Talen from him.

Talen slammed into the ground, the impact knocking the breath out if him, but he continued to follow the thralls, and even though they were intertwined with the flesh, he found the line of the weave he was looking for, bit, and raveled.

Harnock roared, charged over to Talen, and grabbed him by the throat.

Talen ripped farther. His roamlings were in a frenzy, biting, raveling, and, Creator’s help him, eating Fire. He felt a presence, went after it, but it retreated deep into the flesh, and Talen could not follow. So he turned back to the bits that remained.

Harnock’s hold slackened, and Talen twisted out of his grip.

Then Harnock fell to all fours in pain. “Hogan’s son,” he growled.

Talen bit, tore, raveled, until he found himself surrounded by nothing but tatters of the thrall. There was more—he could feel it—but he couldn’t reach it. It had grown too deeply, and he could not distinguish it from Harnock’s own self.

“Hogan’s son,” Harnock growled again.

“Are you free?” Talen asked.

“Get your filthy self out of me!” Harnock roared. “Get out!” And he shoved Talen’s roamlings back, expelled them from his body and soul, and slammed his doors shut. Murder burned in Harnock’s eyes.

Talen backed away.

Harnock rose to his feet, his face full of fury.

Talen looked about for his knife. The quickest way to kill himself would be to reach across his neck and slash deeply into the artery there. There would be no stopping that bleeding.

Harnock was breathing hard. “The master,” he said. The fury in his eyes lessened and was replaced by a mad joy. “Hogan’s son, you yeasty boil. You stinking glorious runt!”

Talen remembered his knife was back by the fallen tree trunk. He spotted a sharp, half-burned stick. It would have to do.

“That whoreson is gone. Gone!”

“Harnock?” Talen asked.

Harnock brought his arms up and looked at his wrists. “We are free!”

Shouts rose from the trees. Harnock turned. Nashrud and the dreadmen were fleeing, running full out.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Harnock said. “Not today. Today is the day Regret finds you.” And then he sprang forth in a flash and growl and raced through the burned trees to cut off Nashrud’s retreat. Harnock was pure power—the sinews and speed of a lion, the wits of a man, and all of it multiplied beyond reason.

Talen ran back to the trunk to get his weapons, then turned to follow, but Harnock was the wind itself.

Nashrud mounted Scruff and put his heels into him. Scruff surged forward, but Harnock had the angle on him. He flew through the blasted trees and sprang at him from the side, carrying him off the saddle.

The two men crashed to the ground and rolled in a cloud of dust. Scruff neighed and trotted a number of steps away.

A knife flashed in Nashrud’s hand. Then he lunged and plunged the blade into Harnock’s lower back.

Harnock bellowed, snatched Nashrud by the head, and with a mighty yank, lifted him off his feet. He whipped him up and over his head in an arc, and slammed him down violently on the ground. Then he twisted Nashrud’s head with a sharp jerk into an impossible position, and the Divine’s body went limp.

Harnock roared, and took Nashrud to the ground. The branches of a fallen tree obscured what Harnock did, but a moment later, when Harnock hurled the Divine’s severed head to the side, it was clear what had happened. Then Harnock rose, bloody knife in hand, to face the remaining dreadmen.

The severed head was gruesome, but it was said that decapitation was the only way to ensure some Divines stayed dead. Talen realized he’d stopped running to watch the spectacle. He began to run again, knowing that despite Harnock’s power, he’d been stabbed, and he’d need help.

With his roamlings, Talen looked for the orange skir. Half a dozen flew above the tanglewood clearing. Below them, the soul of Nashrud rose, bright and shining, from his body. He looked up, saw the skir, and fled into the trees.

One-by-one the orange skir dived into the gray woods after him. A high-pitched buzzing rose from where they’d entered the burnt forest, followed by the horrible clacking.

Two of the remaining four dreadmen spun around and turned their bows on Harnock. But Harnock didn’t slow or change course. There was no way Harnock could avoid those arrows at such a close range.

Suddenly a swarm of wasps shot in among the dreadmen, attacking their faces. One dreadman released his arrow, then flinched, slapping his cheek. The arrow went wide. The other dreadman swatted his neck, then arm.

That brief moment was all Harnock needed. He rushed in, knives in both hands. He stabbed one slayer, turned and slashed the throat of another.

A tall dreadman charged Harnock with an axe. But Chot bowled into him, knocking him to the side. Then the rest of the woodikin poured in. They bore the remaining dreadman down to the ground and finished him. The battle ended before Talen could run the last fifty yards.

Talen arrived to find the woodikin preparing to cut open the dreadmen’s bodies and remove their hearts. Talen turned away. He did not want to watch.

A wasp darted past Talen’s face. The bodies of a few others littered the ground, but most were flying back to the wasp lord’s basket.

Harnock pressed his hand to the wound in his back. When he saw Talen, his face lit up. “Ah, there he is!”

“Are you okay?” Talen asked.

“Am I okay?” Harnock’s face crinkled with delight, and he laughed.

“I can’t believe we just beat a Divine and a fist of dreadmen,” Talen said

“We?” Harnock asked. “You!” He shook his head in wonder. “Maybe they didn’t scrape you off the bottom of the barrel after all.”

River joined them, blood splattering her face. “You’re free?” she asked Harnock.

Harnock held up his wrists. The tattoos there had changed. “Your eel of a brother chewed the thrall to pieces.”

Her eyes widened in surprise.

Talen walked over to where Nashrud lay. He picked up the man’s bloody knife and examined it. “Let’s hope this blade wasn’t poisoned,” he said.

“We will know soon enough,” Harnock said.

A few of the woodikin sucked on their wounds. Talen hoped there wasn’t poison there as well.

One of Chot’s warriors barked. The others turned. A moment later, the trees on the other side of the clearing boiled with Orange Slayers. The warriors split, left and right, and began to circle around the clearing.

“Up!” Chot shouted.

Talen estimated there were fifty, and then revised it to seventy-five, then a hundred. Their numbers kept growing. When the last had come through, he was sure there were close to two hundred woodikin formed up in a wide arc. Then three wasp lords walked up through the middle.

“Oh, Lords,” River said.

Chot held a piece of liver in his hand. Its red juices stained the fur around his mouth. He cast the liver to the dirt. “Now we die,” he said. “It is good to die by the hands of woodikin instead of filthy skinmen.”

With his roamlings Talen looked about for the orange skir, but the ones that had chased after Nashrud were still down in the trees.

“We are not going to die,” Talen said. “Not here. Not in this place.”

He had to be able to do something. The wasp lords would send in their minions to distract. Then the woodikin warriors would charge. How many wasps were in each nest—a hundred, two? The baskets of the Orange Slayer wasp lords were much bigger than the one of the wasp lord in Chot’s troop. There were probably more than a thousand—far too many wasps for Talen to kill with his roamlings.

A woodikin wearing a mantle of bright blue feathers shouted at them. Chot responded.

“What did he say?” asked River.

“He said he wants the skinmen. He said he will pay well.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him his mother spawned him from a lizard.”

Talen nodded. “I’m sure that came as a heavy blow.”

Chot grinned. “Fight well, skinman.”

There was no escape. They couldn’t outrun so many enemy troops. Furthermore, the woodikin weren’t dependent on weaves for strength. So he couldn’t ravel their strength. He couldn’t kill all their wasps.

He’d broken a link between Harnock and the master of that thrall. But how would one master control so many? The image of a wagon master holding the reins to a dozen horses came to his mind. He’d assumed that the weave in Harnock created the link. But what if the link was like the reins held by a man on a wagon being pulled by a team of ten or twenty horses? There was the harness for each horse, but they all connected so the driver held just two lines. You could try to cut each horse free, but it would be quicker to sever the reins being held by the driver. One cut, and the driver loses his connection to all the horses.

Talen sent his roamlings speeding across the clearing. He picked the wasp lord in the middle, the one wearing the most feathers and opening the largest wasp basket.

He carefully examined the wasp lord’s body, the beautiful weave of woodikin flesh. He found the tattoos on the woodikin’s palms. They were so much more than decorations. So much more than tribal identifications.

The wasp lords began to murmur to their minions. A few huge orange wasps began to emerge and take flight, zigzagging about as if getting their bearings. With one roamling, Talen rushed to the open mouth of the basket and examined a wasp closely. Upon its thorax grew a tiny weave.

Talen turned back to the wasp lord and searched the rest of his body. He didn’t want to strike until he knew he was attacking the right place. But there were only two weaves: one on each palm. Just as with Harnock, tendrils and roots grew into the flesh.

The wasp lord rose and lifted his arms to the sky. The other two did the same. Their wasps began to crowd the mouths of the baskets and take flight, moving in a wide circle overhead.

The wasps were huge, and Talen didn’t think anyone could sustain more than a few stings; such large creatures must inject an enormous amount of venom strengthened by whatever the Orange Slayer wasp lords fed them.

He had to act now. Talen attacked the palm of the main wasp lord. Every time raveling became easier; this time he was in and biting almost immediately.

The wasp lord cried out and grabbed his hand. He tried to close his doors, but Talen was ready and attacked the presence, the delicious soul. It fled before him. He let it run so he could focus on the weaves.

And he realized he could feel the echo of the wasps through the weave. They were agitated, angry. One broke free and sped down to land on an Orange Face warrior and sting him. Another broke free of its bonds. Talen bit and tore. Fire rolled up out of the mouths of the weaves like smoke. The whine of the wasp wings rose, and then the whole swarm heaved in chaos and dove at the Orange Face warriors.

Talen moved to the next wasp lord.

“What’s happening?” River asked.

“I’m freeing the wasps,” Talen said. “It appears they dislike being enthralled as much as Harnock did.”

Chot hooted in shock. “You?” he asked. “You do this?”

“He does this,” Harnock said.

“You lied to the queen,” Chot said to Harnock. “The skinmen didn’t want you. They wanted him!”

Chot turned to the other woodikin and spoke with great animation. They all looked over at Talen. The wasp lord regarded Talen and said, “Shallog.”

Harnock laughed.

Talen bit into the second wasp lord’s weaves, tore, drank up the Fire and lusted after the soul that cowered from him, but he pulled himself away from the soul, and focused on the weaves.

“Shallog,” the woodikin repeated.

“What are they saying?” Talen asked.

“The shallog is the woodikin nightmare,” Harnock said. “I’ve never seen one, although I have seen sign. The woodikin have all sorts of stories. It comes in at night, slaughters a family in their sleep. Maybe carries off a child to devour later in its lair. The wasp lord thinks you’re one of them.”

The wasps from the second basket began to break free from their master and attack the warriors on the slope.

“I’m no shallog,” said Talen.

“You are shallog,” said Chot. “That is all the Orange Slayers need to know.” Then he turned to the Orange Slayers and began to shout. Talen didn’t know what he said, but he clearly heard the word “shallog” repeated a number of times.

The wasp swarms were in a frenzy, attacking the warriors who themselves were swatting and barking in panic. Those on the extreme edges of the line began to back away. The third wasp lord motioned for two of his servants to pick up his wasp basket and flee back through the lines of warriors into the blasted woods.

Talen was going to chase him, but he heard a clack in the sky and looked up. An orange skir was streaking toward the meadow. Talen let the wasp lord go and pulled his parts back, brought them in safe behind the wall of his flesh, and shut all his doors.

Chot’s warriors began to shoot arrows into the confused troops of the Orange Slayers.

“Shallog!” Chot continued to shout. “Shallog!”

A section of Orange Slayer warriors on the left side broke rank and began to flee back into the woods. Then the whole line faltered, and the Orange Slayers turned and ran.

Chot’s warriors began to bark and hoot. “Ha!” Chot said. “They are worms. You will look at them.”

“And what would you do,” asked Harnock, “if your own swarms turned against you?”

Chot raised the knife in his hand. “I would kill the shallog.” He looked over at Talen.

Harnock folded his arms. “You would die.”

Chot sized Harnock up and down. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe I would first bite out your throat.”

Chot’s warriors continued shooting the last of their arrows into the Orange Slayers. Then Chot grunted an order, and they ran out into the meadow and began taking the arrows from the dead and dying Orange Slayers.

Harnock said, “We need to leave while we have the chance. Some of them may start thinking like you, Chot, and turn around.”

“We will take you to the tanglewood,” Chot said. “We will celebrate this victory.”

“We don’t have time,” River said. “We need to get back and warn Argoth and Shim.”

“A warning won’t be enough,” Harnock said. “We’re taking your brother back to ravel Mokad’s army. He’s going to ravel the thralls on the skir. He’s going to ravel the dreadmen’s weaves. When Talen’s done with them, it will be Shim with the multiplied might in his hands, not Mokad. It is time for Mokad to face their own shallog.”

“I am no shallog,” Talen said. “And it’s not going to be that easy.” Talen only had three uninjured roamlings, and there was the matter of the orange skir and who knew what else. Furthermore, Mokad’s Divines would probably have more than spirit blades. But it was true that he could fight. If all he did was break the thralls the Skir Masters held, that might be the difference. Like the woodikin, it might put the whole army on its heels.

Harnock turned to Chot. “We cannot go to any sister tanglewood. You must get us back to skinmen lands quickly. We need to be there by tomorrow. Can you get us to the Great River?”

Chot spat, glared at Harnock, and then he and the wasp lord exchanged a few comments in Woodikin. Finally, he turned and said, “It is agreed.”

“Will we make it in time?” Talen asked.

“It depends,” Harnock said. “If they’ve gone south, maybe.” Then he winced and pulled his bloody hand away from the wound on his back.

“Lords,” said River. “Let me tend to that.”

* * *

They collected Scruff and the dreadmen’s mounts. The woodikin claimed the dreadmen’s weapons, then searched their bodies for anything else of value. Talen found Nashrud’s spirit blade. It was black as coal. He took it and its sheath from Nashrud’s waist and strapped it to his own. Then he found a small pouch with two other weaves, including his governor.

On the other side of the clearing, the dead woodikin lay in the sun. The giant orange wasps buzzed about them, probably feeding. One, as big as Talen’s thumb, came a little too close to the horses, and he swatted it away with a branch.

Then they mounted up. Just as they were leaving, Nashrud’s dog came out of the woods. Talen wondered where the crows were; after all, there were enough dead woodikin here to make a feast for a whole flock. The dog sat on its haunches and watched them as they rode out of the clearing.

River sat upon Scruff. Talen and Harnock each had their own horse with a woodikin behind. The other woodikin rode two and three to a horse and tried not to show any fear, but they’d never ridden before, and it was not an easy thing, with our stirrups or training, to stay on a horse at a good trot. They hooted and grunted. The woodikin sitting behind Talen decided it would be easier to stand. So he held onto Talen’s shoulders and shouted at the others. Chot, who was bouncing along with two other woodikin on another horse, saw him and followed his lead. He took a wide stance in the saddle, bracing himself with a foot in front and back. Talen told him to sit down, but Chot ignored him, holding the reins out like he was in some sort of parade.

It worked until the gelding jerked left to avoid a large stone. Chot went flying. He whooped and hooted and tumbled in a cloud of dust. When he rose, his feathers were all askew. The gelding continued on, but to Chot’s credit, he ran after it, latched hold of the stirrup, and scrambled into the saddle. This time he sat.

They rode all the rest of that day, pacing their horses, riding, then running alongside, then riding again. They did not go back the way they had come, but cut at a diagonal that would take them more quickly to the river which fed into the Lion. They made good time.

By early evening, they entered the territory of the Long Stings, one of the Spiderhawk confederation. The Long Stings wanted to eat the horses, but Chot haggled with them. In the end, the Long Stings promised to bring the horses to the skinmen lands in exchange for two of the dreadmen’s swords. Talen and River expressed their fears that the Long Stings would not deliver Scruff, but Chot waved them to silence. “They have agreed,” he said, as if that was all that mattered.

They hurried through the Long Sting territory, and before dark, they were on the river in small round craft guided by three Long Stings. They traveled a number of miles on the river before the sun set. The stars came out. Sometime in the night, the Long Stings beached the craft. A number of the Spiderhawk got off the craft, including the wasp lord. He gave Chot a small basket, and then he and most of the Spiderhawks left.

“What’s going on?” Talen asked.

“They need to report to their queen,” Harnock said. “There’s going to be war with the Orange Slayers.”

And then they shoved off again and continued down the river with the Long Sting boat guides, Chot, and four of his warriors. There were spots with rapids where Talen had to hang on for his life. There were other calmer areas where he had to help paddle, or where he slept. And so they traveled with the stars above them and the soft light of the thin moon shining down on the autumn woods and the swift waters, and the whole time he prayed to the ancestors they would arrive early enough to help Shim and the men of Rogum’s Defense. Early enough to identify the Divine hiding in their midst before he or she plunged a knife into their collective backs.

15

On the Road to Whitecliff

SUGAR’S SECOND MORNING in the dungeon arrived with more cold, hunger, and thirst. Her limbs ached from her bonds, and she suspected if they removed all her fetters, she’d still not be able to run for the stiffness in them.

The guards brought a light gruel which Oaks refused. But Sugar didn’t see the point. She ate the food and was glad of it. Then the guards led them out of the room and up the stairs. Even though the morning was chill, she was grateful to shuffle out of the shadows of the castle wall and into the light. She squinted up at the sun.

Three or four dozen other captives were lined up. Most were fettered together with neck irons, one chain connecting a person to the next person in front, another chain connecting them to a person in back. But the captors had obviously run out of chains and irons, for a good number of them were fettered about their necks with rope.

A handful of the largest men were locked into pacifying yokes. Such yokes were made of a large branch or log, four to five feet long, that had been forked at both ends. Into each fork was fitted a captive’s neck. A bolt of iron was run through the ends of the forks so the captive could not pull his neck free. In this way two captives were yoked together. There were six men yoked this way, chains or ropes connecting them to the person in front of them and the one behind.

The guards shoved Sugar to her knees in front of a one-man yoke. It had a fork at one end with a heavy tongue of wood extending about five feet out from it. They fit her neck into the Y of the fork and ran a bolt through the ends of the fork and fastened it with a thick iron pin. One of the guards hauled up on it, forcing Sugar to stand on her feet. They tied her wrists tightly behind her back and put rope manacles on her ankles to keep her from being able to take anything but small steps. They did the same to Oaks.

A guard came by with a black horse hair brush and a bucket of yellow paint. He painted a crude V on Sugar’s chest, then smeared a stroke of paint across it. The small V at the bottom represented a face. The four lines above represented horns. It was the mark of sleth. He painted the mark on Oaks and three other men. Sugar shook her head. They were marked, but this guard served the true enemy.

The captives were strung out in two lines. A guard tied a rope from the back of a wagon to the collar of the lead captive in each line. Sugar was placed into one of the lines, and the head guard handed the tongue of Sugar’s yoke to the man in front of her.

“Keep a hold of this,” he said. “She falls or breaks her neck, and you’ll lose a hand.”

The captive in front of Sugar took the yoke.

They tied a rope from Sugar’s waist to the man behind her. Oaks was placed in the other line.

The captives were mostly Shoka and Vargon, although there were also a few upland Fir-Noy. The guards in charge of the captives wore the red and white of the Glory of Mokad. They stood for another quarter of an hour waiting until another dreadman arrived holding a small box. It was wrapped with a cloth. However, one red lacquered corner stuck out.

The same red lacquer she’d seen in Flax’s tower room. She wouldn’t be surprised if it were the exact same box. Flax probably wanted to transport the weave and skenning to safekeeping. He wouldn’t want to take them with him back to Shim’s troops and certainly wouldn’t want to leave them here with Lord Hash.

When the box was stowed, the fistman sitting up on the wagon stood. He wore mail like the rest and held his helmet in his hand. “You’re all going to Whitecliff. A grand parade through the villages along the way. Something for folk to look at. Something to whet their appetite. Please try to look as evil as possible.”

A few of the dreadmen laughed at this joke. Then they moved out: ten dreadmen, a wagon loaded with water and food, and two lines of captors shuffling along behind. Sugar thought about Flax. He’d fooled them all.

The man in front of her raised the tongue of her yoke onto his shoulder, forcing her to raise her chin. It was uncomfortable walking that way, her hands tied behind her back. It became even more so as they paraded down from the castle through the town. People came out of doors to watch them. Some spit. Some tried to strike or hit them, but the dreadmen were feared enough that when they shouted for people to get back, they did. From a high window, someone threw potful of urine upon the captives just in front of Sugar. Someone else flung dog turds.

By the time they reached the gate, everyone in the line was covered with some sort of filth. A few had been hit with rocks. They shuffled through the outer town and received the same treatment. Then it was onto a ferry that took them over the Lion.

Back at the river docks, drums beat and ship pipers played as a troop of Mokad’s army marched onto one of its ships. There were substantially fewer ships here than when Sugar and Urban’s crew had attacked the Kains two days ago. Flax had said that Mokad would attack. She suspected those ships had carried the army into Shoka lands.

The sound of Mokad’s send-off faded as Sugar walked through the ferry town, then out onto the road to Whitecliff. She reminded herself that she was going to meet up with Legs and must keep her spirits up for him. Every now and again, she hummed out a few notes of one of his tunes.

It was slow going up and down the hills and along the dirt road, for none of them were able to take normal-sized strides. Sugar’s neck was killing her when they finally arrived at a crossroad three miles beyond the ferry town. The crossroad hooked up with a larger road leading to Whitecliff, but the dreadmen halted the captives to let a mounted patrol of Fir-Noy trot past.

The man trudging two spots in front of Sugar was bound only with ropes. He was a tall, thin man with honors that proclaimed him a Shoka. He turned around and pushed the man holding the tongue of Sugar’s yoke to the side, forcing Sugar to twist. The tall Shoka spat upon her. “You brought this ruin upon us, just like they said you would.”

Someone from behind Sugar spoke. “Shut your hole. Shim will win this war. And he’ll be happy that filth like you was already culled from the herd.”

“They’re going to make her wriggle on a stake,” the first man said. “And I hope I’m there to watch it.”

One of the guards walking along side them jabbed the tall Shoka in the ribs with the butt end of his spear. “No talking.”

The tall man flinched and returned to his place in line, but his hate still burned. She could not blame him. There would be many more who would hate her and Shim before this was all over.

When the mounted Fir-Noy patrol had filed past, the dreadmen started the procession again and turned to follow the patrol. The hooves of the mounted patrol ahead, the wagon wheels, and the feet of the shuffling captives all kicked up dust which coated her teeth and filled her nostrils. Soon the Fir-Noy patrol disappeared around a bend up ahead, but the wagons and captives made more than enough dust on their own.

The only thing Sugar could think to do that might help Shim’s army was to shout out the truth about Flax should they see anyone. But who would they see on this road? Shim had ordered all Shoka to seek shelter in one of the fortresses. And if they hadn’t sought refuge there, then they had fled to some other private place: a cave, a hideout in the woods. Some might have even braved the Wilds. There would be no spy here to take the message.

Her neck ached, but her jaw was being rubbed raw by the yoke, so she tried to keep her chin high. It was better to look up at the sky than stare at the dirt anyway, for the sky above her, although dirtied by the smoke, was still blue. About her, the tops of many trees had turned with autumn color. It was a glorious day, and they were walking along a beautiful stretch of road flanked by meadow and the woods beyond. Four flocks of geese honked overhead, their long V formations trailing in the sky as they made their way south.

Oh, to be a bird, she thought, and fly away over the mountains. She imagined how it would have been had she, Legs, Mother, and Da been able to fly away and find a pond in some land that never felt the chill of winter. Some place that didn’t care if you knew the lore.

Her spirits lifted for a moment. Perhaps that was where Mother and Da were right now. Perhaps their souls had flown away to some safe glen away from the skir and howlers. She and Legs would not follow, but at least Mother and Da would find peace.

She prayed to each of the Six. She prayed to her ancestors, prayed thanks for her few years, even though she doubted anyone heard. And as she was praying, something flashed in the woods.

She looked closer, and suddenly a swarm of arrows streaked out of the trees and over the swath of meadow. One struck the wagon driver in his neck. He dropped the reins and clutched at the shaft sticking through his throat. Other arrows struck the two dreadmen walking ahead of the wagon. Sugar could not see behind her, but heard someone cry out.

The Mokaddian fistman shouted and jumped from the wagon seat and took cover behind the wagon. He brought his horn to his lips and blew a loud distress call. He blew it again, the blast sounding into the sky. The Fir-Noy patrol and any others in the area would hear. The fistman reached into the bed of the wagon for a bow and shouted for the others in his fist to get behind the captives with him.

A few more arrows flew out of the wood, and then thirty, maybe thirty-five men followed, charging out into the swath of meadow. Their faces and arms were daubed with war paint, turning them ghastly gray. They wore a motley collection of colors and armor, but upon each chest was a white V with a slash through it.

Who were these men that marked themselves as sleth?

Sugar peered at the large man running at their head. At first she didn’t recognize him because of the war paint. But then she couldn’t mistake him. Praise the Six! It was Soddam running at the front, war axe in hand. Two paces to his right was Urban. Following behind were a number of others she did not recognize but had to be part of his crew.

Urban’s men roared. A number of the captives murmured in fear. The Mokaddian dreadmen guarding Sugar and the others turned and lowered their weapons, but the fistman ordered his men to retreat, and the seven dreadmen guards raced for the trees on the opposite side of the road.

The mules pulling the wagon startled into a trot. The captives tried to keep up, but one of the men yoked in a two-man yoke stumbled and fell, taking the other man with him to the ground. The man behind cried out as he tried to prevent his neck from breaking.

The wagon continued forward, the others in the line fighting to keep their balance, but the two fallen men forced another man to stumble. He pulled on the man in front of him, who pulled on the one in front of him. Then the whole line wavered and toppled into the dirt and started to drag behind wagon, the men clutching the ropes and iron collars about their necks. Sugar and the man carrying the tongue of her yoke struggled to keep up with the other line.

Urban’s crew swarmed around the captives. One of Urban’s men jumped up onto the wagon seat, took the reins, and halted the mules. Others rushed past and began to shoot arrows at the fleeing dreadmen.

The rest began cutting through the ropes holding the captives. Soddam fished around in a box up by the wagon seat, found a manacle hammer, then rushed down the line to Sugar.

“You came,” she said, tears rising in her eyes, almost unwilling to believe.

“You’re one of mine,” Soddam said. “I vowed I would never let another one of mine die again. Now hold still while I knock this pin out.”

He struck the pin holding the iron bolt that spanned the forks. He struck it again, and it fell to the ground. Then he pulled the bolt out and flung the yoke away from her.

She could not help herself, but turned and embraced him, her face barely coming up to his chest.

“Now,” he said, giving her a quick fatherly squeeze. “No time for that. Not with murderers all about us.”

She looked up into his ghastly face. “Flax is the traitor,” she said. “He’s a Guardian of Mokad. We must tell Shim.”

He handed her a knife and motioned at the captives. “Cut them loose.” Then he moved to the one man still alive in the two-man yoke lying on the ground.

Sugar gingerly felt her neck and jaw where the yoke had damaged it, then began cutting others loose. She had freed two men when Urban called out, “That patrol’s coming back!”

Sugar turned. The captives that had been bound by ropes were mostly free. Those bound with chains and iron collars were not. However, they were free from the chains binding them to the back of the wagon. Urban ordered Soddam to give a large man who’d already been freed the hammer. “Get into the woods,” Urban said. “We’ll try to draw them after us.”

The captives fled, chains clinking, ropes trailing.

Urban turned to his men. “Harry them with arrows from the tree line, and then we’ll run.”

“Captain!” one of the men shouted in warning.

Urban turned. The first of the mounted Fir-Noy patrol came around the bend in the road ahead. They were coming at a fast canter.

“Move!” Urban shouted, and he and the others ran for the woods.

Sugar did not follow. She dashed to the wagon, looked for the wrapped red lacquered box, and found it lying on the floor behind the buckboard. She picked it up and only then raced for the trees.

Soddam saw her and turned back. “Lords, girl! I didn’t save you so you could get yourself killed again.”

She sprinted to join him, and then they both ran to the woods.

Farther down the tree line, the first of the captives reached the trees. A shout rose from the Fir-Noy riders, and they kicked their horses into a full gallop. Their spears shone in the sun, their banners streamed. A few dozen split off from the main group to chase after the captives that had made it to the trees. The rest charged after Urban and his crew.

Sugar ran for the woods. Farther back, the hooves of the Fir-Noy horses thudded over the turf. However, about twenty of Urban’s men were already in position with bows and began shooting arrows into the Fir-Noy.

Soddam took a few more paces. “Hurry!”

“I can’t multiply,” she said.

“Urban!” he shouted. “She’s got a king’s collar!”

At the tree line, Urban’s men were firing arrows. The Fir-Noy arrows whispered back. Urban broke from the line and ran to where she and Soddam stood. He looked down at her, fingered the collar’s clasp.

Moments later Sugar felt a sharp sting around her throat. Then the presence she’d forgotten was there retreated. Relief flooded her. The doors of her soul still felt numb, but she was free!

“They put one on Oaks,” she said and reached for her Fire, but she couldn’t find it.

“Back by twos!” Urban shouted. Half of the crew retreated from the tree line and took up positions a number of yards inside the woods.

The shaft of an arrow brushed past, just missing her hand.

“Take the point,” Urban called.

She and Soddam ran ahead, but she couldn’t multiply herself and keep up, so Soddam threw her over his shoulder and ran. Arrows skittered in the woods about her, glancing off branches and trees. One last arrow sped by, tore through some leaves, then sank into the trunk of a tree on her left. She and Soddam ran deeper.

The horses and spears would do the Fir-Noy patrol very little good in the woods. Urban’s men already had the advantage of speed and mobility. The trees would only increase it. She suspected the Fir-Noy knew this, for they did not follow. Soon the rest of the crew caught up to her and Soddam.

Sugar hoped most of the captives escaped, but she couldn’t help them. She and Urban’s men needed to get to Shim. She raised her voice and explained who Flax was so all the men could hear just in case she didn’t make it. Then they set off again, running over the rills and gullies and around brambles, careful of their footing and the branches. After jogging a mile or two, the woods thinned, and the men stopped and looked at the smoke-filled sky.

Soddam put her down. “Mokad must be burning scores of villages.”

Urban said, “Most of it is the Shoka burning their own homes and stores behind them as they flee. Shim’s on the move as well. He’s striking into Fir-Noy territory.”

Sugar turned to him. “I thought you had a crew and wise decisions to make.”

“Soddam can be very . . . persuasive,” he said.

She was so grateful to them all. “How did you find me?”

“News of sleth girls who attack Skir Masters travels fast and wide. Yesterday, a crier went out to all the towns between Blue Towers and Whitecliff announcing that you and a few other sleth would be coming through. We felt a bit miffed about being left out of the parade.”

“Did the crier say anything about Legs?”

“He isn’t with Shim?”

“Flax suggested he had him.”

Urban said, “I’ll wager Flax is with Shim.”

“Then let’s get to Shim’s army,” she said.

16

Upon the Lion

IT WAS WELL past dawn when the Long Stings steered their water craft made of hides and thick bundles of grass toward the south bank of the Lion. When they were close to the shore, Talen and the others jumped out into the cold water and helped haul the craft up onto the land. Not too far ahead, the powerful river thundered over The Gap, a wide falls that separated woodikin and human lands. A fine mist from the falls rose from the other side and wet the towering border obelisk that stood up the shore on one side of the falls.

The three Long Sting boatmen conversed with Chot. Then the conversation ended, and all three licked a finger with their tongue and held it up. Chot did the same. Then the three Long Stings walked up the slope and disappeared into the trees.

“Where are they going?” asked River.

“This is not their fight,” said Harnock.

“So we’re on foot then?” Talen asked.

Harnock said, “I think we’ll make faster time if we portage the craft around the falls and ride the Lion a bit longer while you survey the countryside. We don’t know where Shim’s army is and so don’t know where we’re going yet.”

Chot eyed the obelisk and falls, then pointed at River, Harnock, and Talen in turn. “You have agreed with the queen.”

“There will be many skinmen at war,” Harnock said. “There will be danger. You do not need to come. We have agreed with the queen. We will honor our agreement.”

“Ssa,” Chot said and waved Harnock off. “You die. And agreement is no good. We will keep the shallog and the female safe.”

“Good,” said Harnock. “You’ll also make it easier to portage this boat.”

Chot grunted at two of his warriors. One ran up the slope and disappeared down the trail ahead. The other turned to face their rear. Talen sent two roamlings out to do his own scouting from above.

“Everyone take a handle,” Harnock said.

Those who had woven the craft had also included a number of rope handles. Chot and the two remaining woodikin took those in the front. Talen and River took those at the back.

“You’re not going to help?” Talen asked.

“I’m watching the road,” Harnock replied. “Now lift.”

The small crew hefted the boat, then followed the well-worn trail that ran alongside the river. Clearly others had portaged water craft around this falls. About a hundred yards farther, the trail veered south over rocky ground, and another obelisk appeared in the distance to the south. They followed this new direction and soon came to a cairn as tall as a man that marked the border between human and woodikin lands. All of the woodikin spat as they passed it. From there, the trail continued maybe a quarter mile south of the falls, then descended a steep slope.

It was on the slope that they saw the smoke. It hung like a haze over the clan lands. It was being fed in part by a number of fat columns of dark smoke rising in the distance.

“They’ve begun burning the villages then,” Harnock said.

“What does that mean?” Talen asked.

“It means we’re late; the fighting has already started. It also might mean Shim and Argoth have already fallen.”

Talen wanted to get higher with his roamlings, but a cluster of large gray skir were on the mountainside, pecking at a slope of scree, twisting like snakes. Talen had no idea what they were doing—perhaps feeding? He didn’t know if they were dangerous, and he didn’t dare risk sending his roamlings higher to extend his view of the clan lands. So he descended the slope, hoping he’d be able to get a better view later. The troop found a trail at the bottom of the slope that was flat and relatively easy going. It didn’t take long before the odd company was slipping the woodikin boat back into the river below the falls.

The Lion moved quickly and broadened a couple of miles later when it was joined by another river from the north. Talen kept his roamlings above, watching for trouble. What he found were occasional groups of Fir-Noy fisherfolk. Each time, he gave their numbers and location, and Chot and the woodikin would duck down while Harnock would pull River’s cloak over his head. Of course, the craft was clearly of woodikin make, and the fisherfolk stared, for what would Koramites in a woodikin craft be doing here? The fifth time the woodikin and Harnock ducked, a trio of fishermen, probably drunk, shouted jests from shore. Talen and River waved and smiled. But the next set of fishermen weren’t so easygoing. They pointed openly at them and gestured with concern. Then Talen spotted two men rowing a boat across the river. The men tried to row close enough to get a good look at the woodikin craft and its occupants. Talen and River paddled to avoid them, but the men were quick and had better control of their craft and passed by only a dozen yards away. One of the men stood to get a good look.

They saw the woodikin. Their faces registered alarm, and they rowed hard for the far shore.

“Rot,” said River.

“What?” Harnock growled from underneath the cloak.

“We’ve got to get off this river,” Talen said. “The woodikin were spotted.”

“I was sick of hiding anyway,” Harnock said and pulled the cloak down.

The men in the rowboat were still close enough to see him clearly. The one facing backward and rowing exclaimed. The other turned, and his eyes went wide. Then he joined his companion, and the two of them began to row together, frantically pulling at their oars.

“Do we get off on the north or the south?” asked Harnock. “That is the question.”

“The fires are principally to the south,” Talen said.

“But where’s the army? That’s what we need to know. Where is Shim?”

Up ahead the river bent around a corner. Talen paddled to keep them in the middle of the stream. “I’ll go high this time,” he said and sent his roamlings up.

But as they turned the corner, he stopped, for two long skir raced up the river just above the face of the water. They were each about twenty feet long, and red with what looked like black spikes or thorns running the length of their backs. They were hissing, coming right at the woodikin craft. As they approached, one dove into the water. The other continued straight for the boat. Talen thought about bringing his roamlings back in, but the skir were moving too fast.

“Lords!” Talen exclaimed.

Then from the water a cluster of pale yellow skir burst into the air right in front of the boat. The red skir skimming the surface lunged, took one of the fat creatures right behind its head. A moment later the skir under the water burst to the surface and chased another of the yellow skir, both of them flying inches above Talen’s head.

“Goh,” he exclaimed.

“What is it?” River asked.

“Skir. They flew right over us.” Talen’s heart was banging in his chest. “This yellow world is going to be the death of me.”

“They don’t call it the perilous journey for nothing,” Harnock said. “But I still don’t have a landing site. North or south?” he demanded.

Talen watched the red and black skir, but climbed higher with his roamlings, climbed so high the boat below was nothing but a speck. He feared that some skir would attack him at any moment. He felt like some fat dove, racing through a sky filled with hungry falcons. But it was a spectacular view. He saw the land rolling out to the sea, saw the columns of smoke in more than a dozen places. He searched south and saw nothing. He glanced north. And there, upon Sooth’s Plain was the darkness of many men and horses. He looked down the coast and saw an even greater host following.

“I think I’ve found them,” he said.

“No thinking,” Harnock said. “We’ve got to know.”

Back upriver, the men on the row boat reached shore and began to shout an alarm.

Talen took his roamlings even higher. “I see ships following an army that marches along the coast. I see another army of men on horses a few miles in front of them. I see—”

What did he see ranging in front of and on the flank of the greater host? He sent his roamlings farther than they’d ever been. He felt exposed. Felt himself reaching a limit. The trailing host was too far away for him to make out the groups on its flanks, but then he saw one of those groups closer, only a few miles away. “They’re giants with bears,” he said. “No, dogs. I think they’re dogs.”

“Toth,” Harnock spat.

“That must be Mokad,” River said.

“Then the other army must be Shim,” Talen said.

“We land on the north shore,” Harnock replied.

“Hala,” Chot said.

“We’ll eat soon enough,” Harnock replied.

Talen directed them to a lonely stretch on the bank of the river where they landed the craft and pulled it well into the trees. He then directed them to their next meal.

River was the first to step out of the trees by the Fir-Noy fisherman and his two daughters. The little group stared at her. But when Harnock and the woodikin joined her, they ran. Harnock let them run, then divvied up their abandoned haul of fish and eel. Talen and the others gutted their portions and ate their fill raw.

Before they left, Chot removed the small wasp basket from his neck. He took a small glistening piece of fish and masticated it, then opened a side to the small basket and revealed a small wasp comb inside. He slipped the glistening glob of masticated fish inside, then closed the basket up again.

“What is he going to do with that?” Talen asked. “There can’t be more than a dozen or two wasps inside. Are those some kind of super killer wasps?”

Chot slit open a fish’s belly and grinned.

“He’s not a wasp lord,” Harnock said. “They’re not going to fly anywhere for him.”

Talen pointed at the basket and asked Chot, “Are those killers?”

Chot dipped his head to his fish’s belly and sucked up a string of orange fish eggs in reply.

“I think it’s how they find one another,” Harnock said. “It’s how they let someone know where they are.”

“They’re going to send a wasp back like some carrier pigeon?”

“No,” Harnock said.

Chot wiped his mouth. “The Shum knows his wasps.”

“Somehow,” Harnock said, “a wasp master knows where his wasps are. He can sense them.”

“It must be the thrall,” River said. “Argoth said that when he was enthralled, he could point to the Skir Master with his back turned. Perhaps it works the same for a thrall’s master.”

“So they’re tracking us.”

“You can look at it that way,” Harnock said.

Chot took a bite of fish and said, “Those skinmen will bring their brothers. They will want their fish. They will come here.”

“Talen,” Harnock said. “Are there any homesteads around with horses? I think we’ll cover more ground that way. We could run multiplied, but I have a feeling we’re going to need to conserve our strength.”

Talen reached up with his roamlings and surveyed the land about them. The thickets of trees along the river gave way to fields. It didn’t take him long to find a barn and horses.

“There are some close enough,” he said.

“Good,” Harnock replied. “Let’s go borrow them from our fine Fir-Noy neighbors.”

A few minutes later, the crew scrambled up the river bank and took a course that avoided the Fir-Noy fisherfolk who were racing down the road to most assuredly alert the countryside that woodikin had appeared at the river in the company of two Koramites and another creature from a nightmare.

17

Sooth’s Plain

ARGOTH SAT UPON his horse in the vanguard of Shim’s army riding north across the last few miles of Sooth’s Plain, the Lion River flowing far behind them. He grinned. Flax’s plan was working brilliantly.

Behind them, smoke from hundreds of large fires polluted the skies, turning the sun amber. All night long, hammers of Shim’s men had ridden about the countryside, setting Fir-Noy homes and granaries on fire. All night long, the many Shoka, Vargon, and Koramite villages, ordered to flee to the Black Wood, had been setting fire to every scrap of grain they could not take with them. A portion of Shim’s army had ridden with the villagers to provide escort. But Shim had led the bulk of his army precariously close to Mokad’s troops in an effort to tempt them. The whoresons had fallen for the ruse and given chase.

Mokad’s vast army now marched behind Shim’s much smaller army, all of them heading north, away from the clanspeople.

But there was more good news: not one kiteman flew in the sky. Not one dust devil from a skir wind had been seen. The Skir Master’s wounds had apparently been too grievous. This meant Mokad’s best weapon lay bloodied in some bed back in Blue Towers. It meant that Shim and Mokad were on even terms—dreadman against dreadmen, wit against wit, skill against skill. It meant they had a chance.

Next to Argoth rode Shim, Flax, and Matiga. Behind them stretched a column of a few hundred men on horses.

Flax sat atop his horse with a bag full of walnuts and dried currants. He plopped another handful in his mouth and said, “It appears we have a little black rain cloud headed our way.”

Argoth turned to see Eresh galloping up from behind on his piebald mount, his face as sour as vinegar. He pulled alongside the others, his horse heaving. He pointed at Matiga, then addressed Shim. “What is she doing here?” he demanded.

“I’m riding,” Matiga said. “Hence the horse.”

“You were to follow the women and children with your fell-maidens. Provide protection. That was the plan.”

“And that we did.”

Argoth said, “Mokad sent two companies of men after them. Matiga and her fist of fell-maidens diverted them quite nicely, letting the others escape.”

“We diverted more than that. We captured the attention of at least two cohorts, which are now behind us, eating our dust, not to mention a pack of dogmen they picked up along the way.”

Eresh shook his head. “Why would they divert so many to follow a mere fist? It does not smell right.”

“Maybe they have about as much sense in their skulls as you do,” Matiga said.

Eresh grunted. “I don’t like it. I don’t trust this.”

“Grandfather,” said Flax, stroking his long blond moustache, “you’re just angry you didn’t think up the plan before I did.”

Eresh glared at him.

“Oh, come,” said Flax, motioning at the heavens. “The sun’s in the sky. The weather’s mild. It’s a glorious day to march. We’ll be to the Chalk River bridge and across before Mokad can catch us. When we camp tonight in the Warrens, you and I can share a cup of ale.”

“That will be a sight to behold,” Shim said in his rough voice. “Master Kish, if this works, I expect you to dance a jig here for our friend in celebration.”

“Oh, I’d be happy to, as long as he lets me perform the dance on his head.”

Shim chuckled. Argoth smiled. They weren’t out of this yet, not by a long shot, but they were getting close. About three hours of good trotting lay between them and the Chalk River bridge. To the east, on Argoth’s right lay the bow of the Chalk River estuary. To his left, rose the southern-most end of the Coral Mountains with their orange and white hoodoos riddled with ancient stone-wight caves.

Less than an hour’s trot ahead, at the mouth of a long narrow valley, stood a stone-wight ruin that the early settlers had turned into a small fortress and refuge. The settlers had added a wall and battlements that enclosed two odd twisting towers the stone-wights had carved from the hoodoos themselves. The early settlers called it Fort Echo. But they did not use it long. People began disappearing in the caves at the back of the fort. Others had mad dreams. And all heard the whispering from the passages that led into the blackness under the mountain. They claimed the place was haunted with the famished spirits of the ancient inhabitants. The fort had stood abandoned for decades now, a habitation for snakes and owls.

Just beyond the fort lay the Echo River which ran out of the mouth of the canyon to the Chalk River estuary. There was a ford along the river about a quarter mile from the fort. Once Shim crossed that ford, it would be an easy ride to the bridge. An easy crossing. And then Shim’s army would destroy the bridge, and Mokad would be left on the other side. They would have to skirt miles and miles upriver to find another suitable crossing. And then they’d have to travel all those miles back downstream. Or maybe they would ferry across in boats, but it would take quite some time to ferry tens of thousands of men. By then Shim’s army would be divided up into small groups that would work their way through the maze of the Warrens. They would lead Mokad on a merry goose chase for a number of days, allowing the families of those who supported Shim to disappear into the southern wilderness.

There were just over 6,000 men in Shim’s small army, all of them mounted. Some were from the Shoka clan, some the Vargon, and others from the Burund. Three lords of the Mithrosh who did not hold with the Fir-Noy had brought a hundred and forty-two men. And then there was a large contingent of Koramites. The men wore a motley assortment of armor and helmets. The armsmen and dreadmen all wore mail over a padded coat. As for the rest, some had mail, some stiffened leather. A few of the Burundians sported a leather vest with metal plates sewn onto it. However, most of the soldiers had nothing but a padded jacket.

Shim had split the army into three columns of roughly 2,000 riders each. Each column was divided into cohorts, terrors, hammers, and fists with their respective leaders and banners. There were two main roads going north, one by the coast, and one farther inland. A number of smaller roads crossed between. The three columns all traveled different roads to keep the lines shorter, for 2,000 riders, even three abreast, easily stretched over a mile. But they also split to make sure Mokad didn’t come up on their flanks. Each column had a vanguard and a rearguard. And the commander of each column had sent scouts ranging even farther in front and behind.

Lord Hardy led the column traveling closer to the mountains. Lord Vance of the Burundians led the column traveling closer to the coast. And Shim led the one in the middle. The plain was dotted with copses and thickets, but the land was clear enough for Argoth to see the other columns with their bright banners when they crested a swell or the plume of their dust when they descended into a dip or passed behind trees.

Shim had demanded the army bring no wagons or carts. Such vehicles would only slow them down, so each man was to carry his own weapons, bedding, and three-day’s worth of food with him on his mount. He was also to carry his chief defense against skir—the critical spade or pick and the sturdy sacks to fill with earth.

The only exception to the ban on wagons was for the barrels of seafire. Those had been loaded on ten small carts along with the lances and other necessary gear.

As for the rest, there wasn’t enough room on the mounts for all the equipment such an army needed, and so another 1,700 horses and mules were brought to carry the excess: the tents and pegs; the medical supplies; the tools for clearing roads and setting camps and building fortifications like picks, axes, saws, spades, and rope; the tools and material to repair weapons and armor; the tools and material to maintain the tack for the horses; the horse shoes and nails; additional sacks to fill with earth or rock; and, of course, the great multitude of arrows—more than three hundred thousand—tied in bundles to the regular mounts and mounded up on the pack animals like small huts.

In front of Argoth, Eresh’s horse lifted its tail and deposited a succession of wet, green, and glistening road apples which Argoth’s horse then trod upon. Yet another load for those behind who rode upon a trail of manure dropped from the multitude of horses in front of them.

The breeze changed direction, blowing the dust from the column forward through the vanguard. A number of the men pulled scarves up over their mouth and nose to keep it from filling their lungs and coating their teeth. And so the columns rode, their banners flowing in the breeze and dust, their helmets, axes, spears, and armor glinting in the sun.

6,123 brave men.

296 had survived the forcing and been raised to become dreadmen. Another 350 had put on candidate weaves. Added to that was Matiga’s hammer of fell-maidens who still wore their candidate weaves. Had Shim been given until spring, the ranks of dreadmen would have swelled to thousands. Such a host would have been fearsome indeed. But they would have to make do with their 296.

And they would make do. Surely the Creators were on their side. Even though the combined might of Mokad, Nilliam, Urz, and Toth stood against them and far outnumbered Shim’s army.

* * *

Sugar hid with Urban and his men in a thicket on the back side of a rocky knoll and looked out at Sooth’s Plain. About her neck was her mother’s weave. Around her shoulder was the sling Withers had given her, carrying her skenning. Both of these had been in the red lacquered box. But her blackspine had been lost when she’d fallen into the river, and she hadn’t been able to get a new weapon because no sulfur springs had been anywhere close to their path.

“Are we ever going to get to their flank?” Sugar asked.

“It’s open land,” Urban said. “If we run for it, those hideous dogmen will see us long before we get anywhere near Shim.”

“Why is this army so spread out?”

“They’re sealing the retreat,” Soddam said.

“What do you mean?”

Urban said, “They don’t want Shim or any of his men to turn back and slip by them.”

Sugar said, “It seems to me they’d want to focus on catching up to them first.”

“Unless they’re pushing them north.”

“But why would they do that?” Sugar asked.

“That’s a good question,” Soddam said. “What lies north?”

“The Warrens, a lake, settlements. If Shim makes the warrens, they’re going to have a hard time prying him out.”

“Then maybe they don’t know about The Warrens?”

“Or maybe,” said Soddam, “they’re driving the deer into the spears of the hunters.”

“We’ve got to get to him,” Sugar said.

“We’d need wings to get past this army,” Urban said.

Soddam said, “Or maybe not.” He motioned down the hill.

A hammer of Fir-Noy soldiers had just turned the bend on the path at the base of the knoll. They escorted a wagon heaped with barrels and crates. There were eight of them. Two on the wagon. Four in front. Another two behind. One man carried his spear, but the rest had put most of their weapons as well as some armor in the wagon bed. They were clearly not expecting any action. They’d stuck a banner upright in a corner. It was orange and blue, marking them so outriders wouldn’t mistake them for enemy.

“Rot Mokad,” one of the Fir-Noy on the wagon said, his voice carrying up through the trees. “The Fir-Noy should be in the lead. We should be the ones either sticking that Shim or taking him for a pretty ransom. We’re the ones who have had to live with and smell the Shoka stink. We’re the ones he’s slaughtered.”

“You’re a pea brain,” another man said. “Be happy you’re not facing some sleth pig bent on sucking your face.”

“I’m not afraid of sleth,” the first man said.

One of the men behind the wagon spoke up. “That’s because his sister looks like one. He’s been snuggling next to abomination for years.”

A number of the other men hooted.

The first man took off his sword belt, walked back, and slammed it down in the wagon bed. “Right here, you rotted goat-shagger. Come stand here and say that!”

The man in back grinned and scampered around to the other side of the wagon. “We can’t help it that she’s ugly.”

The first man’s eyes went as round as eggs with anger, and he dashed for the other man.

“Stop it!” the fistman riding on the wagon seat called.

The man with the ugly sister ignored him and continued to chase the other around the other side of the wagon.

“Now!” the fistman commanded.

The man with the ugly sister stopped and growled.

“Regret’s eyes, Fin,” the leader said. “We’ll have our fill of killing. If not those in front of us, there are plenty of Shoka behind. Houses to loot. Women ripe for the taking. You think our orders were to stay behind with some barrels of beans? I’ve got bigger plans than that.”

Urban looked at Soddam, then Sugar. He whispered, “That banner ought to let us ride free and clear.”

“I say we go rescue some beans,” Soddam said.

“Yeah, beans,” Sugar said, bristling for all the women these men thought were ripe for the taking.

Urban signaled to his men.

The fist of Fir-Noy moved closer.

“You hang back a bit,” Urban whispered. “I need you watching the plain, making sure we’re not noticed.” Then he looked down his line and closed his fist. His men nodded. And almost as one, he and his men rose and rushed down the last part of the knoll and out of the thicket, weapons raised. They made no shout or cry.

The fist of Fir-Noy turned, but Urban’s bowmen began to release their arrows. The Fir-Noy with the ugly sister raced to the wagon to retrieve his sword, but fell with an arrow in his neck. Then Urban and his men were in among the Fir-Noy. It didn’t take long before the Fir-Noy all lay dead.

Sugar scanned the plain. The only threat she saw were two dogmen and their pack in the distance. She walked down to join Urban.

“We’re clear,” she said.

Behind her, Urban’s men dragged the bodies of the Fir-Noy into the trees and hastily covered them with leaves.

“It won’t fool anyone looking close,” Soddam said.

“But the bodies won’t be out for anyone to see at a distance. Someone will have to travel right over this ground, and even then we didn’t leave a lot of blood.”

Sugar climbed up on the wagon seat and looked north. “I think I see a gap,” she said. “I see a way through.”

“Well then, Captain Fir-Noy, please lead the way.”

18

Feeding the Wind

ARGOTH, SHIM, AND ERESH rode out of the column up to the top of a rise and looked back at Mokad’s army. Their divisions darkened the plain like ants, bristling with weapons, and banners. It was a horde. And if they caught Shim’s army, there would be no release.

A slight flutter of fear rose in Argoth’s breast, but he ignored it. At least that host did not have its Skir Master. He looked past the enemy to the south, hoping Mokad had turned all its attention here, and that Serah and the children were making their way south in safety. Gracious Six, let that be the case.

“Regret’s eyes,” Shim cursed. “Look at Hardy’s column!”

Closer to the base of the mountains, Lord Hardy’s column of Shoka and Vargon soldiers had indeed lagged behind Shim’s and the other taking the coast road.

“The lout probably stopped to eat lunch,” Shim said.

“He’s going to be lunch if he doesn’t get moving,” Eresh said.

Two packs of dogmen appeared on the plain only a few hundred yards behind the rearguard of Hardy’s column.

“The ugly whoresons,” Eresh said.

“Those packs have been getting just a little too bold,” Argoth said. “They’ve been roaming closer to all of the columns. I think it’s time we picked up the pace.”

“I think you’re right,” Shim said. He whistled down the hill to two of his captains. “Get them trotting,” he shouted. “And send a signal to Hardy. There’s to be no engagement with the enemy. None!”

The captains shouted orders. A horn blower blew out the notes ordering the column into a moderate trot. The signal was picked up by other horn blowers down the column. A rider lit out in a gallop to the flag men standing on a prominence to signal the orders to the other commanders.

“Now comes the chase,” Shim said.

Packs of dogmen appeared behind Shim’s column in the distance.

“Some scheme is afoot,” Eresh said.

A clamor arose up the road.

Argoth turned. A scout was galloping his horse at full speed, yelling for the column to make way. The men on the road moved their mounts off to the side to let him pass. Then the scout shouted something, and a number of the men pointed at the top of the hill.

The scout turned off the trail and rode his horse hard up the rise. The mare’s sides were heaving. Its hide glistened with sweat and lather. That animal had been riding hard for some distance. The scout didn’t look any better. His padded coat was torn, his arm bloodied.

“Lord Shim!” he called.

The scout’s name was Miles, but he’d been nicknamed Dirty Miles because he always came back from his rides looking like he hadn’t bathed for weeks.

Miles pulled his horse to a halt in front of Shim. “Lord!” he said. “There’s an army of men waiting on the other side of the ford.”

His horse jerked at the reins.

“I’d say it’s at least four thousand strong.”

An army?

A beat passed.

An army on the other side of the ford would be ruinous.

“Mokad or one of the clans?” Shim asked evenly.

“Every last one of the whoresons was wearing the white and red.”

The words struck Argoth like a hammer. The Echo was a fairly deep river. This was the closest ford across it. The others were well up Echo canyon. But the river made a big oxbow close to the mouth of the canyon, right up to a cliff face, cutting off anyone on the plains from reaching them from this side.

“They had hammers on this side of the river, looking for scouts. They got Jags and Piper. I barely escaped.”

“Composition,” Shim asked.

“There are a lot of bowmen among them. Ten banners at least. I counted two ballista. I’d say a thousand are pike sods. They’ve been waiting, Lord. Waiting a good long time.”

“Anything else?”

“No, Lord.”

“Well done, Miles. Go get a fresh horse.”

The man saluted Shim with a fist over his heart, then turned back down the hill.

“How wide’s that ford?” Eresh asked.

“We can go fifteen, maybe twenty men across,” Argoth said.

“Fifteen or twenty against four thousand?” said Eresh. “They’ll murder us in the water.”

“How is this possible?” Shim asked. “Why would they have sent four thousand men there?”

“Flax,” Eresh spat. “Where is that worm?”

Argoth looked back at Mokad’s army. “We’d have better odds focusing our might and punching through the line behind us. If we try to ford that river, the army on the other side will bottle us up. We’ll still be trying to cross when all of Mokad marches up behind us.”

“Or,” Shim said, looking at the mountains, “we circle around through the Corals.”

“Those are narrow roads. We’ll be stretched out for miles.”

“Better than turning south. Better than that rotted ford.”

“Gah,” Eresh said. “Argoth, you whoreson. I thought you said you mortally wounded that Skir Master.”

“I buried my knife to its hilt in his gut,” Argoth said.

“Then explain that,” Eresh said and pointed to the sky behind them.

Argoth turned. Rising from the plains in the distance were three kitemen.

Shim said, “Maybe they’re using the wind from a minor skir, controlled by a lesser Skir Master.”

But then, out on the plains, a line of dust kicked up and began to swirl, flattening the grass and whipping a cluster of trees violently, kicking up dust and debris. Then the wind grew wider.

“That’s more than a random breeze,” Eresh said.

Another wind kicked up closer to Hardy’s column.

Four men in a wagon carrying a small catapult, bounced out close to the wind. The wagon stopped. Two men in back pulled back the arm almost to the ground. The two men on the driver’s seat opened a barrel and dumped its contents into the basket and stood back. A lever was pulled. The arm flew up, but not to toss something at Hardy’s column. It flew up to toss the contents of the basket into the wind. A mass of small dark things flew into the air, and then the wind caught the objects, jerked them up and around to join the swirling dust and debris.

“They’re feeding it,” Eresh said.

This was one of the ways a Skir Master armed a wind. The objects in the basket could be stones or thin scraps of metal. Sometimes they fed such winds sand to blind the enemy.

The men pulled back the catapult again and dumped in another barrel. This time the contents flashed in the light as they flew into the air.

“Glass,” Shim said.

The riders in Shim’s column had turned in their saddles. A murmur of exclamations ran down the line.

A similar wagon raced to the whirling dust forming behind Shim’s column.

If the winds caught them out on these plains, they’d cut the horses and men who were exposed to ribbons. They’d put the whole column in disarray, sending the men to find cover anywhere they could. And while the wind pinned the army down, Mokad would approach and surround them.

“Fort Echo,” Argoth said. “They fix us in place out here, and we’re done for. Behind those walls, maybe we can trench.”

“And what?” Eresh demanded. “They’ll surround us just the same. I say we charge now before those winds reach full force, get inside their reach, so that any wind they bring rips their own men as well as ours.”

“That’s exactly what they want us to do,” Shim said. “But we’re too far away for it to work. They’ll see us and move back, and the winds will catch us just the same. We’re not going to succeed in any charge we make at this distance.”

“There is supposed to be a path leading from Fort Echo into the cliffs,” Argoth said. “Then back into the Corals. And there are caves. If we can hold out until nightfall, we might be able to save some of this army.”

The wind behind Shim’s column grew in force. Another wind kicked up behind the third column. “Gods,” Shim said.

“Let’s get to the fort,” Argoth urged.

Shim’s face turned to thunder. He shouted to his captains. “Quick gawking, you whoresons. Get the men in order. We’re riding for Echo! Now!”

Across the gently swelling and dipping plain stood Fort Echo at the bottom of a range of cliffs and hoodoos. Shim wheeled his horse, called for his standard bearer. The rider galloped up the rise, Shim’s banner of the brass sun shining in a field of blue snapping high above his head. The riders behind him turned off the road and followed him like a great snake.

“Ride!” Shim shouted. “Ride!” Then he put his heels into his mount. Argoth and Eresh did the same. The column’s horn blowers blared for the riders to shift direction. A messenger galloped down the column, shouting for the men to follow Shim to the fort. Another struck out for Hardy’s column. A third for Lord Vance.

More riders began turning off the road to cross directly over the plain. Argoth’s horse picked up speed, along with hundreds of others down the line. The thudding of their hooves sounded like a low rolling thunder. He looked for Flax, but did not see him. When Eresh had become too bellicose, Shim had sent Flax forward to separate the men. He hadn’t come back. Argoth did not see Matiga either.

Shim, Argoth, and Eresh galloped down a slight dip and up a gentle swell.

“If we hold, they’ll bring that Skir Master up,” Eresh shouted. “We need a hammer of good men to conceal themselves.”

“The dogs will sniff them out,” Shim shouted.

But Argoth’s mind went to the river. “There’s a stretch along the bank of the river that’s nothing but sheer rock. It’s downriver from the old docks. There’s a line of shallow caves where the old settlers used to stow goods they were sending downriver.”

Shim thought about it. A few gallops later, he said to Argoth, “Send Varro.”

Varro was a long-time dreadman of the Shoka clan. He’d almost died earlier this year at the hands of the Bone Faces when his weave had failed. Now he commanded a terror of men. Argoth peeled away from Shim and Eresh and raced down the line of riders charging across the plain until he saw the banner for Varro’s terror. It was a white horse on a field of black.

He gave Varro the charge, told him what to look for. Told him to flee north across the river when the deed was done and wait for them in the Warrens. And if someone from Shim’s army didn’t show in three days, to go north and get a ship from the clans there. Varro saluted with a fist to his breast, but his eyes revealed that he knew this was a suicide mission.

Varro took a hammer of his men, dropped behind the line galloping across the plain, and raced toward the river.

Argoth rode forward with the rest of Varro’s men. He was close enough to see the hundreds of riders that made up the end of the column charging across the plain, their banners snapping. Beyond them the dust of the building whirlwind twisted up into the sky.

* * *

Talen rode his stolen gray horse down a trail that was lined with wild plums. River was in front of him on a large bay. Chot and his five warriors were bunched up on two fetlocked plow horses. Harnock brought up the rear on a fine big stallion. They’d been trotting for an hour now at a quick pace.

River clip-clopped around a bend in the trail and pulled her horse up short. Talen followed her around and saw a cluster of Fir-Noy youths, maybe around twelve years old, sitting on their own horses in the middle of the road.

There were boys and girls in the group. One of the boy’s eyes went wide. He made some exclamation, and the others turned.

Talen immediately looped the reins around his pommel, grabbed his bow from its sheath and nocked an arrow.

Two of the woodikin hooted.

The children had some bows and one old spear among them, but they didn’t move. They just sat there in shock and fear.

River didn’t halt. “Out of the way!” she shouted and tapped her bay with her heels. The horse picked up its pace to a canter. Talen followed her lead. The draught horses picked up their pace as well, and soon the whole procession was thudding forward in a gallop.

The children, seeing the charging horses, started kicking their mounts, pulling them off the road in a panic, opening the way through.

A moment later River, Talen, the woodikin, and Harnock thundered by.

The children stared wide-eyed at the odd company as it passed. They’d probably been on their way to see if they could watch the army from a safe distance, hoping they’d have the luck to see a battle.

Talen looked back. The children were still dealing with the shock of what they’d just seen. If their curiosity got the better of them, they’d wait, and then try to follow. If their fear or brains took hold, they’d send out a rider to alert someone.

“Was that wise to just ride on by?” Talen shouted up to River.

“Did you want to kill them?”

“They might raise the alarm.”

“We’ll deal with alarms later,” Harnock said from behind. “What I want to know is why you didn’t warn us about them.”

“I didn’t see them,” Talen said. “I was watching the trail farther ahead. I can’t look everywhere at once.”

“How far away are we?” River asked.

Talen had been keeping his roamlings low, behind the hills, for he’d seen many of the orange skir out by the armies. He sent his roamlings up over the hill in front of them. The plain spread out before him all the way to the sea.

“By the Six!” he said.

“What?” asked River.

“There are three blue skir. Lords, they’re huge. Mountains!”

“How far away,” Harnock prompted him again.

“Ten miles, maybe more.”

“What’s happening with the armies?” Harnock asked.

Talen looked over the plain. The sky in the yellow world was filled with a great number of orange skir, but Talen risked sending his roamlings higher. He saw the vast Mokaddian army. He saw Shim’s smaller army ahead.

“They’re running,” he said. “Shim’s horsemen are fleeing.”

“A hammer of them?” Harnock demanded. “A fist? How many?”

“The whole army.”

“Regret’s eyes,” Harnock said. “Let’s move.”

The trail they were following turned and climbed to a saddle between two hills. They galloped up the slope to the crest, and stared at the plain below them.

Out on the plains, three huge winds whirled enormous columns of dust and debris.

“Those will be the death of them,” Harnock said. “What was Shim thinking?”

“We’re at least an hour away,” River said. “We’re not going to make it.”

Harnock said, “How far can you reach with those roamlings?”

“I don’t know,” Talen said. “But I don’t want to test it here. The sky is full of those orange skir.”

“If you don’t deal with those blue beasts, I don’t think there’s going to be any of Shim’s army to help when we finally arrive. We might as well turn around now.”

“I don’t know where the Skir Master is,” Talen said.

“Probably on one of those ships,” Harnock said and pointed.

Talen looked out at the coast, but couldn’t see clearly enough with the eyes of his flesh. So he looked with the eyes of his soul. A small fleet of ships sat off the coast. Odd, smaller skir circled around them. They were waiting at the mouth of a river that ran down from a canyon.

Talen said, “If Nashrud had a blade, the Skir Master is going to have far more. I bet he has guards or some awful servants in the world of soul.”

“You don’t need to ravel him,” Harnock said. “Leave him alone. Ravel the thralls in those urgom.”

Talen gazed at the urgom in the distance. They were so large. His roamlings would be like specks against them. What if the Skir Master turned them against him? How could he do anything against such might?

A murder of orange skir fluted and raced overhead.

“We need to get closer,” he said. “We need to get a lot closer.”

19

Fort Echo

ARGTOH RACED WITH the remainder of Varro’s terror across the dry grass of the autumn plain. Thickets and copses forced the six thousand riders into the channels of open ground between the trees, and the riders flowed like water, thousands of hooves thundering, churning up the earth below them. Behind, the whirlwinds approached.

Ahead of Argoth, the leading groups of Shim’s column broke onto the open ground before the fort. The red stone fort stood at the crest of a gentle swell a few hundred yards away. Behind it rose the orange and red cliffs of the Corals.

Argoth and Varro’s terror shot past the last of the trees and joined the hundreds of riders galloping for the protection of the twelve-foot walls. Lord Hardy’s riders, their many banners flapping in the wind, raced along the foot of the mountains to join them. As Argoth rode up the swell, he glanced back. Lord Vance’s riders, having been the longest distance from the mountains, were still out on the plain.

The old rock fortress backed up onto a sheer slope of rock and hoodoos. There were entrances to caves and chambers carved into the rock back there. But that wasn’t the only unique feature of the fort. The stone-wights had turned two of the hoodoos into towers, and the old settlers had built the walls to incorporate them into the design. One of these was about thirty feet tall. The other was almost twice that height. Running up the sides of these towers were black window-like openings.

It was obvious the fort had not been used for some time, for scrub had grown up in places in the ditch that ran around the fort walls. It was also clear that the fort was too small to contain all the horses and men in this army. They were going to have to turn thousands of the animals out. Even if they could fit, it would not do to have thousands of horses in the fort, for when the Skir Master sent the winds, the horses would only panic and trample the men.

Shim must have seen that as well because he turned his cohort aside and ordered them to dismount on the field in front of the fort. When Argoth rode up, Shim shouted for him to get inside and figure out how to make a defense.

Argoth turned and galloped for the gates with Varro’s terror behind him. Ahead a thin animal trail led through the grass to the weathered wooden gates that stood partially open. As the riders thundered toward the gates, a herd of deer, clearly alarmed by the sound of so many men and horses, shot out of the fort, but then they saw the riders and panicked. Two fled away from the fort. The others turned and ran back in. If Shim’s men survived the day, those deer would be a welcome addition to their supply of food.

Argoth passed by the red stone walls. The old settlers had built them thick, and they looked solid enough, even if there was sign of weathering on the mortar, but twelve feet of height, while better than nothing, was not much protection against an army of dreadmen with ladders. It was nothing to the wind.

Argoth rode up to the gate, then reined in his horse, and leapt off to push the gate open wider, but the big hinges on both sides were rusted. He ordered two fists of men to get the gates working, then led his horse into the wide fort. There wasn’t much here.

When the settlers had abandoned it, they’d taken all the timber with them to build other structures. In fact, along one section, it seemed some enterprising local had come to take away some of the stones of the wall as well. Inside the walls, there was nothing left but flat ground, some of it rocky, some of it growing grass or the occasional twiggy scrub. Around the edges lay the stone foundations of where a stable and other structures had been built up snug against the walls.

Argoth ordered a fist of men to find out how much room was in the caves and chambers at the back. He ordered another to find the supposed pathway that led up the mountain. He ordered a third to find out if the towers were stable enough to hide in. He ordered the rest of the terror and others coming through the gates to start trenching.

At the back of the fort, the deer disappeared into the caves.

The one defense against the wind was to go to ground. If a man didn’t have a hole to hide in, he dug one. If he could, he dug a trench and filled sacks with soil, then pulled those sacks over himself. One of the best defenses against the wind was to cover yourself with the safety of earth.

The men quickly spread out, marked trench lines, and began to frantically dig with their picks and spades.

Eresh rode through the gates and dismounted.

Argoth ran to a stair and climbed up to the battlement to get a better view and see how much time they had. Eresh was not far behind him.

Below, the men working on the old gates gave a cheer as they succeeded in breaking the rust on one set of hinges with some lamp oil and a horse to help pull. But they’d freed only one of the doors. A fist of men hacked at a shrub that was in the way of the other door. The mule-drawn carts loaded with the seafire raced up the rise to the fort, bouncing and jostling, and were directed inside. In front of the fort, Lord Shim directed the rest of his two thousand riders who were unloading their gear, racing to the fort, or driving horses past the fort toward the canyon. At the bottom of the swell of open ground, the first of Lord Hardy’s riders broke past the trees.

Argoth expected the whirlwinds would be right at Hardy’s heels, but they weren’t. They were still out on the plain. And then he saw what the Skir Master was doing. The two funnels of twisting dust and debris fed with missiles of stone and glass sped to block the path of Lord Vance.

Eresh raced up the steps to join Argoth and saw what was happening out on the plains as well. “Those poor sods,” he said.

“They’re not down yet,” Argoth said.

Vance’s riders were galloping full out. Two thousand men bent low over their horses as the animals stretched out. Two thousand men weaving through the copses, rushing like a river of man and mount. But the sheer number of them meant that some riders were shunted off to the side when they had to bypass obstacles. Argoth watched one horse slam into another, sending a man and his mount to the ground.

“They’re not going to make it,” Eresh said.

“Come on,” Argoth called. “Ride!”

The thick whirlwinds cut across the plain, whipping trees, breaking branches and carrying them up into the maelstrom.

“Gods, Vance! Ride!” Argoth said.

The first few hundred riders raced past a thicket, clearly beyond the path of the winds. More followed on the other side. Still more broke through farther down. The riders poured through the channels of open ground, and for a moment Argoth thought they would make it. But one of the whirlwinds suddenly changed direction and speed, and Argoth watched in horror as the whirl of dust and debris rolled over the column and swallowed up the back third of Vance’s men.

Those in front continued to race forward. A few cohorts of those right behind them came bursting out of the cloud of dust. But the thick stampede of riders escaping the swirling dust turned into a trickle, then stopped altogether. Horses screamed. Men shouted. A number of helmets and shields whirled up in the twisting winds.

A beat passed, then a handful of panicked horses came running out the winds. And then nothing.

The winds blew. The branches of the trees whipped and broke.

“Dear Six,” Argoth said. Hundreds of men were trapped in there.

If he’d only killed that Skir Master. If he’d just tried a bit harder to shove that knife farther up his rotted rib cage. What had he been—inches from the Skir Master’s lung or heart?

“Look,” Eresh said and pointed to a gap between the trees. A terror of men came stumbling out of the rolling dust, scarves tied around their faces, holding hands like children. They were limping and injured. A cheer rose up from a number of men by the fort who had dismounted and were watching the spectacle.

But almost as soon as the men stumbled out of the dust, four packs of dogmen came loping up over a rise. They saw the men. The maulers let out terrible howls. Some of the men heard them over the wind; others didn’t. There was confusion. Half the men began to run. Others formed up to meet the attack. But most were without shields, many without weapons. There were maybe sixty, seventy men out there. The maulers and the dogmen plowed into them with axe and tooth. Vance’s men tried to stand. But the dogmen and their horrid beasts ravaged the men in front and broke the ranks. A few of Vance’s men stood their ground, but most turned to flee.

“Eagles!” a terrorman in front of the fort shouted, calling his riders. His men started to mount their horses to go help the men on the plain, but Shim’s hornsman blew a note that reverberated off the cliff walls. The men stopped.

“Into the fort!” Shim bellowed. “All of you! You cannot fight the wind!”

Out on the plain, the maulers and dogmen fell upon more of the fleeing men.

“Do not waste yourselves!” Shim shouted. “Into the fort!”

The men hesitated, but it was clear those on the plain were doomed. The men dismounted again, their faces full of dismay and horror. Down on the plain, the maulers and dogmen chased after the last of the fleeing men.

Argoth watched the monstrous dogs take the men down and clenched his jaw. He hated Mokad.

Matiga and her fell-maidens galloped onto the field and were directed into the fort. Shim sent in a few other mounted riders to join them, probably so that if the army escaped, they’d have outriders. Then Flax and the terror of men he commanded rode up and dismounted.

Shim tried to keep the dismounting riders and the drovers, who were moving the horses away, working in an orderly manner, but it was still chaos. Moments later Lord Vance and his cohorts that had escaped the winds raced up the swell.

Shim’s men poured through the gates and were directed to a place to dig. Hardy’s and Vance’s men joined them. Then Lord Shim and those with him brought up the rear. When he rode through, he ordered the gates closed and barred, then joined Argoth and Eresh on the walls.

Inside the fort, the men frantically dug their lines, picks striking, spades shoveling the dirt into sacks. Outside, the drovers harried the multitude of horses up the canyon and away from the fort. They wouldn’t go far, for the river swung in a great oxbow up against the southern wall of the canyon, but at least the animals would be out of the way.

Shim could have tried to cross the river at the oxbow and escape up the canyon, letting the horses swim with the riders holding on to their saddles, but the river was turbulent there. Furthermore, Mokad’s army on the other side would have simply moved from the ford and waited for them to swim across. The slaughter would probably have been greater than at the ford.

Argoth turned back to the winds to gauge how quickly they were approaching and found they hadn’t moved really much at all.

“Why not take us now?” Shim asked. “Why are they giving us time to trench?”

“You’ve defied Mokad,” Eresh said. “You’ve committed treason on a grand scale. And now that they’ve got you corralled, they’re going to take their own sweet time. You can be sure those whoresons commanding Mokad’s army are laughing at us. We’re in here like pigs waiting for the slaughter.”

It would not do to have the men hear such comments. “Keep your voice down,” Argoth said.

Flax made his way across the courtyard and climbed the stairs to join them. Eresh gave him a baleful glare.

Shim said, “We are not pigs, Master Kish. We are slaves that have broken free. Slaves that are standing at last in the sun. This isn’t over. All we need to do is break through into the mountains behind us.”

Flax smiled. “There’s your salvation, grandfather. You give up too easily.”

“You,” Eresh said. “You’re the one that got us into this mess.”

“I’m the one—” Flax began, but Shim cut him off.

“Flax does not command this army, Master Kish. I do. His plan was solid. How Mokad found out about it, I do not know. But that is not his fault. Battle never goes according to plan. The key is to deal with the surprises with wisdom and cool heads.”

Eresh gave Flax another withering glare, then sighed heavily and turned to look at the cliff at the back of the fort. At the bottom of the sheer rock were three archways. Spread above them on the face were a scattering of small black openings, windows of sorts. “I’m not seeing a path. What I see is a wall of rock.”

“The stone-wights were tunnelers,” Shim said. “The path is surely back there.”

In front of the archways, a group of men rigged a rope and bucket to draw water from a well. Inside the main archways, the deer that had been trapped in the fort could just be seen, huddling in the corner of the main chamber.

A soldier with the helm feathers and discs of a fistman sprinted past the deer and out of the archway into the fort. He was the leader of those sent to find the path.

“We’ll have our answer soon enough,” said Argoth. “Here comes our report.”

The man spotted Argoth and the others, then ran toward their position, dodging past the lines of trenching soldiers. He dashed up the stairs to the battlements.

“Well?” Argoth asked.

The soldier removed his helmet. “There are a lot of rooms that will protect the men from the wind.”

“And the path?”

“We think we found it,” the soldier said. “But it’s blocked.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are at least three levels of chambers that have been carved into the cliff. You can see the windows.” He pointed at the dark openings dotting the rock of the cliff face, then pointed to one side. “Do you see that cleft in the rock there? That big crack?”

Argoth looked where he was pointing. There was a narrow fissure running up the red rock of the cliff face for a couple hundred feet.

“We think that’s it. On the top floor—well, there might be other levels, but its highest level we’ve found so far—up there, the main passageway runs right to that fissure. You can see holes in the rock where the hinges of a door would have been. It opens up onto a narrow path that leads back away from the cliff face. That fissure is very narrow on the cliff face, but opens up inside the cliff. It’s a narrow slotted path, maybe a dozen feet across, with the rock rising hundreds of feet on either side. We followed the path to a stone stair, but there’s been some sort of rock slide, and a number of boulders block the way.”

“Can you clear them?” Shim asked.

“It’s tons of rock, Lord. We’re working on it.”

“What about climbing over the plug of stones?” Eresh asked.

“Two of my men are trying to figure that out.”

Shim said, “Go to Lord Burdock. Tell him I need a hammer of his quarry men. If anyone can figure it out, it will be those rotted Burundians from the hills.”

“Yes, Lord.”

“How much space is in those rooms?”

“Just inside the arches is a wide chamber. From there a passageway runs parallel to the face of the cliff. On one side of the main passage runs a series of rooms next to the cliff face. Those are the ones with the windows you can see from here. On the other side of the passage are more rooms. Then there are a couple of passageways that lead directly into the mountain. They aren’t long. We’ve counted about eighty rooms of various capacities. Some are the size of closets. But many would hold twenty men if they were all standing at attention.”

That meant if they packed them in there, the cliff would hold maybe 1,600 to 2,000 men. That left close to 3,000 out here.

“That’s everything?” asked Shim.

“In the main chamber there’s a large passageway going straight into the mountain. The arch to it is carved with all sorts of symbols. But that passageway has been caved in with I don’t know how many tons of rock.”

“That’s the way that leads into the depths,” Argoth said. “It must be the passageway the old settlers shut off.”

The soldier said, “Lord. The men are a bit leery of staying in those rooms.”

“If there are any Famished back there,” Argoth said, “they’re locked in behind the stone of that passageway into the mountain. You tell the men that. Souls have many abilities, but they can’t travel through stone.”

“There are still a couple of narrow passages we haven’t explored. Small stairs. Odd rooms. They could lead anywhere.”

“Don’t worry about those passages,” Shim said. “You get the path into the mountains cleared. That is your one task. Now go!”

The soldier brought his fist to his chest, bowed, then turned and hurried off the battlements and back to the cliff wall.

Argoth said, “All we have to do is hold out until they get that pathway cleared.”

“Mokad will simply follow us,” Eresh said.

“Aye,” said Shim, “but if they come after us, they’ll all be squeezed into a great line so that we only have to face a handful of them at once. I’ll take those odds.”

“We might not even have to take those odds,” said Argoth. “If those Burundian quarry men can clear a rock slide, they can engineer another to take its place. We’ll get our men through and leave Mokad on this side.”

Except Mokad would have its kitemen in the sky, directing the army, maybe finding another way up. And there would be the skir. But they could split up once they were in the mountains. Three skir wouldn’t be able to follow every group of men.

“It’s a clever escape,” Flax said.

“What would be more clever,” said Eresh, “is if we could leave you here to watch our backs. What does the mighty Handsman say? How about you stay behind?”

“If that’s where I’m needed,” Flax said, “that’s where I’ll stand.”

Eresh humpfed, but what reply could he give to such a noble response?

Shim said to Flax, “You see to your terror. Get those trenches dug. There will be no clever plan if we don’t survive the wind attack.”

Flax nodded, saluted Eresh with a grin and a fist to his chest, then made his way off the wall.

Down in front of the gates, the drovers returned from pushing the horses. The men at the gate opened and let them in. Back in the fort, the men deepened their trenches. Other men explored the two hoodoos that had been turned into towers. About halfway up the tallest one, a section of the outside wall had given way and taken a long part of the stone stairs there with it, making the upper portion unreachable without some construction.

Shim sent a command for Hardy to guard the east wall. He sent another to tell Vance to man the west. Shim would take the north, the front of the fort. A soldier came and reported on the shorter hoodoo tower. It held half a dozen smaller chambers. He estimated that if they filled them and the stairs, the tower could hold two hundred men.

It was still nowhere near enough if Mokad came with the winds. And Argoth wouldn’t want them packed in there anyway. Because when the winds stopped, the swords and spears of Mokad would be right at their doors. Shim’s men couldn’t be stacked up when that moment came. They had to be ready to maneuver and fight.

“Where are we going to put the seafire?” Shim asked.

“The gates,” Eresh said.

“And on this front wall,” Argoth added.

“The firelance teams will need to have their materials all ready at the base of the walls,” said Shim. “If they stay up here, the winds will sweep them off the battlements.”

Argoth and Eresh agreed, and Shim sent more messengers to the captain of the firelance teams.

Argoth looked for Matiga. He spotted her and her fist of fell-maidens toward the back, leading their horses through the arches. He’d told her that she needed to keep herself safe. Should anything happen to him, she needed to bear the grove off. They’d originally planned for her to accompany the forces traveling with the clanspeople racing south. But she and her maidens had been forced to act as decoys to draw Mokad’s forces away from the wives and mothers and children of the men here. When they’d been marching out on the plain, he hadn’t thought too much of the risk. But now Mokad had everyone all crammed up together; it was a huge risk. The only members of the grove not trapped were River and Talen and Harnock. But who knew if they were even alive?

Out on the plains the winds churned, blocking any hope of escape.

* * *

Berosus walked off the parapet and weaved through lines of men hefting picks and spades, digging, in all actuality, their own graves. It was a well-ordered army, especially considering that most of these soldiers were not armsmen, but farmers, quarrymen, shepherds, wainwrights, and the like. A few of them hailed him as he passed. He gave them a smile and a nod and continued back to his men. He’d enthralled one of the senior members, one many of the others looked up to. Not with a major thrall, but with a minor one. Just enough to tip him his way.

Shaymash the Skir Master had almost died. He wasn’t very strong now, but he was full of wrath. And he wanted vengeance. And Berosus had promised he’d give it to him.

Now that Shim’s army was corralled, the rest was really straight forward.

At the appropriate time, he’d go back up on that wall. He figured it would be easy enough to knife Shim, then incapacitate Argoth. He could do that before the Kish knew what was going on. And then it would be time to face Grandfather. It was a fight he was looking forward to, for the man had both power and skill. If it lasted more than a few moments, others might join in the fray. But they would go down. And when he’d finished that, there wouldn’t be anything left for Berosus to do. He’d feed Argoth to Shaymash’s wind, and then he’d send in the troops, and let the harvest begin.

He looked up at the glorious blue sky and the red rock about him. He felt out to the bay and then across the waves to the Sublime that ruled him. He could barely feel her.

It is all in hand, he thought back to her through his bond. This land is full, and I will return with a rich prize.

Then he called over the man he had enthralled. The man they called Black Knee. He motioned to the two men next to him. “You might want to go up to the top level of those chambers. There’s a pathway into the cliff. You should go see what the men there are doing.”

Black Knee said, “You don’t need us here?”

“You’ve heard the tales of the Famished that were sealed in the tunnels.” Berosus pitched his voice low so that the three had to lean in. “What if the men back there accidentally let them out with their prying and digging? Somebody’s got to be on the watch. Somebody good with a sword.”

Black Knees eyes narrowed. “I see,” he said.

“Somebody must be ready,” Berosus said, “should one of them fall prey and become possessed.”

Black Knee nodded.

“How’s that leg?” Berosus asked.

Black Knee put his weight on it. “Six be praised, it’s a wonder what you did.”

Berosus nodded. “That cost some pretty Fire. Now go put it to good use.”

“Aye,” Black Knee said. Then he motioned with his head at the other two, and the three of them headed for the caves. They were all strong men. Experienced men. Armed with axes and swords.

20

Outriders

ARGOTH WAS DOWN by the gate, using a pick to outline where a ditch should be dug. This ditch would be for more than cover from the wind. Because after the winds, Mokad’s army would come. And if they broke the gate, then a four-foot deep ditch inside would provide an obstacle for the soldiers that would pour through. It wouldn’t stop them, but it would put them at a disadvantage. And if a stout terror of men defended the fort on the other side, it would bottle the rest of Mokad’s army up, giving the men on the walls with missiles and seafire good targets.

Argoth finished the outline and stood back. “There,” he said. “Get to it. Quickly now.”

A fist of Shoka from the south coast moved forward.

Then one of the lookouts that had climbed to the top of the shorter hoodoo shouted. “Ho!” he called and pointed out on the plain. “It’s Branby’s men! Southeast!”

Argoth handed the pick to the soldier he’d borrowed it from and sprinted back to the stairs and up to the wall. He scanned the plain, then saw them, saw the shield on one of the soldier’s backs revealing the Vargon colors of purple and red. Branby’s hammer was one of those posted as outriders to watch Mokad’s army and skirmish with them if they must.

The riders shot between the whirlwinds, their horses stretched out. Behind them raced a large pack of dogmen.

The riders galloped past the area where the other dogmen and maulers were mutilating and feeding on the corpses of Vance’s men. The brutes looked up as Branby’s men rushed past, and then they howled and left the dead and dying to join in the chase.

“Signal the bowmen!” Shim shouted.

His hornsman blew the cadence that signaled the troops to ready a defense and pay attention. Shim gave more orders, and the hornsmen blew, ordering cohorts of bowmen to the walls. The cohorts called to defense dropped their picks, spades, and sacks, and picked up their bows and arrows, and ran to the battlements.

Out on the plain, the mauler’s barks changed to the bay of hounds that have sighted quarry. Branby’s outriders raced behind a copse of trees, then rode into view again. There were eleven of them galloping full out, the necks of their horses outstretched, the riders low on their backs. Hard on their heels ran the packs of maulers and six of the giant dogmen.

The riders broke out onto the bottom of the long gentle swell that led to the fort. The horses were tired; they were giving it all they had, but it wasn’t enough. Some of the dogs in the packs behind, while huge, were more narrow, bred for speed. A few of these began to close on the lagging rider.

The rider glanced back, saw them, drew a javelin, but before he could throw it, a dog lunged for his mount’s hind leg. The massive dog bit in.

The horse twisted and lost its balance. Hound and horse tumbled violently in a cloud of dust, sending the rider flying.

Branby’s man thudded into the ground, tumbled, then scrambled a bit unsteadily to his feet. More of the dogs caught up. Another mauler sprang upon him and bit down on his head and shook him like a rag doll. Two more dogs fell upon the screaming horse. Yet another mauler bit into the man’s arm and wrenched it completely off. The dogman running with them leapt over the mayhem and sprinted for the next rider.

“Sweet Creators,” a soldier down the line from Argoth said.

“Bowmen!” Shim shouted.

Along the parapets more than a thousand men nocked arrows.

Out on the field, another horse and rider went down.

The riders were about 300 yards out. Most common bows started losing their effectiveness when the target was more than 200 yards away. But a dreadman’s bow extended that range to 300 yards. And that wasn’t with the light pine arrows that were used for distance competitions, but the heavy arrows that had power to smite men in armor. Still, there was armor that could defeat arrows at that range. And so it was best to wait until the targets were close and the archer could focus the full fury of the bow upon them.

The maulers were broad and big enough to look a man almost in the chest. A few running at the back wore mail on their backs, a spiked collar at their throats, and a sort of plate armor that covered their muzzles and heads. The runners in the front wore leather. They were stretched out, galloping after their prey, their vicious mouths hanging open.

The six dogmen themselves must have been multiplied for the dogs did not outdistance them. They were massive men, taking huge strides, their black hair streaming from underneath their helmets.

The riders blew past the 200 yard mark, the dogmen gaining on them. Shim waited.

Out on the field a rider turned in his saddle, nocked an arrow, drew, and released. The arrow sank into the leather of a mauler, but seemed to have no effect. The riders galloped another fifty yards, but the horses were flagging, and the hounds closed the distance to the lagging riders. A horse stumbled, then regained its footing. The dogman behind caught up. He grabbed the rider by his neck, dragged him off the saddle, and threw him to the ground for the dog behind him, which immediately set upon the man.

“On my command!” Shim shouted.

The hornsman blew a note.

Shim waited. Ten yards, twenty, thirty more yards. The horses and riders saw the open gate and put on a small burst of speed.

“Now!” Shim shouted. The command echoed through the fort.

A thousand bows hummed. The arrows rose up in a great hiss, flying on a trajectory that would take them to what Argoth guessed would be the 140 yard mark. It was a good distance, but still not within the murderous range that would reliably penetrate the dogman’s thick armor. The bows continued to hum, the archers leading their targets, sending forth a continuous hail of arrows.

Argoth knew why Shim had waited until the last moment. Not only did he want them close, but he wanted to shoot them as they chased and as they fled.

The horses, spent from their long run, began to flag again, their eyes wide with fear. The men on them turned in their saddles, some readying short lances, some nocking their bows.

Behind them the first rain of arrows fell. The bowmen hadn’t simply shot a wall of arrows up. They’d aimed at a relatively small group of targets, which meant the arrows converged, dark as starlings, along a funnel-like path. But many had underestimated the speed of the enemy as they approached. Most of the arrows fell upon a handful of maulers in the back. The clatter of the steel points on the armor sounded across the field. The armor turned the path of many arrows to the ground. But some of the arrows pierced through or found shanks or feet. The massive dogs cried out in pain and slowed. Two of them tumbled to the dust, arrows sticking out their backs. Another faltered, its leg shot through.

The archers continued to shoot.

A dogman took an arrow in the side. Two maulers stumbled.

A steady hail of arrows clattered against the steel of the dogmen’s armor. Very soon, the dogmen and their beasts would be entering the range where the bows would have most effect, but the dogmen were also catching up to the riders, and once they were in among them, Shim’s archers wouldn’t be able to shoot for fear of hitting their own men.

A mauler caught up to another rider. The man leapt from his horse and executed a roll maneuver that allowed him to check his speed and come up facing his attacker, ready with his sword. He was one of those that had been forced. The roll was executed perfectly. But the dogman behind him beheaded the man with one stroke of his massive sword.

Another rider leapt from his horse onto one of the dogmen. The two went down in a cloud of dust. Both men rolled and bounced and scrambled to their feet, but the rider had taken the worst of it. He lunged weakly at the dogman. The dogman batted his attack away, grabbed him around the throat with one huge hand and lifted him up to throttle him.

“Shoot that dog lover!” Shim commanded.

Bows hummed, arrows whistled from the walls.

A few shafts glanced off his armor, and the big man turned and used the man as a shield. The arrows pierced the rider’s body, leaving the dogman unscathed. Another dogman continued to rush forward. A number of arrows glanced off his armor, but one sank into his foot and another took him in the face. He stumbled.

A crossbow bolt pierced the armor at another dogman’s side and sank deep, sending the giant reeling to the ground.

Two more maulers fell with a number of arrows in them.

Then one of the dogmen whistled, and the whole lot of them turned and raced away from the fort. The bowmen chased them with arrows. But the dogmen weren’t stupid and ran, not in a straight line, but in a haphazard pattern. It’s one thing to shoot at deer or some other frightened animal at such distance. It was quite another to hit a man with intelligence who was multiplied and trying to evade your aim. Another mauler went down. Two arrows sank deep into one of the retreating dogman’s legs. He stumbled, but kept moving with a limp. But most of the arrows missed their mark.

“Stop!” Shim commanded.

The hornsman blew the command.

There was a final ripple of bow twangs, and then the bows fell silent.

The dogmen and maulers who’d been at the front of the attack ran back through the dead and injured. They passed three maulers fighting over pieces of a rider. Passed another that was dragging a dead man away by his leg.

A crossbowman, clearly insulted by the sight, shot a bolt at the mauler. It sped across the field, glanced solidly off the thick armor on the beast’s back, and careened off toward the river.

“Save it!” Shim shouted.

Argoth counted the dead and injured. Seven maulers pincushioned, some of them yelping in pain. Three dogmen, down and bleeding out, one trying to drag himself out of bowshot.

The cost: four brave Shimsmen.

And three or four thousand arrows, most of them sticking up from the ground

Thousands of arrows and only seven of the enemy dead. And out on the plains, marching in their direction, rose the dust of tens of thousands more.

Argoth took in a breath. They were doomed if they didn’t find a way out of this place.

21

Champion

A DOGMAN WHISTLED again, and the men of Toth raced beyond bowshot. But not all of them retreated. The dogman who’d killed the first of Branby’s men had held back, like a commander, as the others pursued their attack. He was huge, bigger than any Argoth had ever seen. His sword had to be almost as tall as an average clansman. Around his waist he wore a belt from which hung the scalps of men and other animals. Next to him was a mauler. Around the two of them the arrows of the first volley littered the field, shafts sticking up from the ground.

“Now that’s a big one,” Flax said.

Argoth turned to see him walking down the parapet toward them.

“Dogmen don’t come much bigger than that,” Flax said.

The dogman strode over and scooped up the rider’s severed head.

Dozens of archers released their arrows at the dogman, but he stepped to the side, and all of the arrows fell harmlessly to the ground.

Shim turned in irritation. “Blast you! Save your arrows!” he commanded. “He’s too far out.”

The bowmen lowered their bows.

The massive dogman cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted out something in his rough tongue.

He waited, then shouted it again.

Shim said. “What’s he saying?”

Eresh said, “He’s offering a challenge to single battle.”

The dogman held his arms wide in invitation.

Eresh looked at the men on the battlements, then at Shim. “Someone needs to kill that whoreson.”

“Grandfather,” Flax said to Eresh. “That sounds like a perfect job for you.”

“I’m not going to waste a man on him,” Shim said.

Flax said, “Get him to kneel to you, and you just might take a number of dogmen out of the fight.”

The dogman strode forward a few dozen yards then shouted again. “Shim,” he said with a hard accent. “Oh, puny Shim. Come out and defend your name!”

The dogman’s booming voice carried across the distance. The men on the battlements close to Shim cut a glance at their commander.

“Crossbows?” Shim asked Argoth.

“I think he’s close enough,” Argoth replied.

Shim nodded at a fist of crossbowmen down the battlement. They raised their weapons.

“Kill him,” Shim ordered.

A dozen crossbows thwupped. The bolts sped toward the dogman. He turned to face them, arms held out wide. His breastplate was thick and shaped to deflect arrows and bolts. And he was still a good distance out.

While the skir wind didn’t reach this far, there was still a breeze, and it appeared to be enough to affect the bolts, for a number of them looked like they would hit, but sped past the dogman. Others struck him with a clatter. He turned his head to avoid a bolt that sped right past his face. When all was done, only one bolt had penetrated his armor, but it must not have been by much—probably stopped by the thick padding underneath—for he yanked it out and threw it to the ground.

They needed to wait until he was closer to have a chance to penetrate that armor.

“Cowards!” the dogman shouted. “Rabbits. Have you no loyalty to your brothers?”

He took the severed head of Branby’s man between his two massive hands, crushed it, and broke open the skull. Then with a shard of bone he scooped out some of the brains. He held the shardful of brains up as if in a toast, then ate it.

The Shimsmen on the battlements shouted in shock and anger.

The dogman handed the broken skull to his mauler, and the beast took it in its great maw and munched it like a biscuit.

The monster strode forward another dozen yards. “Send your best pack of sheep against me!” he shouted.

A soldier close to Argoth swallowed and licked his lips. He was younger, and the display was obviously affecting him the way the dogman had hoped.

Farther down the battlement, the shouting of a fist of men rose to a pitch. Argoth knew the men. They were cousins to one of the men that had been torn apart. Part of the big Carver family.

“Open the gates,” the biggest of them called, “we’re going to dine on that dog!” Then the lot of them began to push their way to the stairs to get to the courtyard.

“Grandfather,” Flax asked, “are you going to let that dogman insult your men that way?”

Eresh bored into Flax with his one good eye. Then he cleared his throat and spit to the side.

“You keep that maggot out there talking,” Eresh said to Argoth.

“What are you doing?” Argoth said.

“Keep him talking,” Eresh said. Then he walked down the battlement, took a crossbow from one of the crossbowmen, jumped down to the courtyard, and ran between the trenching men, heading for the wall that faced the canyon and river.

Flax grinned.

Shim turned to Flax, cold anger in his gaze. “Since you came up with the idea, maybe you should go join him.” He said it almost as a command.

“You know that will only cause problems,” Flax said.

Shim pitched his voice low. “I don’t know how things are run in the Hand, but there is one commander in this army.”

Flax inclined his head. “My apologies.”

Shim turned to one of his captains. “Get those Carver men back up to their positions.”

The captain nodded, signaled a number of others to follow him, then made his way to the stairway down to the courtyard.

Across the courtyard, Eresh reached the wall, climbed up to the battlement, then slipped over the top.

Shim said to Flax, “You’d better hope he wins this.”

“Oh, I hope it sincerely,” Flax said.

Argoth said, “He’s a Kish. I suspect he would have done it with or without Flax’s goading.”

Down in the courtyard, the captain and his men ordered the kinfolk of the slaughtered outrider to halt. The Carver men shouted and blustered and tried to push their way through. Then the captain wrestled the ring leader to the dirt while the men following him kept the others back. The captain was a seasoned warrior. He had the arm of the Carver twisted up behind his back in a flash and began to give him a tongue lashing. Whatever he said must have convinced the man to submit, for a few moments later the captain released him and stood up. The man glowered, but he and the others marched back toward their positions. The captain followed them to give their fistman an earful.

Out in front of the fort, the massive dogman shouted again. “Send twenty of your finest warriors!”

“Nobody wants to get near your stink!” Shim shouted back. “Take a bath, and then we’ll talk.”

The grass and the brush on the field where the men had dismounted their horses had been flattened. But there was still much cover in the field. Argoth searched the tall grass and brush along the edge of the field for Eresh, but couldn’t see him. However, the big mauler raised its head and looked in the direction of the river.

The dogman said, “I promise to restrain my companion. Shredder will stay back. It will be man against man! Breed against breed!”

“Was your mother a woman?” one of the kinsmen on the wall shouted. “Or some bitch in heat? I see no man on the field!”

The dogman said something to his mauler and pointed at the body of another Shimsman closer to the wall. The giant dog glanced out at the grass by the river again, then loped in the opposite direction to where the man lay.

“You dishonor your dead,” the dogman shouted.

The mauler grasped the dead man’s leg in its massive mouth.

“Win this fight and we promise not to feed your men to our companions!”

“Go shag your dog!” one of the Carvers shouted.

“Rodents!” the dogman boomed. “Bring your pack and prove your superior breed!”

The dogmen kept genealogies that went back centuries, back to what they claimed was the beginning. They maintained that the first men the Creators had placed on the earth had been large like they were. They traced their blood back to what they called the first packs. To them, the shorter humans of the Western Glorydoms were degenerate breeds.

“Come closer!” Argoth shouted. “My inferior ears can’t hear you!”

“And thus we see the honor that runs in the blood lines of smaller men,” the dogman shouted. “You’re a gaggle of women!”

“Yes we are!” Matiga shouted from another place on the wall. “And we would never breed with the likes of you! Too stinky!”

A roar of laughter rose from the men on the battlements and rippled across the fort.

When it died down, the dogman pointed at the men on the walls. “You will die today! But not before I’ve had your women. You’ll watch. And then you will go to your ancestors as cowards.”

And at that moment, about twenty paces from the giant dogman, Eresh rose from the tall grass with his crossbow. He must have found a small dip or ravine to crawl along.

He raised the crossbow to his shoulder and aimed. “Here’s breeding!” he shouted. “You imbecile runt!”

The dogman turned.

Eresh pulled the release. The crossbow thwupped. The bolt flashed across the distance between the two of them and sank deep into the big dogman’s neck.

The giant dogman staggered back, grabbed the dart.

Eresh drew his war axe and rushed forward.

The dogman saw his charge, grabbed for his sword, but he was too late. Too slow.

Eresh sprang, brought the axe up and over his head in a wheeling blow, and smashed the blade into the dogman’s helmet. The crunch of metal sounded across the field. Then Eresh’s jump took him past the big man.

The dogman turned, still on his feet. The axe stuck in his helmet.

Behind Eresh the mauler dropped the dead Shimsman, barked, and surged back toward its master.

Eresh ignored the dog, faced the dogman, and drew a long knife.

The dogman took a step forward. He started to take another, but then tipped, and, like a tree felled by a woodsman, toppled onto his side.

The mauler rushed at Eresh.

Eresh turned to face it.

“That dog’s as big as a lion,” Flax said.

A fistman standing a bit down the line said, “I’ve never seen a lion.”

“Well that’s how big they are,” Flax said. “But I think that mauler would beat even a lion in a straight match.”

Eresh crouched.

The dog lunged, all teeth and sinew.

Eresh sprang out of the beast’s path, twisted, then snatched the huge sword from the fallen dogman.

The mauler spun.

The dogman was still alive and swiped at Eresh’s leg, but Eresh dodged him and turned his side to the mauler.

The mauler growled, and the sound was so loud, so full of menace that a number of men down the line all uttered an oath.

The mauler surged forward, armored, intent on the kill. It moved with lightning speed.

Eresh waited for it. Waited too rotted long. The fool!

The mauler lunged.

“No,” Argoth groaned.

But Eresh took a quick, low and twisting step to the side, swinging the big sword around with all his might, catching the mauler’s front leg and biting deep into it.

The dog screamed, stumbled.

Eresh changed his grip on the pommel, grasped the flat of the big sword with his other hand, then stabbed down through the armor on the mauler’s side and sank the sword deep into the big animal.

The creature cried out in extreme pain and flinched away.

Eresh pulled the blooded sword out, raised it high. It flashed in the light. Then he brought it down with both hands and severed the dog’s massive head from its body.

Behind him, the dogman struggled to rise.

Eresh walked over to him and relieved him of his head as well. Then he picked up both heads, turned to the dogmen at the other end of the field and raised them high.

“Here is the breed you face today!” he shouted. “One with the brains you so highly prize!”

The dogmen and maulers on the other side of the field let out howls and shouts that rose to a fevered pitch. Then they raced forward to take Eresh.

Eresh reached down and cut away the dogman’s belt of scalps. Then he ran with it, the sword, and the two heads back toward the fort. The men opened the gates, and Eresh ran in with his trophies.

On the parapets the archers waited until the charging dogmen were closer this time, then let loose their shafts. The metal arrow points clattered against the dogmen’s armor. But this time the dogmen were full of anger and not thinking, running in straight lines. This time they were inside the range of a bow’s fury. Many arrows struck and stuck out of the armor like pins. A good deal of these would have been defeated by the mail and padded tunic underneath, but enough caused injury for a number of the dogmen and maulers faltered.

A pincushioned dogman took an arrow in the side and stumbled. Another took an arrow through the visor, and crashed to the dust. A mauler fell, then the dogmen alphas began to whistle, and the majority of men and hounds turned back and raced away from the arrows. But two dogmen and four of their massive dogs, continued to run forward.

The gate door was caught on the remains of the shrub they’d cut down.

Above, the archers and crossbowmen kept shooting. A mauler went down. Then another. Then the shorter dogman. But the second dogman was still up and running, arrows sticking out of his armor.

The men at the gates finally freed the one side, pulled it closed, and slammed home the weathered crossbeam.

The dogman kept running through the arrow storm, and Argoth thought he might try to ram the wooden doors, but he altered his course at the last moment and sprang up, one foot striking the slightly sloped wall and propelling him higher. He lunged for a crenellation, grasped it, and pulled himself up and over.

One of the Shimsmen on the battlement backed away from the giant pincushioned mass of steel and sinew, but another soldier lunged forward with his lance.

The dogman wrenched the lance, pulling the man forward.

The soldier stumbled, and the dogman picked him up and hurled him over wall.

The man yelled and fell heavily to the ground by the gate, leaving the lance in the dogman’s hand.

Another Shimsman rushed forward with another lance, striking from the side, and succeeded in stabbing the dogman above his hip.

The dogman twisted and struck the Shimsman in the face with the butt end of his lance.

The man fell backward off the parapet to the courtyard below.

A third Shimsman swung a maul at the dogman. But the dogman brushed the attack aside and struck the man in the face.

Another Shimsman charged from behind, and the dogman turned and hurled the lance, skewering the man through his leather armor in the belly. He picked up the maul from the man he’d struck in the face, turned to face more soldiers, but another Shimsman charged from behind with a lance and drove it through the dogman’s armor and into his back.

The dogman arched and howled. He twisted around, struck the Shimsman with his maul. But another Shimsman was there, stabbing the big man’s thigh. And then another two lancers rushed forward.

The dogman growled, lunged for one man, but another Shimsman hit him with the hammer end of an axe, and the big warrior dropped to his knees, then tumbled off the battlement to the ground below.

Outside his maulers barked furiously.

The archers on the walls turned their attention back to them and began to rain down arrows. The armor on their backs and muzzles clanged, but these were extreme close quarters. And the armor was not thick enough to defeat all the arrows. The dogs began to cry out in pain.

The dogman yelled out an order. He yelled it again.

The maulers paused, then turned and ran, retreating as fast as their limps would allow.

Down in the courtyard, the men crowded around the dogman to finish him off.

“Leave him!” Shim shouted. “Leave him!”

The men acted as if they didn’t hear him. One kicked the dogman. Another pulled his axe back for a killing blow.

“Leave him!” Shim shouted again.

One of the other men finally heard and grabbed the man’s arm before he could swing.

“He might have information,” Shim said. “Tie his hands and feet.”

The men shouted for some rope, but didn’t lower their weapons or take their eyes off the dogman.

Argoth knew that Mokad used the dogmen mostly in scouting and patrol roles. And he was happy that’s all they used them for because after seeing the power of just this one, he would never want to see the result if a cohort of them were sent against this fort. Praise the Six for Mokad’s arrogance.

“Surely there’s a tribe of dogmen somewhere,” Argoth said, “one that chafes under their current rulers. A tribe willing to ally themselves with free men.”

Shim looked over at him. “You think you can make a dogman into an ally?”

“Anything’s possible.”

Shim said, “You do that, and I’ll step down and follow you as commander.”

“Careful what you wish for,” Argoth said.

Shim turned to the men below. “Take him back to the cave. Give him water. I want to see if we can keep him alive.”

Flax looked at the dogman below. “They’re a fabulous breed. If you could only just rid them of their musk. But every time you breed it out, you lose the size.”

Argoth looked at him.

“It’s true,” Flax said. “Many in Mungo and Cath have tried to breed their slaves with a bit of dogman.”

But Argoth thought it was still an odd comment. Was Flax a slave trader? Argoth didn’t like slavers much; it had been his experience that they never really looked at you without gauging how much you’d bring in a market somewhere. He’d had to chase down an acquaintance once that had stolen a niece. If Flax bought and sold on the side, it would drop Argoth’s estimation of the man.

Eresh climbed up to the battlement a pole in each hand. Atop one pole was the head of the dogman. Atop the other was his mauler. “I’m thinking these will do nicely by the gates,” he said.

“Well done, Grandfather,” Flax said.

Eresh stopped. “You will call me Zu, or you will call me nothing at all.”

Flax smiled and shrugged. “Well done, Zu,” he conceded.

Eresh turned to Shim. “The Carvers had the right of it. We’re going to eat their dogs.”

“As long as you’re cooking,” Shim said.

Eresh turned and raised the poles high so the men along the walls and in the courtyard could see. “Remember!” he shouted. “They bleed just like any other!”

Out in the courtyard the men cheered.

Eresh shook the poles, then made his way toward the gates, the men on the battlement cheering him as he passed.

Down below the injured dogman looked up at the poles, pain and hatred in his eyes.

Shim said to Argoth, “Good luck making allies with that one.” Then he turned to the men in the courtyard. “We’ve more than dogmen to contend with!” he shouted. “Get your trenches dug. Quickly!”

The men turned back to their work, their leaders getting after them, even though they’d been watching the spectacle too.

Out on the plain, the whirlwinds seemed to be weakening. Then one disappeared altogether, leaving a cloud of dust and debris to fall to the earth. A moment later Argoth watched as that wind passed over a number of trees, bending branches and sending autumn leaves flying. It made its way toward the mouth of the river where a number of Mokaddian galleys were waiting. Then the second and third winds dissipated as well and followed the first.

The debris they had whipped up began to flutter and fall to the ground. Argoth waited, hoping to see sign that some of Vance’s men had survived, but the thickets and copses of trees on the plain where the men had been caught in the wind stood silent.

Farther out on the plain, the first of Mokad’s army crested a swell. Back along the foothills the banners of another column could be seen. With the skir winds gone, branches had stopped cracking and clattering, and the sound of Mokad’s march could be heard.

Mokad’s soldiers were singing a battle song. The melody was distant and low. In the column that was closer, the one with the blue and white banners of Nilliam out front, a horn blew. It was met with a shout, and then Nilliam’s column began to split in two to deploy on the east side of the fort.

22

Traitor

SUGAR WATCHED AS the dogmen ranging out from Mokad’s column came close enough to see the banner waving above the wagon, then wheeled away.

“Goh, those dogs,” Sugar said, trying to shake the memory of the ones that had threatened her back at Blue Towers.

One of Urban’s scouts waited for them ahead. The ground here was churned with the passage of many hundreds of men and horses. The limbs of the trees on both sides of the road had been broken with their passing.

Urban drove the wagon abreast of the scout and pulled the reins and stopped the horses. They were on a rise and could just see above the tops of the trees.

The scout said, “The fort’s about a mile away. But you’re not going to get through.”

“How bad is it?” Urban asked.

“Like ants. Half of Mokad’s army is down that road. The other half is spreading out on the plain.”

Sugar motioned at the hills, “What about up there?”

“Sheer slopes and plunging ravines. But even if you could get up there and make your way across, the fort backs up to a cliff.”

“Maybe a few of us could pose as Fir-Noy,” Sugar said. “The Mokaddians won’t know the difference.”

“Aye, except I saw a lot of these Fir-Noy colors up ahead,” the scout said and pointed at the banner above the wagon. “They’ll mark you for sure. Unless one of us can fly, I don’t think there’s a way through.”

Sugar said, “Mokad’s guardian is going to kill them all. We must get through.”

Urban and Soddam looked at each other. Then Urban said, “Let’s move a bit closer. Even when they form up into battles, there will be gaps. Maybe we have a chance there.”

* * *

Berosus watched the forces of Nilliam spread out. He estimated that Mokad’s main column as well as the ships carrying Shaymash the Skir Master and his implements of war would arrive in another half hour or so. The trap about Shim was almost closed.

He reached out through his link to Black Knee to see how the clearing of the path into the mountains was going. It was the slightest of links, yet still gave him access to Black Knee’s focus. The path into the mountain where Black Knee stood was maybe eight or ten feet wide, in shadow, with rock rising up hundreds of feet on each side. A little farther down the path stood a group of Burundian quarry men in their armor.

Ask them how far along they are, he whispered.

Black Knee asked. The Burundian leading the operation told him to take his stupid questions back down to the fort.

Ask him if he wants that put in the report to Lord Shim.

Black Knee said, “It’s going to take you a day, isn’t it?”

“It will take what it takes.”

“We need to know how to prepare.”

Another man said, “If we find a good seam, we might split it in an hour. If not, that’s a lot of rock. And it’s not like we brought a full complement of wedges and feathers.”

Black Knee nodded. “Can I help?”

“No,” the leader snapped.

Berosus whispered again. A man being attacked by one of the Famished can have a wicked anger.

Black Knee said, “Maybe you’ll need someone to fetch some water later. I can do that.” Then he turned to one of the men with him. “We need to watch the leader.”

Having planted the suggestion, Berosus pulled back and turned to Argoth. He said, “How do you think your wife is faring?”

“Well, I hope. Serah is a smart and strong woman.”

“Yes,” Berosus replied. “Let us hope things are going better for them than they are for us.”

“It’s not over yet,” Argoth said. “We’ve a few surprises of our own.”

“I don’t think the firelances are going to do much against that wind.”

“I’m not talking firelances,” Argoth said.

Across the field a horn blew, then a fist of the men rode out of Nilliam’s line toward the fort. Their helmets were removed. Tied about the lance of the first man was a scarf of white, the banner asking for parley.

Berosus recognized the man as Loyal, Nilliam’s chief Divine.

Shim said, “I was wondering how long it would take him. Tell him our intentions.”

Berosus narrowed his eyes. Intentions?

“Indeed I shall,” said Argoth. “If we take Mokad’s Skir Master, maybe Nilliam will see the prize.”

“Aye,” said Shim, then ordered a white banner raised. “Get out there; talk to your friend.”

Argoth sent a man to fetch his horse and a fist of his men, then left Berosus with Shim.

Berosus looked out at the field again. Nilliam was forming up its battles. Toth, their long-time ally, had a good number of packs around the perimeter. Under the power of the skir wind, the Skir Master’s ship was sailing at a good clip up the river. It would make it here before the bulk of Mokad’s army.

A small alarm sounded in Berosus’s mind. If he lost his Skir Master, Nilliam would be in a perfect position to turn on Mokad’s army. He looked to the sea and saw ships in the distance beyond Mokad’s vessels.

All this time he’d been waiting for some machination from Nilliam and had been disappointed. Was this finally their move?

He turned to Shim. “How are you going to take the Skir Master out on the river?”

“We’ve put men in place,” said Shim.

Where would that be? Not along the river, for the skir wind would disrupt any missiles shot from shore. And Shaymash wouldn’t allow any Newlander in a boat or canoe close.

“He’ll just blow the arrows back in their faces,” Berosus said.

“We’re not going to shoot him with arrows. It’s going to be close and personal. I’ve sent some of our best men.”

The Skir Master would tie up at the dock and send his guards to make sure the landing was secure. When they reported it was safe, he would debark so he could see the field of battle because you can’t direct skir into places you can’t see. His servants would probably carry him off in a litter with the minor Skir Masters walking behind.

And if a hammer or more of dreadmen fell upon them, well, that would be a blow indeed. A crippling blow.

He reached out to feel the Glory to warn him so he could arm the Skir Master, but the link was too thin. He reached out to the captain of his dreadmen. The man answered, but they were toward the back of the column with Legs. Which meant he was the only one close enough to warn the Skir Master.

Well, well, he thought. A little excitement. He smiled, put his hand on his dagger, and turned toward Shim.

* * *

Sugar and Urban’s crew abandoned the wagon, but kept the Fir-Noy banner just in case. Then they moved forward until they took up a position in a thicket of scrub and trees. They were close enough to see the cliffs at the back of the fort and the hoodoo towers rising above the scattered thickets in front of them. They were close enough to see the trees along the foothills break and give way to the field and cohorts forming into battles. They were close enough to see the Fir-Noy in Mokad’s army that had been left to guard the baggage train. And another group of the men of Nilliam doing a much more disciplined job of guarding their wagons and horses closer to the slopes of the mountain.

Mokad would want to put its men in front, in the position of honor. And these Fir-Noy didn’t seem to like that they’d been relegated to the back. One complained louder than the rest.

“They’re going to fight an arrow’s shot away,” he said, “and we won’t even be able to see the show.”

“It’s a fort full of sleth,” the hammerman said. “You want to fight sleth?”

“They won’t be able to contend with those winds,” a man said. “And if any get out, I want to be there to catch one of them. We deserve some of the loot. A fine bow and sword from a sleth would bring a good price.”

“You wouldn’t get a sleth sword,” the hammerman said. “A big lout like you will just get his belly slit.”

“We deserve a chance as good as any other man.”

“If they attack the wagons, you can lead the way.”

The loud Fir-Noy didn’t like that, but he didn’t move off. He and two others simply stood together to plot and grumble.

Urban said, “I don’t want to risk any of these recognizing you. So we’d have to go past the men of Nilliam. Not all of us. Nobody is going to let Soddam past. But you, me, maybe a few others. We’re going to need a clear path, one that skirts around the groups of soldiers, especially the Fir-Noy.”

“Would it be better for me to go alone? Won’t that attract less attention?”

“No, lass,” Soddam said. “You’re going to need to be in a fist or squad. One woman walking alone would attract far too much attention.”

Sugar nodded and reached out to her mother’s weave, cringing at the pain she knew she’d feel. She found the mouth, then fed it some fire. A moment later, the pain tore all along her bones, and she sucked in her breath at it.

“Goh,” she said.

“Are you okay?” Urban asked.

“It’s getting worse.”

“Are you sure you’re up to this. Withers said—”

She cut him off. “There’s no other choice.” Then she stepped out of her body, still wincing at the pain. In the sky above her, the sickly orange skir darted about, thick as the crows and ravens that had started gathering above the battlefield in the world of flesh.

She put on her skenning and felt some relief. Then she looked around for any sort of weapon. Stone and wood were beyond her ability to pick up. There was nothing but some dark viney thing running through the grass. She pulled up a length of it. It wouldn’t stop anybody, but swinging it in the face of an attacker might give her a moment.

“I’m ready,” she said with the mouth of her flesh.

23

Last Chance

ARGOTH RODE OUT of the gates with a fist of dreadmen behind him. His Fire was raging inside of him, and he felt strong enough to break timbers. Loyal of Nilliam had separated himself from the men he’d ridden out with and was waiting for Argoth alone, holding up the parley banner.

Argoth’s fist reined in their horses the same distance away as Loyal’s guards, and waited as Argoth rode up to Loyal who was so resplendent in his brilliant blue surcoat and his shining black armor worked with silver and gold that Argoth felt cheap in comparison.

“You’re a brave and foolish man,” Loyal said.

“We are not like any sleth you have ever fought,” said Argoth.

“Indeed, you are not,” said Loyal of Nilliam. “Which is why I’m going to give you one last chance. You will not prevail against us today. But it is not too late to join our cause. The dogmen are loyal to us. As is Urz. We will protect you.”

“We don’t need any protection.”

Loyal smiled ruefully. “Let us be honest men. You have no Skir Masters. But if you join us, together we can turn on Mokad.”

“I would ask you to reconsider my offer,” said Argoth, “but I know you’re enthralled. Beautiful and glorious, but a slave nevertheless. Would that you could break free of your bonds and fight our true enemy.”

“It is not the order of things,” said Loyal of Nilliam.

“That’s what they would have you believe. But we will not bow to Mokad or any other power that is ruled by the Devourers. If we must die today, we will do so as free men.”

“You do not want to die on this field of battle. There are more than crows and frights that gather around.”

“We are prepared.”

“How is your son?”

Argoth thought of Serah and the children heading south. “Not well. But your weave did help.”

Loyal nodded. “Not all Sublimes are the same.”

“All devour men. We cannot join you, Loyal. But maybe you can hold your forces back. Let us fight Mokad. And when we have beat them back, you can have your turn at them.”

Loyal of Nilliam shook his head in disappointment. “Is that your answer?”

“Today,” said Argoth, “mankind throws off its chains.”

A beat passed. Loyal of Nilliam’s horse took a small step to the side. “I should have liked to have fought with you at my side, Argoth, Root of Hismayas. I am sorry. By evening there will not be one of you left to mourn your dead. And you will not go to your death a free man. You will go fettered with the cries of all those you might have saved from the coming harvest.”

Argoth drew his sword and crossed it over his breast. “We are Shimsmen to the last. Break yourselves upon us.”

Bold words. A fool’s words. And yet he pitied Loyal of Nilliam, for Argoth had tasted what it was to be enthralled. He turned his horse.

Loyal of Nilliam lingered for a moment more, then turned his horse as well.

Argoth rode back to the gates of Fort Echo. Serah and the girls had snipped locks of their hair and braided them into a necklace that he wore now under his armor. He could feel the hair, smooth against his neck. May the Six bless them. If he died today, he would do it with joy, knowing they were heading for safer places.

He joined with his men and rode back toward the gates.

* * *

Sugar walked with her vine about thirty paces ahead of her body, which Urban helped steady with a hand to her elbow. He had hooded her to keep her Koramite face hidden. And it had mostly worked with the trees to give them cover. But the open field and sunshine now lay before them.

Out on the field in front of the fort were two groups of men on horses.

“Who is that?” she whispered with the mouth of her flesh. “The one looks familiar. Is that Argoth?”

“I think it is,” said Urban. “There’s some parley going on.”

“This is our chance,” she hissed.

In front of her, the soldiers of Nilliam and Urz had spread out in five battles four or five men deep and at least a hundred men across. The battles were a mixture of groups of archers, slingers, and pikemen. There were three main battles in front of her, each in loose formation, each stretching almost two hundred yards wide. The one on the left flew the colors of Urz. The two on the right were the blues of Nilliam. Two other smaller battles formed up behind the front three as a reserve. The larger was Nilliam’s. The other was a much smaller contingent of the men of Toth with a number of their dogs, which she’d made sure to steer Urban away from.

In addition to the battles of foot soldiers were a few squadrons of mounted men as well as some groups assembling shields as tall as a man that could be wheeled forward to protect archers and other troops as they approached; they were also assembling two- and four-wheeled ladders with boarding bridges that could be released to swing down onto the battlements.

Without skir, this army would need far more siege weapons to assault the fort: battering rams, an earthen ramp, siege towers to push up the ram, ballista. But they didn’t need that here. The skir would be used to keep the men in the fort down while the armies approached the walls. Then, at the last moment, the winds would cease, and there would be a race to see who could gain the battlements first—the army outside or the army within.

Sugar looked for a good way through, but didn’t see any.

Out on the field, Argoth turned his horse.

She didn’t have time to move two hundred yards to the right or left and scout a new way through. She needed to get out on the field now. She found a gap between the reserve battles and steered Urban and the others that way.

But before they’d come within thirty yards of the reserve battle, a Nilliamite captain blocked their way and accosted Urban.

“What are you doing here?”

“We’re just looking for our cohorts,” Urban said. “We were scouting and got separated.”

A number of the men of Nilliam in the rear battle turned to look at what was going on.

“The Fir-Noy are in the rearguard,” said the captain.

“Aye,” Urban said and turned the group to walk down the line. “We’ll just move off this way.”

The captain looked at Sugar. “Is that a Koramite?”

“Yes, Zu,” Urban said continuing to walk away. “We caught her snooping.”

More of the Nilliam soldiers turned to look.

The captain narrowed his eyes. “Show me your wrists,” he called after Urban.

Urban held up his hand, but kept walking.

“What is that?” the captain called. “You’re not a Newlander.”

“I think I see our cohort,” Urban called back and put a little more speed into his walk. “This way, men.”

“Come back here,” the captain called.

“No, I found them. Thank you for your help. May the Six bless your Lady.”

Then Urban steered the little group back into the trees.

The Nilliamite captain watched them for a moment, then turned.

Out on the field, Argoth began to ride back to the fort.

“We’ve got to get through,” she said with the mouth of her flesh.

“Tell me where,” Urban said under his breath.

Sugar looked, the soldiers of Nilliam dark in their flesh, but there wasn’t any pathway through.

* * *

Berosus prepared to slit Shim’s throat, then stopped. If he killed him now, the soldiers in his army would reel in shock, then panic. They might bolt from the fort. They might alert Nilliam. The commotion, at the very least, would make them suspicious. It might force them to act before Berosus could warn Shaymash. They might even let Shim escape across the ford and ruin the harvest.

Better to keep them pacified until everything was in place. Better to lull them than stir the hornet’s nest.

Berosus released the hilt of his dagger and said, “I should be out there with those you sent to take the Skir Master. This was, after all, my idea.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Grandfather was right. It was my idea that led us into this mess. I should be the one to help fix it. I deserve at least that much.”

“You’ll give away their position.”

“I won’t. You left me out of the first attempt to deal with Mokad’s Skir Master. Don’t make the same mistake again.”

Shim considered. “How will you get past the dogmen?”

“Leave that to me,” Berosus said.

“I don’t know,” said Shim.

“Trust me,” Berosus said. “I know better than anyone here how Mokad’s Divines work.”

“And what if we clear the way into the mountains?”

“We’ll find you.”

“Let’s see what Argoth has to say.”

“No time for that. Besides, all eyes are on him now; it’s the perfect distraction to allow me to make my escape.”

Shim hesitated.

Berosus said. “If we’re to die, I want to do it with honor, striking out, as a man of the Hand should.”

Shim nodded. “Go and murder them.”

Berosus smiled. “By your command,” he said and bowed, and then he left Shim and made his way off the battlement.

Eresh was still making a show of his heads over by the gate. Berosus called to him and gave him a thumbs-up. The heads would give Shim’s men hope, make them think they had a chance. Keep them docile a little while longer.

He walked over to the wall by the canyon, then climbed up and found the spot where Eresh had gone over. The fort wall jagged here because of the terrain and made an alcove that couldn’t be seen from the field, which answered the question why the dogmen hadn’t seen Eresh leave the fort. He slipped over the side and dropped to the dry moat below.

He’d be back. He would strike Argoth and Shim down before the old Kish’s eyes. Then he would take the Kish. There was a weave that would house his soul nicely.

Berosus crouched and moved down a ravine that led to the river.

* * *

Argoth rode to the gates of the fort, dismounted, and handed his horse off to one of his men to lead across the maze of short trenches. Each was long enough for a fist of men to lie down in a line. In between the trenches were mounds of dirt and rock. Many of the trenches were now the requisite four feet deep, and the soldiers were filling and tying off their bags of earth. Here and there other groups of soldiers moved the stones that might be picked up by a wind and dumped them at the base of the wall.

Argoth walked over the trenches and back up to the battlement to join Shim. Out on the river Mokad’s ships sailed upstream under skir power. The lead ship’s big sail was painted with the red eye of Mokad. More galleys sailed behind, some with the red eye on their sails, others with a stylized boar’s head, the five-petaled flower of Nilliam, and other shapes.

On land, a long thin cloud of dust rose above the plain. At the head of it marched the vanguard of Mokad’s soldiers, the spear heads and helmets glinting in the sun. It took a lot of people and horses and wagons to scuff that much dirt into the sky. From the reports of the scouts and what he could see with his eyes, Argoth figured the bulk of Mokad’s army marched in that column. It was probably twenty-five thousand men, plus wagons. Such a column could easily stretch four or five miles long.

Argoth thought about Shim’s six thousand.

Without skir, it wasn’t going to be a fair fight. Not even close. With skir, it would be a slaughter.

It was true Mokad would have left a good number of soldiers in Blue Towers to protect their supply ships. And others to protect the loyalist clans. And others to conduct raids into the lands loyal to Shim. But the bulk were on the plain. And there were already thousands of the troops of Nilliam and Urz forming up on the edge of the field.

Argoth thought of Urban. His decision to leave had stoked the fires of Argoth’s anger. They had needed every loremaster in this, and he had left them. But it was now clear that Urban’s predictions had been correct.

Eresh came back from his decorating efforts and then went off to see about the passage back into the mountain. The soldiers in the courtyard hurried to finish their trenches. A number of ravens started to gather to the cliffs behind and around the hoodoos with throaty cries, knowing there would soon be meat below. Out on the field, Mokad’s mounted soldiers began to arrive. He watched the ships sail up the river under a powerful skir wind that sent the colored leaves of the autumn trees along the river bank flying.

The lead ship stopped at where he estimated the old moorings were, the top of its mast sticking up above the trees there. Argoth knew Varro would be watching, waiting for the right moment.

Eresh returned from inspecting the passage and asked what was going on. Argoth told him. A few minutes later Mokaddian soldiers appeared on the road leading down to the river. A few minutes after that a larger contingent of guards walked up from the river and took positions at various points in the wooded area and out on the field. Argoth figured this would be the moment.

But nothing happened.

Then there was some barking farther down, but it sounded more like a scrap between dogs. Moments later a dogman yelled and silenced the hounds.

“What do you think?” Shim asked.

In answer another group of soldiers crested the bank carrying a litter painted in red and gold. They carried it forth to a small rise at the edge of the field and set it down. A moment later the Skir Master stepped out.

Shim sighed heavily. “Why didn’t they attack at the river’s edge?”

“If I know Varro, they did,” Argoth said, his heart heavy.

Eresh said, “That whoreson of the Hand. He didn’t go to help them. He left to save his own rotted hide. I told you not to trust him.”

There was barking down by the river, shouts, and then nothing.

Argoth’s heart fell. It was long past time for Varro and his men to attack. Which meant Varro’s attack had failed.

Two more ships arrived, their colorful sails mixing with the leaves kicked up by the winds.

“We’re not going to beat that wind,” Eresh said.

“How are the Burundians doing on that pass back into the mountain?” Argoth asked.

“It’s a tall face of rock that’s plugging the path,” Eresh reported. “They’ve now decided the quickest way over is to build ladders. They’ll lash together a scaffold of some sort if they can.”

“Ladders will work.”

“You know how long it will take to evacuate this army over a couple of ladders?”

“Quicker than with no ladders,” Shim said. “I assume you told them to hurry.”

“Aye,” Eresh said.

At that moment, another man walked up from the river bank with a few dogmen in tow.

A murmur rose up from the men on the walls.

Shim narrowed his eyes.

“What in Regret’s name?” Argoth asked.

On the road to the river stood Flax, blond hair shining in the sun. Behind him were a number of dogmen pushing Varro and the others bound before them.

“I knew it,” Eresh said. “Rot the Six! Rot their eyes! Rot their unmanly worms and their children! I should have skewered him the first day.” He looked at Argoth and Shim, his one good eye burning with fury. “Maybe next time you’ll listen to sense.”

Then the warhorns of Mokad sounded at the edge of the field, and the first of their foot soldiers marched onto the clearing to form up their battles.

24

Stone Giants

MOKAD CAME SINGING, their war song booming across the field, the dust of their march blowing in with them.

“Tell the men to ready themselves,” Shim said.

His hornsman blew the order. Down in the courtyard, the men hurried to finish filling the last of their bags. Others began to move back to take their positions in the caves or shelter of the hoodoos. The deer Argoth had first seen crowded in one corner by the horses.

“I’ll check on the firelances,” Argoth said.

“You do that,” Shim said, his voice filled with the gravel of anger and frustration.

Eresh turned around. “What can they do to us?” he shouted at the soldiers in the courtyard below. “Fart on us with their wind? The skir winds will blow, but the maggots out on the ground will have to come meet us man to man. And we will slaughter them on the walls. We will slaughter them at the gates. Dreadmen! Put on your weaves of might and prepare yourselves! Today, Regret will swallow up the men of Mokad.”

“Well spoken,” Shim said. “Now we have but one course. We need you back at the ladders, Master Kish. Open the way into the mountains.”

“I would rather blood Mokad.”

“Take this victory away from that vile traitor.”

Eresh grimaced, then left the parapet and stormed across the courtyard to oversee things in the passageway.

Argoth had no idea how long they’d have to hold, so he checked on the teams that would operate the firelances, making sure their gear was secure in the pits dug against the wall, and asking their leaders to drill the race to the top of the battlement when the winds left. He noticed Lord Hardy and Vance were ordering their own men. As they did, the army of Mokad arrayed itself on the field outside the fort.

Men had been making their way to void their bowels in the remnants of the garderobes and over the sides of the walls. But with the dread falling upon them, more men were making their way. Soon the men would have to soil the ground where they stood, for there would be no time in battle to run to the jacks. Fighting also made the throat dry, and a group of men were hauling up water from the old well and filling goat skins.

One group of men were igniting braids of cured godsweed and putting them in small clay pipes they hung from cords about their necks. Another bunch from Bain were chewing the weed, even though the juice could make a man violently ill, and smearing the masticated chew in stripes over their armor and faces and mixing it in their hair. There were other men with sendings of various sorts, and they began taking these out, muttering prayers and blowing their calls to the ancestors. There was a group of men in Vance’s ranks with ties back to the old country who were stomping out a war chant meant to invite the power of the old gods of their lands that they claimed to be descended from.

Argoth had his own sending, but he refrained from blowing it because he did not want the men to think he’d given up hope. As he walked back, a fistman asked him how many men Mokad had brought.

A number of the soldiers in the area turned to listen to the answer.

Argoth raised his voice. “Not enough, the poor whoresons. They fear us. Don’t you forget that. They have brought a coalition because they fear us. They know they can’t beat us on their own.”

“But what about the skir?” another man asked.

“The earth will protect you from their skir,” he said. “Then it will be man against man. And there is nothing out there we cannot kill.”

“But their numbers.”

“You don’t have to fight them all at once. Only so many can approach the gates. And they only have so many ladders to scale the walls. You fight them one at a time. You knock down the man in front of you until there are no more men left to knock down.”

The soldiers looked at each other a bit dubious.

Argoth smiled broadly. “Years hence, warriors in foreign lands will talk of this day. Of this battle. The children of your grandchildren will tell your stories and how you beat back the army of the Devourers. They are ants. Squash them under your feet.”

“I wish we had just a little ale to fortify us,” one of the men said.

“Without the wagons, there was no room for ale,” Argoth said. “But we will have plenty of ale to drink every night throughout this winter. Fortify yourself with thoughts of your ancestors and of the sons and daughters who will call you blessed.”

He could see a few of the men nodding.

“Those who would eat your fathers and mothers and children are at the doors. Show them your anger. Show them your teeth. Show them what it means to fight mankind.”

Many more in the area had turned to listen to his words, and he could see apprehensive fear. But in many more of their eyes was the angry resolve of men ready to kill to protect what was theirs.

Argoth looked at their trenches. They were dug wide enough for a man to lie down in. They were deep enough to stand a shield up on its side. “Are your sacks all ready?”

“Aye, Zu.”

And they were. Each sack had handles on it. The men would lie down in their trenches next to their shields, their weapons with them. One heavy sack of earth would cover their legs, another their upper body. The sacks were about fifty or sixty pounds each, and only the strongest of winds could reach down into the trench to wrench the sack out of a man’s hands. Until that time the sack would protect them from the glass and stone teeth of the wind.

“What about Flax?” a man said.

“Flax was one man,” Argoth said. “And it was not he who bested the champion of the dogmen. It was our own Kish. Flax will die with the rest of them.”

Out on the field, the army of Mokad let out a cheer, thousands of voices strong, that sounded like the rushing of great waters.

“They are ants!” Argoth shouted. “Today is our day! Today mankind rises.”

Then he continued back to the battlement where Shim stood and saw the armies of Mokad upon the field. The battles of Nilliam and Urz formed up to the right. Mokad in the middle. And the river on the left. They were a terrible sight to behold, their colored banners waving lazily in the breeze. Behind them at the river, a number of ships had tied up to the moorings.

“What were they hollering about?” Argoth asked.

“Over there,” Shim said and pointed.

Out on the field, a team of horses paraded a wagon in front of the troops. On its bed was a cage made with stout timbers and iron bars, a sleth cage. Inside the cage was a boy.

“Legs,” Argoth said. “Is that Legs?”

“I think so,” said Shim. “Who else would it be? He was seen last with Flax. You know what they’re doing, don’t you? It’s the lie they’re going to build. The sleth children who subverted Shim. The great masterminds. It’s all a show.”

“I don’t see Sugar. Is there another wagon?”

“Only the one.”

“Maybe our spies were wrong,” Argoth said. “Maybe she wasn’t caught back at Blue Towers.”

Eresh said, “Or maybe they’re parading her through the rest of the land. Building up a big anticipation for an execution. A public display to show the herds they were now safe from the predators thanks to their gracious Glory and his army.”

A scout atop one of the hoodoos shouted. “Bone Faces!”

Argoth looked out toward the sea. He could only just make out the sails.

Shim cursed and said, “Coming to plunder under our noses while we’re tied up here. I swear to you that when we’ve chased Mokad from our shores, we are going to take the battle to the shores of the Bone Faces. We are going to march on their Kragows and blood their fields and burn their ships until there isn’t one of them left to turn a plow.”

“Such the optimist,” Argoth said.

“Let’s hope they have their eyes set on Blue Towers.”

Argoth shook his head. “I don’t think they’re here for the plunder. They’re too far north.”

“Are we sure they’re not allied with Mokad?” Shim asked.

“Loyal did not seem to be putting on a show when we spoke about it before. So if they’re part of this mob, Nilliam does not know it.”

“Are you sure?”

“No,” Argoth said.

Shim scraped his lip with his teeth a moment. “Regret’s eyes.”

Out on the field, another shout rose from the Mokaddian troops who had formed up by the river road. A few moments later, a team of horses crested the bank, pulling a flatbed wagon with a trestle on it. Over the next few minutes, five more teams pulled up five other wagons from the ships at the river. Two others had the same wooden trestles. The other three carried long beams. The six wagons split into three groups, a beam to each. Then teams of men began to work on them, assembling the pieces.

“Zu,” one of the men on the wall said. “What kind of war engines are those?”

“Stone giants,” Argoth said.

Stone giants were large stone-throwing siege weapons. They worked on the same principles of a staff sling. When assembled, the beam stood in the air on two tall triangular legs, connected by an axle, which ran straight through the beam. Attached to one end of the beam was a huge sling. At the opposite end of the beam hung a heavy box. When the stone giant wasn’t loaded, the counterweighted end of the beam with the box naturally pointed down between the two legs while the head of the beam, to which the sling was attached, rose into the sky. It looked like a giant stick creature with no arms or shoulders standing at attention.

Argoth said, “They’ll fill the box with stones or sand or lead. A number of ton’s worth. The stone giant’s crew will pull the head of the beam down so it’s almost touching the ground, the counterweighted rear end sticking up into the sky. Then the crew will place whatever they want to throw into the sling—a boulder, beehives, a diseased cow. To throw the contents of the sling, the crew simply releases the head. The counterweight, with all its tons of force, swings down. The head swings up, and the sling whips up and around, flinging the missile in a high arc at the target.”

“They’re going to try to bash down a wall?”

“I don’t know what they’re going to do with it,” Argoth said.

As the teams worked to assemble the weapons, more wagons came up from the river carrying other parts. Dozens of men worked on each team and in short order the three stone giants were assembled and stood at attention, the beams rising more than thirty feet into the air.

Still more wagons arrived, this time carrying stones. Then the three wagons with smaller throwing engines that had been used to feed the winds on the plain were pulled up and positioned as well. Six engines in all.

Argoth’s thirst was upon him, and he picked up his waterskin. While he was drinking, a terror of Mokad’s elite dreadmen walked forward of the lines, keeping well out of bowshot. They held a pole with the banner of the Glory of Mokad. Normally this would be the outline of a red eye on a banner of white cloth. But this was the death eye, a yellow eye like a sun with yellow flames on scarlet cloth. The death eye meant they would take no prisoners. They intended to slaughter all within the fort.

The dreadmen paraded the banner up to where the Skir Masters and Flax stood.

“Look at that rotted spy,” Shim said. “Filling them in on our preparations. After the Bone Faces, we hunt him down.”

“Yes, Lord,” Argoth said.

The Skir Masters ended their talks with Flax, and their horn blowers blew a loud cadence. Mokad’s troops cheered again, but they did not move.

“Lord,” one of the captains on Shim’s other side said, “should we have the men take cover?”

“If the whirlwinds come, yes. But we don’t want our men to go to ground if they don’t. Let’s see how they play this,” said Shim.

There were teams of men working each stone giant. They pulled down the heads of the giants, raising the counter weight boxes into the air. Then half a dozen men loaded a squarish gray stone into the sling of each of the stone giants. Probably good hard stone like granite. But the sides were not flat. Argoth knew this for he’d seen such stones before. They had been carved so each surface was concave.

In a siege without skir, the stones would be round because all of the power would have to come from the throwing machines, and so the missiles needed to create as little wind resistance as possible. But with skir it was just the opposite. They needed to be shapes that the wind could easily carry.

Argoth estimated those stones were two to three hundred pounds each. The walls of this fort were not made of solid rock. There were instead two thinner walls of stones a number of feet apart, one on the front and one at the back. In between those two walls was a gap that had been filled with rubble stone and a binder. It was a cheaper way to make a solid wall. But it also meant that as soon as the outer wall was broken, the rubble of the inner wall would be easier to break apart. And three hundred pounds of solid rock would make short work of it.

The team next to the first stone giant finished and stood awaiting a command.

Flax gave a signal.

“Did you see that?” Shim asked.

It would not be the position of a spy to command anything. “Maybe he’s more than a spy,” Argoth replied.

Two men next to the stone giant pulled a thick lever, releasing the beam. The counterweighted end swung down. The head swung up, pulling the sling with it, whipping the stone up and around. Then one end of the big sling slid off its catch on the beam, flinging the heavy stone in a smooth arc into the air. But it wasn’t any kind of trajectory that would send the stone to the fort.

“Ha!” a soldier cried. “It’s going to fall short.”

The stone approached the apex of its arc and looked like it would fall maybe a hundred paces in front of the stone giant.

Jeers erupted from Shim’s men on the walls.

But behind the stone giants the branches of the trees on the opposite bank of the river suddenly whipped back and forth. The face of the river flattened. Spray kicked up. Then the trees on the near side swayed with a heavy wind.

The stone began to fall. The wind blasted past the stone giants and out over the field. A moment later the wind met the stone, and the huge stone jerked forward.

“The skir wind’s got it,” said Argoth. “Now we’ll see their strategy.”

The stone picked up forward momentum and rushed toward the fortress as it fell.

The jeers on the walls faded to silence.

The front edge of the wind raced across the field, hissing as it came, shaking the scrub and kicking up a cloud of dust and debris. The stone didn’t fly in a straight line, but careened a bit to the side, dipped, and then rose. It hurtled at the fortress. At first, Argoth thought it might be headed at Shim, but its path bent for the gate.

The men on the parapets there dove away. A moment later the leading edge of the wind slammed into the fort, ripping off a few helmets and carrying them aloft. The wind whined over the edges of the stone and the hoodoos. Then the large dark stone shot past and slammed into the weathered gate with a monstrous boom and crack. Men cried out, and then the tail end of the wind rushed over the walls, full of roiling debris, and whistled up the cliff face at the back of the fort.

Bits of grass and leaves mixed with dust and flittered over the fort. The huge gate beam had held, but a large part of the thick gate itself had been smashed in.

Another one of the stone giants swung up and cast its stone into the sky. Again the trees on the far side of the river bank shook; the waters of the river flattened; the branches of the trees on the near side bent and swayed. And the skir sped this stone across the field, the leading edge of the wind marking its passage.

The wind slammed into the fortress. A moment later the second stone shot past and crashed into the gate with another boom and crack.

The third stone giant swung up. Another stone. Another rush of wind.

“How many firelances do we have at the gate?” Shim asked.

“Two,” Argoth said.

“We’re going to need more seafire. That whole host is going to try to march right in.”

The stone was turning as it flew its weaving path, but then it suddenly veered to the right, well to the side of the gate.

“Lord!” the horn blower said.

The stone was speeding directly at Argoth and Shim.

Argoth said, “Let’s not give them one target, Lord.”

“Go,” said Shim.

Argoth ducked behind the crenellations and hurried down the wall so they wouldn’t be able to track his movement.

Shim stayed where he was, his hands on his hips, facing the Divines in defiance.

The loud hiss of the skir wind grew as it approached.

“Lord!” Argoth shouted.

Shim darted to the side just as the skir wind slammed into fortress and screamed over the edges of the parapets. A moment later the boulder itself smashed with a thunderclap into the crenellation where Shim had stood. The top of the stone wall there broke, the pieces of rock crashing to the ground in the courtyard below. The men there jumped to the side, and the stones tumbled into their trench.

The wind whistled over the fort, then howled up the cliff face.

Shim stood, dust and debris hanging in the air, and gestured an insult at the Divines of Mokad.

The first stone giant had been loaded while the other two were casting their missiles. It swung up again and slung another stone into the sky.

The stone and wind sped over the field as if targeting Shim again, but it veered and smashed the gate. The gate was made of thick timbers, but it was old and weathered, and the impact buckled one side further.

Another stone giant swung up. Another stone was caught in the skir wind. It too hammered into the gate. Three more stones were thrown. The next cracked the locking beam and twisted the right side of the gate off its hinges. The last two stones finished the other side. When they were done, the gate lay in pieces, chunks of the large stones littering the courtyard. But the stone giants weren’t finished.

The next dozen stones were sent to make breaches in the tops of the fort wall to ease an attack with ladders. The last stones were sent against the hoodoos. The shorter hoodoo was thicker, and the stones merely punched a few holes in the side where the stairway was. But the taller hoodoo was thinner, and after three blows in the same area, a huge section of the side cracked and fell to the courtyard below, killing a number of men, and ruining a number of trenches. It left a gaping hole in the side of the column. Another stone crashed into the column toward the top. The rock column wavered, then cracked with a deep rumble, and the top two-thirds of the column toppled like a massive tree, falling outwards toward the field.

The men below yelled and scattered.

The huge column of rock rotated slightly as it fell, then smashed across a section of the wall and out into the field with a thunder that shook the ground.

The column obliterated the part of the wall it fell on. But it also did damage along the wall, causing a twenty-foot section of the top half of the wall to break away and tumble into the ditch outside the fort, leaving a huge gap.

A shout rose from Mokad’s army.

25

To Ground

SUGAR STOOD IN the cover of the copse with Urban’s men. There hadn’t been a way through the lines. With the eyes of her soul she had watched as the three behemoth blue urgom took turns racing across the river to the fort and then back up in a great loop, pounding the fort with Mokad’s stones.

When the large stone-wight hoodoo smashed the wall, Soddam shook his head. “An hour of this, and there won’t be anything left.”

Deadly orange skir flew in the skies over the battle, darting away from the urgom. Then one of the orange skir swooped down at the fort, disappeared a moment behind the walls, and flew back up again, carrying a soul.

A few of the other orange skir saw it and, like gulls, gave chase, trying to steal the soul away from the first.

Out on the field by the Skir Masters, three Walkers marched up from the river in their spiked carapaces holding odd shaped spears.

Sugar remembered what had happened at Blue Towers. The Walkers had appeared, and then that horn had sounded in the world of souls. “I believe they’re about to start the harvest,” Sugar said.

Another orange skir dove down into the fort to grab the soul of another Shimsman. And she realized even if Shim won, the souls of the brave men who fell would still be lost.

“There has to be something we can do,” she said.

* * *

Argoth waited for more stones to pound the fort walls.

But Shim pointed. “It appears they are not going to pound the walls to rubble after all.”

Across the field Mokaddian crews began loading the smaller throwing engines to feed the winds.

Argoth said, “It’s time to send the men to ground.”

Shim signaled his men to take to the trenches. The soldiers scrambled, and in a few moments the army vanished below their sacks and into the base of the hoodoo towers and parts of the chambers at the back of the fort. But not all hid. Two dozen stormwatchers remained above ground. These were the soldiers who signaled to the others when the attacking army was upon them and it was time to rise. These men wore bands of armor over mail over a thick coat of twenty-four layers of linen. Great helms covered their heads. Underneath them they wore brass goggles with thick glass to protect their eyes. They wore scarves over their mouths so they could breathe. Their job was to lie upon the ground in a shallow trench or behind cover and watch. Seven of the two-man teams took positions in alcoves made for arrow slits along the parapets. Another team took position in the smaller hoodoo. The rest dropped into the old ditch that ran along the outside of the fort wall.

The stormwatchers were to signal when Mokad was poised to attack, for at that moment the wind storm would lessen, and Mokad would charge the open gate and walls. The problem was that the men in the deeper trenches might be buried with a few inches of dirt, which was more than enough to muffle most sounds. But even if the men in the trenches weren’t buried, the winds often did not dissipate completely when the army attacked. The sound of a horn still might or might not be heard.

And so the stormwatchers held one end of a length of knotted cord. When they saw the faces of the enemy, they would yank three times on their cords. Each cord ran to one of the commanders—Shim, Vance, or Hardy. Each of the commanders held cords of his own that stretched out to his terrormen in their trenches. The terrormen held cords that ran to the others with him in his own trench as well as his hammermen in other trenches. The hammermen held more cords leading to their fistmen. And so the call would go out like a great jangling spiderweb.

Shim and Argoth did not take to ground, but put on their brass goggles and scarves and took cover in an alcove. Wrapped tightly about one of Argoth’s hands was a cord leading to a pair of stormwatchers in the ditch outside the fort. Wrapped tightly about his other were the cords leading down to three terrormen in their trenches at the base of the wall.

On the field between Mokad and the fort, three winds began to whirl. The men manning Mokad’s stone giants cast batches of stones into them. As with the larger, wall-breaking stones, these were not smooth and round, but squarish or even carved with concave sides. The other teams cast up scraps of metal and pieces of sharpened wood.

They fed the winds a few more batches of material, and then the winds twisted across the field in jagged lines toward the fort, kicking up billows of dust and grass as they came. They were wide winds, and by the time they reached the fort walls Argoth could barely see past them. He could not hear Mokad’s horn, but he was sure it had sounded for he saw the army begin to march forward. Then the dust of the wind broke over the fort with a howl, blotting out the blue sky, making it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction.

He and Shim took cover, lying head to head along the corner made by the walkway and the wall. But no sooner had he gotten into position than a stone struck him violently in the side. He sucked in at the pain. He had armor, but armor couldn’t defeat such a blow. That stone had bruised a rib, if not cracked it. He pressed in closer to the wall and was pelted by a handful of rocks.

A shield smashed into the wall, then flew past. Another stone careened off his back. Something banged against his helmet and flew off. The wind howled. Then roared. The dirt and sand in it hissed along his armor.

Some skir winds were rumored to be so strong they could carry cattle aloft. And Argoth thought about the horses. Those that hadn’t been able to be given cover in the chambers at the back would surely take a beating. He supposed most of them would die.

Through the thick glass of the brass goggles he looked out at the fort, but couldn’t see for the dust and ferocious wind. A stone struck the side of his hand, crushing the last two knuckles. He cried out in pain and cursed himself—stormwatchers were trained to ball their hands in a fist and pull their arms in, so that knees, elbows, and fingers were protected. He pulled his hands in and tried to wedge himself deeper into the corner.

The wind raged, rising, then falling, then rising again. Stones thumped and cracked into the wall about him. He thought he heard cries, but couldn’t be sure. Another stone struck him in the shoulder. Something else hit him in the leg.

The roar about him grew louder. A huge gust slammed into him, the hands of the wind grabbing at his legs. Suddenly Shim was pulled down the wall a few inches. Argoth reached out and caught his arm.

Shim grasped his other arm, then pulled himself back, the wind raging over them.

Argoth turned his head slightly, and he must have exposed a gap, for, with a whoosh, the wind suddenly filled his helm. And then the helm was gone, exposing the mail hood, goggles, and scarf. The grit in the wind bit into his exposed cheeks, and he turned his face into the corner of the wall. And there he clung to Shim and the knotted cord for what seemed like an interminable length of time.

And then the roar lessened. He waited for it to increase again, but this time it lessened again. And lessened some more. Surely, Mokad had been given plenty of time to cross the field and bring its ladders close. They would come to stand a few dozen yards outside the edge of the skir winds and wait. But he didn’t move. Many Skir Masters often made the defenders think the wind was leaving. The defenders would then rise only to have the winds descend upon them again in full force. And, indeed, a few moments later another large gust tore through the fort, but then the roar lessened and faded almost altogether.

The cord in his hand tugged three times. Argoth tugged back to indicate he’d received the message, then tugged on the three cords in the other hand. Two of them tugged back. The third did not. When he pulled on it separately, he found the cord had been cut, probably by the metal or wood flying in the wind. He tugged to let the other terrormen know, then rose. Shim rose with him.

The wind still blew. And the dust made it impossible to see more than a dozen feet along the parapet, which meant the stormwatchers outside had probably moved forward of the ditch in order to see.

A ladder banged up against the wall. Argoth peered over to see who it was and saw the stormwatchers, scrambling up. Argoth looked down the wall, and saw another team scrambling up the ladder they’d taken with them to the ditch.

The dust was beginning to thin, allowing him to see out into the field. It was eerily quiet. Nothing but the sifting dust and the stubble of dirt-drifted grass and scrub.

Below in the courtyard, a horn sounded. Then another and another. Argoth looked back. The floor of the fortress was drifted with dirt and sand. In many places, all trace of the trenches were gone, smoothed over with dirt so that it was impossible to know an army lay there. And then the dirt began to move. Men began to push the sacks away and rise from their graves, helping comrades, digging others out where the dirt had drifted deep.

The first stormwatchers scrambled over the parapet and drew their ladders up after them.

And then the horns of Mokad sounded, and their soldiers roared. It was a sound to stop the heart and melt the spine. A few moments later, the masses of Mokaddian troops rushed into view through the dust only a few dozen yards out from the walls, pushing their ladders before them.

In the courtyard men began to shout. Others began to run to the walls or gate. Shim bellowed for his soldiers to get to the walls and form up.

* * *

The wind ran at the slot canyon like a screetching she-demon, throwing dust and grit like pins into the eyes of Black Knee and the others working there. The gale of dust thumped and howled through the crevice on the cliff face, then down the path. It knocked one of the Burundians off the top of the plug of boulders. It tried to carry the scaffolding away.

Black Knee hunkered down behind a small outcropping of rock next to Russet and Fish, the other two men Flax had sent with him.

The wind continued to howl and pluck until Black Knee wondered if this was his end, and then, as suddenly as it had come, the wind was gone.

Black Knee waited a moment, then wiped the grit and dust off his face and raised his head. He felt dizzy. Felt a bit sick.

“Goh,” said Fish, but he sounded all muffled.

“Just be grateful you weren’t one of those sods out in the fort,” Russet said.

Black Knee turned his head and knocked the dirt out of his ear.

“That wasn’t natural,” he said, a huge foreboding welling up in him. “This place isn’t natural.” And he knew something was behind the boulders. Something waited there.

The Burundian the wind had knocked off the boulders lay at the foot of the ladders dead, his neck at a bad angle. Another man that had taken cover close to the trio grunted, stabbed in the forearm by a length of wood carried in the wind.

Black Knee exchanged glances with Russet and Fish. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Fish said, “I never trusted that Kish.”

“I’m not worried about him,” Black Knee whispered. “There’s something on the other side. Can’t you feel it?”

The three of them looked up at the ladders and scaffold. Commander Eresh was climbing back up, moving lively as a monkey, calling for the rest of the men to hurry back to finish the ladders.

The Burundians went back to their work, lashing together the ladders that ran up the scaffolding, fitting them with pins to keep it all stable. This side was complete, but the top was easily thirty feet up, and the men would need a scaffold and ladders down the other side.

“Shoka,” one of the Burundians shouted at Black Knee. “Don’t just stand there; fetch those poles!”

Black Knee went to a bundle of poles the army had carried for building a camp and hefted one up. Soon the way would be finished. And Shim’s army could escape.

But something about it was all wrong. Black Knee felt this deep inside him. A warning had been pressing into his mind.

Death waited for the men on the other side of those boulders.

The Famished were back there. He was sure of it. And if the men clambered over those rocks, they’d be climbing right into the hands of those hungry souls.

The Famished would enter the men and destroy their souls. Then the Famished would climb back over the ladders in the bodies of those first men.

Building these ladders would unleash that darkness upon the land. And when they’d emptied this land, they would get on ships and spread to others.

“We need to take the ladders down,” he said.

“Did something hit you in the head?” the Burundian asked.

“We’re going to die,” Black Knee said.

“If all of Shim’s men are like you,” the Burundian said, “we surely will. Now get out of the way.”

There’s no time to make them understand, the warning in him said. Look, Commander Eresh is climbing the ladders. A man with such power—the Famished must not take his body.

“Commander!” Black Knee called.

But Eresh ignored him.

There’s no time, the warning said.

Black Knee’s mind felt cloudy. He shook his head trying to clear it. If the Famished were trapped in the belly of the mountain, why would they be on the path up the mountain?

There’s no time! The warning shouted.

He imagined the Famished even now approaching the Burundians on the other side of the boulders. Fear shot through him. Flax had warned him, and the horror was unfolding before his very eyes. He carried his load to the base of the scaffold and spied a Burundian bow set to the side. He walked over to it and picked it up, nodded at Russet and Fish.

The commander must not reach the other side. Black Knee had to protect him. Protect them all.

26

Assault

A LADDER SMACKED up against the wall a few yards down from Argoth. Big wooden arms in the shape of hooks had been lashed to the top of both rails to prevent the ladder from being simply pushed away. The Mokaddians below lifted the ladder up, then hooked the arms over the crenellation. Another ladder appeared farther down where the top of the wall had been smashed by one of the volleys sent over by the stone giants.

The ladder by the gap was the bigger threat, so Argoth dashed to it. Other soldiers covered in dirt rushed up the stairs from the courtyard, but Argoth could not wait for them. Two men were already climbing up the ladder. They both held shields above them with one arm. The first held a battleaxe by its head. The second held a spear.

The trick to climbing ladders in an escalade was to climb with speed. It was the job of the archers, slingers, and javelin throwers below to keep the walls cleared. However, the men on the ladder still needed to work as a team. One way to do that was to give the second man a short spear. Should someone try to attack the front man, the spearman could reach out and stab at the defender’s face, giving the lead soldier time to get up and over the wall.

But Argoth wasn’t going to wait for them to approach the top. He had been building his Fire for quite some time now, and his full might was upon him. He squatted down and grabbed a rung of the ladder with both hands, then lunged up and backward, pulling the ladder up and the two men with it.

He continued to pull the ladder back, then felt the weight and tug of other Mokaddians jumping on or pulling back. He shouted for help, and three Shoka rushed to him.

A storm of arrows shot up through the gap.

Argoth pulled to one side, but a number of the arrows still struck him, clattering off the ladder and his armor. A couple pierced through his breast plate. A few pierced through the mail underneath as well and partway through the padded tunic and pricked his skin.

He yanked with all his might and succeeded in moving the ladder up another rung, but could not budge it farther. Then the Shoka were there. Three of them formed a wall with their shields, blocking the storm of arrows. Two others grabbed the ladder and pulled with all their might. The ladder moved, but it was heavy, and the Mokaddians were still on it and climbing.

Another Shoka grabbed the top rung, and then four more were there, and they too grabbed the rails, and it was enough to break the hold of the men below, and the ladder top swung down. The bottom pivoted up, revealing three attackers clinging to it. One Mokaddian dropped back down. The other two saw their predicament, but instead of letting go, they scrambled forward with a yell.

Argoth and the others heaved and pulled the ladder, bringing the men closer.

A javelin with a barbed head struck one of the Shoka shields and pierced through it. A cord had been attached to the end of the javelin. And the men below yanked back on the cord, dragging the Shimsman and shield off the wall.

The archers below released more arrows into the opening. But another Shimsman stepped up, and the arrows thudded into his shield, turning it into a pincushion.

“Tip it!” Argoth shouted, and then he and the others heaved on one rail, tipping the ladder upside down. One of the attackers fell off the ladder. The second clung to one of the rungs. Then Shoka archers hit him with arrows, and the man fell into the mass of men below.

“Get rid of this ladder,” Argoth commanded the Shoka with them, then dashed back down the wall to the another ladder where a Shoka lay on the wall walk pierced with arrows. Another was wounded, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his arm. Two other men were trying to hack through the wooden ladder hooks. One soldier held a shield while the other struck at the hooks, but the attackers would be up before they would finish that.

Argoth drew his axe and yelled for them to stand back, then jumped to the top of the embrasure and brought his axe around one-handed and swung at the lashings holding the hook of the nearest rail. The axe bit in and severed the lashings holding the hook.

Below him the Mokaddians shouted and a number of archers released their shafts. But Argoth sprang back down to the wall walk, then up to the embrasure on the other side.

The Mokaddian archers were waiting for him and released their arrows.

But Argoth jumped onto the ladder itself.

Arrow shafts flew past him. One glanced off his leg.

Below Argoth, a number of men, shields raised, had already started to scramble up the ladder. Argoth called for the defenders to push the hooks back up. Then he held the crenellation and with all his multiplied might pushed sideways on the ladder. The top of the ladder began to scrape across the front of the wall. He pushed harder. The ladder scraped farther, and then it passed the balance point and began to fall on its own accord. Argoth hung onto the wall while the ladder crashed down, taking the men with it.

Arrows smacked into the wall about him. One glanced off his shoulder. Another pierced the metal armor at his back, pierced the mail underneath, and the padded tunic, and was stopped by a rib. He grunted at the pain, then swung his leg up and hauled himself back over the wall.

Out in the courtyard, most of the men were either rushing toward their positions or climbing out of their trenches, but there were still spots here and there toward the back of the fort where the men hadn’t yet gotten the signal and the earth lay undisturbed.

Argoth looked for the firelance teams. Then he saw them waiting to get up on the walls. He yelled at the men below to make way for them.

A horn sounded. Men yelled. Then a storm of stones flew over the wall. One glanced off his mail hood, leaving a smart pain just above his ear, and he remembered he had no helmet. Below in the courtyard, men shouted. Many raised their shields against the rocks, but some were too slow and took blows. One man was hit in the face and fell back.

Argoth rushed to a fallen Shimsman, removed the man’s helmet, and put it on his own head, then grabbed his shield. All along the wall, men yelled out a warning. Argoth looked up and saw a cloud of arrows speeding down through the dust at the defenders. Argoth kneeled and raised the shield over his head. Moments later, arrows thumped into it and clattered all about him.

He didn’t know how many archers Mokad had. But if their army was fifty thousand, then they might have twenty thousand with bows. If they shot nine arrows per minute, that would be almost 200,000 arrows raining down on the fort.

The storm of arrows continued to rain, smacking and clattering on the wood and stone, sinking into exposed thighs, covering the ground with a field of white and gray feathers. Out in the courtyard men cried out in pain. And still the arrows came, pin-cushioning the ground and upraised shields.

“Firelancers!” Argoth roared and saw one of the teams moving down the wall, men carrying the equipment, others holding shields aloft to protect them from the rain of death falling from the sky.

Other groups of men moved in the same manner toward the arrow loops and began to shoot their own arrows back out at Mokad and the men climbing the ladders. Still other groups of soldiers rushed up to try to overturn the ladders and fight the men trying to climb into the fort.

There was a small lull in the arrow storm, and a number of terrormen called out for their archers to shoot. Hundreds of archers responded, sending a cloud of arrows up into the sky to fall on the men outside the wall. Then they quickly raised their shields again as another wave of Mokaddian arrows began to appear, rushing at the defenders through the dust.

Mokaddian soldiers began to reach the tops of ladders. Others were fighting over the portion of the wall that had been crushed by the hoodoo. Down by the gates, men roared. A formation of Shim’s dreadmen spanned the width of the ditch behind the gate there. They were about ten men across and six ranks deep. Shim was there, standing behind the ditch in the center of the line. His men were in good order, shield next to shield. Those behind the front line held their shields, pierced with white- and gray-fletched arrows, over the heads of the formation.

Mokad’s dreadmen charged through the gates at Shim’s line. As they did, soldiers farther back hurled javelins at Shim’s men. Many stuck into the shields, weighting them, making the formation waver. But Shim’s men held. Furthermore, the ditch put Mokad’s soldiers at a disadvantage, breaking their line, allowing Shim’s dreadmen to stab and thrust through the breaks in the line to cut them down as they came. The first bodies fell, creating yet another obstacle for the men behind them, trying to press forward.

But Mokad’s men were dreadmen. And they were smelling blood. The rear ranks took the place of those who had fallen. They stabbed at the feet and lower legs of Shim’s men, stabbed at eyes. They bashed their shields into Shim’s line. A few of Shim’s men fell. Others took their place. Shim’s dreadmen were holding Mokad’s dreadmen for the moment, but they needed help!

Then the firelancers that were assigned to the far side of the gate placed their firelance in one of the embrasures. A moment later a stream of dark seafire spewed out of the mouth of the firelance. It ignited with a roar and billow of smoke. The firelancers moved the stream in wide arcs, spraying the liquid fire upon the Mokaddians trying to fight their way into the fort below.

Men screamed. Shim shouted an order, and his whole formation moved back two steps. The Mokaddian dreadmen at the front surged forward to escape the fire, but there was no order to their line. They crashed into Shim’s men, and the steel blades of Shim’s dreadmen in the front line, and the spears of those in the rank behind thrust and cut them down.

Another firelance team down the wall ignited their lance and pumped a stream of fire onto the men climbing ladders and those waiting below. Then they turned the lance outward and began to spray the archers. The breeze was strong enough to fan the stream, and it fell like burning rain. On Vance’s wall, men with staff slings lobbed the large clay balls of fireshot out into the ranks of Mokad’s army. Others hurled them at the men on the ladders.

Then the wind began to blow. A hissing rose from the field. And a moment later a skir wind plowed into the firelancers at the gate. Their stream of fire was blown to bits and thrown back at them and onto men in the courtyard. Another wind howled down the wall walk. It slammed into a group of firelancers, splashing their fire upon the Shimsmen next to them. A man stumbled, fell against their barrel of seafire, knocking it over. The black liquid splashed over the wall walk and down into the courtyard. A moment later it ignited in a huge flash, turning the firelancers into infernos.

And all down the wall, more Mokaddian ladders—too many ladders—thumped into place.

27

Soul Warrior

AFTER MOKAD’S ARMY surged forward, Soddam suggested they move up to another thicket. They were now at the edge of the field, and what Sugar saw with the eyes of her soul horrified her.

A dozen Walkers in their crab-spiked armor were herding the souls of the dead, using their spears to keep the orange skir at bay. Other Walkers were ranging out, calling out to the dead.

A death ship anchored at the mouth of the river. She knew what was coming: sooner or later those horrid skir they’d used to collect the souls of the dead at Blue Towers would arrive and take the souls to that ship.

The whole army would be butchered and their souls harvested. The skir had to be stopped. And the only way to do that was to take away the Skir Master’s control. But there was no way Urban’s men would be able to fight through the ranks of Mokad’s army to reach the Skir Masters.

Withers had told her the lore the Skir Masters wielded gave them power, but it also gave them a vulnerability, changed the nature of the flesh while the lore operated, exposing the soul.

She peered across the field at the fat Skir Master who’d sat on the rise so he could better survey the battlefield. A body of flesh was dark when compared to soul, but the Skir Master’s glistened. Even from this distance she could see that. This meant his soul was partway revealed. There were two others with him that glistened in the same manner. They wore no skennings, no spiked shell armor. They were exposed.

Sugar said, “Pray to the Creators for me.”

“What are you doing?” Soddam asked.

“Ferrets have teeth, do they not?”

“Sugar,” Urban said in warning.

“I cannot stand by and watch,” she said. “If I fail, I fail. But I will at least have tried. There was one time I might have tipped a battle that played out in front of my home. I will not run away from spears again.”

“You don’t have a weapon,” Urban said.

“Pray the ancestors come,” she said, “and that I can strike a useful blow.” Then she struck out from the trees, traveling with the speed only a soul could muster.

* * *

Talen and the others stood at the edge of the woods just a hundred yards behind the rear of the southeastern part of Mokad’s army. Beyond the army rose the fort where Shim’s men were pinned. Beyond that lay the river with a number of Mokaddian ships on it.

Harnock crouched over the last of the rear guard patrol he’d just killed.

Chot looked at the battle at the fort and hissed. “Skinmen are full of shallog.”

He didn’t know the half of it. The monstrous blue skir dove at the fort, calling to each other in loud whuffs and whistles. Orange skir darted between the behemoths. On the battlefield, the souls of dead horses fled before the greedy orange skir while those of the men rushed to odd spiked creatures with odd spears, which must be guardians sent by the ancestors.

Then he saw two of those guardians by the Skir Masters and revised his opinion. Maybe they weren’t from the ancestors.

Harnock returned. “I don’t think you’re going to get any closer. And I don’t know how long we’re going to be able to stay. You should see the size of their dogs.”

“Then this will have to do,” said Talen.

After facing Nashrud and his spirit blade, Talen didn’t dare attack the Skir Masters directly. And especially not with those spiked things close to them. But there were only three skir here in operation. He looked up at the creatures and their mountainous bulk. Until now, the weaves he’d raveled had been grown into relatively small things—insects and humans. He wondered if the thralls were any different in such giants.

The shouts and cries of men in battle carried over the field. Fire and smoke rose into the sky. The souls of the dead continued to gather in front of the fort. Movement on the edge of the field caught his eye: a figure in white ran toward the battle. It was human, but it wasn’t naked like the other souls. This one wore a skein of some sort.

An ancestor? Or was she some Mokaddian servant? He was out of his depth here; he was going to have to be very careful.

“Save them,” River said.

Talen mustered his courage, hoping the orange skir would not notice him. Then he shot his roamlings forth, up past the trees, over the battlefield and toward the closest skir, a monstrous and beautiful blue creature that seemed to fill the sky.

* * *

Sugar raced behind a line of trees toward the river. She figured it would be best to come up on the Skir Masters from behind, and from the cover of trees. She entered the strip of woods running along the river and began to make her way toward the Skir Masters.

Over the battlefield, the orange skir clicked and the big blue urgom trumpeted. In the woods ahead, she saw a column of the white gossamers and moved to avoid them. The piercing sound of a howler rose in the distance and sent a shiver through her, but she continued forward.

Then she saw a cage on a wagon out on the field and stopped in shock and alarm.

“Urban,” she said with the mouth of her flesh.

“Quietly,” Urban said. “You’re going to give our position away.”

“Legs,” she whispered. “He’s in a cage. Here on the field. About fifty yards down from the Skir Masters. Urban—”

“We’ll get him,” Soddam whispered in the ear of her flesh. “We will get the boy, I promise you.”

Ancestors, she prayed. Please come from your hiding place and help us.

Then she described to Urban and Soddam exactly where he was, the numbers of troops she’d run past on her way here, including the dogmen, and how many were in the hammer that was guarding him.

“You’ve got to help him,” she said.

“Soddam’s already moving,” Urban said.

Sugar turned back to her task and then began to wonder if she’d been rash. What could she do without a weapon?

She didn’t know, but she knew the result of doing nothing. Da had always said that many ideas only come when you’re on the move, when you’re working. She prayed he was right and picked her way closer to the Skir Masters, following the trees until she stood in soul behind a group of seamen who had come up from the river to watch the battle. And that’s when she saw the Walkers. There were half a dozen of them with howlers on the leash guarding the Skir Masters. Even if she’d had a weapon, there was no way she could fight so many. It would be suicide.

One of the howlers turned its head toward her. Sugar pulled back behind a tree trunk and froze. She reached out with her hair. She couldn’t feel as clearly with it while wearing the skenning, but she could still feel the presence of the howlers.

She looked around and finally decided that the best escape would be to take to the trees. As a soul she could run along the limbs all the way to the sea if she had to. She prepared to climb, but the howlers did not approach.

What was she going to do?

On the battlefield, Mokad’s troops pressed forward while the souls of the dead leapt from the walls to the protection of the Walkers. There were hundreds of souls there. If she didn’t do something, the whole army would soon be under the control of the Walkers.

She paused.

The whole army . . .

Maybe she couldn’t overcome a few Walkers, but an army could!

She knew what she needed to do, but it wouldn’t happen here, so she drew away from the Walkers and Skir Master and made her way to the bottom of the field and back to the fort.

A number of the Walkers guarded the souls of the men, circling them like shepherds circled sheep. There was maybe a fist of them. And there were more Walkers in the fort and on the walls calling to the other dead, directing them to the fold. One of these was maybe fifty paces away with his back toward her, gathering a group to him and the safety of his pike.

She looked up at the sky. Three orange skir darted down, trying to snatch a soul from a group being led by a Walker to the main group, but the Walker stabbed up at them and sent them wheeling away. As the orange skir flew up, one of the big blue urgom dove down and caught two of them in its hairs. The rest of the orange skir scattered, flying far out over the plain.

Sugar figured now was her opportunity, and she ran out of the trees across the field toward the main group of souls.

One of the Walkers spotted her.

“Shimsmen!” Sugar shouted.

A number of the souls turned.

“These are not ancestors come to protect you!” she yelled. “They’re servants of Mokad’s Skir Master!”

More souls turned. Other Walkers noticed her.

“Famished!” one of the Walkers shouted and lowered his soul spear.

She ripped the skenning cap off her head. “Shimsmen!” she said. “It’s me. Take their weapons!”

A Walker rushed toward her. Another joined him.

“It’s Sugar!” One of the Shimsmen shouted.

A ripple ran through the crowd.

“It’s a phantom!” a Walker shouted. “Ignore its illusions.”

“They’re here to harvest you, not protect you!” Sugar roared. “Take their weapons!”

“Filth!” the closest Walker shouted. He charged, his soul spear lowered. The spear’s blade was smoky red, just like the red blade of the Walker she’d killed.

She ran from him, skirting the crowd of souls. “The battle is not yet over!” She shouted. “You can fight Mokad still. Take their weapons and attack the Skir Masters!”

Three Walkers were running at her from different directions. A fourth Walker charged her. She dodged aside, but two others cut off her escape. She tried to charge past one of them, but he scrambled and blocked her. She turned, looking for an escape, but was surrounded.

And then there was shouting behind her. Five souls were wrestling with a Walker. The Walker struck one with a spiny arm, and the dark essence of the soul began to flow. But the others wrested his spear away. Another soul took his sword.

“Look out!” one of the souls shouted at her.

Sugar sensed the Walker coming and sprang to the side. His blade swung down and cut through the skenning on her leg, making a shallow slice across her leg. A glittering essence leaked from her that turned inky black in the air, but it wasn’t a deep wound. She rolled and scrabbled back.

The Walker advanced on her, but then more souls rushed from the crowd and attacked two of the other Walkers, disarming them and stabbing them with their own blades.

The Walker coming after her saw the crowds moving forward. He stopped, backed away a few paces, then fled.

“Take him!” she shouted. “You need his weapons!”

A number of unarmed souls chased after him, but he turned and menaced them with his spear. He stabbed one soul. Slashed another.

She had at least some kind of protection with her skenning. They did not. “A spear!” Sugar called.

One of the souls tossed one to her. It was about as long as her blackspine had been. It felt good in her hands. Furthermore, she felt a power in it and realized this weapon was not an inanimate object—it was alive.

She charged the Walker. He turned to meet her attack. Sugar feinted a thrust. He parried. Then she charged him, turned the butt of the staff and struck him in the head. He fell back, and one of the naked souls caught the shaft of his weapon.

The Walker fought for control.

The weakest point of segmented armor was at the joints. This crab-like armor wasn’t segmented exactly like normal armor, but there did appear to be a thinning where the arms and legs connected. Sugar lunged for the Walker’s armpit.

He turned, but not quickly enough, and the point of her spear penetrated. She lunged with all her might, and the shaft sank deeper. The Walker yelled in pain, tried to retain his weapon, but the soul of the Shimsman wrenched it free and stabbed the point into the Walker’s face.

And with that, the souls of the Shimsmen were free.

“Are you all right?” one of them asked. “Your leg.”

She looked down, but her skenning was already moving to cover the wound.

“I’ll be all right,” she said and recognized him. He was the son of a fisherman and the leader of a hammer of men. “Swan,” she said, “We don’t have much time. We need to attack the Skir Masters.”

“Where are the ancestors?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But we can’t wait for someone else to save us. We need to attack now and give those that live a chance.”

Across the field, a few of the other Walkers ran from the souls that pursued them, but the souls soon caught up and dragged them down. An orange skir took advantage of the chaos and dove, snatching up one of the Shimsmen.

Other glistening souls turned to her, waiting for her orders.

Then a horn sounded across the field. Sugar did not hear it with the ears of her flesh, but with the ears of her soul. The sound reverberated inside her. It was the same call she’d heard at Blue Towers.

The horn sounded again. The compelling note held, stretching long. Something stirred in Sugar’s wrists, then fell silent again. But around her, the men were exclaiming in wonder. They were holding their hands up, looking at their wrists, at the tattoos that were moving there. Small wisps began to rise like steam from the tattoos. The wisps hovered above the men for a moment, then the horn sounded again, long and loud, and the wisps shot out toward the source of the sound.

“What’s happening?” one of the men said. “What are those things?”

“It’s some kind of dark thrall, and the horn commands it,” she said. “You must fight its compulsion!”

“It’s going to be okay,” the man next to Sugar shouted to the others. He gazed at his upheld wrists in wonder. “The ancestors are coming. That was their call.”

“That was not their call!” Sugar shouted.

Down by the death ship, one of the collector skir rose. It looked like a humped ray with a long body. Its back was gold. Its belly was brown. The image of the souls at Blue Towers rose in her mind: all here would soon be wrapped in the hairs of these creatures like flies wrapped in spider silk.

“No!” Sugar screamed. “No! Fight them. They’re coming to harvest you!”

Some of the souls did indeed seem to be fighting the compulsion, but others were walking out to meet the collectors.

“The ancestors are coming to take us to the everlasting burnings,” another soul said and walked past her toward the collectors.

The horn sounded again.

“Shimsmen,” she cried, “defend yourselves!”

The first collector soared over the trees toward the field and reached down with one long whip and plucked a soul up and buried it in the hair on its belly. It picked up another. Sugar ran toward the creature.

The collector picked up another soul, and another, its half-dozen whips striking down. Two other collectors joined it.

She ran past a number of souls standing in a stupor, waiting for their doom, and, with all her might, hurled her spear at the collector. It was a solid throw, and the spear struck.

The creature jerked back, dropped three souls from the hairs on its belly.

Sugar turned, saw a soul standing motionless, holding another spear, and ran to him. She grabbed the spear from his hand, then felt something wrap around her waist. She struggled, but the collector tightened its grip and heaved her off the ground.

28

The Raveler

TALEN’S ROAMLINGS SHOT high above the field. He didn’t think he was going to be able to catch the huge blue skir, but then it turned, and his roamlings caught up. The size of the creature up close was even more awe-inspiring. His roamlings were nothing compared to this creature. They were like two blades of grass in a meadow. Like two small stones on the side of a mountain. The Fire and soul of the urgom surrounded him, immense and delicious.

The monstrous beast rose with powerful speed, and Talen had to burrow deep into its hairs to stay with it. He immediately began to work his roamlings across the body, searching for the thralls.

The urgom rose a dizzying height above the fort, then dove. Talen continued to search, thinking he’d never find the thrall in time. Then one of his roamlings, the one closest to what must be the creature’s head, found the edge of something that looked familiar.

Talen felt along the weave imbedded in the urgom’s back and found the weave was huge. It was so large, he could not see where it ended, but it felt familiar, and so he gathered his courage and struck. In a moment he was in, but he was not ready for the presence he met there.

Before, when he’d attacked the wasp lord, he had felt the wasp lord’s soul, felt it flee before him. This time he faced a vast consciousness, but it did not flee. It turned and regarded him, and before he could begin to ravel the weave, it seized his roamling. From the roamling, its consciousness leapt into Talen himself, filling him up. He had felt panic when River had pushed through the doors of his soul, but this was magnified tenfold.

“Lords!” he gasped, and the shock of it sent him reeling backward.

Harnock leaned over his body. “Boy?”

Talen saw Harnock’s face for a brief moment and the tops of the trees and the sky beyond, and then the monstrous presence of the urgom pushed all that aside and filled his mind. Talen tried to flee, but everywhere he went, the urgom was already there.

He felt like he couldn’t breathe.

I’m trying to save you, he shouted in his mind.

But the urgom did not listen. It pressed forward, took him in its grasp as the orange skir had done. Talen could feel its intent. It was going to kill him. Kill the thing that had tried to worm into its being.

For a brief moment Talen caught the flicker of a doorway and a man standing beyond the mind of the urgom. He felt the vaguest sense of another. Maybe a group of them. And then they were gone. He’d felt that doorway before with Hunger, felt the Mother beyond it.

I’ll break the bond! Talen shouted.

The urgom began to pierce him in what felt like a hundred places.

Then Talen realized: it wouldn’t understand words. It wouldn’t speak Koramite or Mokaddian. But it could read his intent just as Talen had read its intent to destroy him. Talen pictured the weave grown into the urgom’s back, pictured the Skir Masters. He pictured the bonds raveling apart and the urgom soaring free.

The urgom stopped.

The pain seared through Talen’s whole soul, but he focused and pictured the bonds tattering again, pictured the urgom free, pictured his roamling raveling the weave upon the urgom’s back.

He felt the urgom struggle with those controlling it.

A moment passed. Another.

Suddenly the immense presence released him. It withdrew, out of his body, out of the roamling, and left Talen stunned and gasping in pain. The world about him rushed back in, and he found himself looking up into the trees and blue sky from where his body lay.

An immense relief surged through him as did the realization that man was nothing. Man was a gnat. A worm. How was it possible something so insignificant could control something so vast as an urgom?

Harnock’s face moved into view, “Boy?” He shook Talen’s shoulder.

Far above, his roamlings were still clinging to the hide of the urgom, two tiny snakes on the side of a mountain. Talen’s whole soul felt raw, but he reached out with the roamlings and pushed into the urgom’s weave again. This time the massive presence held back.

* * *

The collector curled Sugar up to its belly. There were other, smaller skir living in the hairs there. Gray things that skittered about like giant insects. One hair wrapped itself around her leg. Another tried for her arm, but she yanked it free. She still held the spear, but in moments she’d be immobilized and that wouldn’t matter, so she grabbed the spear with both hands, then stabbed up with all the strength she could muster. There was a slight resistance, then the spear broke through something.

The collector convulsed.

She stabbed again. And suddenly the spear was ripped out of her hands, and she was falling along with half a dozen other souls.

The collector blared its pain. It hissed. The other two collectors backed off a bit.

Sugar tumbled to the ground, then sprang to her feet and backed away.

The collector had the spear in one of its whips. It flung it away and bunched its body up as if to protect its wound. Then it struck out with a whip at another soul.

And Sugar realized they were going to lose this battle.

She and the other souls needed to find some hole to hide in, something they could defend. Except the horn would call them out, and only a handful seemed to be able to resist the thralls in their wrists to any degree.

One of the souls that the collector had dropped ran back to the monster and raised his arms like a child wanting to be picked up. “Don’t leave me!” he cried.

At the other end of the field, the Walkers that had been guarding the Skir Masters were moving forward against the few who had been able to resist the horn.

Collectors above. Walkers and howlers below. Sugar despaired. There were simply too many foes.

* * *

Black Knee backed away from the scaffold, bow in hand. Fish and Russet pulled back with him, hands on the pommels of their weapons.

A terrible melancholy welled up in Black Knee, and he began to weep. He did not know why.

A tiny part of him cried out that he must not draw the arrow from the arrow bag.

But the voice of warning shouted over it. The Famished! They are there!

Fear shot through him. The men on the other side might already be possessed. He drew the arrow, fitted it to the string. The arrow had a good steel head that was long. Good for piercing through armor at close ranges.

Commander Eresh stood on top of the boulders holding one end of a rope. The men on the ground tied another load of poles to the other end of the rope Eresh held. When they finished, the commander began to haul them up. A few more loads and Black Knee suspected they’d have all the materials they’d need to finish the ladders on the other side.

But they must not finish them.

Black Knee looked at Russet and Fish, looked back at Commander Eresh. He would need to shoot Eresh first. Then Fish would need to climb up the scaffold himself with an axe and break it all apart. If the men here resisted, he would fight them. And he would win. He’d survived the forcing and now wore a dreadman’s weave. These men hadn’t even been made candidates yet. They would be slow, and he and Russet would cut them down if they did not listen.

This whole scene was unreal, as if he were watching it from someone else’s eyes. As if it were a foggy dream. He blinked and wiped his unaccountable tears away. Then he raised the bow, drew it, and aimed at Commander Eresh standing above. It was a strong bow. A close shot. With an arrow point designed to pierce armor.

* * *

Argoth ran along the wall walk, past a fist of men fighting Mokaddians trying to come over the parapet. Up ahead Mokad wheeled a ladder with a boarding bridge toward a part of the wall where the crenellation had been demolished. A number of Mokaddian soldiers had already climbed the wheeled ladder and clung to it like ants. And Shim’s men couldn’t shoot them off with arrows because the skir winds were howling like a gale down the battlements to defeat any defense with arrows or seafire.

As soon as the ladder was close enough, they would drop the hooked wooden bridge and storm over it to the battlement. Argoth was tempted to help his men who were preparing to jump up on the bridge when it was lowered and try to storm the men wanting to rush over it, but there were bigger problems down in the gap made by the fallen hoodoo.

Just before he reached the hammer of men waiting for the bridge, he jumped from the wall to the stairway descending to the courtyard, and then to the ground below. His wounds stung and throbbed, but he ignored them, rolled when he landed, and then continued to run toward the gap.

Groups of men waited in reserve in the courtyard. Shouts went up from one of these groups to look out for stones, and then men quickly raised their shields.

Argoth looked up and saw a rain of dark stones falling from the sky. He raised his own shield and dodged to the side. A number of stones thumped into the shield. One struck the side of his leg, but he kept running.

The twenty foot section of wall that had buckled and fallen after the hoodoo was now a jumbled pile of stone and rubble ten feet high. Vance had fought enemy troops charging up the pile, but the top of such a pile is awful ground. The jumble of stones made it almost impossible to maintain a solid line. And Vance’s terror had been beaten back. Vance himself had fallen. His standard was lying at the base of the pile.

Vance’s slingers were hurling stones and lead shot at the Urzarians clambering over the top. But the Urzarians had shields and armor. And the slingers were being forced to retreat back down the pile of rubble.

Argoth rushed to the base of the gap, raised Vance’s standard, and planted it in the soft dirt of one of the trenches at the base of the pile of rubble. The best place to meet the enemy’s charge was at the bottom of the pile. That way the enemy’s line would be ragged as they tried to make their way down over the rocks. It would also expose them to slings and javelins.

Argoth shouted over the wind and motioned for the reserve soldiers to form up. A terrorman urged his troops forward, shields raised over their heads against the occasional volleys of stones that were still falling from the sky.

They formed up around Argoth. The front men lowered their shields in front of them. The men behind held theirs aloft like a roof. Argoth drew his short sword and roared into the wind, watching the ragged line of Urzarians try to advance over the rubble.

There were maybe a hundred in this first group. Their beards flowed out from underneath their helmets. Their eyes raged with murder. They held their shields before them. The slingers continued to throw their stones and lead. Many of the missiles simply bounced off the shields. But one man was hit in the face; he tripped and fell, making two others stumble on the rocks. Another man was hit in the leg. But the majority continued to come.

Argoth waited at the base amid a scattering of stones. It was difficult to hold a line. Your body cried out to charge forward and meet your enemy. Or, if fear had seized you, to flee. Vance’s men held their line at the bottom. The Urzarians coming down did not. They saw their quarry. Saw how few in numbers they were. A group of Urzarians roared and charged. The roar spread, and suddenly the mass of men were hurrying, jumping, stumbling down the rocks.

Vance’s men stood their ground and braced themselves. A tighter formation always had the advantage in a clash like this because a tight formation allowed two or sometimes three men to fight just one of the enemy who was in a looser formation. Furthermore, the men in a tight formation were less exposed to the blows of the enemy.

The Urzarians tried to form up, but the blood lust was upon them, and they crashed into Vance’s line, trying to shove shields aside so they could stab and thrust.

A huge black-bearded man slammed into Argoth’s shield. But Argoth was multiplied. He hit the man’s shield with his shield boss, knocking it to the side. Then he lunged forward with his sword, a straight thrust into the man’s belly. The sword pierced the mail, pierced the padded tunic underneath. Argoth felt the give as it slipped into the flesh. He twisted the blade, then pulled it out, and stepped back.

The big man bellowed, brought his axe around. But the Shimsman next to Argoth thrust his sword into the man’s neck, right up under the base of his jaw, and into the skull, and the big man fell.

There was now a wide gap exposing the Urzarian to Argoth’s right. Argoth stabbed forward into the man’s side, piercing mail and tunic again. The man cried out.

Someone cut the man’s calf, and he fell back, creating an obstacle for the men behind.

An axe slammed into Argoth’s shield, splitting a hole in it. Argoth shifted to his left, punched the boss at the axeman’s face.

The man raised his shield to protect himself, and Argoth crouched and stabbed into the man’s groin. The leather strips turned his blade, so he stabbed again, this time punching through and cutting the man’s inner thigh. The man swung his sword down, but the man next to Argoth raised his shield and shed the blow. Argoth stabbed just under the man’s coat of plates. His sword broke through muscle wall of the belly. He twisted the blade and pulled it out.

The unholy rage of battle filled Argoth. Made him feel invincible. And as a loreman of many years against these unmultiplied, he was invincible.

All around Argoth men screamed and grunted, but the Urzarians had been too eager. And more of their men fell. Argoth thrust the point of his sword into another man’s face, cleaving the skin along his jaw and breaking teeth. Vance’s man on Argoth’s left stabbed the man in the side, and he fell.

And then the remaining Urzarians were falling back, scrambling up the slope of rubble.

A cheer rose from Vance’s men.

“Hold your ground!” Argoth shouted, although he knew most of the men wouldn’t hear it. They would want to pursue now that their targets were easy, but to fight on those rocks was death.

“Hold your ground!” he shouted again and motioned for the men to stay back. The men next to him picked up the order and shouted it down the line. And Vance’s men held, the wind and dust and black seafire smoke gusting about them.

The original line of Urzarians fled over the wall, past another line of men coming up. The new group crested the pile of rubble. Their helmets gleamed silver blue with faceplates fashioned to look like snarling wolves, faceplates that turned their eyes to dark pits. They wore black tunics over their armor. The rawhide leather covering their shields was dark gray. And on the dark shields was painted the outline of a wolf’s head in white.

The war wolves of Urz.

These were men bred to be dreadmen. In Urz there were wolf studs, dreadmen with superior strength and speed. And families paid to have these men breed with their wives or daughters or slaves. For if the child was called up to the ranks of dreadmen, the family would receive not only honor, and the wealth of war, but their line would then also become a breeding line. And the sums paid to the most fearsome wolf studs were great.

The war wolves of Urz were literally a breed apart. Magnify a worm, and all you have is a slightly stronger worm. Magnify a wolf, and you had something truly terrible.

Argoth looked down his line. Most of the men with him did not even wear a candidate’s weave. Murmurs of fear rippled through the formation.

The jumbled rocks would give Argoth’s ranks of men an advantage, but not a big enough one. They would fall to the wolves.

He looked up at the battlements. Soldiers from Mokad’s army had broken through in many places and were now fighting on the wall walks. He looked at the gate. Shim and the dreadmen were being forced back. He looked toward the arches at the back of the fort, but there was no sign of Eresh.

The army was at the precipice. The lines were going to buckle. And when they broke, the slaughter would begin.

He thought of Serah and the children. A cohort of older men and boys too young to fight were with them. They would go into the south lands. They would carry the truth with them. They would keep the light of knowledge alive.

He would need to follow, to be there when Nettle entered the world of souls. He prayed to his ancestors and steeled himself.

Then the war wolves of Urz began to make their way down the pile of rubble.

“Stand your ground!” Argoth roared over the wind. “Then kill them like we did the last ones!”

* * *

High above the battle field, Talen brought all his roamlings to bear on the thrall in the skir. He bit and tore. Fire sprayed forth. But this thrall was so immense it was like eating a whale.

Talen felt the doors to a Skir Master open. Then another door to someone connected to the Skir Master. The Skir Master tried to attack him, but Talen struck out at him with one of his roamlings. The Skir Master roared and charged again, but Talen met him and stopped his attack. With the other roamlings, he continued to ravel, the fire and soul flying about him. He fought and raveled, time stretching. And then the Skir Master was gone. Not long after that, he found himself surrounded by nothing but tatters.

The urgom shuddered. It examined Talen once more, almost suffocating him, then it hurled his presence out, hurled his roamlings from its body, and slammed its doors shut.

The massive creature careened away from the fort and roared. It roared again, this time even louder. The sound was immense. It shook Talen’s roamlings until he thought they would fall apart. It shook his body of flesh, driving him to his knees.

The orange skir darting about the field seemed to wither. A few fell to the ground and lay there as if dead. The larger golden long-haired skir scattered.

The urgom roared again and seemed to shake the very earth. Then it flew at the Skir Master.

One of the other big urgom trumpeted a challenge and intercepted it, the two great creatures colliding above the battlefield.

The second urgom was protecting its master. It was still enthralled. But that could be fixed. Talen knew the thrall. Knew where it would be located. He sent two of his roamlings to the urgom protecting its master; he sent the other two to the skir flying over the fort.

29

Seafire

THE ROAR OF the massive blue urgom stole all thought from Sugar’s mind. It flattened her to the ground, cut her to the core. Another wave of pain burned along the bones of her flesh, making the soul wound she’d inflicted upon herself by using the necklace even worse.

But this was unlike anything she’d felt before. Her very bones felt like they were aflame, and she realized she needed to get back to her flesh.

This was what Withers had warned her about.

She pushed herself up onto her knees, trying to gather her strength. The collectors had fled. Above her, two of the blue urgom struggled against each other. She didn’t know what was happening, but she wasn’t going to wait for those collectors to come back. However, before she fled back to her body, she needed to help the others get as far away from that horn as possible.

In pain, she climbed to her feet, saw a soul spear lying not too far away, and picked it up. All about her the souls of Shim’s men were rising and shaking themselves.

Over by the Skir Masters, the howlers barked like Regret himself was among them. Each of the Walkers was holding the leash to a number of the spiked howlers that strained to be released.

“Shimsmen!” she shouted. “Find your weapons!”

Men finally began to move.

“Here!” she called. “To me!”

The two behemoth skir locked in battle overhead roared and careened toward her. Such mass would surely crush her soul. She dove to the ground, sure that her soul would be squashed. But the skir passed an arm’s length over her head, clacking and groaning, then thundered into the ground beyond.

Sugar and those around her looked for an escape. The struggling skir blocked the way to the plain. The Skir Masters and Walkers were coming from the river. The fort and cliff were behind them. “Up the canyon!” she cried.

A wave of pain washed through her, and she sagged against the spear. She waved the souls coming to her on, and they rushed past her toward the canyon.

“Are you all right?”

She looked up. A soul holding one of the Walker’s red blades stood before her. She recognized him. The men had given him the nickname of Charge because he was always jumping the battle lines. In life, he’d been a wiry man with a face scarred by acne. Here his hair was waist-long, his eyes dark and shining. His soul glorious.

Swan walked up, wearing some of the spiked crab-like armor and carrying a soul spear. A third soul without any tattoo at all joined her as well.

“There are going to be more dead,” Charge said. “And we’ve got mainlander Mokaddians with us.”

Sugar nodded. “We’re all humans here. Send everyone up the canyon. We need to get them as far away from the horn as possible while we have the chance.”

Charge nodded and yelled to the souls.

Then the barking of the howlers rose to an unholy racket.

Sugar turned and saw the Walkers unleashing them, the dark beasts shooting forth.

“Gods,” Charge said in horror.

“Here!” Sugar yelled to the souls. “This way!”

But the souls weren’t fast enough. A howler ran down a soul and tore into him. Two more took down another man and went at him with their wicked mouths.

More souls fled past Sugar and the others with her, but the howlers caught up to those in the back, tearing and ravaging them.

“They die like anything else,” she said to Charge and the others around her. Then she raised her spear and ran at the two closest howlers, screaming her war cry.

Charge and the other armed souls yelled and followed.

* * *

Black Knee hesitated, his muscles bunching and straining at the drawn bow.

Shoot him! The voice commanded.

“Commander!” Black Knee yelled. “Come down!”

Eresh looked at him, but continued to haul up the bundle of six-foot poles. “What are you doing?”

“Flax said to beware the Famished. They’re on the other side.”

“Flax?” Eresh asked. “Flax is a traitor. I saw it with my own eyes.”

The Famished already has him, the voice said.

Confusion, melancholy, grief all roiled in Black Knee’s mind.

“Commander!” he called.

He’s possessed! The voice said. Look at that mad eye, milked over with evil. Look at the anger.

And indeed Commander Eresh’s face was full of wrath.

“Put the bow down,” Eresh called, still hauling up on the rope.

“It’s taken him,” Black Knee said to Russet and Fish. “Ancestors save us.” Then he loosed the arrow.

It flew straight and true, but Eresh hauled hard on the rope. The poles flew upward. And then he was holding them in front of his chest, and the arrowed thocked into the wood.

“Get him!” Eresh cried.

Black Knee snatched up another arrow, nocked it, bent his bow, but a number of Burundians were charging him.

Russet and Fish stepped out to block their way, weapons drawn.

Black Knee turned back to target Eresh, but Commander Eresh was not on the wall. He’d jumped and was running straight for Black Knee, his one good eye burning with fury.

Black Knee loosed his shaft, but Commander Eresh ducked, rolled, and then he was into Black Knee, slamming him back against the rock.

Black Knee struck the commander, tried to draw his knife, but Eresh threw him to the ground.

The Burundians knocked Russet out with a pole and closed in on Fish.

“The commander!” Black Knee shouted. “He’s being ridden by the Famished!”

But the men ignored his pleas.

Black Knee roared and tried to surge to his knees, but the commander was too strong, and then two more of the Burundians were there, holding Black Knee, lashing his arms and feet.

“On the other side!” Black Knee said. “They’re there!”

When the Burundians had tied him, Eresh examined Black Knee’s wrists, felt up his arms. He pulled back Black Knee’s tunic to reveal the arm ring Berosus had given him.

“Here’s the poison,” Eresh said, then yanked the thing off his arm.

The warning voice in Black Knee’s mind was suddenly silenced. But the foreboding lingered. “Commander?” he said.

Eresh snarled and struck Black Knee in the face. “What did we tell you about accepting weaves from any but us!”

“Flax was a terrorman.”

“He wasn’t me. He wasn’t Argoth. He wasn’t Shim.”

But Flax had been one of them.

Then another soldier came running into the crevice pathway.

“Commander!” he cried.

Eresh drew his sword and turned to face him.

“Lord,” the man said, then saw the sword and pulled up short in alarm.

“Did Flax send you too?” Eresh asked.

“Lord Shim sent me,” the man said. “The lines are breaking. We’re being overrun.”

Eresh motioned at Black Knee. “Don’t let him out of those knots. And get the scaffold finished. And post a rotted watch!” Then he dash down the path to the door leading to the chambers at the back of the fort.

* * *

The black-clad Urzarian war wolves advanced slowly down the rubble toward Argoth and his men, keeping their lines together, holding their dark shields painted with the wolf heads before them. Underneath their black surcoats embroidered with the white stars of Urz, they wore mail hauberks that ended just above the knee. They were experienced men. Hard men with eyes full of grim murder. Their line was twenty men across. Argoth’s line was longer and could overlap them on the ends, but the war wolves coming behind came forward to extend the length of their line.

Argoth prepared himself to receive their charge. His left leg was forward a bit, shield raised, sword ready to thrust. Fire raged through him. The war wolves were dreadmen, but he was a loreman. He wasn’t limited by the weave.

But, holy Creators, the men down his line had nothing.

“Hold the line!” Argoth shouted, but he knew his men couldn’t. How could they hold their positions against men with three times their strength and speed? They’d fall, and even if Argoth stood, he would soon be surrounded.

“We’re going to gut you like pigs!” one of the war wolves shouted. He pointed his sword at a man in front of him. “You. You’ll be first. And when your idiot friend tries to hit me with his axe, I’m going to take his arm.”

The men to the sides of Argoth hunkered down.

“Look at them cower,” one of the war wolves laughed.

“Big words from men who dribbled out the back end of a cow!” a woman shouted from behind. Then the ranks to the right of Argoth stirred, allowing Matiga and her fist of fell-maidens to push to the front line, stepping in to alternate every other position with the men.

Matiga’s fell-maidens wore helmets and coats of plates over padded jackets. The fell-maidens were still candidates, although he knew Matiga had been teaching them more despite Eresh’s views. They would not be as strong as the war wolves. But they were fast. And wore lighter armor. And multiplied, they would be even faster.

“Come meet your doom, you ox-brained whoresons!” Matiga yelled.

The leader of the war wolves, a man with a horse hair plume rising out of his helmet, laughed. “Women!” he said in disbelief. “There’s your loot, men!”

Matiga’s fell-maidens readied themselves.

“We’re going to plow you with our swords,” the leader said above the wind.

“You’re going to die,” Argoth roared.

The leader shouted, “Mark that one. Be sure to rip his guts.”

They advanced another step. They were only a few paces away, their wolf’s head banner held high. Across from Argoth was a huge man with a monstrous beard and an even larger war axe. The man next to him had a sword. Argoth figured the big man would try to knock Argoth’s shield down with that axe, giving his neighbor a chance to stab Argoth in the face with his sword.

The war wolves advanced. Another step and they’d charge.

Then Argoth heard something: a distant roar. A wave of weakness rolled through him, sank right down to his bones. It washed over the men around him too, for he saw the shields of both the men with him and the war wolves dip. The Urzmen faltered. A number lowered their weapons a bit.

The horse hair plumed leader growled. “Rotted sleth!” he shouted, obviously thinking the line of Shim’s sleth in front of him had caused that weakness with some magic. “Kill them!”

But a howling wind suddenly screamed down out of the sky, blasting from the back of the fort, kicking up dirt and grit, blowing it into the backs of Argoth’s men and the faces and eyes of the war wolves. The wind hurtled a shield over the heads of Argoth’s warriors and into one of the war wolves, knocking him back.

The other Urzmen squinted, raised their shields to block the wind and grit from their eyes. Some staggered back. Gaps opened in their line. And Argoth saw his chance.

“Now!” Argoth roared and charged. The men and women down the line saw him and followed his lead. The wind was still raging, the war wolves still blinded by the dirt. They tried to make a defense, but the wind was against them, knocking their shields.

The line of Shimsmen and women roared and crashed into the line of Urzmen. Spears and swords thrust. Axes fell. Argoth plowed into the big bearded man in front of him, knocking him back, but lunged with his sword into the side of the man next to him. The fell-maiden next to Argoth stabbed in with a spear and took another man. The wind rose in ferocity, howling about the fort, throwing dirt into his eyes. Argoth took a solid, but wild blow from the Urzman to his right, and stabbed at the big bearded axeman.

But the wind’s violence and noise continued to rise. Dirt and dust blasted about him, making it hard to hold the shield and even see to fight. The shield was torn out of the hands of the fell-maiden next to Argoth as well as a few others down the line, and then one of the Urzmen at the top of the pile of rubble was carried aloft.

The power of the wind rose again.

“Back!” Argoth shouted, but his words were swallowed by the gale. He shoved backward, dragged on the men next to him. “Back!” he yelled. He was squinting so hard he could barely see, but he turned, shoved the men next to him away from the war wolves.

The whirlwind sounded like a cataract, like tumbling boulders. Argoth’s warriors weren’t going to be able to flee this. He suspected that any moment now a rain of stones would fall upon the men and women in his lines and brain them.

“To ground!” he called uselessly. “To ground!” Then he shoved down as many as he could about him and took cover himself.

The wind howled about them, and then suddenly it shot away to rip and tear over the wall walks and back out to the battlefield.

There was silence. The men of Urz as well as the Shimsmen and women lay stunned. Dirt filled Argoth’s nose and ears and slid under his tunic. He climbed to his feet, spat the dirt out of his mouth, and wiped the dirt from his eyes. The wind raged out across the field toward the Skir Master and was met by another wind to form a terrifying maelstrom that blasted into the Mokaddian ranks, tearing away shields and helmets, sending men to the ground, carrying helmets and shields aloft.

But at the fort, the wind was now nothing more than a breeze. And there, picking themselves off the ground were the war wolves.

Argoth had no idea what was happening with the skir; it seemed Mokad had lost control of them. But whatever was going on, he knew he had only moments to stop the dreadmen in front of him.

“Firemen!” Argoth yelled. “Lances!”

But there were no lancers ready on the walls. He spotted a firelance that had fallen back into the courtyard. Above it on the wall walk sat the barrel and pump. He shot out of the line and raced for the lance. He found the lance still in good order, picked it up, then flew up the stairway with it to the barrel. There was a skin of dust and dirt on the top of the liquid, but the barrel was still mostly full of seafire.

He hooked the lance to the pump and sank the hose through the skin of dirt into the seafire.

“The pump!” he yelled at two men on the wall who were recovering from the blast of wind. They heard him and rushed to the handles, which worked like a see-saw, and began to pump, one man pushing down, the other pulling up, and then reversing. Seafire filled the hose, then shot out the lance in a stream that Argoth pointed at the war wolves. Argoth worked the igniter. Sparks flew. He worked it again. More sparks. And then the seafire ignited, a flash of blue that streaked down the stream of black liquid followed by a raging orange and yellow flame.

“Harder!” he commanded the pumpers.

The men put all their effort into it, and the stream shot out forty, fifty, sixty feet. And the burning liquid fell upon the war wolves. He moved the lance back and forth, hosing them. The burning substance splashed on their faces, their wolf head shields, their surcoats with white stars. The Urzmen screamed, and Matiga, her fell-maidens about her, shouted for the men to tighten the line and charge.

The war wolves broke. Those who were not burning fled back up the pile of stones, scrambling for their lives.

Argoth sprayed them as they went, then turned his fire to the men in front of the walls.

Farther down the wall another lance ignited and began to spray fiery death on the attackers. Then Fire and smoke leapt into the sky down by the gatehouse.

And out on the field, the mad skir wind howled and rumbled across the field, now this way, now that, breaking and scattering the men of Mokad, Nilliam, and Urz.

Shimsmen who were waiting in reserve now raced to the walls. From the east wall others hurled a dozen smoking, half-gallon clay balls of fireshot out into the enemy lines. The fireshot broke upon the men and shields and ground, splashing those close to it, igniting their legs and the bottoms of their shields.

Inside the fort, the terrormen and hammermen were yelling, forming their troops of archers up, rushing to walls and gaps to get at the enemy from a range close enough to penetrate armor.

Argoth’s heart soared. The ancestors must have heard their calls. Or maybe it was the Creators themselves turning Mokad’s own winds upon them.

Burning bits of seafire spray blew back from the lance and scorched Argoth’s hands and arms, but he paid it no mind, and didn’t know where the lancer’s protecting leather gloves, coat, and hood were anyway. He turned his lance and rained fire upon the ladders that still stood, then rained burning murder upon the Mokaddians and Urzmen roiling in chaos down on the ground in front of the walls.

30

Flax

BEROSUS STAGGERED BACK a step, shielding his eyes from the debris, as a skir wind blasted past and down toward the river. He turned to Shaymash, the fat Skir Master. “What are you doing?” he shouted.

Shaymash held a skir staff aloft, gritting his teeth, obviously struggling to control the situation. “One of the urgom has slipped its thrall.”

“Skir don’t just slip their thralls.”

“Something attacked,” the fat man snapped back. “I suggest you find who it is before they all slip!”

Across the field, streams of seafire shot down over a large swath of men.

One of Shaymash’s acolytes spoke. “There’s someone causing problems with the souls.”

“Nilliam?” Berosus asked.

“No, it’s . . . the girl.”

“The girl? What girl?”

“The Koramite sleth. She’s here.”

“That can’t be,” Berosus said.

The acolyte cringed at his anger. “It is her, Great One.”

How was that possible? She should have been locked up in Whitecliff. He wondered about the seeking he’d performed. The girl had seemed so ignorant. So pliable. But maybe that had all been a ploy.

He realized now it had all been too easy.

These people had ripped a Divine away from the Glory, ripped the supposedly unbreakable ties that bound that Divine to the Sublime. Argoth claimed it was some other power, but would he spill his secrets at the first meeting with foreign sleth? No. And Ke had told him the same story, but at the same time he’d said that Talen had killed the Sublime.

These people had raised a servant from the earth and lied about its origin. Or maybe they hadn’t done it on their own. They couldn’t have done it on their own. Shim’s army had risen too quickly. The girl and Ke—they had hidden something from him. Or maybe they hadn’t known. Maybe Shim and Argoth had kept some secrets back from them. But Berosus now knew what that secret was.

Nilliam was in this. Cunning Nilliam.

The skir wind blasted into his ships on the river. Out on the field, the lords of Nilliam halted their men.

Oh, yes. It was all clear. Nilliam had engineered this trap. They would let Mokad spend its strength against Shim’s army, then come in for the kill. He’d never thought Nilliam should have been part of the coalition. And now he was proven right.

Fury rose in him. Nilliam would pay for this. He would finish off Shim’s army. Then he would harvest every last man of Nilliam on this field. And then he would march on the villages of the Newlanders until the blood flowed like rivers.

He had other wind riders, but none had his power. And this distraction needed to be done and finished. “A wind!” he shouted at Shaymash. “You’re going to put me right on top of those firelancers.”

The kite men and other wind riders usually wore brass goggles, a leather cap to protect the face and ears, and leather gloves. An acolyte ran forward with the gear, but Berosus only took the goggles, then stepped out onto the field in front of the Skir Master. Moments later the rushing of a great wind howled toward him from the river. It whistled over tree limbs, catching their edges. Then it slammed into the men behind.

Berosus ran a number of steps, then leapt, and the wind took him, carried him aloft. Debris pelted the skin of his face, filled his hair. He shot forward up over the battlefield, dipped, and then another gust took him over the path of the arrows being shot from the walls. He flared his Fire until his might rippled through him.

Out in the bay, darkness gathered above the Bone Face ships. He’d been apprised of their threat and had placed galleys to deal with them. But he wondered about that blackness. He’d wondered about it since Argoth and Eresh had come back with tales from Woolsom and Fishing. Something moved inside the blackness that caught his eye, but he didn’t have time to assess it. Right now, his job was to take care of Shim and then Nilliam.

He flew over his troops. Then the wind lessened and dropped him toward the firelance crew in the middle of the wall.

He had wanted an orderly harvest, a beautiful procession, and by the Mother’s love, he would have one.

The skir changed its direction, releasing him in a howl of wind. Berosus dropped out of the sky onto the wall right behind the lancers. They’d seen him coming, but his might and speed were upon him.

The Shimsman closest to him shouted and struck with his axe.

Berosus ripped the axe out of his grip and slammed the butt of the axe into the man’s head. He crumpled under the blow and tumbled off the wall.

Another raised a bow at point blank range and released an arrow with a bodkin point. Berosus dodged it and hurled the axe, burying it deep in the man’s chest.

Another one of the crew charged. Berosus snatched up an arrow from the fallen archer and stabbed the man in the eye with it.

The firelance crew had stopped to avoid having his wind blow their flames back in their faces. The lancer now turned the brass weapon on Berosus and yelled for his pumpers.

Berosus sprang. A stream of fire shot under him. He flipped and landed behind the crew. He kicked one pumper in the knee and caved his leg in. He struck the other pumper in the chest and sent him flying through one of the gaps in the crenellation.

The lancer tried to turn his stream, but Berosus already had his sword in hand and skewered the man.

A number of Shimsmen on the wall lined up and drew their bows.

Berosus threw himself to the ground. The bows twanged, and the arrows sped above him and into the Shimsmen at his back.

He grabbed the lance, rolled up, and kicked the barrel of seafire over so the contents spilled along the wall and down into the courtyard. Then he hurled the firelance out over the wall.

More Shimsmen ran down the wallwalk toward him. He charged them, and they stopped, then tripped over themselves trying to get away. One man did hold his ground and slashed with his sword, but Berosus sprang to the top of the crenellation, took two huge strides, dancing on the merlons, then jumped back down onto the wallwalk behind the man and ran for the other firelance crew that was spraying a hammer of Urzmen trying to get over the gap of rubble made by the fallen hoodoo.

He passed a fallen Mokaddian, reached down, and picked up the man’s sword, then charged two Shimsmen who tried to protect the crew. With the first stroke he hacked an arm from one of the men’s bodies. With the next, he slit the second’s throat. The men fell. Behind them the firelance crew turned.

“Time to die,” he said.

“Regret’s eyes it is,” one of the pumpers said and drew his war axe.

It was Argoth.

“Excellent,” Berosus said. “When I’m done with you, I’m going to stick that fat one-eyed pig.”

* * *

Argoth had taken this filth of a man in, put everyone at risk, maybe destroyed the one good chance mankind had received these last thousand years to throw off its chains. He was furious. Furious he’d allowed himself to be duped. Furious that he’d let Shim talk him into moving so fast. Furious that this vile creature and his masters thought they could harvest whom they pleased.

His Fire rippled in waves of power through his body. He was multiplied to his very limits and swung his axe in a blow that could cleave men in two, but Flax dodged to the side and scuttled away.

Argoth pressed forward. Flax rose, thrust, but Argoth easily batted the sword away with his axe.

Flax smiled. “When this fort falls,” he said, “we shall raise a monument here and call it Shim’s Folly.”

Argoth lunged.

Flax parried and danced back a step. “Not bad,” he said.

“We will beat your masters,” Argoth said.

“We had a debate,” said Flax. “What to do with the sleth we found here. The fledgling Glory, of course, we will preserve. The majority wanted to utterly destroy everyone else. However, I spoke up on your behalf. When I infiltrated the Hand, I learned you have quite a reputation, Argoth.”

“And I’m going to add a bit more to that today,” Argoth said. He rushed forward, his Fire raging. His axe flashed. But Berosus blocked it, dodged. He flicked his blade out in a move that was almost too quick to see and sliced Argoth in the back of the leg down by his calf.

Argoth didn’t feel any pain, but he did feel his calf lose some of its stability and strength. He pressed forward, swung his axe, and drew his dagger.

Flax parried again, lunged, but Argoth met him with the dagger. He would have stabbed Flax square in the chest, but Argoth’s sliced calf turned traitor on him and made him stumble. He lurched, missed Flax’s chest, slashing harmlessly across the mail protecting Flax’s arm.

Flax struck Argoth in the face with his fist. The blow sent Argoth reeling backward, turned his world into light purple spots against black. The rushing sound of water filled his ears, and then his vision and balance returned.

Flax smiled and struck again. Argoth blocked the blow, but Flax flicked his sword up, scraping Argoth’s face from jaw to cheek with the sharp point.

Flax was far faster than he had assumed. Far faster than any dreadman or sleth Argoth had ever faced. A terrible foreboding filled him.

Flax pointed at Argoth with the tip of his sword. “You should have learned when you were enthralled to Rubaloth that you cannot resist. Man is too weak. And today will prove that yet again. It’s true, in the beginning the Mothers experienced some setbacks domesticating you. But we learned.”

“You mean they learned,” said Argoth.

“I am one with them. They are one with me. And since our rise we have never fallen.”

“You’ve never fallen,” Eresh bellowed, “you vomitus maggot, because you’ve never faced a proper Kish before!”

Argoth turned. Eresh was rushing up stairway with his sword, his helmet gone, hair askew. “Out of my way!” he shouted and pushed through the clutch of Shimsmen trying to get a good shot. “You’ve been stinking this place up ever since you showed your face. It’s time we got down to cleaning.”

Flax narrowed his eyes. “You,” he said, “were not one any of us wanted to preserve.”

“I’d say that was your loss.”

Argoth swung. Flax stepped back and shook his head. “Did you know, Grandfather, that when the men of the Hand watched the ranks of your Kish die, that was on my order. It was on my order that your house was raided and burned. You prayed for your sons and wife. Unfortunately, they didn’t make it far. We harvested their souls even as you petitioned your ancestors to protect them. There’s a market for sleth souls; did you know that? Some of the Glorious Ones enjoy the peculiar taste. We would have had yours, but I let you live at the time because you were useful. But you’ve long since stopped being that, old man.”

The anger in Eresh’s face turned cold, calculating, hard as steel. “Today,” he said, “I will feed you to your own dogs.” He strode forward.

“You’re a fool,” said Flax.

“You’re a greasy flatulence,” Eresh replied. “At least I don’t offend the ladies.” He raised his sword.

Flax flew at Eresh in one blinding leap, bringing his sword down to cleave Eresh from collar bone to navel.

Eresh side-stepped the blow, and struck with his own sword. But Flax was too quick. He twisted around and struck Eresh hard in the chest with his elbow.

Eresh staggered back.

“Come on, old man,” Flax said, “you can do better than that.”

Argoth was still dizzy. He glanced down and saw the wound on his leg was deeper than he first thought. Blood was streaming out of it. The eye on the side of his face where Flax had struck him was swelling closed. He didn’t have much time before his strength and ability would begin to seriously diminish.

Argoth charged.

Eresh rushed Flax from a different angle.

Enjoyment lit up Flax’s face. And he lunged at Argoth first.

Argoth dodged, swung his axe, let Flax slap it away with his sword, then stepped in and slammed Flax in the face with his fist. Flax’s head whipped to the side. Argoth stepped forward, struck him again, a solid powerful blow, and Flax staggered back.

Argoth whipped his axe around, two-handed, to strike Flax in the side of the head, but Flax caught the axe and smashed Argoth in the face again. The blow felt like an anvil. It broke Argoth’s jaw, twisted him sideways, sent the whole world reeling.

Argoth crashed into the wall, then to the dirt and stones littering the wall walk.

Eresh roared and lunged. Flax held his own sword and Argoth’s axe. He blocked Eresh’s blow, but was forced to give ground. Eresh struck again. Then again. He was a blur. Flax was forced back another step. He feinted a thrust with his sword.

Eresh blocked the false blow.

It was all Flax needed. He struck Eresh’s sword hand with the axe, and the weapon flew out of his hand to clang onto the wall walk between Flax and Argoth.

“And now it ends,” Flax said. “I think you’ll find the world of souls enlightening.” He lunged with his sword. Eresh tried to dodge it, but the sword plunged into his side.

Eresh grunted in pain. His face curled in anger.

Flax pulled the sword back, snake quick, and raised it to server Eresh’s head from his body in one swinging blow.

Eresh lunged, growling, and stabbed two fingers deep into Flax’s eye.

Flax punched Eresh in the face with his fist, knocking him backward to trip over a dead Shimsman.

Flax put his hand to his ruined eye, and then his face turned feral, and he drew back his sword to finish Eresh. “I have plans for you,” Flax snarled.

“Somebody kill that whoreson!” Eresh thundered.

The world was still unstable, but Argoth’s Fire roared through him. He still had much strength. Argoth grasped the hilt of Eresh’s sword.

A Shimsman charged Flax with a spear, but Flax cut the man down. A couple of archers shot at him, but Flax picked up the spearman’s shield, and the arrows sank into the wood. Then he turned to face Eresh again.

“Now it ends,” Flax said and stepped forward to subdue Eresh.

Argoth rose and lunged from behind with all the multiplied might and speed he could muster and drove Eresh’s sword into Flax’s lower back.

The sword point bit in, punctured the mail and the padded tunic underneath, penetrated skin.

Argoth shoved harder, felt the sword slide through Flax, then meet resistance as it punctured the coat and mail on the front and came out the front of Flax’s belly just under his rib cage.

Flax roared and backhanded Argoth, but a good portion of his core muscles had been cut, and the former power wasn’t in the blow. Flax staggered a step. A soldier by Eresh rushed forward with an axe and swung at Flax’s head.

Flax turned to avoid the blow and was struck high on the back of the shoulder. The axe didn’t break through his armor, but did send him crashing to the wall walk where he gasped with pain. He struggled to roll over onto his hands and knees.

“Give me a sword!” Eresh cried. “This one won’t die until his head is severed.”

Flax tore the sword from his back, then rose, impossibly, onto his feet.

The Shimsman behind Eresh placed a sword in his hand. “Filth!” Eresh roared and charged.

But Flax did not meet Eresh’s attack. Instead he cast himself over the wall.

“Get him,” Eresh said.

But a clamor rose from a number of Shimsmen on the wall. “The blackness!” a soldier yelled.

Out on the river, a number of Bone Face ships bore down on the Mokaddian vessels. Down at the mouth of the river were dozens of other Bone Face ships. Gathering above them, spreading out like a thunderhead, was a roiling blackness. The same blackness that had been at Fishing.

Argoth looked over the wall, but couldn’t see Flax.

“The river!” another man called.

“Gods,” Eresh said. “Argoth.”

Argoth looked up and peered across the field. Something huge broke the surface of the river and swam toward the shore by the Skir Master. The leviathan beached itself, opened its mouth and disgorged something onto the rocky bank, then retreated back into the water.

The thing it spewed upon the shore moved. Then it unfolded itself and stood.

“A Kragow?” Eresh asked.

But it was too tall to be a man, too oddly proportioned.

“Filth and rot,” Argoth said, his jaw paining him.

At that moment two more leviathans approached. They rose from the river onto the bank. They too gaped their mouths wide and deposited two similar creatures on the land.

“What in the Six are those?” Eresh asked.

Argoth had seen all three before. Even at this distance, he recognized them. There had been eight others down in the cavern when the battle was over. They were all different, but all clearly fashioned by the same hand. They’d been lying in the dust, waiting to be awakened. After examining them, Argoth had insisted they be sunk into the sea. But here they were, fresh from the deep.

And there would be no stopping them.

“That thing we killed down in the Devourer’s cavern,” Argoth said. “It appears its brothers have a new master.”

Eresh shook his head. “Are we to fight Regret himself next?”

Mokad’s war horns sounded, ordering its troops to turn, but Argoth knew that would do them no good.

“We need to get out of this place,” he said. “Is the path opened?”

“The path is ready,” Eresh said.

“Get the men organized!”

“After I finish our fine friend,” Eresh said. He turned and looked over the wall.

But Flax was gone.

* * *

Sugar jabbed at a howler in front of her, then had to take a step back as another howler lunged for her.

The fire along the bones of her flesh burned, and she gritted her teeth against it.

“Sugar,” Charge called. “Where now?”

“We’ve got to get across the river!” she shouted back, but the howlers had cut them off from that escape. At one time the river had run very close to the fort, but the river bed had shifted a bit farther up the canyon, and so she and the other souls were being backed up over old river stones into a corner of the cliff face and the wall of the fort.

A soul struck out at a howler, missed, and another howler flew at him, pulling him down. There were now only nine souls with weapons guarding the hundreds behind. If a few more fell, they would be overwhelmed.

A howler appeared on top of the fortress wall, and the souls behind her moved to avoid it.

If they allowed themselves to be cornered, they would be vulnerable to the horn. They had to make a run for it.

Charge stabbed at a howler and danced back.

“We need to get the souls across the river,” she said. “We need to push the howlers back.”

“We’ll lose some,” Charge said.

“We’ll lose them all if we don’t,” she said. Another wave of pain coursed through her, and she stumbled.

A howler lunged at her, but Charge slashed down with his soul spear, and cut the beast. It cried out and pulled back.

“We’ve got to do it now,” she said.

But then a troop of spiked Walkers appeared on the slope of the bank leading to the river bed. There had to be a full hammer of them.

Another howler ran along the top of the fortress wall, slavering. More appeared behind the Walkers.

A number of souls rushed at the howlers, trying to get to the river. The howlers bit. Other souls ran past, but then the Walkers rushed down to the river bed and cut off the escape, spearing a number of souls, until the men fell back.

“I think our opportunity to run just sailed out of port,” Charge said.

Another howler appeared on the wall.

“They’re going to jump,” Charge said.

“We’ll fight them to the last,” she said, knowing this was the end. The utter end. She would not see her parents in brightness. She would not see Legs. She would not be gathered with those that had gone before.

“For mankind,” she said.

“For mankind,” Charge agreed.

The howlers growled and moved forward. Sugar prepared to fight, but another wave of pain washed through her and stole her strength.

“Kill them!” a Walker cried.

The Walkers lowered their spears. The howlers moved forward.

Then a horn sounded.

But it was not the horn that had been blown before. Nor was it the roar of an urgom. It was high and sweet.

She and the other souls looked around.

The horn sounded again, reverberating off the rock walls. It was coming from the other side of the river, farther up the canyon.

A number of howlers turned. The horn sounded again, and a commotion rose in the woods on the other side of the river. Something was coming.

The Walkers stopped their advance, looked questioningly at each other.

Then a number of souls clad in whites and grays poured out of the trees. They were wearing skennings. They were holding blackspine and other weapons.

The horn sounded again now, loud and clear. And the skenning-clad souls rushed down to the water.

The Walkers began to back away from the river. The howlers barked, but moved back with them.

“The ancestors,” a soul said in wonder.

“The ancestors!” another cried.

The skenning-clad souls roared and charged out over the river. There had to be more than a hundred of them, and still more poured out of the trees. Among them were the souls of other beasts.

Sugar’s spirits soared. The ancestors hadn’t vanished. They were not abandoned! Maybe Mother and Da were there!

Then another wave of pain wracked her and sent her soul to its knees. This time the pain tore at the core of her being. She heard shouting, heard savage growls, saw the rush of souls about her, but she could not tell what was happening because the pain stole all thought from her mind.

“Lords,” she gasped.

She concentrated. “Soddam,” she said with the mouth of her flesh. “Did you get Legs? Soddam!”

But she did not hear his answer.

31

Old Enemies

THE PAIN IN ARGOTH’S broken jaw beat at him, so he ripped off a length of his surcoat and tied it around his head to keep every movement from jarring him. It would have to suffice until later.

He looked for Flax, but could not see where he went, and he didn’t have time to search. He didn’t want this army anywhere near the blackness spreading out over the plain. Nor those creatures the behemoths had deposited onto the bank of the river.

Mokad’s army had retreated back onto the field out of the shot of the firelances and back from the bows. They revealed a field littered with scorched and pin-cushioned men, a number still burning with seafire. The stink of burning flesh and seafire filled Argoth’s nostrils. The moans of the wounded sounded in his ears.

He estimated there were somewhere around four thousand soldiers still alive in Shim’s army. The bulk of the horses had swum the river, so the men couldn’t simply mount and try to burst through Mokad’s lines and gallop south.

“Where’s Shim?” he asked Eresh, trying not to move his mouth.

“He’s wounded. They’ve got him at the back.”

“Let’s get these men out of here.”

Four thousand was a lot of people to keep organized and keep from breaking ranks. A column that big could stretch half a mile. There were a number of reasons why soldiers practiced marching, but one of them was to learn how to keep such a long line moving smoothly. The last thing they needed was for them to panic and trample one another or spread too far apart and open themselves to attack.

Eresh shouted orders. Mokad’s army could charge again at any moment. So he ordered terrors to defend the gate and breach in the wall. The rest he ordered back.

The men cut tokens of hair or cloth from their dead comrades, tied whatever supplies they could to their walking poles, and began to move to the back, forming a big crowded queue.

In front of the fort, the mad skir wind was gone. Down by the river, Mokad blew its battle horns. There were shouts along the ranks of Mokad’s army on the field, then the cohorts of Mokad, Nilliam, and Urz turned and began to rush to the aid of those at the river, leaving only about a thousand of Mokad’s troops behind as a rearguard. The rearguard’s mounted leader was riding along the line, shouting something, but he did not order his men to engage.

Across the field, an earthen monster ran toward the Skir Master. A stone giant launched a large stone. A skir caught it, banked. The large stone was carried up more than three hundred feet into the sky, and then it turned. The stone slashed down and struck the creature in the chest with massive velocity; the sound of the collision cracked across the field. The monster slammed into the earth in a cloud of dust.

A beat passed.

Then the creature stirred. A moment later, it climbed to stand on its hind legs. A chunk of its torso had been knocked away. It felt the gap, looked back up, and continued forward.

Argoth marveled at the power of these things. Shim’s troops had to get out of here. They had to get out now.

The Bone Face ships continued to move forward up the river. The dark mists came with them, stretching out over the land. Something black and angular flew out of the mists and plummeted at the Skir Master. The soldiers around him shot at it with bows, and it swooped away back into the mists.

In the fort, Shim’s troops continued to move into the chamber at the back, up the stairs, then out into the slot canyon.

About a quarter mile upstream from where the Mokaddian Skir Master stood, the river bent closer to the fort. A clamor of shouts and cries of pain arose from that direction. Moments later a number of Mokaddian soldiers came pouring out of the trees in a wild retreat, running like panicked hares. Behind them an earthen creature stepped onto the battle field.

It stood eight feet at the shoulder. It was exceedingly broad through the chest. Its head looked like it was made of upturned roots.

A dogman and two maulers raced to attack the monster, but the monster grabbed the dogman by the throat, throttled him, and cast him aside in a heap. One mauler attacked the monster’s leg. The second grabbed onto its hand. The monster crushed the jaw of the one that bit its hand, then struck the other massive beast dead with one blow to its head.

A number of Mokad’s archers shot at the creature. Some arrows sank in, some glanced off the stone. The monster paid them no mind. It surveyed the battlefield. Looked down at the fighting around the Skir Master, then looked over at the fort. It gaped open its mouth two, three times like some great fish, then began to lumber toward the fort.

There were still a great number of men waiting to get out. And that creature would slaughter them. There was no way Argoth could destroy the creature, but he just might be able to do something else.

A few of the horses that had been taken into the fort had not been hurt. Argoth’s stallion was among them because he’d been taken back to the chamber. Argoth made his way off the wall and found Midnight who looked surprisingly well. Argoth mounted, grimacing at the pain, knowing the ride was going to be torture, and put his heels into the horse. The horse made its way through the trenches and fallen bodies. It balked at riding across the ditch at the gate full of dead men, but Argoth kicked his heels hard, and Midnight rode over them, his hooves slipping on the unsteady surface. And then they were picking their way through the dead and burning that covered the ground in front of the gates. Pain shot through his jaw with every bounce. Lords, he was going to go blind with it. But he rode out from the fort toward the creature.

Argoth yelled as best he could. “I was there when we destroyed your brother. I was there when we sent your Mother into Regret’s rotted arms!”

The monster regarded him. It was covered all over in barnacles. It gaped open its ragged, too-wide mouth. Argoth remembered the first creature doing the same thing, like a fish trying to breathe in the air.

“Here,” Argoth said and motioned at himself. “You stupid pile of rocks. Today I teach you the meaning of fear. Or perhaps you want to be released from your bond. We still have one raveler.”

The monster closed its mouth.

“Yes,” Argoth said. “We can do that. We can give you freedom.”

The monster suddenly charged forward.

Argoth put his heels into his mount. The horse surged away from the monster, away from the fort and out onto the battlefield. Argoth galloped through the smoke. With each thump of the hooves, pain shot through his head in a blinding wave. Argoth glanced back. The monster had taken his bait and was following him.

Following him and gaining on him.

Despite the pain in his jaw, Argoth urged his mount faster, and he sped across the battlefield.

The monster caught up before Argoth had ridden a hundred yards. The horse neighed in alarm. Argoth veered to the left. The monster grabbed for one of the horse’s hind legs, missed. Argoth tried to veer away yet again, but the monster grabbed the horse’s tail.

The horse cried out in panic and tried to surge forward, but the monster yanked its back end sideways. At a gallop, there was no way for the horse to keep its footing. It tumbled with a wail. Because of his Fire, Argoth was able to spring from the saddle and avoid being crushed by the horse, but he flew at an odd angle. Furthermore, he didn’t land square, and his momentum slammed him to the ground. Pain exploded in his jaw. A bone snapped in his wrist. He saw a sea of white and green sparks. When his vision returned, he rolled up to one knee, clutching his arm to him, and moved to rise, but the large shadow of the monster fell over him.

* * *

Another group of soldiers fleeing the battlefield ran toward Talen and the others. These soldiers were clad in the black and green of Urz with another group in the silver and blue of Nilliam trailing them. Harnock stood in front of Talen’s group with a shield and sword he’d stolen from a Fir-Noy, and when these soldiers saw him and the woodikin behind, they shouted and veered away, just as the other groups of fleeing men had. Talen’s small company was a boulder around which a stream of men flowed.

Talen had freed two of the three massive urgom which had flown away with the coming of the Bone Faces and the odd blackness they brought with them. Talen was working on the third urgom which was still being used against the Bone Faces.

Harnock waited for the last of the fleeing Urzarians to run past, then motioned the group forward toward the field in front of the fort.

Down at the river the clangor of horns and shouts rose as Mokad’s troops engaged the Bone Faces. Talen looked up. Above the battlefield, the mists of darkness began to blot out the sun. An orange skir darted into the mist, then immediately turned and raced out again. Things moved within that darkness—gray wisps and winged creatures. But even more unnerving was a pull, almost like a distant voice calling to him.

“Lords,” River said, “there’s another one of the abominations from the cave!”

Talen switched his focus from the mists that were moving across the battlefield to the fort. A hulking creature of earth and stone towered over a man.

“That’s Uncle Argoth!” she said.

Harnock growled and sprang forward.

Chot spat, sizing up the earthen monster, then he snarled and chased after Harnock.

Most of Talen’s roamlings were working on the last urgom, but he knew the power of the creature that towered over Uncle Argoth.

Talen had raveled the thrall of an urgom. Surely, this creature had something similar grown into it. He didn’t know what it would do once released, but he knew exactly what it would do under the thrall of its master. He peeled two of his roamlings off the urgom and raced toward the thing the Skir Master Rubaloth had called a son of Lammash.

The creature reached down and grabbed Uncle Argoth by the face. Talen’s roamlings sped across the field, but Harnock beat him to the creature, drawing his sword, and striking the creature in its outstretched arm.

The blade bit deep. It would have severed a normal arm, but this arm was made with black lore, and the blade stuck. Nor did the creature let Argoth go. Instead, it tried to grab Harnock, but Harnock danced away.

Talen rushed to defend his uncle with his roamlings and struck the monster in the back. The fabric of its flesh was different from anything he had yet encountered. He tried to break through that weave, but found it too strong.

The monster whirled. It tried to grasp a roamling, but Talen was too quick. Too slippery. Furthermore, he was hungry, and the monster was full of Fire. It contained more than he’d ever felt in any living thing. A wave of desire washed over him. If he killed this thing, that Fire would be free for the taking. His appetite surged, and he searched for the thrall.

But he didn’t find one.

The monster grabbed for a roamling, caught it by the tail, but then Chot sprang at the monster, distracting it, and Talen wriggled free and pulled back to examine the abomination at a distance. It could obviously see him for it tracked the roamlings. Then it gaped open its mouth at him.

Harnock and Chot struck again. This time the creature let Uncle Argoth go, and faced them.

Meanwhile, Talen thought. The thrall that controlled humans and animals was grown into the flesh, but this was stone and earth and barnacles. Talen thought back to the battle Skir Master Rubaloth had with the first monster. He’d plunged his hand into the creature’s back, looking for what he called its “quickening.”

The monster batted Harnock away, grabbed for Chot.

Then it gaped open its mouth at Harnock. And Talen saw his way in. He didn’t know what else to do.

Uncle Argoth groaned.

There was no time to dither. Talen sent a roamling straight into its mouth. He slipped past its stony lips and down into its gullet. Some substances behaved differently in the world of skir, but stone was solid, and as the monster clamped its mouth shut, Talen realized there was no way out.

He searched down its throat for a weakness in the weave of the earthen body and found nothing. More importantly, he could see no thrall. He moved lower and lower still until the way branched into several pockets, which were the monster’s stomachs. Then he moved into another area and ran up against one of the creatures bones.

The weave changed, and he soon realized the bones weren’t really bones at all. They were made out of wood, covered in something. It only took him a moment to see the pattern—the thrall grew like a skin through the wood.

The monster opened its mouth again and tried to reach in and grab him, but Talen was too deep. He could feel the monster’s frustration, and then the creature must have spied Talen in the flesh, for it gave up trying to fight the roamlings and charged across the field toward him.

Talen explored the bones. In a moment, he found an opening and bit in. As soon as he did, he felt a presence waiting for him. Not of the creature. He could feel its many souls, but that isn’t what frightened him. It was the presence of something sublime, something so wondrous he could not help but worship it, something he wanted to please.

He’d felt this before, and sometimes dreamed of it. It was the presence of the Mother, the one that had taken him in the cave.

He recoiled in fear and dismay.

It couldn’t be her. They’d killed her. He’d felt her pain.

The monster raced across the field. But the Mother reached for him through the roamling in the monster’s belly. Ah, she said. Her voice was as beautiful as he remembered. It commanded his adoration. I thought we would have to search for you.

He felt her call sing along his bones. The Mother was not dead. He and Hunger had not killed her. She had come back and raised another horror. She was speaking again in his bones.

You have grown, she said, and her beauty washed through him. But you are still ours.

I was never yours! Talen shouted in defiance.

How can you say that? Does the hand tell the head it is separate? Does the foot seek to exist alone? You are part of us. We are part of you. We are one.

“Lies!” he told himself, but he wanted to feel her voice in him again.

You mortally wounded your own sister. But she was never the one destined to lead us. She was always too small. So I saved her, as you should have done. I consumed her, and have grown, and will grow again as I bring you back into the fold. She pushed into him.

Talen panicked. She was wrong! He was human! But he himself knew that was not completely true. He struggled back, away from her. I will not be one of you! I am my own!

You are ours, this new Mother said.

Talen pushed with all his might and was barely able to keep her at bay. But he knew it wouldn’t last. Her ease would weaken him, and he would eventually give in. He could feel that desire growing in him even now.

He had to break it. Had to break away. But she wouldn’t let him go, and so he turned on her. She blocked his attack. He struck again to no effect. Then he realized the monster was her path to him. There were doorways and connections, and all he had to do was break that connection.

You will not, she said.

But he ignored her command and bit into the thrall growing inside the monster and frantically began to ravel it.

The Mother sent a wave of pain into him that turned his bones to fire, but he gritted his teeth and kept working.

On the field in front of him, the monster charged. Talen backed away, but couldn’t run for the raveling demanded all his focus.

“Stop the creature!” Talen yelled to the others.

River shouted and attacked with a sword. Harnock picked up a polearm with an axe blade on one side and a frightful hook on the other and swung the blade around in a mighty blow that sank deep into one of the monster’s knees.

The creature took another step, but the blade of the poleax was deep. Something cracked, and the creature tumbled to the earth. It tried to rise, but couldn’t get its wounded leg to work.

Harnock swung again, but the monster immediately scuttled forward with horrible speed on its two long arms and one good leg like some insect.

Talen backed away, focused on his roamling, on raveling.

Chot struck the monster in the face with his axe.

River tossed her sword and grabbed its good leg.

The monster swatted Chot out of the way. It broke free of River’s grasp. Harnock hooked the beast in the shoulder with the polearm, but the beast ripped the pole out of Harnock’s hands.

Inside Talen’s mind, the Mother shrieked in frustration. He felt her wrath and knew her punishments would be vast. But after a moment, he realized the power of her voice and touch was receding.

He was weakening her link!

Courage sprang forth and along with it righteous anger. The monster’s mouth was open now, and Talen was almost finished with the third urgom. He sent another roamling streaking down from the massive urgom and sent it into the Mother’s creature, then darted away in the flesh.

Your kind killed my father, Talen shouted at the Mother. You killed my mother. You and yours have preyed upon humankind, but no more!

He ripped into the thrall with all three mouths. He tore and drank the creature’s Fire. Power rushed into him, and he redoubled his efforts.

The creature charged toward him in its horrible three-legged gait. He tried to dart away from it again, but it was too fast and grabbed him by the leg in its massive hand.

The Mother exulted. He could feel her pleasure. She knew she’d caught him. But then Talen found an exceedingly long seam.

Stop! The Mother shouted in his mind.

Talen’s will sagged. If he’d been directly linked to her, he supposed that command would have sunk him to his knees, but the link was weak.

We’re coming, Talen said. Humankind is coming. Then he took the seam and ripped it wide.

The presence of the Mother vanished. The monster’s momentum carried it and Talen forward, but its grip lessened, and Talen was able to twist free.

Soul and Fire shot forth in a huge billow from its body. Talen wanted to eat the souls. The craving nearly overwhelmed him, but he restrained himself and drank the Fire instead.

The monster’s barnacled body fell to the ground. For one brief second, Talen expected it to rise again. But it did not. It lay there, nothing more than wood and stone and whatever else the Mother had used in its construction.

Talen searched along the monster’s bones with his roamlings to make sure this thing was dead. When he was satisfied, he pulled his roamlings out and watched the shining souls from the creature scatter to the trees. They did not look all human. Some appeared to be just tatters and bits. He hoped they found peace.

A weary anger settled upon him. The soul that the Mother had caged inside that twist of earth might have been the best of men, like his father. It might have been the best of women.

Across the field, Argoth came limping to them, holding his bandaged jaw, his face wrenched up in pain. “By the Six, you’re alive!” He looked at Harnock and River. “How did you kill it?”

Harnock pointed at Talen. “Ask him. He’s your monster slayer.”

Uncle Argoth turned to him. “But you never even touched it.”

“I touched it in the world of souls.”

Uncle Argoth shook his head in wonder. “You will tell me all later.” Then he noted Chot and the other woodikin. “I see you’ve brought friends. But we do not have time to speak. There are more monsters than the one.”

A faint moaning rose from the river. “What is that sound?” Harnock asked.

“The wraith wind,” Argoth said. “Come, we must flee.”

32

Wraiths

SUGAR LAY ON her back on the river stones. A number of souls crowded about her. Beyond them were the cliffs and the yellow and lavender sky.

Charge knelt by her side. “Sugar, are you injured?”

“I’ve got to get back to my body,” she said and tried to rise.

One of the skenning-clad souls knelt down next to Charge. It was a woman, but not Mother.

“She needs to get back to her flesh,” Charge said.

“Where’s your body, sweetness?” the woman asked.

Sugar felt out for it. Opened the eyes of her flesh. “I’m by a copse of trees,” she said. “I can see the fort. Where the wall is smashed by the stone pillar.” Another stab of pain washed through her body and soul. She gasped and felt the line between her soul and body thinning.

The woman reached out and turned Sugar’s face so she was looking at her. “Who gave you this skenning?” the woman asked.

The woman wore a skenning with a different weave than Sugar’s. Furthermore, there were colored discs woven into the strands that hung from the sides of her cap. They made Sugar think of the straps that armsmen wore. Surely this was a soul with authority. “Have you seen my mother?” Sugar asked. “Are Purity and Sparrow here with you?”

The woman’s face shone with a soft light. “I know of no Purity or Sparrow,” she said.

“They died not three months past.”

“Our patrols have not found them.”

“Patrols? You’re here, aren’t you? In the caves in these cliffs. That’s where the dead have taken refuge. That’s why you came to our aid.”

“Where did you get this weave?” the woman asked again.

“A friend. One of those that came to join Argoth and Shim.”

The woman considered her as if trying to make a decision.

Charge said, “She’s dying. Shouldn’t we get her back?”

The woman said, “We have exposed our secret, so there is no reason to keep her here now. This one may go back. Let’s get her up!”

A number of hands grabbed Sugar and raised her.

“I will watch for Purity and Sparrow,” the woman said. “Now go before it is too late.”

“To the front of the fort,” Charge shouted. “And watch for those orange whoresons.”

The men carried Sugar up from the river, through the trees that lined the bank, and onto the battlefield. They moved at a breakneck pace, far faster than they ever could have in the flesh. As they ran, the pain throbbed and reverberated in her soul, and her link to her body continued to thin.

She was dying, separating. She imagined her body living on for a few days or weeks—nothing but a husk.

The men rushed past the wall of the fort. There was some shouting as they tried to find the trees, but the next thing she knew, Charge was laying her next to her body.

Urban and a number of his men were there, guarding her with weapons drawn.

“The skenning,” the woman said, and Sugar realized she’d come with Charge and the others.

A number of hands pulled the skenning from Sugar.

The thinnest of links remained between Sugar’s soul and flesh. Sugar mustered her last bit of strength. Her body seemed almost foreign to her, something separate.

Charge said, “Fare you well, Sugar, Purity’s daughter.”

Then the woman gently helped Sugar forward.

Sugar merged with her flesh, felt the comfort of it close around her, felt the joining and wholeness. It was like sinking into a warm bath, except some of the pain remained. She didn’t have enough strength to say thank you. She simply pulled the final bit of herself in. The last thing she saw of the world of souls was Charge saluting her, his fist over his heart.

It was said the dead longed for their bodies. At first, she’d imagined it was because of the protection flesh provided. But now she realized it was much more.

She opened her eyes to the world of the flesh. Above her the arching sky was brilliant blue.

“Legs,” she said.

“Gods,” Urban said. “You’re alive!”

“Where’s Legs?” she repeated.

“Soddam went after him.”

“But Mokad’s armies.”

“Mokad’s a little distracted with the Bone Faces right now. He’ll get through. Now, we’ve got to get to the back of the fort. There’s a blackness. Can you stand?”

Sugar struggled to rise, pain still throbbing through her, but Urban gathered her up in his arms.

“Come on,” he said and carried her away from the trees and the blackness and the clangor of battle by the river. When they approached the fort, he set her down, and she found she could stand. Urban took off his helmet and identified himself and the others to the men on the walls. The soldiers called back and waved him on, and Urban and the others made their way through the dead and wounded, through the fires, down into the ditch, and then up the pile of rubble created by the fallen hoodoo. When they crested the top of the pile, Sugar looked back across the battlefield.

The dark mists had advanced up from the river, leaving only the tops of the trees visible. They had advanced out onto the field and swallowed the wagons at the back of Mokad’s lines and the pennants there. Swallowed the bottom portions of the stone giants. Swallowed the hill where the Skir Master had stood. Swallowed the wagon and cage where Legs had been.

“No,” she said, despair welling up in her.

Then Soddam came running out of the dark mist, a number of gray things clinging to him. In his arms he carried Legs.

* * *

Argoth stood upon the wall watching the dark fog move up the river and encroach on the fort.

Three dogmen and a pack of maulers rushed through the gates. Shim’s men yelled a warning and the thousand or so men that still had to work their way up to the slot canyon turned with their weapons.

The dogmen stopped. Moments later a fist of Nilliam appeared as well.

“We surrender ourselves to you!” the fistman of the Nilliamites shouted.

A number of archers nocked arrows and drew their bows partway.

“You weren’t prepared to give us any quarter!” a terrorman shouted. “And you will receive none in return.”

“Hold!” Shim commanded. He was wounded in the arm and bandaged about the head, but he was standing upright. “Remove your arms and armor.”

The dogman hesitated.

“Remove them!” Shim commanded. “You are now mine. I may ransom you. I may sell you. But you will do as I say, or I will kill you.”

The dogmen were notorious for taking slaves in battle. They looked at each other, rumbled something in their tongue at each other, then threw down their weapons and began to shuck their armor.

“Well Nilliam?” Shim demanded.

The men looked behind them at the creeping mists, and then the leader said, “We give you our oath.” Then they too threw down their arms and began to remove their armor.

Behind them, a fat wisp of the dark fog flowed over the ditch outside part of the wall. A few dozen graynesses appeared. They flowed over the crenellations and through the arrow loops into the tower there. A couple dropped down the wall to the courtyard.

Harnock curled his face in menace.

The men began to push each other in an effort to get away.

“Keep your order!” Eresh shouted. “Slow and steady.”

Argoth motioned to a handful of men who held burning braids of godsweed to stand guard.

“Stop shoving!” Eresh roared and struck a man with the flat of an axe. “Panic, and the hammermen have orders to cut you down. Slow and steady!”

“Slow and steady!” another man called.

The wide queue of men moved into the chamber at the back, up the stairs, and to the slot canyon and the scaffold the Burundians had made.

Eresh called for the Shimsmen on the walls to leave. They hurried away from the mists that were now curling over the parapets in a number of places. The dogmen and men of Nilliam finished removing their armor and fled from the broken gate where the mists were now creeping in. The half dozen maulers came with them. Two barked at Shimsmen, but the dogmen silenced them.

Wraiths flowed over the top of the wall closest to the archways.

A murmur rose through the men still trying to get into the cliff.

“Steady!” Eresh called. “Steady!”

“Tell them to remove their weaves,” Argoth said, trying not to move his mouth much.

Harnock shouted out the order. “Remove your weaves. The wraiths use them to enter!”

A number of candidates in the crowd removed their weaves as did two of the dogmen.

“Give me those!” Shim demanded, and the dogmen handed them over.

The graynesses descended to the courtyard.

Those with the burning godsweed moved between the men and the wraiths and waved their smoking braids.

The wraiths that encountered the smoke pulled back. But there wasn’t nearly enough smoke, and others found their way around.

“Close your doors!” Harnock shouted.

The men at the back of the crowd trying to get into the gate watched the wraiths grimly. Then one wraith flowed forward, wrapped itself around a man’s leg. Another wrapped itself around another soldier’s neck.

“Captain Argoth!” the man cried.

“Steady!” Eresh roared.

The men moving into the cliff began shouting at the men in front to pick up the pace.

Another wraith flowed into the crowd. Then another.

The smokemen tried to wave them back, but there were too many.

Argoth was at the very back of the crowd, smoking godsweed in hand.

A man covered with wraiths fell to his knees, shouting in alarm. Then another. Five more fell. More wraiths flowed down the inner walls toward the fleeing defenders.

Argoth rushed to one man to smoke him. Shim rushed to another. The wraith on the man struck at Shim, but Shim waved his smoking godsweed and kept it back, then he dragged the man toward the entrance of the cliffs.

Some of the other smokemen began to rush forward to help those being attacked, but a finger of mist blew into the crowd, and the smokemen turned to fight it.

Something black and winged flashed deeper in the darkness and was gone.

The mists were now flowing over the walls in many places, but the sun still shone at the back of the cliffs. And the wraiths didn’t seem to like it. One or two might dart out of the mists, but none seemed willing to linger long in the full sun.

The mist in the courtyard thickened. The men caught in it, thrashed and cried out as dozens of the wraiths attacked them. But the cries soon stopped. Then one of the defenders that had fallen to his hands and knees shook himself and rose unsteadily to his feet. He lumbered forward a few steps as if drunk. His face was drawn and pained. He gained his balance, stumbled again, then loped out of the mists and into the light.

A cheer rose up for him, but as the man’s gait steadied, he shouted out a blood-curdling cry, drew his sword, and charged at one of the smokemen. The smokeman had barely enough time to drop his godsweed and draw his sword to parry the blow.

The possessed man’s face was twisted with hate. He swung again, knocked the defender back. Swung again and knocked the defender to the ground. He raised his weapon high for a killing blow, but Shim hurled an axe that hit the man in the face.

Five more of those that had succumbed rose to their feet.

“Lord!” one of them cried out, fear and pleading on his face. He fell to one knee, struggling. Then hate replaced his grief, and he snarled.

“Archers!” Shim shouted.

A number of men raised their bows.

Then the possessed shouted their battle cries and ran at the Shimsmen still waiting to enter the cliff.

The bows hummed. The arrows streaked forth and sank through the mail and padded coats, but the men kept coming. The archers continued to shoot. And the possessed men quickly turned to pin cushions, the shafts sinking deep. Ten paces out, the last of them shuddered and fell to the dust. A few moments later, the wraiths that had held them captive emerged from their bodies.

“Sweet ancestors,” Shim said in dismay. “How can we fight this?”

“We can’t,” said Harnock. “Not here. Not today.”

Then the last of the men moved into the chamber. They were followed by the dogmen, maulers, and Nilliamites. Argoth, Eresh, and a number of Urban’s men held the rear, smoking godsweed in hand.

Somewhere up above in the passageway, Eresh shouted for men to keep a steady pace.

The sun still shone brightly on the ground just in front of the entrance to the cliff. Beyond it the mists that towered into the sky turned all to darkness.

Argoth and the others retreated up the stone stairway and then headed for the door that opened onto the slot canyon. A wraith flowed through one of the windows carved into the cliff face behind Argoth.

He lit another braid of godsweed and blew on it until it caught fire.

And then he was backing up through the door into the slot canyon. Through the narrow crack on the face of the cliff he could see the fog moving this way.

The last of the army worked its way up the canyon and over the scaffold. When Argoth stood atop the boulders, he heard voices in the chambers of the cliff. He couldn’t tell if they were men possessed or Bone Face warriors, but he didn’t want them following. He ordered the men with him to cut the lashings and pull up as much of the scaffold and ladder as they could. The rest they sent crashing to the ground.

Then Argoth turned, and with his one good hand and some help, climbed down the other side and followed Shim’s army into the mountains. Far above the tall walls of the slot canyon, the sky shone blue and bright.

33

The Harvest

BEROSUS WOKE TO smoke and fire and mist. He’d lost much blood and passed out, but a wave of pain had brought him back to his senses. He lay in the ditch outside the fort; it was filled with scorched dead men. The pain wracked him, and something was wrong with one eye, but the grace of the Mother was with him. It would take more than a sword to dispatch him.

He climbed out of the ditch, found a spear to use as support, and stood. The sun shone down in patches through ragged sheets of some unnatural mist that mixed with the seafire smoke. The fort was quiet; there were no Shimsmen on the walls, but out on the field men shouted.

He’d let his anger get the better of him. He wouldn’t do so a second time. He limped up out of the ditch and gazed at the scene before him. Great numbers of his men lay on the ground. Others stood in disarray.

A long gray thing floated toward him out of a thin arm of the mist. It wrapped itself about his arm, searching.

So this was what Argoth had encountered at Fishing. A ragged piece of ravening soul looking for flesh to inhabit. This was a rough and brutal lore, a forced blend that could not last. But it was effective enough.

The grayness attempted to enter his flesh. He let it in, and when it tried to take control, he killed it.

He exited the fort, walking past the charred men and fires. He crossed through the thinning mists and found the ground littered with soldiers moaning or catatonic in fear. Even though some of them would eventually withstand the intrusion, most of them would probably die.

But others were fending off the wraiths with burning brands of godsweed.

One of the men saw him. “Praise the Six!” he shouted. “Holy One!”

Then a figure lurched into view behind them. It was skinny and tall, covered in strands of sea grass.

Berosus eyed the creature. A son of Lammash, just as Rubaloth the Skir Master had reported.

Lammash, the Goat King, was the first man to turn from the ancient ways. He’d defied the Creators, and they had cursed him so that he would have no seed. And so in his rebellion he had sworn to raise children from the dust of the earth. Those children had ravaged his enemies. But it had been ages since any had wielded such power. Besides, those who had ruled the Goat King had been replaced.

The children of the earth had eventually been destroyed and a record kept of their weakness. Berosus had read a copy of that record before he sailed.

The soldiers saw the creature and backed away.

Strength flowed into Berosus. It was the gift of the Mothers that allowed men to wield any power at all. It was their gift that allowed men to enthrall. Their gift that allowed men to multiply their powers. And it was a gift that gave him strength well beyond those of a natural man.

He felt his stomach. It was still torn, but healing had taken place. He cast the spear he’d been using as a support aside and took a brand of burning godsweed from one of his men.

A dreadman, enthralled by a wraith, rose to attack Berosus, but Berosus knocked his sword to the side and smashed the front of the man’s face with his armored fist, knocking the man to the ground. He strode forward, gaining more strength with every step, and walked right up to the earth child.

The monster gaped open its mouth, and Berosus punched his fist through the weak spot on its chest and reached deep inside

The monster exhaled heavily and staggered back a step.

But Berosus moved forward with it, pushing his arm in deeper still until he was up to his shoulder, feeling around in the monsters innards. He latched onto something.

The earth child grabbed him by the back of the neck and tore him away. As it did, Berosus tore free whatever he’d grabbed in the monster’s chest—a gray thing that pulsed like an organ.

The monster recoiled as if struck. It dropped Berosus and staggered back a step.

Berosus expected it to fall to the ground, but the monster lunged at him instead.

Berosus danced back out of its reach, but then felt something behind. He turned and found himself facing two more of the giants. One had a face and body of coral, the other was covered all over in bits of dark stone. Berosus tried to dart away, but the coral monster struck him with a stony fist and slammed him back.

Berosus tripped over a dead man’s arm and fell. The gray organ he’d ripped from the first creature flew wide.

The first creature chased after it, then reached out its long arm and snatched the pulsing mass from where it had fallen and stuffed it back into its chest.

The earth child covered with dark stone grabbed him by the leg. Berosus tried to yank his leg loose, but the thing only shook him like a doll until he fell back. Then it started to drag him along.

Pain tore through Berosus’s gut. He needed strength. Mother! He cried. Strengthen me! But the Mother did not respond.

He cursed the Bone Faces. Cursed his own arrogance. He should have killed Shim and the others when he first infiltrated. But who could have foreseen this? He tried to twist around to attack this foe, but the creature only swatted him back down and dragged him along for another few dozen yards, then flung him at the feet of a Bone Face Kragow.

The Kragow wore a necklace of many dried fingers and teeth. He looked down upon Berosus. In the mists above the Kragow, the sun shone as flat and dull as an old coin.

The Kragow’s accent was thick but clear enough. He said, “A new time has come. A time for stronger masters. A time for those who were robbed of their birthrights. You will feed them.”

“The Glory will pay a vast ransom for me,” Berosus said.

“You did not listen—it is a time for new things.”

Berosus suddenly felt himself attacked in multiple places, felt the fiber of his flesh and soul being ripped apart. In that moment, something reached through him and his link to the Glory back to the Mother. We have come for what is ours, it said. We have come for what was stolen!

No! he cried. He reached out to the Mother for strength to fight. But the Mother was nowhere. She had abandoned him.

Pain wrapped his bones. Without the Mother’s grace, he felt alone, naked. “Please,” he said, dread filling him.

But the Kragow only smiled. “Today,” he said, “will be a magnificent harvest.”

34

Swarms of the Queen

TALEN STOOD OFF in the grass to the side of the moving column of defenders with Shim, Argoth, Harnock, River, and Chot. Argoth had just relayed the terrible news about Ke.

“He has to be alive,” Talen said to River.

She shook her head, trying to mask her grief and not doing a good job of it.

Ke would make it. He had to.

“What do you see?” Shim asked.

Talen pushed Ke to the back of his mind. He scanned the skies for orange skir and other possible threats, but they were still gathered back around the fortress and the shrouds of mist that clung there. They were now miles away from the fort. The main Bone Face army that had landed at the beach and river were pursuing Mokad’s army as it fled south toward Blue Towers, but about two hundred Bone Faces were following Shim’s men.

Talen reported this.

“They’re going to shadow us,” said Argoth. “That’s what I’d do. They’ll send word to the main army. And when they’re done with Mokad, they’ll come after us.”

“They won’t,” said Shim. “Because there won’t be an army to come after. There’s a clearing up ahead. Have the men form up there in tight ranks. I’m going to address them.”

About a half an hour later, the men who had survived Fort Echo packed themselves in tight along the slope of a hill. The dogmen stood off to the side, guarded by a fist of men. And now that Talen had a good look at them he realized they were small as dogmen went. They looked like youths. The Nilliamite prisoners stood next to them. The bulk of the army extended around Shim in a large semi-circle. A small breeze blew over the host, but it was nothing that would prevent Shim’s voice from carrying.

Shim stood forth, and the men hushed. He raised his voice. “Good men of the Shoka, Vargon, Mithrosh, and Burund clans. Koramite friends. We have failed to maintain our control of this land. You have personally seen the abominations of the Bone Faces. You know the fate of those of you who tried to stop them. It would be more than folly to try to fight that now.”

Talen waited for Shim’s next words. Surely, Shim wasn’t giving up.

“Over the next ten miles,” he said, “I will order fists and hammers to peel off from the column until nothing of this army remains. You will disappear. You will dissolve. You will give them no target. And each of you will need to make a choice.

“I am leaving this land where my children were sired and raised. This land, where I enjoyed your company, where the blood of so many brave men and women has been spilt. Leaving pains me, but I will never again serve those that harvest our souls.

“So here is your choice. I will not compel you. You are free to choose your own fate. You may choose to stay, to bind yourself to them, and become meat for their masters. Or hope to become a pet they do not devour. You may choose to make your own way with your loved ones from these shores, to travel south or north, by land or by sea, past the outer settlements. Or you may choose to join me. For those that choose the latter, I will rendezvous at Cold Pass in the Three Sisters tomorrow night. If you decide to come with me, you will travel light. You will leave everything but what is essential behind. I estimate we have twenty-four hours, maybe thirty-six, before the Bone Faces finish with Mokad and turn their attention to the rest of the land. I will be gone by that time. I hope you are at my side.”

The breeze gently blew across the hillside. The whole host of defenders stood silent. Talen watched the Bone Face patrol which was about a mile behind them, his roamlings hovering in the sky. He checked the road ahead. All was clear.

“I count you all as my brothers and sisters,” Shim continued. “I implore you to remember that the life of the flesh is only a preparation for what lies beyond. Remember our ancestors wait in brightness. The world of souls is treacherous. And now we know that the peril of that world has reached into our world, and, in its evil, attempts to bind us from birth. Do not let yourselves be deceived. The Glories of this world count you as nothing more than cattle. They will reward you no good thing.

“It’s true those that come with me may not survive long. And even if we do survive, I cannot promise you will not suffer. But I can guarantee we will die someplace far away from the harvesting fields of the Devourers. We will die free.”

Shim scanned the multitude before him, looking them in the eyes as if noting each one by name. “Whatever happens, may the Six bless you,” he said. “And may we one day meet in brightness.”

Shim’s last words rang out over the hill. The moment stretched long, then one grizzled man in the front stepped out. “Zu, what about our families? Surely, the Mokaddians sent troops to catch them before they escaped into the Black Wood.”

Shim said, “I sent them toward the Three Sisters, not Koramtown. And whatever troops might have gone south, you can be sure Mokad will call them back to face this new enemy.”

The man placed his fist on his chest in salute and dropped to one knee. A number of others followed, and soon the whole host was kneeling before Shim. Talen too dropped to a knee. The notable exceptions were Harnock and Chot, who stood to the side, and the prisoners.

Shim returned the salute and dropped to his knee. He bowed his head in respect and rose again. “Brothers and sisters, rise and be free.”

The multitude of defenders rose. Worry lined some faces. Some wept. But most were full of fierce determination. One man raised his sword. “For Shim!” he shouted.

Almost as one, the rest of the multitude drew their weapons and raised them high. “For Shim!” they shouted. “For Shim and glory!” Their weapons glinted in the sunlight. The sound of the multitude of voices reverberated about the hill and washed over Talen like a flood.

* * *

The column moved out, even though it seemed every man wanted to grasp Shim’s hand. Before they reached the next mile, the fists and hammers began to break off, one here, one there, stealing through the woods, disappearing, dissolving.

“The wounded will come with me,” said Shim. “I’m not going to leave one soul behind.”

“I worry about that patrol,” said Argoth. “Surely they have sent word. I fear they will receive reinforcements before the day is out. I think we should send some men back.”

“We don’t have time for battle,” said Shim.

Chot spoke up. “The painted skinmen will not come past this point. They will turn around.”

Shim and the others looked down at him. Chot bared his teeth. “The queen desires an agreement. The queen will do this thing to demonstrate her desire.”

Shim looked at Harnock. “What’s he talking about?”

Chot whistled. A reply came from the woods off to their left. A moment later, a few dozen woodikin warriors appeared at the forest edge. With them was the wasp lord that had accompanied Talen and the others before, plus a number of other woodikin dressed with the same feathered headdresses.

“Those who walk in darkness will turn around,” Chot repeated.

“That’s more than six wasp lords,” Talen said.

Harnock turned to Shim. “I’d say you have your safe passage.”

“Now you will come with us,” Chot said to River. “It was agreed.”

“Fourteen days was agreed,” said Harnock. “But I can come now to show we will keep our bargain.”

“Yes,” Chot said, “you will come.”

Harnock turned to Shim. “Play your cards right, and you might have yourself yet another ally.”

“You’re leaving us?” asked Argoth.

Harnock said, “The queen has something that is ours. When we have it back, I will find you.” He turned to Talen. “Did you feel her call?”

He was talking about the Mother. “I did.”

“She couldn’t hold me,” said Harnock. “There was nothing for her to grab onto.”

“Imagine that,” said Talen.

Harnock removed a long knife from his belt and held it out for Talen. “I owe you, brother.”

The knife was made of fine steel. The hilt was carved with beautiful Koramite designs. “You’re not going to kill me then?”

Harnock smiled. “Not today, Hogan’s son.”

Talen took the knife. He would cherish it.

Harnock reached out and smoothed River’s hair behind her ear. “You are like Moon,” he said.

“Good-bye, Harnock,” she said.

He grunted, then bid them all farewell and walked with Chot into the woods. A few moments later, they were lost in the trunks of the trees. Talen hoped to see them again.

Shim’s little band moved forward. About an hour later, Talen watched from the skies as the Bone Face patrol arrived at the point where Shim had given his speech. Strangely enough, they encountered many vigorous wasps. And as Chot had predicted, the Bone Faces turned back. The swarms harried them for quite some distance. The next trail the Bone Faces could take that would connect was up Echo Canyon. But they wouldn’t know the turns to take. They wouldn’t even know that road existed. They might try to turn to the woods, but not being familiar with these lands, they would soon find themselves lost. And so the Bone Face patrol retreated.

The shrinking column of defenders moved forward. The fists and hammers continued to break away until the column dwindled to nothing more than the handful protecting the wounded.

Back by the sea, the Bone Faces pursued Mokad.

35

The People of Shim

ARGOTH STOOD AT the mouth of Cold Pass and watched the backs of the lords walking away from Shim. They included Koramites as well as Shoka, Vargon, and Burund. The pain of his broken jaw throbbed, but it was his disappointment that hurt most. Some of the lords had said they weren’t ready to flee right now, but would try to join up with Shim later. But many had simply rejected Shim’s leadership.

He’d failed to protect them, they said. Moreover, he had no real evidence that the Divines actually harvested souls as he claimed. And they weren’t going to risk their lives on the testimony of two Koramites who were barely adults. Besides, there was nowhere for a whole nation to run to, not with winter just a few weeks away.

Shim did not press them. There had been doubters from the beginning, and they weren’t going to be convinced. Instead, he turned to the leaders of the eleven thousand who had chosen to go and said, “I want to be well into the Wilds by nightfall.”

Argoth looked down at Chot. Trying to move his mouth as little as possible, he said, “We will owe you and your queen.”

“You will pay,” Chot said. “It is agreed.”

“Indeed,” said Argoth. Another lance of pain stabbed into his head. They would pay with lessons in iron, tools, and lore. In return, the Spiderhawks would guide the multitudes through the Wilds to the lands that lay beyond. Shim’s followers wouldn’t all go travel in one group—that would be too easy to follow. Instead, they would split up into dozens of smaller companies, which would make their separate ways.

“Gather around,” Shim said to the lords still loyal to him. “I’m going to give you your orders, and by the grace of the ancestors, I will see you all in ten or twelve day’s time, three-hundred miles to the west.”

Eresh turned to Argoth. “I see the fell-maidens, but Matiga hasn’t arrived yet. I want a fist of men who know the area. I’m going to look for her.”

Argoth pointed at the bandage wrapped around Eresh’s middle. “You’re in no position to go anywhere.”

“I can go alone or with a fist; you decide.”

* * *

The Spiderhawks were good to their word. By the end of a fortnight, even though some of the humans fell to wurms and other perils along the way, most of those who met at Cold Pass gathered on the slopes of the hills beyond the Wilds and looked out over a dry landscape full of rock and scrub.

Argoth sat with Shim upon a rocky ridge above the temporary camp. The tents of the refugees spread out over a square mile, stretching across a dry river. Within a few days time, Argoth knew every bird, ground squirrel, and snake in a wide radius would be killed and eaten. The land was not rich enough to support such a large number of people. They would have to move on, and not only because of the food.

The spies Shim had left behind to watch the movements of the Bone Faces reported that while the Bone Faces had destroyed the army of Mokad and the other Western Glorydoms, they had not then turned to pillaging and raping the land. They had exacted tribute and taken many slaves, mostly from among the Fir-Noy and the other clans that had opposed them. They had also darkened a number of villages, stealing the souls of the inhabitants to make more wraiths, but according to the spies, nobody talked about that because the Bone Faces began to restore order, appointing leaders from among the Clans and proclaiming that the new lords of the land would hold a feast to bless their new subjects.

Those subjects would eventually try to curry favor with their new masters by finding Shim and his army. But they would find nothing, for Shim’s host would move farther inland. And in a few weeks, winter would come and cover all trace of their passing.

Shim and his people would escape. The fact that the Bone Faces had not already come after Shim’s army suggested to Argoth that they had bigger threats to deal with. The Bone Faces had always been hostile toward the Western Glorydoms, but up until now they had only raided. With this attack, they had proclaimed that they had much bigger intentions than the New Lands. The Devourers of the Western Glorydoms would be full of wrath.

“Is everything ready?” asked Shim.

“Yes,” Argoth said.

“Then we leave on the morrow.”

Argoth gazed in the direction of his former home. Then he turned his back on it and descended from the top of the ridge.

Children played in the dry lanes between the tents and other structures. A few men were plucking the feathers from a small flock of blackbirds they had netted. Argoth walked across the length of the small city to the shelters dug in the side of the hill where his family slept at night. Serah was there as were Sugar and the others.

He had talked to Urban’s man Withers about his idea to restore Nettle. Withers had examined the filtering rods and thought it a good plan. Today was the day to act. He didn’t think Nettle would survive much longer.

And so it was that Argoth sat with Serah and his daughters, watching Nettle, Sugar, and Talen, knowing this was his son’s last chance. Shim was in attendance as were Urban and a few men of his crew. Serah held the filtering rod in her hands. It was black with Nettle’s soul. It had been suggested that maybe burning the rod would free the parts of Nettle trapped within, but Withers had said fire could be as dangerous in that world as it was in this, so Argoth had kept the rod from the flames lest he somehow damage his son. Instead, he held the boy and motioned for Sugar and Talen to begin

* * *

Sugar hesitated. She dreaded the pain she knew would come, but she couldn’t just let Nettle die. She quickened the weave. Moments later she felt her bones tear and gasped. It was the worst it had ever been.

“Sugar?” Withers asked.

“I’m okay,” she said. She took a moment to catch her breath, then stepped into the yellow world and saw those sitting around her in the odd light that flesh took here.

Talen sat across from her. From his body three long skir-like lengths appeared. One flew upwards to watch the skies. The others went to sniff the rod in Serah’s hands. The sight of Talen’s roamlings startled her, for they reminded her of the ribbons of light that had swum about the Mother when she’d first appeared in her cave.

Sugar put on the skenning.

“I can’t guarantee anything,” said Talen.

“Just do your best,” said Argoth.

Talen’s roamling moved across the rod, searching. The time stretched long. Sugar turned and scanned the skies for signs of predators and saw none.

“I’ve found it,” Talen said.

Sugar directed her attention back to the rod. The roamling had stopped searching and was wrapping itself about the rod. And then, nothing happened.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Goh, I can’t imagine what this would be like with a live tree,” he said.

Sugar stepped closer.

“Get ready,” Talen said.

Suddenly, Nettle cried out in pain and convulsed.

“Almost there,” Talen said.

The rod warped and jumped in Serah’s hands.

“Hold on,” Talen said.

Moments later a shining rose up from the rod. The form coalesced. It was more insubstantial than other things in this world and seemed to have a difficult time holding its form, but it took the shape of a man.

“Nettle,” she said in the world of souls. “You need to get back to your flesh.”

He regarded her, looked at Talen’s roamling warily.

“It’s me, Sugar,” she said. “Look around you. There lies your body in your father’s arms. I will help you back into it.” She reached out her hand.

Nettle hesitated, then took it.

* * *

Argoth dared not hope. Serah wiped silent tears from her eyes. Grace asked what was happening and was hushed. But the color drained from the filtering rod until it was as pale as a piece of old driftwood.

Talen said, “He’s with Sugar.”

An icy cold ran across Argoth’s skin. “Nettle,” he said. “Son? Can you hear me?”

Serah put the rod aside, then felt Nettle’s neck. “His heart beats, but he’s not responding.”

“Give him time,” Withers said. He rubbed his bony hands. “He’s been away much too long. But the rod kept his wandering self safe. Had it been a loose soul, it would have been too late.”

They waited for so long that Argoth began to reconcile himself to the fact that they’d failed. Then Nettle’s eyes fluttered open.

“Son?” Argoth said, not willing to believe he was back.

Nettle wiped the drool from the side of his mouth and looked at it in confusion. He tried to sit up and winced in pain. “Where are we?” he asked.

Serah burst into tears and embraced her boy. “You’re with us,” she exulted. “You are with us!” The girls joined in hugging him around the neck, bearing him to the ground with joy.

Nettle grimaced in pain. “Father?” he said.

“I’m here, son.”

The silence stretched long, and for a moment Argoth thought maybe this was yet another one of those moments when the old Nettle would flash to the surface, only to be lost again.

“Goh,” Nettle said. “I’m starving.”

Tears of joy leapt to Argoth’s eyes. Only Nettle would be thinking of his stomach at a time like this. “My boy, I think we might have some roasted weevil left over.”

“Weevil?” Nettle asked in alarm.

Argoth grinned like an idiot, but he couldn’t stop. The look on his son’s face was worth more to him than all the lore hidden in every crack in every glorydom.

* * *

Sugar hurt inside. It was unlike any other pain she’d ever felt. She’d talked to Withers about it earlier, and he said that she would have to simply wait. A body could withstand only so much walking, and everyone was different with different tolerances. It would have to heal, and it might not ever heal completely. She took off the weave and put it back in her sack, keeping the pain to herself. Now was not the time to speak of it. Not with the others hugging Nettle. Not with Serah kneeling to the side, weeping uncontrollably into her hands.

Sugar reached out and stroked the older woman’s back. Serah turned to her, eyes full of tears, and drew Sugar into her embrace. “Praise the Six for you,” she said fiercely. “Praise the day your mother brought you into this world.”

Serah’s hair smelled of the ale Mother used to use in her hair. And suddenly a memory burst into her mind. She was just a small girl, standing next to Mother outside the house, the two of them scooping sunlit ale out of a bowl, working it into their hair, and trying to keep the dogs out of it. The memory pierced Sugar’s heart, tears brimmed in her eyes, and she clung to Serah, unable, for a time, to let go. Then the emotion finally ran its course, and she pulled away somewhat embarrassed. But as she wiped her eyes, Serah took one of Sugar’s hands in both of hers and held it tight.

When the wonder of Nettle’s return finally subsided, and Zu Argoth had tested Nettle with a number of questions to satisfy himself his son had truly returned, they ate weevil and a little bit of rabbit cooked over a fire of scrub wood.

While they were eating, a commotion rose at the far end of the camps. Men were shouting and running. At first, Sugar thought they were under attack. But the men were crowding around two people.

“Make way, you louts!” Commander Eresh roared. The group parted to allow Eresh and the Creek Widow through.

Commander Eresh’s clothes were filthy. There was a large dark stain of blood on his tunic over his belly where he’d taken a wound. The Creek Widow was just as in need of a wash.

“I have found that which was lost,” Eresh proclaimed.

“I was never lost,” the Creek Widow said.

Eresh took her hand in his and led her forward and presented her to Argoth. “She said the Grove would perish without a good female head on its shoulders, so I’ve brought her back to you.”

“You had us worried,” Argoth said to the Creek Widow.

“I was never once in peril.”

Lord Shim said, “Running away together? That’s hardly responsible behavior, Matiga.”

The Creek Widow gave him a withering look.

Lord Shim just smiled.

“It was close a few times,” Commander Eresh said. “But we made good sport of it. This old lady has quite a few surprises.”

“Old?” the Creek Widow said.

“Ripe,” he corrected himself.

She groaned and rolled her eyes. “May the Six preserve us.” But Sugar could see it wasn’t all annoyance.

For the next hour or so, there was a celebration. Argoth told Eresh about Nettle. Then Eresh and the Creek Widow shared the tale of how she had almost not made it out of the New Lands. She, Eresh, and those the Creek Widow had gone for had stolen horses, slept in the woods, and watched for enemies of all sorts. When they finished their tale, those that had crowded around congratulated them. Sugar was glad as well.

As the crowd thronged the two of them, Sugar moved off. She reached her tent and saw that Talen had followed her. He carried a sack with him.

“Thanks for doing that,” he said. His long handsome hair was braided.

“It was nothing,” she said.

“That’s a good lie,” he said. “I saw you grimacing against the pain.”

She shrugged. The last two days, Talen had been constantly with others in the host, from the oldest to the youngest, using his powers to remove what he could of that which grew in them. She hadn’t realized until now the power he held. “I’m not doing any less than you are, raveling everyone’s weaves, even if your roamlings are just a little strange.”

He said, “Certainly not as attractive as the soul I just saw a bit earlier.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Watch yourself, Hogan’s son.”

He grinned wryly.

“What?”

“That’s what Harnock told me. You know, that world is strangely empty of human souls. I’ve been wondering about my Da. Do you think he was with those who saved you by the river?”

“I don’t know.”

“Surely someone said something.”

“I’ve told you everything. I was out of my mind with pain. But I know what you’re thinking.”

“We have to go back,” he said.

“The Creek Widow doesn’t think the souls will be there. She said she suspected the tale of the Famished being bottled up in the caves was a well-spun lie. The caves were probably the refuge of those souls that came to our aid. She thinks that years ago they’d somehow communicated with the living stationed there. Probably not with many. Probably father to daughter or mother to son. And they’d concocted a plan. The folks living there had sealed up the main entrance to help their kindred dead. Then they’d started the rumors to keep others from coming back and opening it up again.”

“Safe as stone,” Talen mused. “Do you think that’s where that saying comes from?”

“After hearing Mokad’s awful horn, I think that’s exactly where it comes from. They were deep in the rock where that sound could not reach them. Although the woman did say they have patrols, so they don’t stay there all the time. The Creek Widow thinks those patrols not only look for threats but also gather in the dead they can find.”

Sugar imagined the souls hiding there had probably debated whether or not to help those that were being killed on the battlefield at Fort Echo. If they helped, they’d reveal to the enemy their location. But maybe they couldn’t stand by and just watch. Maybe the dead saw their children and grandchildren about to be taken to the slaughter and refused to hide. Either way, she was happy they had come.

Talen said, “There’s more than one cave in this land. Maybe our parents found a different refuge.”

“Let’s hope,” she said. “But if they’re with others, I don’t think they will be keen on us finding them.”

“Why?”

“Because if these locations were to be known, if they started to be noised about in the world of the living, it would only draw those that would feed on them. I think the woman that helped me was deciding whether I would be allowed to go back to my body. The Creek Widow thinks that the only reason she let me return was because the dead had already stormed forth to help in the battle and revealed their presence.”

“She would have killed you?” Talen asked.

“I don’t think she would have let me go back to my body,” she said.

Talen shook his head. “So not only do we have to watch for skir and Walkers, we also have to watch for our own. You’d think the world of souls would be perilous enough without our own hunting us.”

She said, “The dead aren’t the only ones in trouble. What news do we have of Ke?”

He looked down. “Shim’s spies know nothing. He was being held in Blue Towers the same time you were. That’s the last we know.”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” Sugar said, not knowing what else she could say.

“I’m going after him,” Talen said.

“Has Argoth approved that?”

“He will. I’m not going to leave him out there.”

Sugar nodded.

“But that’s a matter for another time,” Talen said. “I actually wanted to talk to you about something else.” He held out the sack in his hand. “I brought this for you.”

Sugar took it, placed it on a rock, and opened it to reveal a wooden box the size of a cabbage. The image of a sparrow had been burned into the lid.

Talen said, “I made it big enough for your da’s skull, but I think the other things from your mother will fit as well. The straw ought to keep it all from jostling, but you might want to use some cloth.”

She didn’t know what to say. The thin panels of wood had been worked carefully, with dovetailed joints, making all the parts lock together into a tight box. The sparrow was beautiful. “Did you burn that?”

“Some of it. There’s a Vargon carver who I convinced to help with those tricky feathers.”

She slid the lid open. Just today Da’s skull had been knocked and chipped while in her sack. But it would fit perfectly in here. “The box is beautiful,” she said and reached out and squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

He glanced down at her hand, then up into her eyes. “I owed you, for Nettle at the very least.”

His gaze made her heart beat just a little faster, and that surprised her. He smiled and brought her hand up and kissed the back of it. When he released her hand, the brush of his lips lingered.

He said, “That lot from Bain brought a lute and some drums. They’re going to be playing tonight. A celebration before we leave tomorrow. A celebration to turn our minds toward happier things. I’ve had a number of women try to arrange a dance for their daughters.”

“Oh?” she said.

“I’m all the rage,” he said and grinned.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, aye, you’re certainly something.”

“I kept one dance free.”

She waited.

“I was hoping you’d join me in the Banner Dance. This time I thought I’d get my request in early, before some weaver with a dainty nose locks you up. We wouldn’t want you to suffer through that again.”

“I don’t know,” she said wistfully. “He did wear some very fine cloth.”

“I’ll borrow a silky woolen tunic. What do you say?”

“Find a red one, and I might consider.”

He shook his head and sighed. “You are a hard driver.”

“Ho!” a man shouted. She turned to see Urban, Soddam, and Withers approaching. Legs sat on Soddam’s wide shoulders.

“That Urban’s all finery,” Talen said. “I bet he’s got a tunic I can wear.” He looked over at her as if testing her response.

“The Mistress told me to stay away from foreign men.”

“You certainly took that advice to heart, didn’t you,” Talen said.

“Ah, Talen,” Urban called. “Zu Sleth himself.”

“How do your wrists feel?” Talen asked.

“Human,” Urban said. “I thank you very much, my monster-slaying friend.”

“The bits I couldn’t get will probably grow back.”

“At that time I’ll return to our illustrious raveler.”

“You’re leaving?” she asked.

“I left a skeleton crew on my ship,” Urban said. “And there are others who did not come with me on this journey. Shim is going to need eyes in the outside world. He’s going to need allies, because sooner or later he’ll return to the cities of men. You know he will.”

Sugar nodded.

“Why don’t you come with us?” Urban asked, his dark eyes glittering. “My offer still stands.”

Sugar looked at Soddam and Withers and back at Urban with his fine face that set so many women’s hearts pattering. But there were so many people here to train in the lore. So much that needed to be done for this people to survive the coming winter. They needed every hand to help.

“I wish I could go,” she said. She felt as if she were saying good-bye to family—an uncle, a grandfather, and someone, well, not a brother, but certainly not just a friend, even though she wondered how old Urban was.

“I figured you’d say that,” said Soddam. He let Legs down, then took her in a large embrace. “The Six love you.”

She hugged Withers next. “I brought your skenning back,” she said and held out the belt he’d lent her.

“No, girl, you keep that. You remember old Withers.”

“But you said—”

“When I die, I’m going to stick with Urban’s ship and haunt all the other men,” he said. “And when I put into port, I’ll look for the ways. I have myself a few other weapons. I’ll be fine.”

“It’s a pity you can’t stay and teach me more.”

Urban put a hand on Withers’s shoulder. “Our cook needs a steady hand to keep him in the right path. Besides, you’re not going to be doing much of any walking for some time. And when you do, I suspect you’ll have Talen here to watch your back.”

Withers rubbed his bony hands. “We’ll come back for her. A year’s enough time.”

Urban looked at her earnestly. “Maybe in a year, you’ll reconsider.” His look turned mischievous. “But you still owe me for that black eye. I think a kiss for finding you is appropriate.”

Talen’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly.

“Anything for the man who saved me and my brother,” she said. Then she stepped past Urban and gave Soddam a peck on the cheek.

Soddam laughed. Urban shook his head, then took Sugar’s hand. “To one of the best ferrets I think we’ve ever had. Be safe.”

“I will,” she said.

“Farewell, Purity’s daughter. You would have made our ship lively.” Then he too kissed her hand.

“Come now,” the Mistress called out. “Leave his dishyness to those of us with the experience to handle him.”

They all turned to see her walking up the hill toward them.

Urban said, “I believe I’m in peril.”

The Mistress huffed, gave Urban the eye, then sized Soddam up appreciatively. “Now there’s the figure of a man.”

Soddam cleared his throat. “We do have an extra bed on our ship.”

“Are you asking me something, my large fellow?”

“Just stating a fact.”

“Tempting,” she said. “But you’re going to have to try harder than that. Unfortunately, I’m here to fetch Sugar and Talen. Lord Shim wants to hold a meeting.”

* * *

Talen sat in the meeting held upon a knoll apart from the camp. Uncle Argoth and Aunt Serah were there as well as Shim, Matiga, Eresh, Sugar, Legs, and Nettle. River would have been there, but she was already with the Spiderhawk woodikin queen.

Commander Eresh spoke first. “Back on the coast, the rivers, for a good many miles inland, are not safe. The Bone Faces control the land, the waters, and the skies. I’ve never seen anything like it. We won’t be going back there anytime soon. Nor would we want to. I think there will be a war unlike any we’ve seen between the Bone Faces and the Western Glorydoms.”

“We need more lore,” the Creek Widow said. “I think it’s time we try to open the Book again.”

Uncle Argoth shook his head. The whole side of his face was dark with a huge bruise. “We can’t afford to lose any one of us in an experiment.”

The silence stretched long, and then Talen spoke. “Maybe we’ll be able to open the book in the future, but I think I have a more immediate solution.”

All the eyes turned on him.

“If we need lore, why don’t we take it from those who possess it?”

“And how do you propose to do that?” asked Eresh.

“I can free a thrall from its master,” he said. “So why don’t we free a few Divines? We’ll put our own thralls upon the ones we catch, and then we’ll make them share every last bit of knowledge locked up in their brains.”

Eresh’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He grunted.

Shim said, “We can do that?”

A smile crept across Uncle Argoth’s bruised face. “We know how to make thralls. If the boy can wrest an urgom from a Skir Master, I’m sure he can sever what links a Divine.”

Eresh said, “That boy’s smart, which is surprising, seeing he’s related to you.”

Argoth looked at the Creek Widow. “Why didn’t you leave him on the other side of the mountains?”

“Because she couldn’t resist me,” Eresh said.

The Creek Widow shook her head and smiled.

“Here’s my question,” Eresh said. “Why limit ourselves to Divines? A couple of those earth monsters might come in handy. Why don’t we see if we can’t free a few Kragows from such a load?”

Now it was Talen’s turn to be put on his heels. He really didn’t want to face another one of those. “I don’t think normal thralls will work on them.”

Eresh said, “We won’t know that, my boy, until we’ve tried.”

The Creek Widow said, “This is all fine and good. But we have thousands to feed. Hunting Divines will provoke retaliation. You’ll be hounded and chased by dogmen and Guardians and whatever else they can bring to bear. Do that now, and we risk everyone down in those camps. We need to make sure our people are safe and secure before we begin such things.”

“Agreed,” said Shim.

“Agreed,” all the others said.

“We’ll find a place and overwinter,” Argoth said, his eyes glinting with purpose. “Maybe move again. We’ll look at the Book to see if it can be opened. And then we go hunting.”

The next day, the people of Shim and the few woodikin the queen had assigned to travel with them struck camp and moved out. Scouts on horses rode out to find the next camping site and water. Others were assigned to find food. Still others ranged miles behind and on the flanks of the host to watch for enemies.

Just as they were about to depart, Talen found Sugar and Legs. They chatted for a few minutes, verifying they had everything packed. Nettle soon joined them. And then they set out as the lines of people moved forward. The multitude was told to spread out so as not to wear too heavily on the land. And so they traveled in small groups and would continue to travel this way for a number of days, hoping to obscure their path.

They traveled twenty miles that day. They traveled thirty the next and the next. Talen sent his roamlings behind to watch their rear, but every time he did, he found the land empty.

As they walked, people came to him to be raveled. He still felt the hunger inside of him, strong as ever. Every time he got close to a living thing, he longed for the Fire and soul. But now that he knew what that hunger was, what he was, it didn’t frighten him. Not as it had before.

He was part Devourer, yes, but he was also human down to his bones. And the man would be the master. It must be, for when the moment of crisis came, when he and the others took the fight to the enemy, he was determined not to be a scourge, not the curse of a dark god, but a blessing.

* * *

Weeks later, a dog padded into the temporary camp on the other side of the Wilds. It had a salt and peppered brown coat. One eye was blue, the other brown. Two hooded crows flew in with it.

The dog sniffed the fading scent of many humans. There wasn’t much scent left, but there was enough. The dog and crows were hungry. Together they caught and killed a fat snake. When they’d finished eating it, the dog padded out of the old camp and followed the scent that led into the vast waste beyond. The crows squabbled over the last bits of skin, then sprang to the air and followed.

The End

Dear Reader

I HOPE YOU enjoyed Raveler. If you did, please consider leaving a review at Amazon or another favorite bookseller’s website. Even if it’s only a line or two, taking just a moment to share a hearty huzzah can make a huge difference in helping ye doughty author hook up with fellow readers looking for good books.

As for the noble reasons rumored to be supported by the proceeds of the previous books in the series, we’ve received word that the hobbits have actually stormed the headquarters of the Middle Earth wildlife foundations and taken management hostage, demanding they stop their nonsense with the orcs. Proceeds are now being funneled to pay the ransoms. Obviously, reviews are urgently needed.

Amazon (USA)

Amazon (other countries)

Terms & People

Political Hierarchy

While there are many variations, the basic power hierarchy in the realms of the Western Glorydoms flows from the Glory down:

Glory

|

Lesser Divines

|

Territory Lords and Warlords

|

District Lords and Village Bailiffs

There are still some small areas of the known world ruled by barbarian kings or chieftains, but almost all these pay tribute to one Glory or another in the form of treasure, slaves, or Fire. The major western glorydoms include Kish, Koram, Mokad, Mungo, Nilliam, and Urz.

The Six Orders of the Divine

Fire Wizards

Kains

Skir Masters

Guardians

Green Ones

Glories

Infamous Divines include: The Goat King, The Witch of Cath, and Hismayas, the ancient lord of the sleth.

Major Mokaddian Clans with holdings in the New Lands

Birak

Burund

Fir-Noy

Harkon

Jarund

Mithrosh

Seema

Shoka

Vargon

Koramites

Hogan

River

Ke

Talen

Sparrow & Purity

Sugar

Legs

Harnock

Mokaddians

Argoth & Serah

Nettle

The Creek Widow (Matiga)

Lumen (The missing Divine of the New Lands)

Rubaloth (Skir Master of Mokad)

Rose (Sister to Argoth, wife of Hogan the Koramite)

Shim (Warlord of the Shoka clan)

Armsman

Every clan has various martial orders within it. The ranks of the vast majority of these orders are filled with those who are not full-time soldiers, but farmers, laborers, and craftsmen. However, there are orders in some clans of elite and sometimes professional soldiers. These are the orders of the armsmen.

Bone Faces

Barbarian raiders from the South who have begun striking Mokaddian holdings by sea.

Dreadmen and Fell-maidens

Those without lore who are endowed by Divines with weaves of might. When such weaves are worn, they multiply the wearer’s natural mental and physical abilities. However, the weaves carry a cost: worn too frequently, the body wastes, consuming itself to fuel the magic.

Escrum

A weave that binds the wearer to a master, allowing communication over long distances.

Frights

Not completely of the world of flesh, frights feed on Fire. They most often prey on the sick and dying, attaching themselves like great leeches.

Godsweed

An herb with properties said to repel some creatures such as frights and the souls of the dead. The smoke from one thin braid can rid a house of an infestation for many weeks. But its effect does not discriminate between frights, ancestors, or even the servants of the Creators. Hence the saying: take care to appease those you’ve chased with smoke.

King’s Collar

A weave wrought by a special order of Divines called Kains. Such collars not only prevent a person from working magic, but also weaken the wearer, making those captured easier to handle.

Kragow

A weilder of the strange lore of the Bone Faces.

Military Units

A fist is made up of 8-12 soldiers. A hammer contains 2-4 fists. A terror contains 4-6 hammers. The leaders of these units are called fistmen, hammermen, and terrormen. A cohort contains 4-6 terrors.

Skir

Orders of beings that inhabit the heavens as well as the deep places of the earth and sea. While invisible to the naked eye, many do exert power in the visible world and can be harnessed by those knowing the secrets. But not all are useful to man. Many orders of smaller Skir are deemed insignificant, while other powers are so dreadful none dare summon them.

Stone-wights

A vanished race whose ruins are found in the New Lands. Some claim plague or war took them. Others find evidence they were destroyed by the Six themselves.

The Six

Seven creators fashioned the earth and all life therein. However, upon seeing the flaws in what he and the other six Creators had wrought, the seventh, called Regret, wanted to destroy the work and begin again. The remaining Six, whose names are sacred, refused, but they were not able to overcome Regret. And so it is that the powers of both creation and dissolution still struggle on the earth.

Sleth

Another term for “soul-eaters.” In Urzarian tongue it literally means “The East Wind,” which dries and kills life. Applied to those who, in rebellion of the Glories, use an unsanctioned form of the lore of the Divines. They are beings and orders of beings supposedly twisted by their polluted draws. Said to have gotten their lore from Regret, one of the seven Creators who, having once seen the creation, realized its flaws and wanted to destroy it.

The Three Vitalities

All life is made up of one or more of the three vital powers. There are many names for these life forces. The most common terms in the western glorydoms are Fire (sometimes called Spirit), Body, and Soul. There are rumors, among those who know the lore, of lost vitalities: powers that have passed out of human ken.

Weaves

Objects of power. Some can only be quickened and handled by lore masters. Others, wild weaves, are independent of a master and can be used by those who do not possess any lore. Weaves may be made of almost any material; however, gold is used most often for the wild weaves given to dreadmen.

Woodikin

Creatures that live in great families beyond the gap in the wilds of the New Lands. About half the size of a man, they are ferocious and spilled much blood in the battles fought with the early settlers. Although rare, single woodikin are sometimes seen in human lands.

Acknowledgements

For excellent feedback on the manuscripts, I thank Caitlin Blasdell, Dan Wells, Darren Eggett, David Hartwell, David Walton, Garrett Winn, Hannah Bowman, John Williams, Kassandra Brown, Larry Correia, Mette Harrison, Stacy Hague-Hill, Stephen and Liesl Nelson, and Steve Diamond. A huge thanks goes to Alex and Amy Lamborn who were extra helpful with each iteration of the story.

Donald Siano provided expert insight in calculating projectile velocities of medieval trebuchets. (Yes, sometimes I find it important and helpful to think about such fascinating details.) And Stephen Morillo was generous enough to help me put myself in the saddle and on the front line of a medieval cavalry charge.

As for the art, Victor Minguez provided an awesome illustration of Matiga and the fell-maidens. And Devon Dorrity did a wonderful job on the cover.

Above all, my thanks goes to my wife Nellie who played the roles of reader, editor, listening ear (when this project ran into some heavy weather), and business manager.

By John D. Brown

Thrillers

Bad Penny

Awful Intent (coming soon!)

Epic Fantasies

Servant: The Dark God Book One

Curse: The Dark God Book Two

Raveler: The Dark God Book Three

Shorter Works

Bright Waters

From the Clay of His Heart

Loose in the Wires

The Scent of Desire

Find more information at johndbrown.com. While you’re there, you may also want to join the many readers who have asked to be notified about John’s new release sales and other good stuff.

About the Author

JOHN D. BROWN IS an award-winning short story writer and novelist. He lives with his wife and four daughters in the hinterlands of Utah where one encounters much fresh air, many good-hearted ranchers, and the occasional wolf.

John is active on his website johndbrown.com where he reviews and writes about whatever takes his fancy. Feel free to drop by to post comments or contact him directly. He always enjoys hearing from his readers.

RAVELER: The Dark God Book Three

Copyright © 2014 by John Brown

All rights reserved

Published by Blacksword Enterprises, LLC

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews, no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from John Brown. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Illustration copyright © 2014 Victor Minguez

Map copyright © 2008 Isaac Stewart

Cover design by Mythic Studios

ISBN 13: 978-1-940427-11-9

ISBN 10: 1940427118

First edition: August, 2014