He exited the room. He was too tired to cook grains, but at least he could get a drink. The dripping rock must be farther up the corridor. He climbed, found the dripping rock, and satisfied his thirst. The corridor took a sharp turn upwards at this point and someone had carved steps into it. The Creek Widow had told him there was an escape route out the back. This must be it.

Despite his weariness, his curiosity took him up the stairs. It wasn’t too long and he found the exit. Another large stone sealed it, but it too had been moved aside. He left the lamp burning below and climbed through the exit and out into a cluster of rocks to stand on the side of the hill some distance above and to the right of where he estimated the mouth of this refuge to be. He wondered why the exit was open. Maybe the air in the cave had been stale. It certainly created a nice breeze through the corridor.

Except he was sure there had been no breeze before. “Ke,” he called out into the night. There was no response, nothing but the sound of night insects.

Talen turned round, picked up his lamp, and went back down the stairs. He took another drink at the dripping rock and noticed this time that the water from the rock ran into a fissure that ran a dozen feet along the side of the path.

He passed Sugar and Legs by the fire. When he reached the first chamber, he found the Tailor standing in his stall, saddle still on his back. That was bad form. The Creek Widow could have held her business until she’d unsaddled him. He wondered where the privy was. It certainly couldn’t be a formal thing. She’d probably just taken a spade with her out the exit.

Talen walked over to take care of the Tailor, but when he got close he kicked something in the dirt. He bent over and picked it up. It was her codex of lore.

Then he saw other things scattered about.

“Aunt?” he called.

Nothing.

He walked over to the mouth of the cave and stood listening. He scanned the clearing, stepped farther out and looked up the hill. Nothing but the insects, the stars, and the moon shining down from the west.

The Tailor might have simply knocked over one of the bags. Or perhaps Ke had returned with something urgent. It was possible. But not likely. She wouldn’t just run off.

“Aunt?” he called out again.

When she did not reply, he took his lamp, held it low, and searched the ground.

He found Ke’s knife, which was odd. He identified all their footprints. There were five of them. Then he saw a sixth. Talen bent low and measured it with the span between his thumb and pinky finger. It was mishappen and large. Larger than any human’s could possibly be.

He knew immediately what it belonged to.

He raced back to the corridor. That thing had been here. A worse idea shivered him. It might be feeding on the Creek Widow at this very moment somewhere outside. Or had it returned?

Talen stood at the entrance of the second chamber looking at the impenetrable depths of the corridor.

Did it see him? Was it watching him even now?

“Aunt?” he called into the dark passage. He lingered a moment more, listening, but there was no reply. He turned to Sugar and Legs. “Get up.”

“What are you doing?” asked Sugar.

“The monster,” he said, “it’s here. I think it’s taken them.”

And he did not want to be bottled up in this cave waiting for it to return. They had to get out. Sugar tried to wake Legs, but he would not rouse. So Talen rushed in and lifted him over his aching shoulders as he done the previous day.

He carried him out, and put him in the saddle that was still on the Tailor. Sugar was about to tie him on, when Legs blearily asked, “What are we doing?”

Sugar shushed him.

“Leaving,” Talen whispered. He untied the horse and led it out of the stall.

He didn’t know where he would go or what they could do. They just had to get out. Maybe they could go to the far hill and watch this entrance and hope that this was nothing more than his fatigue and imagination running away with him.

Something scuffled outside the mouth of the cave.

Talen and Sugar froze.

They were trapped.

43

HAG’S TEETH

Talen pulled out his knife, knowing it was useless.

A group of armsmen rushed in. They held torches in one hand, swords in the other. As soon as they appeared, they split, the larger portion moving farther into the cave, silent, blinding fast, gone in the blink of an eye. The last two suddenly stood before Talen and Sugar. The one in front of Talen held his sword tip inches from Talen’s chest.

Such speed-it took Talen’s breath away. These weren’t mere armsmen, but dreadmen. In a glance, Talen saw the markings of the Lions of Mokad upon the dreadman’s clothing, the tattoos about the lips, the man’s deadly gaze. These were the Skir Master’s personal guard. And the one holding his sword in front of Talen looked like he would kill at the slightest provocation. A tattoo flared away from one of his eyes. The other eye was puffed, the skin horribly burned.

“On your bellies,” whispered the dreadman.

Talen offered no resistance. He dropped to his knees, then prostrated himself. He turned his head so that one cheek was flat against the earth. Sugar lay with her face in the dirt of the floor. Legs hesitated, then slid off the side of the horse and dropped to the ground. If the Tailor stepped to the side, he’d tread on the boy.

Talen looked up at the dreadman. The torch in the dreadman’s hand spit. One small burning droplet of pitch struck Talen’s neck, but he dared not brush it away. The Tailor was not comfortable with the fire or the men. He protested and backed up, banging into the stall.

Two more men walked into the chamber, a smaller one followed by a larger. The smaller man had short white hair and bushy eyebrows. He stood proudly erect. His clothes were made of sumptuous cloth. But it was the eyes that drew Talen’s attention: as black and shiny as polished jet.

Talen had never before seen a Skir Master. And this one filled him with dread. Talen couldn’t see the face of the larger man, but it was clear he was the Skir Master’s servant.

“Master,” the large one said. “Do you see? I’ll make up for my sins.”

Talen recognized that voice, and he looked on in disbelief: it was Uncle Argoth.

The dreadmen who had moved deeper into the refuge returned to the first chamber. Talen counted six of them besides the two watching him, Sugar, and Legs.

Another man joined the Skir Master-the Crab.

Talen should have known the Fir-Noy would be behind this.

The Crab looked about the chamber. “Well, well. Even I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”

“There’s nobody here,” a dreadman reported.

“No one?” demanded the Skir Master. He turned to Uncle Argoth. “Clansman? Is there another place you haven’t told me about?”

“No, no. The stone was pushed aside. Either they’ve come and gone or they’ve gone and will return.”

Uncle Argoth groveled before the Skir Master. He was so obsequious that if Talen hadn’t seen his face he would have never believed it was Uncle Argoth.

“There was a fire in the first chamber,” the lead dreadman said. “The coals were still warm.”

“Then they’re here,” said Uncle Argoth.

The Skir Master turned and looked at Talen. “Who are you?”

“Nobody,” said Talen.

The dreadman kicked him in the side so hard it took his breath away.

“I am the son of Hogan the Koramite, Horse of Blood Hill. Those are the children of Sparrow, smith of the village of Plum.”

The Skir Master made a small noise to himself and walked over to look down upon Talen.

“He speaks the truth,” said Uncle Argoth.