The Skir Master considered Talen as if he were judging a poorly fired pot. “Was your father here?”

“No,” said Talen. “Not that I know of.”

“Do not seek to deceive me,” said the Skir Master. “I already know that he, like this girl’s witch mother, was snatched from those set to guard him. Tell me where the others are.”

The Skir Master’s pants were scorched. His feet bare. And there stood Uncle Argoth. A traitor. It didn’t matter. They were all dead. Their running had led them straight to those they most wished to avoid. “I do not know, Great One.”

“Cut out his eye,” said the Crab.

The dreadman with the burned eye looked to the Skir Master.

“Please,” said Talen. “We came and the cave was empty. Our guide disappeared while we were in the other chamber. I think the monster took her as well.”

“It’s as I told you, Great One,” Uncle Argoth said. “The creature is not ours. Something else is afoot.”

“Maybe not yours personally,” said the Skir Master. “But you’re only one man. How do you know the two Koramites, whom you trust so much, are not part of another murder of Sleth?”

The Skir Master motioned at Talen, and the dreadman guarding him wrenched Talen up by his hair. He grasped Talen’s head in a one-armed lock and held it firmly against his abdomen.

“I swear,” said Talen. “I’m telling the truth.”

The dreadman drew his knife. “Hold still,” he said and gave Talen a shake. The tang of his body odor encircled Talen.

“I can show you the footprint!” cried Talen. “The monster was here.”

The dreadman changed his grip on his knife and readied it to plunge into Talen’s eye.

“Stop,” said the Skir Master.

Talen stared up at the thin point of the blade.

“Tell me everything you know.”

Everything? Talen wondered. Where would he start? With his mother? With the fact that he was some soul-eater’s artifact? Or should he simply blurt out that his family were all soul-eaters? And then there was Uncle Argoth-was he playing some ruse or had he been subverted? Tell the truth or fabricate a story, either might conflict with what Uncle Argoth had already told the Divine. He decided it would be best to interpret “everything” to mean only what he knew about the monster. He needed to resist them.

“He’s going to lie,” said the dreadman. His face with its burned eye was terrible to behold.

“Then give him a bit of motivation,” said the Skir Master.

“No,” said Talen.

But the dreadman brought the knife down. Talen tried to squirm away, but the man’s grip was like stone. Talen closed his eyes at the last moment and felt the burn as the blade sliced open the skin on his cheek below his eye.

“I saw it first at our farm,” said Talen.

But the dreadman kept cutting. Blood ran down the side of Talen’s face and to his ear.

“Please. I only learned about the Grove just two days ago. I’ll tell you everything.” He was ashamed at how easily he broke. But that disappointment was quickly put aside as he rattled off everything he knew about the creature. His only triumph was that he did not talk about anything else.

The dreadman lifted the knife away from Talen’s face.

Talen continued with every detail he’d seen and all those he’d heard from Da about the battle in the tower. He ended by saying, “Its footprints are here. I can only suspect it’s taken my brother and the Creek Widow, who led us here. I’ll show you.”

The Skir Master regarded him, then nodded, and the dreadman let him up. Talen immediately put his hand to the cut on his face. He pressed his fingers to the cut to hold it closed and stop the bleeding, then walked to the clearest set of prints.

“Here,” he said and pointed at a footprint. “And here.”

The Skir Master squatted down and examined the prints. After some time, he said, “If it’s lore masters this creature wants, then a lore master is what it will get. I think I know what’s been let loose upon your lands.” He stood and turned to the Crab. “We’re going to need at least five sturdy ropes, no shorter than forty feet. Go.”

“Yes, Great One,” the Crab said, then exited the chamber.

The Skir Master turned to the lead dreadman. “This creature cannot be beat by force of arms alone. It was bred by lore, and lore alone can defeat it. If it’s rescuing the soul-eaters, then it will come for the clansman. If it’s merely collecting them, eliminating them, then it will still come because I will raise a bait it can’t resist. We need nooses and snares. You must hold the thing, if only for a moment. I want five of you here. Set the other four to watch. You will distract it. And I shall take it with the ravelers.”

“What about Shegom?”

“The skir will conceal herself elsewhere. I must catch the creature off guard. Shegom will only make it wary.”

The lead dreadman bowed and led his men out of the cave.

Talen looked over at Sugar. The expression on her face told him she was at as great a loss as he was. Legs had not moved, but still lay upon his belly.

The Skir Master turned to Uncle Argoth. “You didn’t tell me about your nephew.”

“He knows nothing,” said Argoth. “His father only recently tried to waken him. He is of no consequence.”

The Skir Master looked down at Talen. “Remember, Clansman, one day more and I will have all of your secrets. Tell Leaf to bring me the sack.”

“Yes, Great One. Thank you,” said Uncle Argoth.

Moments later Uncle Argoth returned with the large dreadman that had cut Talen’s face. The man carefully placed a worn leather sack at the Skir Master’s feet. “Where do you want the Crab’s men?”

“I want them hidden as much as possible. And where they can’t hide, they need to appear to be no threat.” Then the Skir Master opened the mouth of the sack and withdrew three items. The first was a thin silver case etched in a marvelous design. It was about a span long and half as wide. The remaining items were two gauntlets worked in silver and gold. They were not steel-plated gloves used for protection in battle. These were made of whitened leather. The sleeve of the glove extended past the wrist partway up the forearm. An unfamiliar looping design was painted there in red and blue. The hand of the glove was studded with gold. Sewn into the palm was a gold disk the size of a small coin. But Talen knew that wasn’t a coin. It had to be a weave of some type.

The Skir Master put the gauntlets on and tied the sleeves tight to his forearms. Then he opened the case. Inside, secured by silken threads on a bed of blue velvet lay three gleaming spikes. Their lengths too had been etched with an unfamiliar design. He showed the spikes to Uncle Argoth.

“Are they wild?” asked Uncle Argoth.

“Indeed,” said the Skir Master.

There were weaves that only a lore master could use. There were others, wild ones, like those worn by dreadmen, that operated of their own accord.

“Hag’s teeth,” said Uncle Argoth.

“Not the proper name,” said the Skir Master, “but yes. Does the Order know how to fashion these?”

Argoth looked at the spikes as if he were a boy looking at an unclaimed walnut pie. “No, Great One.”

“It will unravel the seams of soul and body and Fire of any living thing. It takes months to complete the very first step, requires the Fire from scores of lives. One of these is worth any number of fiefs. There are only three Glories with the knowledge of how to make them.”

“We would not be able to stand against such,” said Argoth.

“Of course not. That is why you run and hide.”

“We are fools,” said Uncle Argoth.

“Yes, but capable enough to attract the attention of someone with power. And since you’ve been targeted, I think it’s best we use you as part of the bait.”

Talen sat with Uncle Argoth, Sugar, and Legs a dozen paces away from the mouth of the cave in the clearing. Before them burned a fire to make it look like they were doing nothing more than preparing a breakfast. A number of hours had passed since the Skir Master had found them. The sun had risen. Because of the steep slopes of this valley, the sunshine had not yet reached every corner of the valley floor. But morning had begun. A meadowlark sang in the scrub a few dozen yards away. The stream that cut through this vale burbled. Beyond the meadow a huge flock of sparrows squabbled in a single tree. And yet, as late as it was, there had been no sign of the monster.