“This is stone-wight work,” Talen said.

“Do you think this monster is one of them?”

“I don’t know.”

At her feet, covered in thick dust, were different-colored stones set in a geometric pattern. She wondered where the bat dung was. A cave such as this should be heaped high, beetles crawling about in it. But there was no dung. No bats. No cave vermin.

“You keep your ears perked,” said Sugar. Then they proceeded down the corridor, always just a stride or two from the swallowing dark.

They passed many carvings. One was of a great tree with all manner of beasts in it. Another of a bear carved with such fine detail she could see individual locks of its fur. Yet another contained a panel of ancient writing carved from top to bottom.

At one point she thought she’d heard something again. They froze, her waiting for the creature to come running out of the shadows, Talen stepping forward and to the side so the torch would illuminate more of the corridor.

She decided the sound was some trick of the cave, and proceeded forward, still tracking the creature by the occasional marks the creature made as it walked. She held the hag’s tooth ready in one hand, the case in the other. The silver glimmered in the torchlight. The tooth was long and felt well-balanced for throwing. But she couldn’t risk a long throw. After seeing the battle with the Skir Master, she knew she’d only have one chance.

With every step she became more certain that their names were going to be added to the list of those fools who had been swallowed by the ancient stone-wight ruins. Soon the second torch burned low. Talen lit the third. They now had only three left. Not long after that they arrived at a fork. Talen held the torch at a low angle to create better shadows that might reveal footprints. They walked down to the right a few paces and found nothing. A few paces down the left passage Sugar found another half print.

Talen froze and sniffed.

Sugar sniffed as well. Sulfur.

“The monster’s up there,” she said. “In that stink.”

“Aye,” said Talen.

Sugar gripped the tooth in her gauntlet, the gold studs gleaming in the torchlight, and took a step forward.

45

Argoth could not stop shaking. The tremors came in waves, starting deep within and building until his whole body spasmed. When each wave began, the monster carrying him would hold him tighter to keep him from shaking loose. He thought at first the tremors were signs of his terror at this beast. But the fear of the creature had quickly subsided, and he realized he had begun shaking as soon as it killed the Skir Master.

It was an effect of the breaking of the bond, he was sure of it. What it meant for his survival, he did not know. It might build until, like a case of lockjaw, he died in a horrible contraction. Or it might eventually pass.

Between tremors he examined the creature, the dark pits of its eyes, the rough edges of its hideous mouth protruding like the spines of a cod, the exposed skeleton of stone. A smattering of tiny, pale, white flowers grew across its neck and shoulder. He wondered why they had not wilted and supposed the earth from which they grew was living, part of its skin. At one point in the journey, when the monster stopped to kick a tumbled tree out of its way, a fat bumblebee droned about the monster’s head and landed on its shoulder. It had time to probe one of the pale flowers before the monster began running again and the bouncing shook it off.

Argoth could not understand why the creature had taken Legs. Perhaps he would deliver Argoth to the master and then reward itself with Legs as a meal. Whatever the reason, in between spasms, Argoth talked to Purity’s blind boy, soothing him, thinking all the while of Nettle, and the sacrifice he’d made-the sacrifice that had been wasted on his cursed, foolhardy scheme.

The creature kept, for the most part, to the woods. Argoth knew there was no use calling for help. He’d tried, and the monster had clamped a rough hand over his mouth. Besides, this was not a weave of flesh and blood. How it lived, he could not guess. What he did know was that it could only be undone by special lore. Lore of which he had no knowledge. He could only hope that the Creek Widow had mustered the strength of the Grove. He was spent, but there still was a chance the Grove could defeat this thing.

The tremors continued for the many miles, but he noticed they were coming farther and farther apart. Perhaps he would survive the breaking of his bond to the Skir Master.

The monster carried them along a ridge of hills. It came to a small bluff, covered in trees, and jumped down to the ground a few yards below. They landed with a thump, and when the creature turned, Argoth saw why they’d come here.

Before them a cave opened into the rock. The monster repositioned them in its arms and strode into the darkness. It splashed through water, icy spray wetting Argoth’s exposed feet and face.

“We’re in a cave,” Argoth said to Legs.

“I know, Zu,” said Legs. “Please, unless you see something, it is important that I listen and smell.”

Argoth startled at the mild rebuke, but thought perhaps this is how the blind dealt with the unknowns in their world.

The monster climbed hill and valley, taking them ever deeper into the bowels of the rock. His tremors lessened. After some time, Argoth saw a bluish light up ahead. He mentioned this to Legs, who said, “I don’t know that I can keep the orientation points all in my head.”

Orientation points? Then he realized that the boy was keeping a map of sounds and smells in his mind. Argoth looked at him with new admiration.

As the monster jogged, the light grew stronger. Soon Argoth could make out the walls of the passage they were in. The monster took them past a chamber containing a large pool of black water, past pillars, past openings to other dark passageways. The light grew, they turned a corner, and Argoth found himself in the room that was the source of the light.

The light came from the dead body of a large, pallid beast with an eyeless head. There was no odor of rotten flesh, which meant it must have been recently killed. It lay on the far side of the chamber. It looked like a monstrous salamander, as long as a man, but with a stubby tail and the tusks of a boar. Two vertical cuts ran along its belly. The creature’s juices oozed out of the cuts, and when the separate juices ran together, the mixture shone with a white and bluish light. A bowl had been set on the floor beside the creature to capture the fluorescing liquid as it dripped from the creature’s side.

Argoth had seen creatures similar to this before. They were called night maws. But those were never longer than a man’s hand. And they were rare. That same light shone from two other bowls set in the room. It was not the blinding light of the sun, but an odd light that still left much of the room in shadow.

The monster released Argoth and Legs to stand.

“No,” a woman said.

The voice surprised him.

Argoth turned and saw figures chained at even intervals along the walls to his right: Hogan, the Creek Widow, Ke, River, Purity.

“No,” said the woman again. It was the Creek Widow, full of despair.

His heart sank. He’d hoped, at the very least, that Ke had escaped to call in the last two members of the Grove. But that would not be. There would be no muster.

Purity looked like the walking dead. Hogan did not look much better.

“Legs!” Purity said.

Argoth stepped toward Hogan, but the monster grabbed him by his injured arm and wrenched him to an open set of manacles. The pain shot up Argoth’s arm. He took in a sharp breath.