“You’ll bring them here, those two men, and keep them as well.”

“Even you don’t have the appetite for three,” said Hunger.

“I’m not going to eat them,” she said. Then she sighed. “It is unfortunate that, when I found you, your soul was bound to the Mother of Mokad. I could only recover pieces.” She shook her head. “Understand, the human wizards, those that stink, must swear allegiance to me. All of them.”

A memory rose in Hunger’s mind. Before, when he was not in this body, he had been searching for something in her caves. Something dangerous. He had been under orders from a different master then who had yet another master. And the Mother had stolen him away from them. “I had a name,” he said.

“That name doesn’t matter,” she said. “You are no longer that creature.”

It came to him. “Lumen,” he said, and knew it was true. “That was my name.” He himself had been a master.

And a thrall. The realization of this crashed upon him-the Divines, the Glories, the rulers of men were nothing more than servants to creatures like her.

But that wasn’t right. He was Barg. He was many names. Confusion clouded his mind.

“You are mine now,” said the Mother.

That also was true, but it didn’t mean he was hers willingly. “The Sleth will fight you. They will not serve you.”

“They will all serve me, one way or the other. I will find my human to lead the harvest. And those that rebel will be put to another purpose.”

“They will die here in the dark.”

“Not before we use them to quicken the children.”

“Children?”

Hunger tried to probe her mind to find out what she was talking about, for there were no children here.

“Come,” she said and led him down a passageway he did not know to a large room.

The Mother sang and suddenly the ribbons of light that wove their way about her ranged out into the room and illuminated it. Half a dozen bodies lay slumbering in the dirt. They were not human or animal. And they were not small, not the bodies of children. They were bodies like his, made of earth, but they weren’t exact matches-one had multiple arms, another had a vicious snout and head, another was tall and thin. One had a head shaped like an onion.

“These,” said the Mother, “are your brethren.”

Hunger knew she’d formed these bodies just as she’d formed his. And he knew when they were ready, she’d call them forth just as she had called him.

“There will be more. We shall quicken them, you and I. And the master of the harvest shall lead them.”

“You’re going to make war on us?”

“War?” she said. “You weren’t listening.”

But then what were these for?

“War is the last thing I want. This land and people have been neglected. Koram is ours. It always has been, even far-flung fields like this one. We could not stop the Mother of Mokad from taking them before, but we have recovered some of the old ways. The Mother of Mokad is failing. Soon all her human herds will be mine, and I shall make them fruitful. They will become the envy of the earth and yield a rich harvest for many, many years to come. And these,” she gestured at the children, “will be the first of those that will protect them.”

Hunger stared at the Mother. Memories tumbled in, stories of a time when there were many minor beings with power. The old gods-this one ruling a valley, that one a small village, this one living on her own in the woods, that one farming with his people. Some protected and blessed. Some, like the Goat King, did not. “You’re one of the old gods,” he said, “aren’t you?”

The Mother shook her head. “What you call the old gods were humans and, sometimes, other creatures who knew the lore. They were like wild animals. They fought us, but in the end, we tamed them and put them to the use intended by the Creators.”

Hunger looked at the children. He knew the powers the Mother had taught him: how to separate Fire from body, how to shuck a soul. He knew what she ate. But he’d never seen the implications, probably because until he’d eaten Barg he’d never had the mind of a man to grasp them.

He was stunned. Horrified.

The Mother smiled. “You need not worry about facing the wrath of the Creators,” she said. “Did they not make us? And is it not the nature of creation for one thing to master and devour another? Humans feed on cattle, cattle on grass, grass on the earth. It is only natural that something should feed on humans.”

It was natural, Hunger realized. And there were creatures that did so-bears, lions, sharks. But something about her logic was wrong. It took him a moment. “It’s natural to devour a body maybe. But not a soul.”

“That’s not true,” she said. “There are all manner of creatures that feed on the soul.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Hunger. But he knew about the perilous journey after this life. She spoke the truth. “There may be predators,” he said, “but the prey sometimes turns and fights.”

“Your cattle and chickens do not fight you, do they? They do not flee, but come to you, depend on you. And that’s what humans have been doing for ages-they’ve been depending on us. And just as it’s easier for you to manage your cattle, it’s easier to manage humans when they don’t know they’re mastered.”

Hunger thought of his family. Were humans delicacies or the staples of her diet? It didn’t matter: she would eat his family. She had never planned on doing anything different.

“I’ve made you a promise,” she said, “and I keep my promises. An obedient servant deserves a reward. That is the best way. Do you not sometimes pass over a favorite cow or goat when it’s time for slaughter and instead let it die from old age? This is no different. Fulfill your duty. I will let them free, and you, not your family, will be the first fruits of the harvest.”

18

Sugar was not safe here, not with men in the woods, and that idiot Talen making a scene. Goh, that one, that stinking load of scours, scaring the life out of her. He’d nearly broken her nose throwing that door in her face. He’d nearly killed her and Legs both.

But then… what would she have done in his position? These folks were risking their lives. Obviously, he hadn’t been asked if he were willing to do that. Wouldn’t she want to be asked to risk her life for a stranger?

Nevertheless, she could not sleep. Yes, it was vastly more comfortable in the cellar under the kitchen floor than out in that hole. Hogan’s family hadn’t filled the cellar yet with their winter stores, and so it was both wide and deep. She didn’t have to contend with mosquitoes, and she had not found any of the monstrous black and yellow spiders that seemed unable to stay out of the dog warren. But the cellar was also the first place anyone would look.

Legs slept on the narrow bed River had placed down here, next to old cabbage leaves and the scattered old potatoes with their multitudes of long, pale stems, looking like a nest of ghostly, spindly legged crabs. He’d fallen asleep brushing her hair with his fingers, picking out the knots and debris.

He was putting a brave front on as Da had always taught him to do. And Da had taught him so much. He had spent hours, days demanding Legs learn do hard things despite his blindness-chores around the yard, holding pieces on the anvil while Da hammered them, working the bellows, learning every foot of the village and the surrounding fields so he could take water in his goat cart to those that toiled there.

Da had seemed a force of nature. And now he was gone.

What would he do here? He’d tell her to stop worrying over things she couldn’t change. He’d tell her she was bred to do hard things, it was in her blood.