Off port and high in the air flew a pale blue behemoth; it stretched hundreds of yards across, dozens deep. A mountain of a manta ray, flying toward them over the waves, its wings undulating with slow power. A multitude of other creatures whirled about it like gulls about a ship.

A fear rose in Argoth. He hadn’t felt this since he was a boy standing on the banks of a river and seeing something monstrous turning in the murky green waters at his feet.

“That,” said the Skir Master, “is Shegom.”

Argoth lifted the spectacles. He could discern nothing in the air. He replaced the spectacles, saw the behemoth dive nearer the water. He lifted the spectacles again.

The evidence of her passing was clear: the water fluttered and flattened out as if a white squall passed over it. The strip was darker than the sea about it, reflecting the sun differently. It seemed almost calm in the center, but at its edges the wind kicked up a scud of thick sea spray as it went. Argoth wondered if all dust devils and squalls he had seen were merely the effect of a passing skir.

Suddenly the squall picked up speed.

The captain braced himself. Argoth did the same and lowered his spectacles.

The creature bore down upon them. It covered the distance to the ship in only a few breaths, kicking up a huge wall of sea spray. Just before the wall broke upon the ship, the Skir Master said, “It’s a large one, my beauty. Enjoy the feast.”

The sea spray soaked Argoth, then the wind slammed into him, almost ripping him from the railing. Again, something passed over and through him, the cold literally sweeping his heart. The ship leaned with the gale.

The noise of the wind grew to a screech. He felt his spectacles almost torn from his face, then the wind lessened, and the ship rocked back.

Argoth caught his breath and turned.

Long hairs covered Shegom’s body. But along the edge of where he imagined her head would be grew a beard of whips or tentacles. She held the struggling ayten with these.

The ayten thrashed, trying to break her hold, but Shegom shook it violently, then wrapped her prey with more of the long whips.

Another thrash, then the ayten sagged. Shegom enfolded it in the hairs along her belly just underneath her front edge. Then with a gust of wind and sea spray, she rose above the ship.

“Where is the hook?”

“Hook?” asked the captain.

“Was that not the bait?”

“She’s already mine,” said the Skir Master. He gestured at a weave inlaid in the deck at his feet. “She’s long been a part of this ship.”

“But I thought your skir died on the way.”

“Of course, you did,” said the Skir Master. “That’s why I started that rumor. Tell me, Clansman.” He gestured at the bowl and Shegom. “Does your lore even touch this?”

An alarm sounded in his mind. But then the fear drained away and he felt a bit giddy. “No,” he said.

“I didn’t think so. How many are in your Grove?”

“Almost a dozen,” said Argoth.

He knew he shouldn’t be saying such things. Not with the captain standing right there. Not to the Skir Master. It was death, but… did that matter really?

“And you’re their leader?”

Again the warning. Again it drained away. The Skir Master’s ghostly shape moved toward him. Why had they ever thought they should fight against such marvelous beings? Then he realized what was happening. The Skir Master was seeking him. But how? Panic rose in him.

The spectacles. That was how he was doing this. But seekings were accompanied by bindings and torture.

Argoth raised his hand to remove the weave.

“Leave them on,” said the Skir Master.

Yes, that was wise. It would be nice to have them off, but it didn’t seem to matter much either way.

“Are you the leader?” asked the Skir Master.

Argoth tried to remember his training.

“Answer me.”

He fought against the compulsion. He needed to remove the weave. “No,” he said. “I’m not.”

“Who is?”

Argoth succeeded in reaching the weave.

“Leaf,” said the Skir Master. “I believe we’re going to have to restrain him.”

“Great One,” said Leaf. He approached Argoth. The tattoos flaring out from the man’s eyes made him look wild.

Argoth took one step back. He needed to do something, but couldn’t remember what it was.

“Stand still,” said the Skir Master.

The weave. He needed to remove it. Argoth gripped it with both hands. It took all his effort. Then he ripped it from his face. The world of sunshine and sea burst upon him. He squinted, cast the spectacles from him, and began to build his Fire.

He’d failed, failed before he’d even begun. Find the barrels. Burn the ship. That was his goal.

Leaf drew a cudgel. The muscles rippled in his tattooed arm.

“We need him whole,” said the Skir Master.

“I just thought I’d limit his mobility a bit,” said Leaf. Then he swung the club at Argoth’s knee.

Argoth dodged aside. He saved his knee, but the blow struck his forearm and snapped the bone.

Pain shot up his arm.

Leaf changed his grip on the cudgel and rammed it into Argoth’s gut.

Argoth doubled over.

Leaf shoved him up against the railing and held him there. Argoth tried to struggle, but Leaf held him like iron. Then he shook Argoth’s broken arm. Pain screamed through him and Argoth saw white.

“That will do,” said the Skir Master.

Something cool wrapped itself about Argoth’s neck. He felt fingers clasping it. Then his Fire was gone. He could not reach it. Could not magnify himself.

A collar. A king’s collar.

“No!” It couldn’t end this way.

“Bind him,” said the Skir Master, “and take him to my quarters.”

Leaf twisted Argoth’s arm behind his back, then grabbed a handful of Argoth’s hair and shoved him down onto the deck.

39

After consuming the goats, Hunger chased the female. She was keeping to less-used roads. Of course, it wouldn’t have mattered if she had ridden on well-used ones: he still would have been able to sniff her out of the mix. Up hill, down dale he went, all the time the scent getting stronger, which meant he was getting closer. And then he found that she had separated from her horse.

Perhaps she’d been brushed off by a branch. Or it had run off on her while she’d gone to get a drink or relieve herself. Or maybe she’d run it too hard. He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He was getting closer. He would have her soon.

The road he was on now wasn’t so much of a road but a wide wash for the spring rains. Only the smallest trickle of water ran down the bed of the wash now. The last stretch had been rocky. It would slow her down, but it wouldn’t slow him.

Trees grew thickly along the banks of the wash. Hunger raced around a bend and saw a trail split off the wash and rise up and over one of the banks. He saw one of her muddy footprints at the base of the trail. He splashed through the tiny brooklet and prepared to charge up the bank. But before he could start up the trail, he caught the stink of magic on the wind.

He ran a few more paces and then stopped. The female had left the wash. He could smell that. He followed her trail up. The trees along the banks immediately gave way to mown oat fields. He could not see her, but he could see that the trail ran straight for some distance through the middle of the fields.

However, the stink was weaker at the top of the bank. He descended back to the bottom of the wash. Yes, it was here. He had found that the human’s magic all had a slightly different taste to it. River’s had carried a slightly different odor from Argoth’s down in the cellar. And the scent of the burning boy had carried, yet again, a tinge of something else. He thought he recognized this one.