by John Brown
“Who are you?”
Hunger could not answer. He simply stepped into the small light.
Surprise flashed across Ke’s features, but he just as quickly recovered and with blinding speed threw his knife.
It buried itself in Hunger’s eye. He did not expect the pain that shot through him. He thought he was beyond pain. Yet this did not debilitate him. It was strong, but dull, and he shrugged it off.
Ke took advantage of his hesitation and darted past him toward the mouth of the cave.
Ke was fast, but not as fast as River. Hunger ran after him. He caught him at the entrance by the shoulder and whipped him around.
Hunger expected Ke to try to free himself, but Ke grabbed Hunger by the neck and crotch instead. He lifted Hunger and cast him against the wall of the cave.
Ke was always the one to try something surprising. And it had always worked. But not this time.
Ke pushed the stone covering the entrance.
Hunger lunged forward and latched on to Ke with both hands. Then he swept Ke’s feet out from under him, dropping Ke like a stone.
Hunger landed atop Ke and knocked out his breath.
There is no escape, thought Hunger. Not for you, brother. Not for me.
Ke struggled mightily, but Hunger bound him as he had his sister, then he tied him up with a rope. He laid Ke in the third chamber where they kept the beans and water, then went back to the mouth of the cave and shoved the rock aside to open it for the others.
He looked about, considering the best place to hide. Then he looked up. Hunger climbed up the wall to the high, sloped ceiling above the mouth of the cave, up into the inky dark. And there he clung, waiting like a spider for the others to enter his trap.
Talen followed the Creek Widow to the bottom of a narrow valley between two steep and stony hills. Dawn had not yet broken, but the sky had lightened, and he could see the valley well enough. He’d been up now for twenty-four hours and was exhausted. The woods broke on a clearing that began by the brook and ran halfway up one of the hills.
“Here it is,” she said.
“Here?” asked Talen. Such a clearing couldn’t provide much protection. He thought she’d said it was a cave. But he could see none. “What do we do, hide under the bushes?”
“Yes, Talen,” she said. “That’s what the great minds of our Order came up with. Hide under the bushes.” She shook her head and led him through the waist-high brush to the steep and stony base of the hill.
Talen thought that maybe they’d dug some cellar in the valley floor, then the Creek Widow turned a corner around a tall seam of stone running dozens of yards up the hill and disappeared.
“Goh,” he said. He arrived at the place where she vanished and found a jagged cleft in the seam of stone. Before him stood the mouth to a cave, a wan light glowing inside.
“Bring the Tailor in here,” said the Creek Widow from inside.
The mouth was barely wide enough for the horse, but it was not tall enough to allow a mounted man to pass through. Sugar untied Legs and helped him down. Then the three of them entered.
This first chamber stretched perhaps two dozen feet wide. He looked up into the blackness but could not see the ceiling. A light came from a chamber down a short corridor.
“Can you see this in full daylight?” he asked.
“Not unless you’re right upon it,” she said. She pointed at a large stone behind him. “And that’s only when the stone is removed. Replace the stone and this cave doesn’t exist.”
Something popped. It sounded like green wood in a fire. “Hello?” he said, hoping to hear Ke’s voice. But there was no reply.
“You’ll find this a comfortable place,” said the Creek Widow. “There’s no vermin that gets in here. No rats. And there’s a spot where the water drips clear and cold.”
Around the corner from the mouth lay some horse stalls and a crib of hay. The Creek Widow held an armful of hay and put it at the head of one stall. “Bring him over here. I’ll rub him down. You three go see who’s here. And get a place to rest while you can.”
“Where do you keep the food stores?” asked Sugar.
“I’ll worry about that,” said the Creek Widow.
Talen was more than happy to oblige. He walked to the lit chamber, but found no one, just a fire burning low in a hearth. Sugar and Legs joined him. He wondered where the smoke from this fire went. There must be a hole somewhere up above. But if no vermin could get in, that mean they had to have a cap for it. If not, this refuge wasn’t bottled up as tight as the Creek Widow would like to think. Three rabbits stretched out on forks above the fire. The meat wasn’t burned, but it was getting close. To the side he saw Ke’s pack.
“It’s Ke,” Talen called out for the Creek Widow. Then he squatted by the rabbits. “Looks like we’ve got us a snack.”
Knowing that Ke was here sent a surge of relief though him. He did not know until then how helpless he had felt. He put down his bow and removed the quiver of arrows he’d strapped to his waist. Then he squatted close to the fire, and with his knife, skewered one of the carcasses and removed it from the cooking fork. He peeled off a tender piece of loin and stuck it in his mouth. “Not too dry yet.” He turned to Sugar and and held the roasted carcass to her.
Legs sniffed. “That had better not be rat.”
The Creek Widow cursed. At least, that’s what he thought it sounded like. The Tailor had probably pooped on her feet. He smiled to himself thinking of that. Old Lady Brown Toe. He’d give her a ribbing about that.
“Oh, it’s rat,” said Talen. “Nice and plump. You get the tail.”
“Don’t believe him,” said Sugar and twisted off a piece of meat for her brother.
Talen fed the fire and ate his share of the meat. Nobody said anything while they ate. But when he’d finished, he said, “Where do you think the Widow’s gone? It doesn’t take that long to put away a horse.”
“Maybe she went to the privy,” said Legs.
“Probably,” said Talen. “And while she’s away, I’m going to see what else they have here to eat.” He could barely muster enough strength to fight his fatigue, but he stood. At one end of this chamber stood a table and some shelves. He grabbed an oil lamp from the shelf and lit it. Then he walked out into the corridor.
“Aunt?” he said.
The flame guttered in a breeze that he hadn’t noticed before. The Creek Widow did not reply, so he headed farther into the cave. The corridor sloped upwards. The flickering lamp cast odd shadows on the wall. Maybe two dozen yards farther he came to what had to be the third chamber. He held the lamp high and saw barrels of food. But it was all grains and dry stuffs, including rope, arrows, and cord.
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.
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.”
