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.

HAG'S TEETH.

T.

alen 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."

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."