“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.”