“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.”
Talen sat with Uncle Argoth, Sugar, and Legs a dozen paces away from the mouth of the cave in the clearing. Before them burned a fire to make it look like they were doing nothing more than preparing a breakfast. A number of hours had passed since the Skir Master had found them. The sun had risen. Because of the steep slopes of this valley, the sunshine had not yet reached every corner of the valley floor. But morning had begun. A meadowlark sang in the scrub a few dozen yards away. The stream that cut through this vale burbled. Beyond the meadow a huge flock of sparrows squabbled in a single tree. And yet, as late as it was, there had been no sign of the monster.
The Crab stood watch a few paces away, while the Skir Master waited by the mouth of the cave. The Crab had brought fifty men with him. They loitered in groups in various positions around the cave. To the casual observer, it might look like they stood in random places. But the Skir Master had ordered them so that only one approach to the cave lay wide open. He expected the monster to come that way. And when it reached them, the five dreadmen who stayed with the Skir Master would spring.
He’d overhead some of the Fir-Noy talking. Twenty dreadmen had been in the Skir Master’s guard. The big one that was his guide made it twenty-one. But twelve of those had been lost at sea in a fire. And Uncle Argoth had come back, sniveling and cringing. He hadn’t been able to hear what had happened. He doubted even the Fir-Noy knew.
The breeze shifted and blew the smoke toward Talen. He picked up the rock he was sitting on and moved out of its way, closer to Uncle Argoth. So much for the Creek Widow’s theory of him being bred to greatness. He’d cracked like an egg.
And so much for the Creek Widow. He wondered what had happened to her.
He wondered about Da. The Skir Master had said the monster had taken him. Talen tried to talk to Uncle Argoth. But the man totally ignored him. He ignored everyone and sat to the side, rocking on his haunches and muttered something unintelligible under his breath.
“What do you think will become of us if the Skir Master kills it?” Talen asked.
“I don’t think we have to worry about that,” said Legs. “Usually the bait is the first thing to go.”
“True enough,” Talen said.
They were silent for a time. Talen wondered where Nettle was at this moment. He hoped he was safe but wished, nevertheless, that he was here. Then Sugar spoke up. “Once he faces off with that creature, I say we slip away. Because if he takes it, he doesn’t know where the monster’s cave is, which means we can walk straight into that lair and retrieve whoever is still alive. And if he doesn’t destroy it, then I certainly don’t want to be anywhere close.”
“The only clear path is up that hill,” Talen said. The outer dreadmen and Fir-Noy had positioned themselves everywhere else. Talen didn’t think running would work since the Fir-Noy had horses, but thinking about escape was better than thinking of being devoured by a monster or questioned by a Divine whose ship had burned underneath him.
Uncle Argoth reached out and gripped Talen’s arm much too tightly.
“Uncle?” Talen asked.
“He knows,” said Uncle Argoth, his grip tightening even further. “He knows everything.”
“What’s he talking about?” Sugar asked.
Talen shrugged. He tried to pull away but his uncle would not let go.
A dreadman broke the tree line on the other side of the meadow on the valley’s floor. He was tall and thin and fast, as fast as a horse at full gallop. He ran across the field and in moments he stood before the Skir Master. “Cos and Heel are dead, their backs broken.”
“Shegom reports nothing,” said the Skir Master.
“They’ve been dead for at least an hour.”
The Skir Master studied the hills about the valley. To this moment, he hadn’t yet withdrawn any of the hag’s teeth. He did so now, removing one of the silver spikes from its blue velvet bed and grasping it in his white, gold-studded glove. “Where are you?” he said under his breath.
As if in answer Talen saw a stone above the mouth of the cave move. He looked closer.
“Goh,” he said. It was as if a part of the hill had come alive.
The Crab followed Talen’s gaze.
Then the creature jumped, dropping down with a thud only paces behind the Skir Master. In the morning light its features were clearer than they had been that night in the yard. It was a grotesque giant. And while clumps of grass still clung to it here and there, he saw the underlying color was of dirt and blue stone. One shoulder was burned. Along the other, a patch of small white flowers grew.
The Skir Master turned, but he was too late and the creature slapped the hand holding the tooth. The hand flew backward violently.
The Crab cried out. He clutched at his throat, at the spike that stood out of his neck. Then the end of the spike curled like a worm. In a flash of silver it wriggled into the Crab’s neck.
The Crab gasped and stumbled. He tripped toward Talen and the others. Talen tried to scramble back, but Uncle Argoth would not release him. Then the Crab twitched and toppled into the fire. Ash puffed up in a billow.