From Latebirth’s arms, Manethrall Mahrtiir rasped, “It is said that the Ramen have an instinct for open sky. That is sooth. But our gifts will not serve us here. This stone is too great. It thwarts our hearts. If we would flee farther, we must trust to the Waynhim.

“Their fidelity is certain. And Esmer mere-son has averred that they are cunning. I will believe that they have guided us hither—aye, and that they now urge us onward—to some worthy purpose. I cannot think otherwise.”

Moisture trickled like insects down the sides of Linden’s neck. She had as much reason as anyone—more—to put her faith in the Waynhim. But she was too distracted to speak.

“Attend!” commanded Branl abruptly. “The bane is not our only peril.”

He and the other Haruchai had turned. They were gazing with something akin to alarm at the lower end of the cavern, beyond the pool.

Through Jeremiah, the croyel sneered, “You aren’t paying attention, Mom. The real fun’s about to start.”

With the krill, Rime Coldspray drew a thin line of pain across the creature’s throat. Through her teeth, she hissed, “While I live, beast, I will have your silence.”

Jeremiah made a small mewing sound like an echo of the croyel’s fright. Then his jaw dropped, and his mouth hung open.

Dumbly Linden peered down the side of the basin. Water dripped onto her head, trickled hideously through her hair. A light rain spattered the features of her companions. When she contrived to focus her attention on the curving granite, she saw that Branl was right.

In at least half a dozen places, wrongness had already begun to suppurate in the stubborn stone. With appalling celerity, a thick reek like the stench of gangrene bruited its way through the stagnant air.

She recognized what was happening as if beetles and maggots had whispered the truth in her ears.

“Mane and Tail!” cried Bhapa.

“Linden!” Liand called fearfully. His grasp on the orcrest wavered. “Linden.”

Linden ignored them. Sicknesses that crawled and stung demanded her attention. One way or another, she would be to blame for the deaths of her friends, all of them.

“Ringthane!” Mahrtiir barked once. Then he shouted at the Giants, “Set us upon our feet! Coldspray Ironhand, hear me! We must do what we can to conserve the last of your strength. We are useless here. Only your weapons and valor may hope to ward us. Release your burdens! Free us to run unaided! I do not fear that we will outpace you.”

Attempts must be made—

The clamor of the Waynhim and ur-viles complicated the sound of drizzling water, the implied shrieks of chewed granite. But even the tension of the Demondim-spawn could not contradict the mounting labor of the bane’s advance.

For a moment, Coldspray faltered as if her courage had failed. Then she clenched her teeth, squared her shoulders.