They were dirty. Filthy. Unshaven. They wore ragged clothes, worn thin. They were skinny, all of them. Sunken cheekbones, sunken eyes, eyes that glittered in reflected firelight.

“We’re not here to fight you,” Valkyrie said.

One of the men observed her for a moment before opening his mouth. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “You come down, invade our home, and you expect us to just stand by and let you? You think we’re not ready to do battle? You think we’re weak?”

“No,” she said, “I don’t think that at all, but we’re not your enemy—”

“We’re not weak!” the man roared, and the others joined in. “We eat moss and mushrooms. We drink from stagnant pools. We survive.”

All around her, mutterings. “We survive,” over and over.

“We like new people,” the man said, and everyone laughed. “Yes, we do. Too bad for you.”

“Too bad,” said one of the men holding her.

“You’re tall,” said the leader. “We like tall. Your clothes might fit us. Some of us. Enchanted, are they? Protected? They’ll last. They’ll last forever. But you. Tall. Strong. Pretty. You won’t last as long.”

Skulduggery moaned, and someone kicked him.

“The skeleton detective,” said the leader, looking down at him. “We’ll take him apart. Use his bones as weapons. He won’t last, either. But we can’t eat him.” The leader looked back at her. “We can eat you.”

There was a woman holding Valkyrie’s left arm. Valkyrie pulled her in, smashed her forehead into the woman’s face. She yanked her right arm free, reached for the shadows, but the air rippled and she flew back. More hands grabbed her. Someone started to hit her and she turned her head, eyes closed, mouth tightly shut. They dropped her and she latched on to a leg as others kicked. She held that leg and didn’t let go, letting her clothes soak up most of the impacts. A bare foot came in, caught her on the side of the jaw and the strength left her arms. She collapsed, sounds growing dim, her vision darkening.

“She’ll do,” she heard the leader say. “We’ll divide her up. We get half. The Beast gets half.”

She heard someone laughing and she slipped downwards, away from it all, plummeting into unconsciousness.

They had managed to get a set of shackles to close tightly enough to secure Skulduggery’s hands to the frame of old wood and hardened root. He hung there, arms above his head, feet tied below, in the centre of what could be considered the village. Small huts of stone and rock emanated outwards from a large campfire. The frame on which Skulduggery hung was on one side of the fire. The frame on which Valkyrie hung was on the other.