Free of his mind’s hold, the ravens broke from their tight spiral and soared, winging higher, rising to become specks in the blue sky.

Go, he sent a final thought after them. Go, little brothers, and I will meet you anon!

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FOUR

EVEN IN SUMMER, IT WAS cold in the mountains.

It had not seemed so bad when they emerged, though he reckoned that was due to the relief at finding themselves alive. Frightened, yes. He was frightened. One moment, they had been in the Ways of the Marasoumië, under Malthus’ protection. He hadn’t been afraid, then, after they escaped the Were. Not for himself, only for those they left behind. The Ways were fearful and strange, but Malthus was there.

And then they had encountered the others, with a jolt he still felt in his bones. Thousands and thousands of them, huge and hulking, like creatures from a nightmare. The red light of the Marasoumië illuminated their jutting tusks, their massive talons, the heavy armor that encased their hide-covered bodies. A column of Fjeltroll, an army of Fjeltroll, winding back into the Ways as far as the eye could see.

It was a man on a black horse who led them, and he did not have to be told to know it was one of the Three. The Slayer, who had throttled love with his bare hands. And the sword he bore, the black blade, was forged in the marrow-fire itself and quenched in the blood of Satoris the Sunderer.

Everything the Counselor had said was true.

Whatever Malthus had done with the Soumanië had swept them into the Ways, driving them backward—but not the Slayer. Though he had been unhorsed, the Soumanië’s power could not touch him. There was a circle of burning shadow that surrounded and protected him.

He had drawn his black sword, preparing to slay the Counselor.

Trust me, Malthus had said.

And then the world had exploded in a rush of crimson light, and stone had swallowed them whole, sending them hurtling. Away, away, farther than he had dreamed possible. Swallowed them and digested them and spat them out in the cavern in the mountains, so far north that pockets of snow lay in the gulches. And here they had to fight for their survival.

“Dani, you need to eat.”

Uncle Thulu’s face was worried. He extended a roasted haunch of hare on a spit. It had taken him the better part of a day to catch it.

“Yes, Uncle.”

The meat was hot and greasy. Dani picked at it, burning his fingers. It felt slick on his tongue and juices filled his mouth as he chewed. He swallowed, feeling the meat slide down his throat. His belly growled and contracted around it, and he took another bite, suddenly voracious.

Uncle Thulu’s dark face creased in a grin. “The Bearer is hungry!”

“Yes.” He smiled back around a mouthful of meat. “I am.”

“Good.”