At his side, Croy peered ahead toward the light, shielding his eyes with one hand. He said something, but in the roar of the water Malden couldn’t hear him at all. The knight lowered his hand, then shouted some kind of strangled war cry—

“Gurrh!”

—and dashed forward, right at the beast, which lifted its arms as if to crush him in a vicious embrace. For the first time Malden saw it was holding something huge, like a tree branch or a stone club.

Pressing himself up against the mineral-stained wall of the tunnel, he closed his eyes, dreading the inevitable crunch as Croy’s bones were shattered inside his body. The fool didn’t even have his swords.

But the sound he heard next, amplified and distorted by the weird acoustics of the tunnel, was a joyful one. It was the sound of booming laughter and astonishment, the noise of old fellows well met.

Malden opened his eyes and saw the most surprising thing he would encounter that day. Croy and the beast were clasping hands and japing with each other.

“Malden,” Croy said, “come out already. Come and meet my old friend, Gurrh.”

Malden staggered forward, pushed by the current, and stepped out into the light beyond the pipe’s mouth. He got his first good look at the monster and nearly soiled his breeches, even if it was a friend of Croy’s.

It stood eight feet tall and had the same general shape as a man, though it was far broader and its muscles were as big as those of a horse. It was covered from crown to sole in coarse black fur, matted with grease, and stinking of death. Only a small patch of skin, from nose to forehead, was exposed, and that was as white as the corpse of a dwarf. Its eyes, while merry, were the size of saucers, and its nose was crooked and bent to one side. On its forehead and around its eyes were inscribed some ancient runes.

The thing it held, which Malden had thought was a club, was in fact the carcass of a river otter missing its head. From the look of the stump, the beast had already gnawed the head off, perhaps by way of breaking its fast.

“Thou,” the creature said, with a deep, rasping voice, “art a friend of Sir Croy?” It stuck out its free hand. “Then in the Lady’s name thou art well come into my home, gentle. I am called Gurrh; a common sort of calling amongst my clan.”

The clan of ogres, Malden thought. This creature, with its honeyed words, was an ogre. There could be no doubt. Tentatively he placed his own hand inside the palm of the giant. The ogre took it carefully and shook it gently.

“But . . . how?” Malden asked.