“Stop and have a good look at it then,” Corvus said, as quietly as it was possible for a giant talking raven to form words. “We go up under cover of dark, and we go there.”

“Where?” Lyne asked, for all of them.

“There. I’m pointing right at it.”

“You have no way of pointing.”

“I am pointing with my beak.”

“Never mind, I see it,” said Pick. He had dropped to one knee and planted the foot of his stick on a rock, the better to peer through its lenses. Between that and the direction of Corvus’s beak the rest of the party were able to see what was being looked at: the tiniest black pore in the surface of the rampart. It was directly above them, for Corvus had led them right to it. Unlike the various entrances made by the Dug, this did not have an enormous fan of spoil pointing right at it.

“Is that the famous cave?” Querc asked.

“Famous to this little band. To the Dug, more infamous, and rarely entered.”

“Strikes me as odd,” Pick remarked.

“Yes,” said Lyne. “Why wouldn’t they go into a conveniently situated natural cave?”

“I don’t like where this is going,” Mard said.

“Terror” was the answer of Corvus. “Fear of what becomes of any who strays more than a few yards beyond the entrance.” Continuing in the same level tone, he added, “Memorize landmarks that may be useful in the dark.”

“Why not go up now?” Querc asked. “The storm is brewing up again.”

“Dug patrols on the heights.”

“They’ve seen us?”

A raven shrug. “If not, they will. It’s their purpose for existing.”

The heavy slugs of half-frozen water developed into a steady fall of ice-rain, which prompted them to retreat just a few yards down to a marginally more sheltered place. The light had dimmed, footing was slick, and Mard’s injured legs weren’t moving well. He toppled forward and reflexively threw out both arms to avoid planting his face right on the stones. But only one hand—his good one—made effective contact with the ground. The injured one gave way, so that he twisted at the moment of impact and struck with his shoulder. Momentum then rolled him onto his back, where he lay for a few moments, grimacing with agony.

His injured arm was missing. Or rather, beyond the point where he had cut himself with the sword of Elshield, a forearm, wrist, and hand still existed. But they were made of aura. The fingers were wispy ghosts. Prim could see right through the palm of his hand. She came very close to crying out. What stilled her was not the fear of being heard by Dug. It was the way Mard looked into her eyes: altogether steady and calm. He had known, of course, and had been hiding it under his cloak.