“Neheris!” Thorun snorted. “Mother of us all! This is what we’ve been searching for?”

“Do not judge in haste.” Skragdal fingered his carved rhios uneasily, thinking about the crater at the northern end of Neherinach where the Galäinridder had burst from the earth. He had been there in the Ways when the wizard expelled them from the Marasoumië, his gem blazing like a terrible red star. “Perhaps it is a trick.”

“Perhaps,” Thorun said.

There was no trick. Three more Kaldjager emerged from the trees to come behind the smallfolk. On either side, the others began to close in upon them. The Kaldjager were in high spirits, baring their teeth and showing their pointed tongues. It had been a good hunt. One of them pointed toward Skragdal and spoke. Weary and resigned, the smallfolk began trudging across the field.

Skragdal folded his arms and watched them come, slow and halting. It was true they were dark-skinned, though not so dark as a Mørkhar Fjel. The bigger one moved as though he were bowed beneath a great weight. Skragdal understood the feeling. There were tears on that one’s haggard face, and he no longer reeked of fear, but of despair.

The smaller one held one arm clamped to his side. With his other hand, he clutched at a small clay flask strung about his neck on a braided vine. For all that, his head was erect, and his dark eyes were watchful and grave.

“Not much more than a pup,” Thorun observed.

“No,” Skragdal said. “Bold, though.”

By the time the smallfolk reached the burial mound, they were wavering on their feet. The bigger one tried to shield the smaller. Aside from belt knives and a tattered sling at the little one’s waist, they weren’t even armed. They did not belong in the place. And yet, there was the flask, as Lord Vorax had said it would be. The smell of water, of old water, was stronger. If everything else was true, it was more dangerous than a sword; than a thousand swords. Skragdal shook his head, frowning down at them.

“Do you know where you are?” he asked in the common tongue. They gaped at him in astonishment. “This place.” He indicated the field. “Do you know it?”

“You talk!” the smaller one said in wonderment.

One of the Nåltannen made a jest in his own tongue; the others laughed. “Enough.” Skragdal raised his hand. “We do not make jests in this place. Smallfolk, this is Neherinach, where Haomane’s Allies killed many thousand Fjel. We carried no arms. We sought only to protect Satoris, Third-Born among Shapers, who took shelter among us. Do you understand? You will die here to avenge those deaths.”

The bigger one rested his hands on the shoulders of the smaller, whispering to him. The smaller shook him off. “Why?” he asked simply.