He could not forget it, the sight of the vines coming to life, engulfing the Fjeltroll. Rampant life, breeding death. Dragging them down, one by one, stopping their mouths, piercing their entrails. It must have been a horrible death. He did not like to imagine it.

But they had killed his people.

Did you not expect his Lordship to strike against his enemies?

He hadn’t.

No one remembered the Yarru. Even Haomane First-Born had forgotten them, bent on pursuing his vengeance. It didn’t matter. The Yarru had survived, and understood. It was the Shapers’ War. They had fled beneath the earth and forgiven Haomane his Wrath; they had understood. That was the greater knowledge with which they had been charged, the understanding of how Uru-Alat, dying, had Shaped the world. And of the Well of the World, and what it meant

Dani had not reckoned on Satoris’ anger.

He willed his trembling to subside, his breathing to slow. At his side, Uncle Thulu did the same. They had not spoken to one another since Neherinach. Now his uncle glanced sidelong at him, a slow smile spreading over his face. He patted himself down, feeling for wounds and finding none.

“Well done, lad,” he said. “Well done!”

“Was it?” Dani murmured.

Uncle Thulu frowned at him. “Would you have done elsewise?”

“No.” Dani shivered, remembering the way the vinewrapped Fjeltroll had rolled his eyes to meet his when he had plucked the vial from its palm. It had spoken the common tongue. He hadn’t expected that. Malthus should have warned him. They were more than mere beasts.

Killers, nonetheless.

Perhaps your people would not have been slain for your actions.

He shivered harder, wrapping his arms around himself, wondering how they had died. Quickly, he hoped. The Fjeltroll had offered him as much.

There was no pursuit; not that day, nor the next. They turned southward, making their way through a dense forest of spruce. The trees were ancient, their trunks covered with green moss, so vast Dani and Thulu could not have encircled them with joined arms. Ferns grew thick on the forest floor, turning brown and brittle with the advent of autumn. It was hard to walk without them crackling underfoot. With each crunching footfall, Dani felt the skin between his shoulder blades prickle.

Still, they saw no Fjeltroll. On the third day, they learned why.

No boundary stone marked the border between Fjel territory and Staccia, a nation of Men. They had no way of knowing they had crossed it until they emerged from the forest to find a vast structure of grey stone; a stone Keep, built by Men’s hands. Dani froze, staring at it uncomprehending. After endless days without a glimpse of human life, something so big seemed impossible.

“Back into the woods, lad,” Uncle Thulu muttered. “Quick and quiet, before we’re seen!”

Too late. Behind them, the ferns crackled.