No. No, they’ve…stopped, he realized. Instead of finishing them off, the Longskulls watched the trio with calm interest, small eyes gleaming beneath heavy browridges, some of them opening and closing their bony, toothless mouths like fish. The two scouts Gyir had killed the night before had been better caparisoned than most of these club-wielding creatures, who wore little more than rags and shreds of chain mail and leather, but there were far more than enough of them to make up for any deficiency in their arms.

Gyir made the first speech-sound Vansen had ever heard from him, a hiss of air like a snake’s warning, so loud it could be heard even above the gabble of the surrounding Longskulls. The fairy raised his sword, and Vansen knew beyond doubt that he was about to leap into the nearest mass of them and sell his life dearly, shedding blood and breaking bones, but Vansen knew just as clearly that even a fierce fighter like Gyir would fail and quickly be dragged down by sheer weight of numbers, and that he and Barrick would then follow him into death.

“Gyir, no! Barrick, stop him!” he shouted. “They’re not going to kill us.”

The fairy-man took a step forward. Vansen leaned down to grab at Gyir. He caught the collar of the fairy-man’s cloak and hung on. The Storm Lantern’s strength was surprising—Vansen was almost dragged out of the saddle, even with both legs gripping and his hand locked on the horn. “Curse you, give over!” he grunted at the fairy. “They mean to take us alive! Look at them!”

Barrick, after a moment of indecision, suddenly leaped forward and grabbed at Gyir’s other arm. Trembling, the fairy-warrior turned on the young prince with a look of something like hatred, his eyes the only part of his face that lived, two burning slashes in the ivory mask. After a moment, though, he lowered his bloodstained blade. The Longskulls moved closer, hooting quietly, and began to disarm their new prisoners.

“We are a catch, it seems,” Vansen said to the prince. “Better to surrender than die needlessly, Highness. For the living, there is always hope.”

“Or torture.” Barrick was shoved roughly to the ground even as he spoke. The prince’s voice was flat and lifeless. “We will be slaves if we are lucky, or meat for their larders.” A moment later Vansen had been shoved down to his knees beside him. The Longskulls fastened heavy chains around his arms and a hard, rough rope around his throat, then the same was done to Barrick and Gyir.

One of the Longskulls stepped forward and honked imperiously as he tugged on the rope around the prince’s neck, forcing him to rise. For a moment it looked like Gyir might go mad when his own rope was pulled, but Vansen put out his hand and Gyir stilled, then allowed himself to be led. The Longskulls shared a gabbling hiss that might have been laughter. The creatures smelled of swamp mud and something else, an odor sharp and sour as vinegar.