Deglan rose, weary to the bone, but more weary of his own questions.

“Well, you’ll not do it alone.”

He looked about for a moment until he found a rock he could lift. He winced as he bent forward, swallowing the groan that tried to escape as he heaved the rock upward. Hobbling under its weight, he placed the stone neatly next to those the Forge Born had already placed. The pile grew steadily and soon Deglan’s back threatened to snap in protest as he set stone after stone. It would have been easier to let the tireless machine do all the work, but Deglan owed his friend so much. The least he could give was a few blisters.

At last, the cairn was complete; the fomori’s body covered by a simple yet solid pile of stones stacked against the barrowside. Faabar would have approved. Deglan stared at the stones, not wanting to turn his back on them and begin the long journey that awaited him. He felt movement to his right and looked to see the Forge Born marching steadily away. Deglan scowled at its back, glad to be free of it, glad to be free of the temptation to ask it for help. Let it go! Let it fade into the distance until it was nothing more than the tall, moving shape he had first seen that miserable day while eating a turnip with Bulge-Eye. And then Deglan noticed its direction. South.

“Damn it!” he yelled, running half a dozen paces after it. “You said you were not following the Red Caps!”

The Forge Born continued on, heedless of his challenge. Deglan pursued, but his exhausted body could not sustain the chase. His legs gave out and he slumped forward in the tall grass, his breath coming in fierce, angry bursts.

“What do you know of all this!?” he called at the quickly receding machine and then with desperation, “Coltrane!”

The Forge Born did not stop.

T WELVE

TWELVE

Pocket was lost. Every street looked the same and his sense of north had become fuddled several wrong turns back. Maybe if he found the river again he would have some hope. But there were two rivers that ran through Black Pool. He had confused the two on his errand the previous day and did not have much hope he learned enough from that experience not to repeat the mistake. Sir Corc would be cross if he dallied. Only he was not dallying, not on purpose.

He was lost.