“Why take my kin hostage?” Fie demanded.

Viimo cracked a bloody, split-lipped grin. “You’re the girl with all the teeth. And we already talked over one Crow chiefling. Maybe we can deal with you, too.”

Tavin reached for her elbow, then caught himself. “Fie—”

She ignored him. “What did you promise Hangdog?”

Viimo shook her head. “You don’t want it, chiefling. Help me bring these boys in and—”

The skinwitch had wormed out of the Crane witch-tooth’s hold. Fie bore down with every scrap of rage in her bones. “What did you promise him?”

“He didn’t want to be a Crow no more.” The words burst from Viimo in a wheeze. “One of our scouts caught him a few nights back. Promised him he’d be spared, that he’d never have to burn another body again, never deal with Oleanders no more. All he had to do was give up the prince, and we’d forget he was a Crow.”

The Crane witch-tooth slipped from Fie’s hold in the stunned quiet. For a moment all she heard was the rush of the sea, the whine of the gulls kiting about overhead.

Viimo spat a bloody wad in the sand. “Guess he ain’t a Crow no more now he’s dead.”

Fie sucked in a breath. She reached for Pa’s sword.

“Wait—” Tavin threw a hand out.

She flinched back.

It was habit, really, old as her bones. A Hawk was a Hawk, and she jumped at any sudden moves. Even one who said he was sorry.

Even one who stared at her now, horrified, as he kenned true what that meant for the first time.

He swallowed. “Please … just … keep using the tooth. If you can. We need to know more.”

All Fie could manage was a stiff nod. The tooth droned for her once more.

“Where do you think we’re going?” Jasimir asked.

Viimo’s look was pure venom, but the Crane tooth reeled the words from her regardless. “To the master-general. To Dragovoi.”

Tavin and Jasimir traded looks. Dragovoi was the ancestral seat of the master-general, days north of Trikovoi. An opportunity.

“What about Tatterhelm’s forces?” Tavin asked. “What are we up against?”

“Tatterhelm,” the Vulture cackled, “who’s enough on his own.” Fie gave the tooth a push, and Viimo coughed. “… and me. And the queen’s other three trackers. Six more skinwitches by special commission. A dozen grunts. And—” She cut off. A grimace stretched the scratches on her face farther. Her cheeks turned red, then purple.

The Crane witch-tooth squealed in Fie’s bones. Viimo meant to fight, to outlast. But the tooth burned on Fie’s wrath, and that well ran deeper than the reservoir of Cheparok.

She thought of Hangdog throwing them to the wolves and fed the tooth.

Viimo doubled over.

“Ghasts,” she choked out. “The queen raised ghasts for us.”

“What are ghasts?” Jasimir asked.

“And how many?” added Tavin.