Wild ferrin, living off acorns and mushrooms. Some inhabited caves up there; others lived in the hollows of great oaks. Gaborn saw lights from their lamps among the immense roots and boles. City ferrin seldom built fires, since those attracted men who would dig the ferrin out of their burrows. Somehow, the presence of wild ferrin comforted Gaborn.

He strained his ears, listening for sign of pursuit, but all he could hear was a river, somewhere off to his right, rushing down the ravine.

Still the trail descended.

The trees grew old and more vast. Few plants thrived beneath these trees—no gorse or winding vine maple. Instead the soft ground was covered in deep moss, unmarred by footprints.

Yet as they traveled, Iome cried out, pointed deeper into the woods. Far back under the shadows, a gray form squatted—a heavyset, beardless man, watching them from enormous eyes.

Gaborn called out to the old fellow, but he faded like a mist before the sun.

“A wight!” Iome cried. “The ghost of a duskin.”

Gaborn had never seen a duskin. No human living ever had. But this looked nothing like the ghost of a man—it was too squat, too rounded.

“If it is the spirit of a duskin, then all is well,” Gaborn said, trying to put a good face on it. “They served our ancestors.”

Yet Gaborn did not believe for a moment that all was well. He spurred his horse onward a bit faster.

“Wait!” Iome called. “We can’t go forward. I’ve heard of this place. There is an old duskin road leading down to the Seven Standing Stones.”

Gaborn flinched at this news.

The Seven Standing Stones lay at the heart of the Dunnwood, formed the center of its power.

I should flee, he realized. Yet he wanted to reach those stones. The trees had called him.

He listened for a long moment for sounds of pursuit. Distantly, he heard trees bending in the wind, speaking something . . . he could not quite distinguish.

“It’s not much farther,” Gaborn told Iome, licking his lips. His heart hammered, and he knew it was true. Whatever lay ahead, it was not far distant.

He spurred his horse into a canter, wanting to take advantage of the failing light by covering as much distance as possible.

Ahead he heard a far-off rasping sound—like the buzz of rattlesnakes.

He froze in his saddle. He’d never heard the sound before, but he recognized it from others’ descriptions. It was the rasping of a reaver as air filtered from its lungs.

“Halt!” he shouted, wanting to turn his horse and retreat.

Yet almost immediately he heard a cry ahead, Binnesman calling, “Hold! Hold I say!” He sounded terrified.

“Hurry!” Gaborn shouted and rode like a gale now, the horses’ hooves drumming over the mossy road, beneath the black boughs.

He drew his warhammer, and pounded the ribs of his failing horse with his heels.