Yehuda Leib had just begun to look for the round skylights of Dantalion when he heard the lord high general coming.

Dumah was huge.

He burst in at the far side of the tent, his goblin honor guard following close behind. Dumah’s hulking black mount pawed and snorted and bucked beneath him, steaming in the cold, and the honor guard rushed forward to hold it steady as Dumah climbed down.

The general was tall and broad, each of his thick-fingered hands large enough to palm a man’s skull. His eyes were sunken black holes deep in his head, and massive muttonchops of moldy blue beard perfectly framed his missing lower jaw. His wide chest was hung thick with medals, each of which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be the relic of a fallen foe—a yellow tooth, a dried toe, a desiccated tongue—carefully set in neat ribbons of stained bandaging.

But all of this scarcely caught Yehuda Leib’s notice.

Wrapped tight around Dumah’s neck was a scarf: woolen, red, and terribly familiar.

“Lord High General,” said Behemoth, bowing obsequiously.

Dumah didn’t acknowledge him.

“That scarf,” said Yehuda Leib, whispering so that the general would not hear. “Behemoth, where did he get that scarf?”

Now two members of the goblin honor guard reached up behind the lord high general to pull the thick riding coat from his shoulders, and as it came down, one of its buttons caught briefly, snagging the epaulet on the general’s left shoulder.

Dumah’s fury was blazing and swift: grabbing the offending goblin by the neck, the general slammed him bodily down into the dirt and, with his bare fist, pounded the hapless guard’s helmet over and over and over again.

Sounds of screaming, pleading, apologizing filled the tent.

But far, far worse was the silence that fell when they broke off.

Slowly, the general rose and brushed the dust from his knees.

Behemoth cleared his throat loudly and stepped forward.

“Lord High General,” he said. “This is the boy, Yehuda Leib.”

Now Dumah turned, his interest piqued. Slowly, deliberately, he waved his hand through the air, and Behemoth translated:

“Honor guard!” he said. “Dismissed!”

Quietly, the goblins of Dumah’s honor guard dispersed, careful not to turn their backs to the lord high general as they dragged their fallen comrade from the tent.

Dumah stalked across the chamber and lowered himself into a huge wooden chair at the far end. A round table sat beside him, littered with papers, and he shoved several of them aside in order to put his massive feet up.

Knitting his thick fingers together beneath his nose, he fixed his dark eyes again on Yehuda Leib.

Yehuda Leib stood beside Behemoth, unmoving, uncomfortable.

Presently, Dumah lifted one hand to gesture at a low stool next to his chair.

“The lord high general invites you to sit,” said Behemoth.