HAG’S TEETH
Talen pulled out his knife, knowing it was useless.
A group of armsmen rushed in. They held torches in one hand, swords in the other. As soon as they appeared, they split, the larger portion moving farther into the cave, silent, blinding fast, gone in the blink of an eye. The last two suddenly stood before Talen and Sugar. The one in front of Talen held his sword tip inches from Talen’s chest.
Such speed-it took Talen’s breath away. These weren’t mere armsmen, but dreadmen. In a glance, Talen saw the markings of the Lions of Mokad upon the dreadman’s clothing, the tattoos about the lips, the man’s deadly gaze. These were the Skir Master’s personal guard. And the one holding his sword in front of Talen looked like he would kill at the slightest provocation. A tattoo flared away from one of his eyes. The other eye was puffed, the skin horribly burned.
“On your bellies,” whispered the dreadman.
Talen offered no resistance. He dropped to his knees, then prostrated himself. He turned his head so that one cheek was flat against the earth. Sugar lay with her face in the dirt of the floor. Legs hesitated, then slid off the side of the horse and dropped to the ground. If the Tailor stepped to the side, he’d tread on the boy.
Talen looked up at the dreadman. The torch in the dreadman’s hand spit. One small burning droplet of pitch struck Talen’s neck, but he dared not brush it away. The Tailor was not comfortable with the fire or the men. He protested and backed up, banging into the stall.
Two more men walked into the chamber, a smaller one followed by a larger. The smaller man had short white hair and bushy eyebrows. He stood proudly erect. His clothes were made of sumptuous cloth. But it was the eyes that drew Talen’s attention: as black and shiny as polished jet.
Talen had never before seen a Skir Master. And this one filled him with dread. Talen couldn’t see the face of the larger man, but it was clear he was the Skir Master’s servant.
“Master,” the large one said. “Do you see? I’ll make up for my sins.”
Talen recognized that voice, and he looked on in disbelief: it was Uncle Argoth.
The dreadmen who had moved deeper into the refuge returned to the first chamber. Talen counted six of them besides the two watching him, Sugar, and Legs.
Another man joined the Skir Master-the Crab.
Talen should have known the Fir-Noy would be behind this.
The Crab looked about the chamber. “Well, well. Even I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”
“There’s nobody here,” a dreadman reported.
“No one?” demanded the Skir Master. He turned to Uncle Argoth. “Clansman? Is there another place you haven’t told me about?”
“No, no. The stone was pushed aside. Either they’ve come and gone or they’ve gone and will return.”
Uncle Argoth groveled before the Skir Master. He was so obsequious that if Talen hadn’t seen his face he would have never believed it was Uncle Argoth.
“There was a fire in the first chamber,” the lead dreadman said. “The coals were still warm.”
“Then they’re here,” said Uncle Argoth.
The Skir Master turned and looked at Talen. “Who are you?”
“Nobody,” said Talen.
The dreadman kicked him in the side so hard it took his breath away.
“I am the son of Hogan the Koramite, Horse of Blood Hill. Those are the children of Sparrow, smith of the village of Plum.”
The Skir Master made a small noise to himself and walked over to look down upon Talen.
“He speaks the truth,” said Uncle Argoth.
The Skir Master considered Talen as if he were judging a poorly fired pot. “Was your father here?”
“No,” said Talen. “Not that I know of.”
“Do not seek to deceive me,” said the Skir Master. “I already know that he, like this girl’s witch mother, was snatched from those set to guard him. Tell me where the others are.”
The Skir Master’s pants were scorched. His feet bare. And there stood Uncle Argoth. A traitor. It didn’t matter. They were all dead. Their running had led them straight to those they most wished to avoid. “I do not know, Great One.”
“Cut out his eye,” said the Crab.
The dreadman with the burned eye looked to the Skir Master.
“Please,” said Talen. “We came and the cave was empty. Our guide disappeared while we were in the other chamber. I think the monster took her as well.”
“It’s as I told you, Great One,” Uncle Argoth said. “The creature is not ours. Something else is afoot.”
“Maybe not yours personally,” said the Skir Master. “But you’re only one man. How do you know the two Koramites, whom you trust so much, are not part of another murder of Sleth?”
The Skir Master motioned at Talen, and the dreadman guarding him wrenched Talen up by his hair. He grasped Talen’s head in a one-armed lock and held it firmly against his abdomen.
“I swear,” said Talen. “I’m telling the truth.”
The dreadman drew his knife. “Hold still,” he said and gave Talen a shake. The tang of his body odor encircled Talen.
“I can show you the footprint!” cried Talen. “The monster was here.”
The dreadman changed his grip on his knife and readied it to plunge into Talen’s eye.
“Stop,” said the Skir Master.
Talen stared up at the thin point of the blade.
“Tell me everything you know.”
Everything? Talen wondered. Where would he start? With his mother? With the fact that he was some soul-eater’s artifact? Or should he simply blurt out that his family were all soul-eaters? And then there was Uncle Argoth-was he playing some ruse or had he been subverted? Tell the truth or fabricate a story, either might conflict with what Uncle Argoth had already told the Divine. He decided it would be best to interpret “everything” to mean only what he knew about the monster. He needed to resist them.
“He’s going to lie,” said the dreadman. His face with its burned eye was terrible to behold.
“Then give him a bit of motivation,” said the Skir Master.
“No,” said Talen.
But the dreadman brought the knife down. Talen tried to squirm away, but the man’s grip was like stone. Talen closed his eyes at the last moment and felt the burn as the blade sliced open the skin on his cheek below his eye.
“I saw it first at our farm,” said Talen.
But the dreadman kept cutting. Blood ran down the side of Talen’s face and to his ear.
“Please. I only learned about the Grove just two days ago. I’ll tell you everything.” He was ashamed at how easily he broke. But that disappointment was quickly put aside as he rattled off everything he knew about the creature. His only triumph was that he did not talk about anything else.
The dreadman lifted the knife away from Talen’s face.
Talen continued with every detail he’d seen and all those he’d heard from Da about the battle in the tower. He ended by saying, “Its footprints are here. I can only suspect it’s taken my brother and the Creek Widow, who led us here. I’ll show you.”
The Skir Master regarded him, then nodded, and the dreadman let him up. Talen immediately put his hand to the cut on his face. He pressed his fingers to the cut to hold it closed and stop the bleeding, then walked to the clearest set of prints.
“Here,” he said and pointed at a footprint. “And here.”
The Skir Master squatted down and examined the prints. After some time, he said, “If it’s lore masters this creature wants, then a lore master is what it will get. I think I know what’s been let loose upon your lands.” He stood and turned to the Crab. “We’re going to need at least five sturdy ropes, no shorter than forty feet. Go.”
“Yes, Great One,” the Crab said, then exited the chamber.
The Skir Master turned to the lead dreadman. “This creature cannot be beat by force of arms alone. It was bred by lore, and lore alone can defeat it. If it’s rescuing the soul-eaters, then it will come for the clansman. If it’s merely collecting them, eliminating them, then it will still come because I will raise a bait it can’t resist. We need nooses and snares. You must hold the thing, if only for a moment. I want five of you here. Set the other four to watch. You will distract it. And I shall take it with the ravelers.”
“What about Shegom?”
“The skir will conceal herself elsewhere. I must catch the creature off guard. Shegom will only make it wary.”
The lead dreadman bowed and led his men out of the cave.
Talen looked over at Sugar. The expression on her face told him she was at as great a loss as he was. Legs had not moved, but still lay upon his belly.
The Skir Master turned to Uncle Argoth. “You didn’t tell me about your nephew.”
“He knows nothing,” said Argoth. “His father only recently tried to waken him. He is of no consequence.”
The Skir Master looked down at Talen. “Remember, Clansman, one day more and I will have all of your secrets. Tell Leaf to bring me the sack.”
“Yes, Great One. Thank you,” said Uncle Argoth.
Moments later Uncle Argoth returned with the large dreadman that had cut Talen’s face. The man carefully placed a worn leather sack at the Skir Master’s feet. “Where do you want the Crab’s men?”
“I want them hidden as much as possible. And where they can’t hide, they need to appear to be no threat.” Then the Skir Master opened the mouth of the sack and withdrew three items. The first was a thin silver case etched in a marvelous design. It was about a span long and half as wide. The remaining items were two gauntlets worked in silver and gold. They were not steel-plated gloves used for protection in battle. These were made of whitened leather. The sleeve of the glove extended past the wrist partway up the forearm. An unfamiliar looping design was painted there in red and blue. The hand of the glove was studded with gold. Sewn into the palm was a gold disk the size of a small coin. But Talen knew that wasn’t a coin. It had to be a weave of some type.
The Skir Master put the gauntlets on and tied the sleeves tight to his forearms. Then he opened the case. Inside, secured by silken threads on a bed of blue velvet lay three gleaming spikes. Their lengths too had been etched with an unfamiliar design. He showed the spikes to Uncle Argoth.
“Are they wild?” asked Uncle Argoth.
“Indeed,” said the Skir Master.
There were weaves that only a lore master could use. There were others, wild ones, like those worn by dreadmen, that operated of their own accord.
“Hag’s teeth,” said Uncle Argoth.
“Not the proper name,” said the Skir Master, “but yes. Does the Order know how to fashion these?”
Argoth looked at the spikes as if he were a boy looking at an unclaimed walnut pie. “No, Great One.”
“It will unravel the seams of soul and body and Fire of any living thing. It takes months to complete the very first step, requires the Fire from scores of lives. One of these is worth any number of fiefs. There are only three Glories with the knowledge of how to make them.”
“We would not be able to stand against such,” said Argoth.
“Of course not. That is why you run and hide.”
“We are fools,” said Uncle Argoth.
“Yes, but capable enough to attract the attention of someone with power. And since you’ve been targeted, I think it’s best we use you as part of the bait.”
Talen sat with Uncle Argoth, Sugar, and Legs a dozen paces away from the mouth of the cave in the clearing. Before them burned a fire to make it look like they were doing nothing more than preparing a breakfast. A number of hours had passed since the Skir Master had found them. The sun had risen. Because of the steep slopes of this valley, the sunshine had not yet reached every corner of the valley floor. But morning had begun. A meadowlark sang in the scrub a few dozen yards away. The stream that cut through this vale burbled. Beyond the meadow a huge flock of sparrows squabbled in a single tree. And yet, as late as it was, there had been no sign of the monster.
The Crab stood watch a few paces away, while the Skir Master waited by the mouth of the cave. The Crab had brought fifty men with him. They loitered in groups in various positions around the cave. To the casual observer, it might look like they stood in random places. But the Skir Master had ordered them so that only one approach to the cave lay wide open. He expected the monster to come that way. And when it reached them, the five dreadmen who stayed with the Skir Master would spring.
He’d overhead some of the Fir-Noy talking. Twenty dreadmen had been in the Skir Master’s guard. The big one that was his guide made it twenty-one. But twelve of those had been lost at sea in a fire. And Uncle Argoth had come back, sniveling and cringing. He hadn’t been able to hear what had happened. He doubted even the Fir-Noy knew.
The breeze shifted and blew the smoke toward Talen. He picked up the rock he was sitting on and moved out of its way, closer to Uncle Argoth. So much for the Creek Widow’s theory of him being bred to greatness. He’d cracked like an egg.
And so much for the Creek Widow. He wondered what had happened to her.
He wondered about Da. The Skir Master had said the monster had taken him. Talen tried to talk to Uncle Argoth. But the man totally ignored him. He ignored everyone and sat to the side, rocking on his haunches and muttered something unintelligible under his breath.
“What do you think will become of us if the Skir Master kills it?” Talen asked.
“I don’t think we have to worry about that,” said Legs. “Usually the bait is the first thing to go.”
“True enough,” Talen said.
They were silent for a time. Talen wondered where Nettle was at this moment. He hoped he was safe but wished, nevertheless, that he was here. Then Sugar spoke up. “Once he faces off with that creature, I say we slip away. Because if he takes it, he doesn’t know where the monster’s cave is, which means we can walk straight into that lair and retrieve whoever is still alive. And if he doesn’t destroy it, then I certainly don’t want to be anywhere close.”
“The only clear path is up that hill,” Talen said. The outer dreadmen and Fir-Noy had positioned themselves everywhere else. Talen didn’t think running would work since the Fir-Noy had horses, but thinking about escape was better than thinking of being devoured by a monster or questioned by a Divine whose ship had burned underneath him.
Uncle Argoth reached out and gripped Talen’s arm much too tightly.
“Uncle?” Talen asked.
“He knows,” said Uncle Argoth, his grip tightening even further. “He knows everything.”
“What’s he talking about?” Sugar asked.
Talen shrugged. He tried to pull away but his uncle would not let go.
A dreadman broke the tree line on the other side of the meadow on the valley’s floor. He was tall and thin and fast, as fast as a horse at full gallop. He ran across the field and in moments he stood before the Skir Master. “Cos and Heel are dead, their backs broken.”
“Shegom reports nothing,” said the Skir Master.
“They’ve been dead for at least an hour.”
The Skir Master studied the hills about the valley. To this moment, he hadn’t yet withdrawn any of the hag’s teeth. He did so now, removing one of the silver spikes from its blue velvet bed and grasping it in his white, gold-studded glove. “Where are you?” he said under his breath.
As if in answer Talen saw a stone above the mouth of the cave move. He looked closer.
“Goh,” he said. It was as if a part of the hill had come alive.
The Crab followed Talen’s gaze.
Then the creature jumped, dropping down with a thud only paces behind the Skir Master. In the morning light its features were clearer than they had been that night in the yard. It was a grotesque giant. And while clumps of grass still clung to it here and there, he saw the underlying color was of dirt and blue stone. One shoulder was burned. Along the other, a patch of small white flowers grew.
The Skir Master turned, but he was too late and the creature slapped the hand holding the tooth. The hand flew backward violently.
The Crab cried out. He clutched at his throat, at the spike that stood out of his neck. Then the end of the spike curled like a worm. In a flash of silver it wriggled into the Crab’s neck.
The Crab gasped and stumbled. He tripped toward Talen and the others. Talen tried to scramble back, but Uncle Argoth would not release him. Then the Crab twitched and toppled into the fire. Ash puffed up in a billow.
Talen tried to pry Argoth’s fingers away, but could not. He choked on the ash that blew into his face.
The Skir Master danced back with blinding speed, trying to pull another spike from his case, but the monster moved more quickly and swatted the case out of his hand. The case flew wide, disappearing into the brush a number of paces away.
“The teeth,” said Uncle Argoth. He released Talen’s arm and scrambled to the bushes where the case had fallen.
Leaf cried out, drew a black-bladed sword, and charged the monster. The speed of the dreadman was frightening.
“Shegom!” the Skir Master yelled and dodged away from the monster.
Another dreadman, who had been hiding only paces away from where the monster had first appeared, stood and flung his wide noose around the creature’s head. The dreadman yanked his noose tight about the monster’s neck. Another dreadman sprung from his hiding place in front of the cave and threw his noose. A third dreadman joined him, and the two of them pulled the creature back. It lurched into a small trap that had been dug for it.
Yards away, a dozen Fir-Noy heaved on the rope that lined the trap and caught one of the monster’s legs. A Fir-Noy slapped the hind of one of the two horses harnessed to that line, and the animals surged forward.
The monster spun. The power of the horses and soldiers would have pulled a normal man to the ground, but the monster was too quick, too strong. Instead of falling to the ground, it took a giant sideways step and then braced itself in a wide stance, the grass still clinging to its body shuddering at the impact.
It reached down and grabbed the line around its foot.
Another noose flew, but missed the monster.
Leaf, the big dreadman with the scorched eye, rushed forward. The blade of his sword was as black as a crow-a spirit sword. In a blinding move he hacked into the creature’s side. Talen thought he’d cleaved the monster in two. But the monster did not seem to be affected by the blow.
It ignored Leaf and yanked on the line holding its foot. The group of Fir-Noy on the other end stumbled backward into a heap. The two horses were also forced back and trod upon the men in the rear. Men cried out. The horses whinnied in confusion. One leapt forward again. The other skittered sideways. Then, as if the monster had pinched the thin stem of a weed, the line snapped.
“The teeth!” the Skir Master roared. “The teeth!”
“Here!” Uncle Argoth cried out and held the case up. “Master!”
The Skir Master turned and dashed toward him.
Leaf snatched his sword out of the creature’s side. He swung the flashing black blade again in the early light, but the creature ripped it out of Leaf’s hand and flung it away. It grabbed one of the lines connected to a noose about its neck. It twisted around violently, and the dreadman who had tied the other end of the rope about his waist cried out. He was yanked from his position and into the air.
The monster twisted and yanked again. In midair, the dreadman lurched horribly in a new direction. This time there was no cry of pain. The monster swung him like a man swinging a stone at the end of a rope.
The Skir Master snatched up the case from Uncle Argoth’s outstretched arm and held it above his head. “Here, son of Lamash!” he yelled, his face full of fury. “Here is your doom!”
But the monster swung the dreadman around, the thick rope making a deep swoosh and hiss as it sped in its circle.
The Skir Master saw it, but he was not fast enough, and the dreadman swinging from the end of the rope slammed into both the Skir Master and Uncle Argoth, sending the two men flying.
The monster ignored the third line about its neck and charged after the Skir Master, dragging the dreadman attached to the line like a toy attached to a child’s string.
A Fir-Noy standing just beyond Uncle Argoth shouted. He leveled his spear and charged in for a death blow. He struck deep, but the monster simply ran him over, then plucked out the spear.
The Skir Master rose and began to search the ground about him frantically.
There was a movement at Talen’s feet. He looked down at the Crab. The man’s tunic had begun to smolder; but that wasn’t what had caught Talen’s attention. Something moved at the man’s ear. A glint of silver, and the long hag’s tooth came wriggling through the skin at the man’s temple.
Talen backed away.
The tooth curled an end as if sniffing the air. Then it wriggled the rest of the way out of his head and dropped to the ash.
Sugar pulled on Talen. “Lords!” she said. “Run!”
He scrambled to his feet, stumbled backward. He turned, only to find a dozen Fir-Noy, weapons drawn, charging straight toward him. Sugar and Legs ran one way. Talen was not quick enough and had to dive the other way to avoid them.
The men sped past and attacked the monster, but with one, two, three backhand swings the creature slew that many men. The remaining Fir-Noy hesitated.
The monster took a step and closed the gap between itself and the Skir Master.
The Skir Master turned and looked up at the beast.
At that moment, Leaf, who had retrieved his sword, screamed his battle cry and charged the monster again. His sword cut into the monster’s neck.
The creature grasped Leaf by the throat and lifted him up. Leaf yanked the sword out of the monster’s neck, then drove the blade deep into its chest. But it had no effect on the creature.
What kind of nightmare was it that could withstand a black sword of the Kains?
Then the monster twisted its grip and snapped Leaf’s massive neck like a twig. The big dreadman sagged in its hand.
The Skir Master rose in fury. In a flash, he charged the monster’s back. But instead of striking it with a weapon, he punched into it with his fist, going in up to his elbow.
The monster cast Leaf aside, the black sword still sticking out of its chest.
“Where is it?” the Skir Master cried. “Where is your quickening!”
The creature wrenched around, trying to get at the Skir Master, but the Divine was too quick.
“Clansman!” shouted the Skir Master, feeling inside the monster.
Uncle Argoth lay upon the ground, unmoving.
No, thought Talen. He can’t be dead. Lords, no!
Two more dreadmen closed on the creature. They carried spears and harried it, thrusting repeatedly at its head. Their movements were blinding fast. But it was useless, couldn’t they see that?
The creature grabbed one of the spears and jabbed it into one of the dread-man’s faces. The other dreadman struck, but the monster swung the spear and and gave the dreadman such a blow to the side that Talen was sure half his ribs had been staved in. The dreadman fell over backward.
The Skir Master withdrew his arm and punched into the back of the monster a bit higher. His arm sunk almost up to the shoulder. “Yes!” he said.
The monster reached behind its back. The Skir Master moved to one side, but then in a blinding flash the monster’s other elbow slammed into the Skir Master and sent him flying.
The Skir Master landed with a grunt many yards away on a clump of scrub.
The monster made a sound. A loud, horrible sigh. And turned toward the Skir Master.
Men littered this small battlefield. Talen looked around and saw a number of the Fir-Noy running. Those that did remain hesitated. The only dreadman still alive of those that had stayed by the cave was the one the monster had been dragging behind him. He stood, holding his side. He’d cut the rope connecting him to the monster, but had left the portion of the rope he’d knotted about his waist.
The Skir Master shook himself and rose, distaste and anger twisting his face. He held up something dark. Something he’d taken from deep within the monster. “You will not prevail,” he said.
But the monster seemed not to be affected.
The Skir Master stood his ground.
A sudden gust of wind kicked up dirt and debris. A huge crack sounded from the far side of the meadow. Talen looked and saw tree limbs as thick as a man’s body tossed into the air, swirling in a violent wind. The wind sped across the meadow, flattening the scrub of the clearing as it came.
The monster charged. One, two, three paces. It was almost upon the Divine.
But the wind was faster. It sped past the monster. The Skir Master stretched his tattooed arms out wide. The wind whipped about him. Then, before the monster could take another step, the wind picked him up and carried him into the air like a leaf in a storm.
The monster took two steps and sprang after him, leaping a dozen or more feet into the air.
Talen thought he saw it catch the Skir Master’s leg, but the wind thrashed the bushes, casting debris into his eyes. Then a huge gust slammed into Talen, knocking him onto his back. Something struck his face, nearly blinding him, and Talen covered his eyes.
The wind howled about him, then as quickly as it had come, it was gone.
Talen rolled over and brushed dirt from his eyes, careful of the knife cut. Debris that had been cast into the air still fluttered about the whole meadow. He looked up. At first he saw nothing, and then, hundreds of yards above him, he saw the Skir Master and monster. He watched them sail upward into the morning sky until they were nothing more than black dots.
Talen’s hand stung. He found a thin twig sticking straight out of it, which he plucked out and cast aside.
Uncle Argoth shouted in pain.
Talen ran to him. He found Uncle Argoth huddling on his knees, the case of hag’s teeth lying in the grass beside him.
“Uncle,” Talen said. “Uncle.”
“No,” he said. “No, no, no.” Then he winced as if someone had struck him. He cried out in extreme agony.
Talen stepped back, expecting a hag’s tooth to wriggle its way out of him.
Argoth jerked. And then the terror fled his face and he sagged.
Talen put a hand gently on his back. “Uncle?”
Uncle Argoth turned, looked up at him. And then he heaved a great sob. He began to weep like a child.
“Talen,” said Sugar from behind. “Get the horse.”
“You’re going to be all right,” Talen said to Uncle Argoth. But it was a lie. “We’re all going to be all right.”
“By all…” said Sugar.
The fear in her voice made him turn. He followed her gaze into the sky and saw the Skir Master plummeting from the sky. Down he fell in a slow turn, one leg in front of the other as if he were taking one long lazy step.
He landed with a large, sickening thud at the edge of the clearing.
“Men!” the dreadman who had been dragged behind the monster shouted. He ran toward the Skir Master. One dreadman, the last that had manned the outer perimeter, followed. All the other dreadmen lay upon the ground. A group of the remaining Fir-Noy soldiers moved to join the dreadmen, but then exclaimed and shouted and pointed toward the sky.
Talen looked up. Another figure, larger and darker than the Skir Master fell from the heavens. It slammed to the earth only a few dozen paces from the Skir Master.
The Skir Master did not rise. But the monster did. It rose up, towering and fearsome.
It was impossible. This is the end, Talen thought. The very end.
The dreadmen halted, then turned and ran. The Fir-Noy shouted. Those on horse galloped for the other end of the valley. Those on foot followed, casting their weapons and what armor they could from them.
“Run!” he shouted to Sugar. “Run!”
He turned to Uncle Argoth on the ground. “Get up, Uncle! Get up!”
He pulled and tugged. Uncle Argoth looked up at him. “My boy,” he said and touched Talen’s face.
“Get up,” said Talen. “We need to leave.”
“He’s gone,” he said. “He’s gone.”
Talen glanced back. The monster raced toward them with giant strides.
There was no way Talen could outrun it, no way he could get to the Tailor in time. The creature crashed through the brush behind him.
Talen turned.
It stood not more than two paces away. Great hunks of dirt were missing here and there from its body, exposing bones of rock and some other substance. And yet the skin, if that’s what you could call it, moved like hundreds of worms to cover the rents.
The thing snorted and shook its head. It reached out and took a step forward.