Cerril tried to speak but couldn't. He nodded instead.
Insane laughter pealed through the crypt. The noise sounded as if it came from the bottom of a well, growing stronger as it caromed off the walls.
'Cerril!' Two-Fingers yelled from the other room. 'Cerril!'
Despite the terror in Two-Fingers's voice, Cerril couldn't tear his eyes from the figure as it approached him.
The figure glided across the stone floor. Shattered pieces of the ice coffin darted away from the hem of its funeral garb. Whatever spell had bound the coffin together no longer had any power over the figure.
'Cerril!' Two-Fingers yelled. 'The damn stone has replaced itself at the top of the stairs. We're locked in!'
The fact didn't surprise Cerril. Whatever he had helped free was powerful. The young thief had no doubt about that.
'Do you know who I am, boy?' the figure asked in its thundering voice.
Cerril shook his head.
'Answer me!' the figure roared.
'No,' Cerril said. 'No, I don't know who you are.'
'You should, boy,' the figure said. 'You should have known. No one should ever forget me.'
It reached up, skeletal hands closing on the hood's sides. It tugged the hood back as a gust of swirling fog obscured it for a moment, then in the next heartbeat a corpse's face showed through.
Patches of blue-black skin clung to the dingy ivory skull. Wisps of beard as thick and as unkempt as a horse's tail jutted along the jawbone. Dull red, the color of fresh-spilled blood under bright moonlight, glowed at the back of the cavernous eye sockets. High cheekbones stood out above the crooked-toothed rictus.
'No one will be allowed to forget me, boy,' the figure rasped.
Breath tight in the back of his throat, Cerril watched as the figure's jaws unhinged. Somehow it had spoken to him without opening its mouth. He saw the abnormal sharpness of the teeth, knowing they'd been filed to points.
'Borran Kiosk has returned,' the figure declared, 'and all of the Vilhon Reach will tremble to learn that.'
Numb with fear, Cerril stumbled backward. Two-Fingers and Hekkel yelled in the other room at the end of the long passageway. Cerril turned to flee and smashed his face into the side of a wall. The pain put an edge on his wits again, allowing him to get control of his body. He ran, fleeing back up the passageway. He pushed his hands against the walls to control his flight. Fast as he was though, he was certain he could hear the figure's clothing flap as it pursued him. There was no escape. Cerril knew that, but he had to run.
Only a little farther on, he caught sight of Two-Fingers standing at the top of the spiral staircase. The bigger boy was slamming his hands against the stone that had covered the opening and locked them in. The hollow thumps of his efforts echoed throughout the chamber. Several of the other boys shrieked and cried out.
Cerril opened his mouth to yell a warning, but incredible pain filled his head. He lost control over his legs and fell to the ground, landing on his knees. Something moved, twisted with horrible pain inside his head, then his vision blurred and went out of focus. The pain felt like a rat eating through his head.
Paralysis held Cerril. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't scream out in pain. A terrifying sucking sound echoed within his head. He gazed at the fear-filled faces of the boys on the other side of the room. All efforts he made to cry out to them to help him failed.
Pain wracked through his head again. Something broke with a liquid crunch. There was a brief moment of relief as the pressure inside his skull faded. Then cold horror filled him as he spotted the snake-like thing that lashed the air two feet in front of his face.
The snake-like thing was as thick as a broom handle and dark purple. Blood clung to it but was absorbed almost at once. Somehow the figure had thrown the snake-thing through his head. Coiling on itself, the snake-like thing came back at Cerril's face. Three hooked claws clacked together at the thing's end.
Still paralyzed, unable to defend himself, Cerril watched in terror as the clawed appendage bit into his face. Unable to fight back, he felt himself pulled around, falling into a helpless pile of loose limbs on his side. He stared up in revulsion, realizing that the purple snake-thing was the dead man's tongue, expelled over those sharp, bright teeth.
The thick purple tongue lashed out again, leeching onto Cerril's face. Despite the lethargic numbness overlying his need to escape, the boy felt the tongue suckling at his cheek, feeding on the blood that welled into the wounds it had caused. Cerril couldn't move to defend himself, couldn't even scream.
The tongue pulled free after a moment and slid under his chin, the dark purple flesh hard and cold against his skin. Then the tongue bit deep, sinking into the fevered blood that hammered against his throat. Even as the renewed assault of pain hit him, darkness quick and feathery as a raven's wing swooped down and blotted out Cerril's senses.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The wind howled along the mountainside, coming in from the east in great swirling gusts that hammered Haarn and whipped his hair. A chill hung in the air, but warm layers mixed in with it, letting the druid know the storm wasn't going to be an easy one, and that it was almost upon them now.
He climbed with steady grace, managing the thinnest of grips with practiced fingers and toes. Straining, he forced his body up the sheer side of the mountain. Pausing to regain his breath for a moment, he gazed down at Druz Talimsir.
The woman climbed the rope he'd set for her, but he still moved upward with more alacrity than she did. Her hair hung in sweaty clumps around her shoulders.
Stubborn, Haarn told himself as he watched her, and proud.
Both of those were good traits, if exercised with proper restraint. His mother would have been pleased with her spirit, but Haarn knew his father would have faulted Druz for her self-aggrandizement.
Druz gazed up at him in defiance.
'You're not waiting on me.'
Haarn nodded and turned back to his attack on the mountainside, knowing the wolf pack waited for them. He could smell the stink of them, and he'd heard them growling among themselves, stoking up their courage to attack him and the woman. They were hungry, and a storm was blowing in. Wherever they holed up to wait out the storm, the wolves wanted to do it on full stomachs.
He reached up and caught another hold, shifting his head a little to avoid the mud that slapped under his left eye.
'Are they still there?' Druz asked.
'Yes.'
Haarn estimated that less than three feet remained to the top.
'What makes you so sure?'
'I can hear them.'
She was silent for a moment then said, 'Then they can hear us.'
'Yes.'
'They'll be waiting.'
'They already are,' he said.
The rope slid against the rough stone fronting the mountainside as Druz pushed up.
'They think they can kill us,' Druz said.
'Yes,' Haarn replied.
He pulled the other end of the rope she'd climbed up to him. As she'd climbed, he'd held onto the other end, managing a rope loop, and took it up higher to find a new place to tie on.
Small trees and brush spotted the mountainside's edge. Haarn chose a thick-boled fir tree and tied the rope fast. Below, Druz swapped ends of the rope again and began climbing the final ten-foot stretch. Breathing out, knowing that their climb up the mountain had given Broadfoot plenty of time to come up the other side and provided
