man was arranging bedrolls carried up from the valley. They
were to sleep by the fire and tend it until the three days elapsed
or until someone came. The horses were tethered back in the
trees at the edge of the valley. As long as it didn’t rain, they
would be comfortable enough sleeping in the open.
Garth offered to stand the first watch, and Wren agreed.
She wrapped herself in her blankets at the edge of the fire’s
warmth and lay back. She watched the flames dance against the
darkness, losing herself in their hypnotic motion, letting herself
drift. She thought again of her mother, of her face and voice in
the dream, and wondered if any of it was real.
Remember me.
Why couldn’t she?
She was still mulling it over when she fell asleep.
SHE CAME AWAKE AGAIN with Garth’s hand on her shoulder. He
had woken her hundreds of times over the years, and she had
learned to tell from his touch alone what he was feeling. His
touch now told her he was worried.
She rolled to her feet instantly, sleep forgotten. It was early
yet; she could tell that much by a quick glance at the night sky.
The fire burned on beside them, its glow undiminished. Garth
Was facing away, back toward the valley. Wren could hear
something approaching-a scraping, a clicking, the sound of
claws on rock. Whatever was out there wasn’t bothering to hide
its coming.
Garth turned to her and signed that everything had been
completely still until just moments before. Their visitor must
have drawn close at first on cat’s feet, then changed its mind.
Wren did not question what she was being told. Garth heard
with his nose and his fingers and mostly with his instincts. Even
deaf, he heard better than she did. A Roc? she suggested quickly,
reminded of their clawed feet. Garth shook his head. Then perhaps
it was whoever the Addershag had promised would come? Garth did not
respond. He didn’t have to. What approached was something
else, something dangerous .
Their eyes locked, and abruptly she knew.
It was their shadow, come to reveal itself at last.
The scraping grew louder, more prolonged, as if whatever
approached was dragging itself. Wren and Garth moved away
from the fire a few steps, trying to put some of the light between
themselves and their visitor, trying to put some of the darkness
at their backs.
Wren felt for the long knife at her waist. Not much of a
weapon. Garth gripped his hardened quarter staff. She wished
she had thought to gather up hers, but she had left it with the
horses.
Then a misshapen face pushed into the light, shoving out of
the darkness as if tearing free of something. A muscled body
followed. Wren went cold in the pit of her stomach. What stood
before her wasn’t real. It had the look of a huge wolf, all bristling
gray hair, dark muzzle, and eyes that glittered with the fire’s
light. But it was grotesquely human, too. It had a human’s fore-
legs with hands and fingers, though the hair grew everywhere,
and the fingers ended in claws and were misshapen and thick
with callouses. The head had something of a human cast to it
as well-as if someone had fitted it with a wolf’s mask and
worked it like clay to make it fit.
The creature’s head swung toward the fire and away again.
Its hard eyes locked on them.
So this was their shadow. Wren took a slow breath. This
was the thing that had tracked them relentlessly across the
Westland, the thing that had followed after them for weeks.
It had stayed hidden all that time. Why was it showing itself
now?
She watched the muzzle draw back to reveal long rows of
hooked teeth. The glittering eyes seemed to brighten. It made
no sound as it stood before them.
It is showing itself now because it has decided to kill us, Wren real-
ized, and was suddenly terrified.
Garth gave her a quick glance, a look that said everything.
He had no illusions as to what was about to happen. He took a