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Someone moaned nearby； but Deornoth did not look up。 Many in their party were suffering； and some…the little handmaiden with the terrible throat wound； and Helmfest； one of the Lord Constable's men； gut…bitten by those unholy creatures…he doubted would live through the night。
Their troubles had not ended when they had escaped the destruction of Josua's castle at Naglimund。 Even as the prince's party had staggered down the last broken steps of the Stile； they had been set on。 Mere yards from the outer stand of Aldheorte； the ground had erupted around them and the false； storm…carried night had rung with chirping cries。
There had been diggers everywhere…Bukken； as young Isorn called them； shouting the name hysterically as he lay about him with his sword。
Even in his fear the duke's son had killed many； but Isorn had also taken a dozen shallow wounds from the diggers' sharp teeth and crude； jagged knives。 That was something else to worry about： in the forest； even small wounds were likely to fester。
Deornoth shifted uneasily。 Those small shapes had clung to his own arm like rats。 In his choking fear； he had almost cut his hand loose from his body to get the chittering things off。 Even now； the thought made him squirm。 He rubbed at his fingers； remembering。
Josua's beleaguered pany had finally escaped； hacking free long enough to make a dash for the forest。 Strangely； the forbidding trees seemed to provide a sort of sanctuary。 The swarming diggers； far too numerous to have been defeated； did not follow。
Is there some power in the forest that prevented them？ Deornoth wondered。
Or more likely； does something live here more fearsome even than they are？
Fleeing； they had left behind five torn things that had once been human beings。 The prince's troop of survivors now numbered perhaps a dozen…and judging by the tortuous； gasping breaths of the soldier Helmfest； who lay wrapped in his cloak near the fire； they would be fewer than that soon。
Lady Vorzheva was dabbing the blood away from Helmfest's ghost…pale cheek。 She had the distant； distracted look of a madman Deornoth had once seen； who had sat in the Naglimund…town square pouring water from one bowl to another for hours at a time； back and forth； never spilling a drop。
Tending this living dead man was just as useless a thing to do； Deornoth felt sure； and it showed in Vorzheva's dark eyes。
Prince Josua had been paying no greater heed to Vorzheva than to anyone else in the battered pany。 Despite the terror and weariness she shared with the rest of the survivors； it was obvious that she was also furiously angry about his inattention。 Deornoth had long been a witness to Josua and Vorzheva's stormy relationship； but was never quite sure how he felt about it。 Sometimes he resented the Thrithings…woman as a distraction； a hindrance to his prince's duties； at other moments he found himself pitying Vorzheva； whose sincere passions often outstripped her patience。
Josua could be maddeningly careful and deliberate； and even at the best of times tended toward melancholy。 Deornoth guessed that the prince would be a very difficult man for a woman to love and live with。
The old jester Towser and Sangfugol the harper were talking dispiritedly nearby。 The jester's wine sack lay empty and flattened on the ground beside them； it was the only wine any of the survivors would see for a while。 Towser had drained it dry himself in just a few gulps； occasioning more than a few sharp words from his fellows。 His rheumy eye had blinked angrily as he drank； like an old rooster warning away a henyard interloper。
The only ones engaged in useful activity at this moment were the Duchess Gutrun； Isgrimnur's wife； and Father Strangyeard； the archivist of Naglimund。 Gutrun had slit the front and back of her heavy brocade skirt and was now sewing the open pieces together； making something like a pair of breeches for herself； the better to travel through Aldheorte's clinging brush。 Strangyeard； recognizing the good sense of this idea； was sawing away at the front of his own gray robe with Deornoth's dulled knife。
The brooding Rimmersman Einskaldir sat near Father Strangyeard； between them lay a quiet shape； a dark bump below the wash of firelight。
That was the little handmaiden whose name Deornorh could not remember。 She had fled with them from the residence； and had cried quietly all the long way up and down the Stile。
Cried； that is； until the diggers had reached her。 They had clung to her throat like terriers to a boar； even after their bodies had been sheared loose by the blades other would…be rescuers。 Now she cried no longer。 She was very； very still； holding precariously to life。
Deornoth felt a shudder of trapped horror surge up within him。 Merciful Usires； what had they done to deserve such dreadful retribution？ Of what abominable sin were they guilty； to be punished by the harrowing of Naglimund？
He fought down the panic that he knew showed plainly on his face； then looked around。 No one was watching him； thank Usires： no one had seen his shameful fear。 Such conduct was not fitting； after all。 Deornoth was a knight。 He was proud that he had felt his prince's gauntlet upon his head； had heard the pronouncement of service。 He only wished for the clean terror of battle with human enemies…not tiny； squealing diggers； or the stone…faced； fish…white Norns who had destroyed Josua's castle。 How could you battle creatures out of childhood bogey…tales？
It must be the Day of Weighing…Out e at last。 That was the only explanation。 These might be living things they fought…they bled and died； and could demons be said to do so？…but they were forces of Darkness； nevertheless。 The final days had e in truth。
Oddly； the idea made Deornoth feel a little stronger。 Was this not； after all； a knight's true calling； to defend his lord and land against enemies spiritual as well as corporeal？ Hadn't the priest said so before Deornoth's vigil of investiture？ He forced his fearful thoughts back into their proper track。 He had long prided himself on his calm face； his slow and measured anger； for just that reason； he had always felt very fortable with the reserved manners of his prince。 How could Josua lead； except by the mastery of his own person？
Thinking of Josua； Deornoth stole another look at him and felt worry e surging back。 It seemed that the prince's armor of patience was at last breaking apart； wracked by forces no man should bear。 As his liegeman watched； Josua stared out into the windy darkness； lips working as he spoke soundlessly to himself； brow wrinkled in pained concentration。
The watching became too difficult。 〃Prince Josua；〃 Deornoth called softly。 The prince finished his silent speech； but did not turn his eyes to the young knight。 Deornoth tried again。 〃Josua？〃
〃Yes； Deornoth？〃 he replied at last。
〃My lord；〃 the knight began； then realized he had nothing to say。 〃My lord； my good lord 。。。〃
As Deornoth bit at his lower lip； hoping inspiration might strike his weary thoughts； Josua suddenly sat forward； eyes fixed where moments before they had aimlessly roved； staring at the dark beyond the fi