At first disgust and alarm were mingled with relief, because the creature was no bigger than a child of four or five years and was obviously in no state to do any harm: its head was mostly off, and black blood gleamed all over its chest and belly and on the wet grass where it lay, thinning and run¬ning away under the remorseless rain. The more Vansen looked at the corpse, though, the more disturbing he found it. It was like an ape, but with abnormally long fingers and skin like a lizard's, rough and netted with scales. Knobs of gray bone stuck out through the scaly hide at the joints and along the spine, not injuries but as much a part of it as a cow's horns

or a man's fingernails. As Vansen examined the dead tiling further, he saw thai its lace was disturbingly manlike, as brown as the rest of its studded hide but covered with smooth, leathery skin. The dark eyes were wide open in a net of wrinkled flesh, and if he had seen only them he would have been sure it was some little old man lying here, though the fanged mouth gave things a different flavor.

Vansen poked hard with his sword but the thing did not move. He guided his horse wide around the corpse, and watched as Barrick's milky-eyed mount took the same roundabout path. The prince himself did not even look down.

Within moments Vansen saw a second and a third creature, both as dead and bloodied as the first, slashed by a blade or long claws. He reined up, wondering what sort of beast had so easily bested these unpleasant crea¬tures. Was it one of the terrible, sticklike giants that had taken Collum Dyer? Or something worse, something… unimaginable? Perhaps even now it watched them from the forest shadows, eyes gleaming…

"Go slowly, Highness," he told Barrick, but he might have spoken Xix-ian for all the notice the youth paid him.

Only a few paces ahead lay another clot of small, knobby corpses in the middle of the trail. Vansen's horse pulled up, snuffling anxiously. Clearly, it did not want to step over the things, although Barrick's shadow-bred horse showed no such compunction as it passed him. Vansen groaned and climbed down to clear the trail. He was pushing one of the bodies with his sword, hesitant to touch any of the creatures, when the thing abruptly came to life. Whistling in a horrid way that Vansen only realized later was the mortal slash across its chest sucking air, it managed to climb up his sword and sink its teeth into his arm before he could do more than grunt in shock. He had thought many times of removing his mail shirt-the damp cold had made it seem much more a burden than a benefit-but now he thanked the gods he had kept it. The creature's teeth did not pierce the Funderling-forged rings, and he was able to smash its wizened face hard enough to dislodge it from his arm. It hit the ground but did not run away, scuttling toward him again, still whistling like a hillman's pipes with the sack burst.

"Barrick!" he shouted, wondering how many more of the creatures might be still alive and lurking, "Highness, help me!" — but the prince was already out of sight down the trail.

Vansen backed away from his horse, not wanting to risk wounding it

with a wild swing, and as the little monstrosity leaped up toward his throat he managed to strike it with the flat of his blade, knocking it aside. I lis heavy sword was not the best weapon, but he did not dare take the time to pull his dagger. Before the hissing thing could get up again he stepped for¬ward and skewered it against the wet ground with his sword, pushing through muscle and gut and crunching bone until his hilt was almost in reach of the creature's claws, which waved feebly a few times, then curled in death.

Vansen took only a moment to catch his breath and wipe his blade on the wet grass before clambering back up into the saddle, worried about the prince but also irritated. Hadn't the boy heard him call?

He found Barrick just a short ride ahead, dismounted and staring down at a dozen or more of the hairy creatures, all apparently safely dead this time. In their midst lay a dead horse with its throat torn out and what Vansen at first thought was its equally dead rider lying facedown beside it. The black-haired body was human enough in shape, wrapped in a torn dark cloak and armor of some strange material with a blue-gray tortoiseshell-like finish. Vansen dismounted and cautiously put his hand on the back of the corpse's neck, in a gap between helmet and armor. To his surprise he could feel movement under his fingers-a slow, labored rise: the rider was breathing. When he turned the victim over and pulled off the disturbing skull helm, he got his second shock. The man had no face.

No, he realized after an instant, still sickened, it does-but that's no human face. He made the sign of the Three as he fought against a sudden clutch of nausea. There were eyes in that pale, membrane of flesh that stretched be¬tween scalp and narrow chin, but because they were shut they had seemed no more than creases of flesh beneath the wide brow, obscured by smears of blood from what looked like a near-mortal gash in the thing's fore¬head-the blood, at least, was as red as that which flowed in a godly man. But the rest of the face was as featureless as a drumskin, with no nose or mouth.

The faceless man's eyes flicked open, eyes red as his smeared blood. They struggled to fix on the guard captain and the prince, then rolled up and the waxy lids fell again.

Vansen staggered to his feet in revulsion and fear. "It is one of them. One of the murdering Twilight People."

"He belongs to my mistress," Barrick said calmly. "He wears her mark."

"What?"

"He is injured. Sec to him. We will stop here." Barrick climbed down from his horse and stood waiting, as though what he had said made perfect

sense.

"Forgive me, Highness, but what are you thinking? This is one of the demons who has tried to kill us-tried to kill you. They have destroyed our armies and our towns." Vansen sheathed his sword and slipped his dagger from its battered sheath. "No, step back and I will slit his gorge. It is a more merciful death than many of our folk have received…"

"Stop." Prince Barrick moved forward as if to put his own body be¬tween the wounded creature and the killing stroke. Ferras Vansen could only stare in astonishment. Barrick's eyes were calm and intent-in fact, he seemed closer to his old self than he had since they had crossed the Shadowline-but he was still acting like a madman.

"Highness, please, I beg of you, stand away. This thing is a murderer of our people. I saw this very creature killing Aldritchmen and Kertewallers like a dog among rats. I cannot let him live."

"No, you must let him live," Barrick declared. "He is on a grave errand."

"What? What errand?"

"I do not know. But I know the signs upon him and I hear the voices they make in my head. If we do not help him, more of… our kind will die. Mortals." The young prince regent's hesitation was strange, as if for a moment he had forgotten to which side of the conflict he belonged.

"But how can you know that? And who is this 'mistress' you speak of? Not your sister, surely. Princess Briony would not want you to do any of these things."

Barrick shook his head. "Not my sister, no. The great lady who found me and commanded me. She is one of the highest. She looked at me and… and knew me. Now help him, please." For a moment the prince's gaze became even clearer, but a hard look of pain and loss came too, like ice forming on a shallow pond. "I do not… do not know what to do. How to do it. You must."

Vansen stared at Barrick. Barrick stared back. The boy would not let him kill this monster without a fight, he'd made that clear. Vansen had already tried several times to sway Barrick from these strange, spellbound moods but had found no way to do it without harming him, so fierce was his re¬sistance. It would be bad enough to face Briony Eddon if he allowed the boy to come to harm-how much worse if it was Vansen himself who hurt the prince?