Now, as he made his way back to Invidia through a deepening twilight, Gesmas wondered if he had finally exhausted his gift. At the very least, he had used up his interest in espionage. There was no more joy to be had in subverting Invidia's enemies. He thought about resigning his post, taking up the work for which he had long known himself to be best suited. But Lord Aderre would never allow Gesmas to become master of the hounds for Loupet Castle or any other estate. Aderre found the spy's tenderness for beasts amusing. He laughed aloud when Gesmas wept over the death of his faithful hound, which had lost its will to live during one of its master's long absences from the keep.

"Astounding," Aderre had said. "You've cut men's throats and cared only for the blood they spilled on your jacket, yet a dog's death makes you wail like an abandoned child. You're better suited to the work I've given you, Gesmas. Be glad for it."

No, Gesmas decided bitterly as he topped a rise in the narrow road, if Lord Aderre wants me to wear a spy's cloak, I'll never convince him to let me exchange it for another.

The rutted path wound down into a valley, meeting up with a rough stone bridge. Beyond the arch, which spanned a reed-choked offshoot of the Musarde called the Widow's Tears by the locals, lay the border. Gesmas cursed softly. Something was standing in the middle of the bridge.

The failing light made it difficult to see clearly, and Gesmas first mistook the thing for an animal-a small bear or a boar, perhaps. The beast would clear out of the way as the horse got closer, he guessed, but he drew his sword just in case. As he reached the bottom of the hill, he saw that the figure stood on two legs. At fifty yards, it was clear that the figure was too short to be a man or elf, too broad and bulky to be a child. A dwarf, then.

"Oh no," Gesmas whispered. "Azrael."

He reined in the horse sharply. It reared, nearly throwing him from the saddle. The elaborate brace forged for Gesmas by the smith of Loupet Castle made it easier for him to ride, but it couldn't completely compensate for his twisted leg. As he fought to bring the mount back under control, Gesmas lost his sword. He didn't pause to retrieve it. The blade would do him no good, not against Azrael.

"Give up," the dwarf shouted from the bridge. There's nowhere to run."

The woods were too thick on either side for a mounted man to ride more than a stone's throw before being blinded or knocked senseless by a low branch. The best option, Gesmas thought, was to race back up the road, to put enough distance between himself and the dwarf to dismount, then to duck into the forest on foot. With a little luck he could later reach the border along the banks of the Musarde or some half-forgotten woodsman's path. Passing from Sithicus to Invidia would place him beyond the reach of the darkest magic employed by Lord Soth. The minions of that mysterious tyrant would hesitate as well before crossing in pursuit, for fear of drawing the personal attention of Malocchio Aderre.

Gesmas wheeled the horse about and spurred it to a gallop.

With the clomping of his mount's hooves, the clatter of his tack and his leg brace, and the near-deafening thunder of his own heart filling his ears, Gesmas shouldn't have been able to hear the other riders-but he did.

The approaching hoofbeats thudded across the valley like the slamming of coffin lids. Their terrible sound heralded the arrival of two horsemen, who appeared atop the rise just as Gesmas started up the hill. The world seemed to slow, time itself shuddering to a halt at the sight of the twin horrors. Fleshless hands curled around the reins of horses that shook off wormy clots of meat with each step. Armor that seemed more tarnish than metal clattered against bare ribs. Open-faced helmets framed visages of bone. Their mouths gaped wide in mirthless, rictus grins.

Gesmas did not need to turn his horse again to direct its retreat from the skeletal horsemen. The animal wheeled on its own. Eyes wide with terror, it barreled back toward the bridge. The riders followed. For all their preternatural slowness, they somehow gained ground on the spy quickly.

Given a choice, Gesmas would have faced the riders before Azrael. He had a particular dread of creatures like the dwarf-or the thing the dwarf was supposed to be, if the stories he'd heard were to be believed. Malocchio's generals, too, had warned him against tangling with Azrael. He was unpredictable, the sort who might turn a simple act of espionage into an excuse for open warfare.

Gesmas could only hope that the stories were exaggerations, for there was no stopping his horse now. It recognized the stench of the grave emitted by the dead riders.

"Fate favor me," Gesmas said, then kicked his mount into a full charge.

Azrael's iron-shod boots struck sparks from the stones underfoot as he ran to meet the assault. He balled his thick-fingered hands into fists in front of his face. Then his arms went slack, trailing loosely to his sides like broken wings. Claws burst from his fingertips. His heavy-footed gait became more certain, swifter. Fur sprouted in unpleasant gray-and-black tufts from his face and bare arms. A scream that was equal parts ecstasy and anguish blasted from his lips. The dwarfs entire frame convulsed, the bones of his skull grinding into a new configuration-a terrible mixture of dwarf and giant badger.

The transformation completed itself just as Azrael reached the near end of the bridge. An instant later, horse and rider were upon him.

Gesmas directed his mount's wild flight as best he could, hoping to drive Azrael aside or perhaps even trample him. For the briefest of instants, it appeared that he would escape.

Azrael fell to his back as the horse bore down on him. The mount leapt forward, and Gesmas gasped. The way stood open. The border and safety beckoned at the bridge's far end.

The elation that sight engendered was shortlived. Even as the spy turned his head, hoping to glimpse the battered form of the werebeast, his horse collapsed beneath him. The unfortunate animal screamed once, then crumpled. Gesmas pitched forward. The saddle, its straps somehow sheared, and the saddlebags flew with him. They landed in a snarl at the center of the bridge's span.

As he raised his head from the stones, Gesmas glanced back at his fallen horse. The animal had been split from breastbone to tail. The carcass lay atop Azrael, who struggled to free himself from the grisly tangle. The werebeast's claws were thick with gore, the fur on his monstrous face matted with blood. Azrael expelled a grunt of anger, a horrible sound matched only by the thunder of the approaching skeletal riders.

Gesmas started to crawl. From his wrist, he plucked a small locket. The filigreed silver gleamed softly, just as it had the day Malocchio Aderre had given it to the spy. Now, in his hour of greatest need, Gesmas pressed it to his lips and invoked the charm it carried. "Lord Aderre, aid me!" he called. "I have what you want. I have Soth's history."

He looked to the far end of the bridge. There, shrouded in the gathering gloom, stood Malocchio Aderre. Clad in black, he could have been cut from the darkness itself. He crossed thin arms over his chest impatiently. A breeze stirred his wild mop of black hair, uncovering his eyes for a moment. The dark orbs glittered brightly in a pale white face. "Give it to me," he cried. "Quickly."

Gesmas snatched up the saddlebags, stuffed to bursting with scraps of parchment and folios of notes about the Lord of Sithicus. As the spy raised the satchels above his head, the world went suddenly silent. Azrael's growls and the awful thunder of the dead riders, even the dull murmur of the river-all quieted at the same instant. A soft, unpleasant sound quickly filled the void. It was a voice, as deep and bleak as a bottomless chasm. It shook the soul and froze the blood. Gesmas found himself paralyzed.