“Don’t worry, Liam. I tied him up once. I can do it again,” the young farmer assured.

Liam gave a worried sigh, but shrugged his shoulders in resignation. After good-byes, he hiked across the field and disappeared into the woods.

Teldin went back to the grave and helped Trooper Gomja with the last few shovelfuls, though he kept a wary eye on the giff as they worked. He was experienced at digging graves-too many of them-during the war. The task done, the farmer retreated while the big creature made a few quiet observances over the burial ground. By the time the giff turned away, Teldin had gathered a few barely ripe melons from the remains of his field. “Trooper,” he called out to the giff, “come and eat.” Teldin pointed to the melons, cheese, and bread he had set out. After saving the giff, the farmer was not about to let the creature starve. The wooden cups from the previous night held cool water.

The meal was simple but satisfying. With a knife Teldin sliced portions for himself and the giff. The melons were sweetly fragrant and a tender, pale green inside. “I’m going to need to sleep,” Teldin said between mouthfuls, “so I’m going to have to tie you back up.” He watched the trooper’s face for a reaction.

The giff shifted uncomfortably at the suggestion. “It is not the most pleasant way to pass the time,” he commented.

“I don’t have a whole lot of other choices,” Teldin tersely pointed out. He spit a melon seed into the dirt.

The giff sat up stiffly, as if at attention. “I give my word not to harm you if you will let me remain untied.”

Leaning back and scrutinizing the giffs face, Teldin considered the offer. ~‘Are you willing to swear an oath on that-and not to run off?”

“I have nowhere to go,” the giff pointed out. “But, for you, on my honor as a trooper of the giff, I will remain here as your-uh-bodyguard. That way, you will know I will not harm you.

Teldin wasn’t sure if the giff was up to some trick or just naively honest. Instead of trying to figure it out, though, he decided to take the risk. “On your word, then.” All the same, Teldin planned to sleep lightly. Making a simple bed, he lay with the cutlass and knives close at hand under the edge of his blankets. Glancing toward the giff, who sat straight-backed under a tree, Teldin spoke, “I suggest you make yourself comfortable and get some rest also.”

The giff looked solemnly at the farmer. “I gave my oath to protect you. That is my duty.”

Teldin gave up worrying whether he’d made a mistake and tried to remove the cloak, but the clasp was jammed and wouldn’t open. With a sigh, he gave that up, too, for some well-deserved rest; he could fix the clasp later. Within seconds the farmer was sound asleep.

Teldin was shocked out of sleep by a hand clapped over his mouth. Struggling, he tried to sit up, only to be easily forced down. Standing out dimly against the night sky was the giff's form, which made him struggle all the more frantically. Damn his trust! Teldin thought, infuriated with his own sense of honor. He wanted to shout in anger, but the gift’s hand blocked all but a soft gurgle. Teldin groped for the cutlass under the blankets.

The giff raised one fat finger to its jowled face, signaling for silence. Then, slowly and carefully, Gomja pointed toward the wreck of the Penumbra. Teldin twisted his head around to see a small cluster of lights coming out of the woods on the far side of the dale. It took a while to find the cutlass, tangled in the blankets, but finally his fingers wrapped around the hilt.

“Neogi!” Gomja whispered. Once he was certain the human understood, the giff released his grip.

Teldin gaped. “What, them? How do you know? It could be neighbors.” Teldin suddenly realized it was dark, not daylight. “How long have I been asleep?” He demanded.

The giff ignored the last question. “Not humans,” he insisted in his thick accent. “Listen to the voices.

Straining, Teldin could barely make out a droning, clicking noise floating faintly on the breeze. It was clearly nothing he had ever heard before. The giff's certainty was convincing. “What do they want?”

“I don’t know,” Gomja answered. “The Penumbra?”

“What do we do?”

“We could fight them.”

Teldin studied the advancing lights. “Are you mad?” Judging from the giff's set look, he was mad. “There are too many.” Teldin glanced over his shoulder to the woods behind them. “We’ll hide. Come on.” With his eyes adjusted, the farmer led the way along the stream, following it past the cottonwoods and into the trees. Gomja brought up the rear, and Teldin’s only fear was that the giff might really try to attack. Things were already bad enough, and getting killed was not the way to improve his day.

The pair crept along, doing their best not to make any noise until they reached a tangle of fallen logs. Teldin knew this spot-from back when he had a farm, he sardonically thought; the hens kept getting out of the coop and hiding their nests in the downed branches. The farmer now worked his way into the middle, showing Gomja where not to step. At the center was a small clear space, large enough for the two of them and little else. From this hiding place the pair had a clear view of the Penumbra, the desolate wreckage barely lit by the mingled light of the moons and the coming dawn.

The procession of lights, steady and unflickering, swarmed over the Penumbra, carried by creatures Teldin could only barely make out. It was difficult to estimate their numbers. Only a few creatures were silhouetted; most were nothing but vague shapes moving just beyond the range of light. The creatures were gigantic, possibly as large as the giff who crouched beside Teldin. They seemed to have no heads, only thick, bulbous lumps in place of the necks and skulls. Huge fangs, grotesquely long, thrust out from the sides of these lumps. The rest of each body was hard and stocky, with arms overly long. The torchlight glis

tened off the monsters’ backs as if off armor. Each was carrying something in its arms, something that writhed and twisted. The forms merged into the darkness like a single, surging creature that flowed over the wreck.

“What are they searching for-the cloak?” Teldin whispered.

The giff eyed the human with a start, then answered as quietly as he could, his bass voice still a rumble. “Why would they search for the captain’s cloak?” he asked suspiciously.

Teldin nervously gripped the fabric and pulled the cloak tighter about him. What made this cloak so special? “Just a hunch,” Teldin awkwardly answered.

Aboard the broken Penumbra, the shapes continued to prowl. Teldin could make out voices, but the words were strange and lost on the wind. The sounds were unnatural, bleats and snarls mingled with sharp clicking noises. It was a language of menace and hate, and it made Teldin shudder as he listened.

It sounded like a pack of starving foxes, snarling and snapping at each other and punctuated by sudden shrieks. A squabble had broken out among the creatures. The human slid forward to gain a better view among the branches. Abruptly, part of the mass surged away from the graves and began moving in his direction. Animal instincts taking over, the farmer froze like a deer in the brush.

As the figures drew closer, Teldin could see that the single shapes were indeed two completely different creatures. The main forms were giant brutes, and now he could tell they were even taller than the giff. The beasts’ legs were comically short, forcing them to move with shuffling strides, but their arms were enormous. He was certain that they had no neck or proper head, only a broad dome on the shoulders. The fangs weren’t fangs, but pincers, like those of a beetle, growing out of the side of this dome.