“Khnauronts, are they?” Sharvetr said at last. It was the word used in Dwarvish of a being that eats the flesh of those that think and speak—often, but not exclusively, used of dragons. “They took the wrong turn in the Whitethorns, then. I doubt they would relish a bite of one of the Gray Folk, eh, ruthen-Morlock?” The Gray Folk, like Morlock and his Ambrosial kin, had blood that burned in open air.

“It’s true,” Morlock agreed. “But there are the folk of Ranga and its colonies—of Haukrull Vale—the Silent Folk in Kwelmgrind Vale—”

“Say no more,” Sharvetr stopped him. “We are of one blood, harven coruthen, with all the people of the North. They could have killed us in the tooth, yet they let us live and taught us the New Way, so that we could be people and not mindless greedy animals. We will do what we can do to help. I take it kindly that you have come to us first. Unless you have already . . . ?”

“No, I go next to Thrymhaiam, and then to the Silent Folk. I hope I’m not too late.”

“Then send a message through us to Thrymhaiam. You go to the Silent Folk. Your friend Naevros syr Tol is here—”

“He is?”

“He is, although he does not say why.”

“Can we go to him, Longtooth? There’s no time to lose.”

“We can, but unless I am mistaken, here he comes to us.”

Naevros burst into the greeting room and fell shouting on Morlock and embraced him. In the century or so that Morlock had known Naevros he had never seen him do something like that; he was embarrassed and honored and confused. He gently pounded Naevros on the shoulderblades with his fists.

“Now we’re talking!” Naevros said, letting go of Morlock at last. “You know of the invasion, of course?”

Morlock told him what they had seen at Raenli farmstead.

“I was visiting with Illion’s people at Three Hills when the news came to us, via message sock,” Naevros explained. “The Graith sent me to rally the peoples of Northhold. Because half a millennium ago I was born in a fishers’ cottage on the Broken Coast. Ridiculous. But you were on the road and no one could reach you. My apologies, Longtooth,” he said, turning to the elected leader of the Gray Folk. “I should have told you my news when I arrived, but I was not sure what to ask—what I should ask—I—”

“You are not our blood, harven ruthenclef, as Morlocktheorn is,” Sharvetr said with steel-cold civility.

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Ruthen Sharvetr,” said Morlock quietly.

“I understand, ruthen. He does not know our ways and no offense is meant.”

Naevros raised his eyebrows at the word offense and would have spoken, but Sharvetr raised a long seven-jointed gray finger.

“Though you are not ruthen, I choose you as harven. We are of one blood, you and I. Ask what you would of me, kinsman, for blood has no price.”

Naevros’ eyes crossed momentarily at the thought of being blood-kin to a mandrake. But his practiced suavity soon came to his aid, and he said, “The Gray Folk chose their Longtooth wisely. I beg pardon for any offense, and swear kith with you and your folk on any terms you choose.”

“There is no oath. Say or say not.”

“I say it, then, and say too that you honor me too much.”

“You are my ruthen’s friend. That is already much. We’ll speak no more of honor, but of this danger in the land.”

Morlock understood, as Naevros apparently did not, how angry Sharvetr was; many found the long-snouted, gray-scaled faces of the mandrakes hard to read.

“Have you told him, Longtooth, about the banefires?” asked Naevros.

“I have not.”

“The night is deep and clear. Shall we go look?”

They went, with Naevros and Sharvetr refusing explanations until Morlock had seen what they thought he should see.

Morlock was deeply concerned. The banefires had been set on the gravehills in the Northhold a thousand years before. They were magical prisons for the Corain, the undead sorcerer-kings of the Coranians. While the banefires burned, the dead Corain could no longer wander the land by night and afflict it, stealing bodies and lives. That was ominously like the Khnauronts.

Naevros led the way through the tunnel-like corridors of Sharvetr’s house to a doorway that faced north and west.

The sky above was dense with stars. The major moons, Chariot and Horseman, stood high and bright above the ragged horizon to the west.

The land below was not utterly dark. Beyond the shuttered lights of Gray Town, Morlock could see Ranga’s mining town, a sullen brownish glow to the north and east. He knew where Thrymhaiam was, farther north, but there were no lights to be seen: dwarves didn’t like to break the darkness with light unless they must.

Due north were the gravehills, where the not-quite-dead Corain had been buried, and later imprisoned. Banefires were still burning there, as they had burned every night for a thousand years or more. One terrible night a century ago, the banefire on the Hill of Storms, oldest of the gravehills, had gone out when the Dead Cor within it died.

But now there were more banefires missing—a long, meandering gap into the heart of the gravehills. At the end of the gap was a cluster of campfires. “The camp of the Khnauronts, or so I guess,” Sharvetr said, pointing.

“Are the—the Khnauronts freeing the Dead Corain?” Naevros said in his ear. “Are they eating them? What are they doing?”

Morlock shook his head. He didn’t know. But, “We need to know. Ruthen Sharvetr—”

The Longtooth was only a red-eyed shadow against the lit doorway behind him, but Morlock saw him hold up his hand. “You Guardians will go into the gravehills. I will send a messenger to the Little Cousins under Thrymhaiam, and another to the Silent Folk beyond Kirach Starn. I think you had better write them a letter yourself, Morlocktheorn. Many of them dislike the looks of us.”

“Ruthen—”

“Ruthen, enough. Blood of yours is blood of mine, whether they know it or not. I only speak the truth.”

“And we should send a line south to warn the Graith of what we know,” Naevros added.

“Harven,” said Sharvetr, “it will be done. If you write that, and Morlock writes the others, then we can dispatch the messengers and go back to our several nests.”

Sharvetr Ûlkhyn was not greedy for gold, or power, or rage, or any of the things that led to the dragon-change. But he loved to sleep nearly as much as he loved those of his blood, be they harven or ruthen.

CHAPTER FIVE

Evening in the Gravehills

The gray plume of smoke coiled in the darkening sky over the invaders’ camp, deep in the gravehills.

Evening soup, thought Naevros glumly. Just like mama used to make.

His mother’s cooking was infamously bad—one of twelve or thirteen reasons he rarely saw his parents in recent centuries.

He and Morlock had been worming their way into the gravehills for most of a day, trying to keep out of the invaders’ way. So far it had worked, and this was their reward: a cold spring twilight was falling; they were days away from anything Naevros considered a civilized place to sleep; and a thousand paces away or less, a ghoulish tribe of cannibals was preparing their evening feast.

And, in fact, just when things seemed their worst, they actually got worse (as Naevros often found to be the case). As darkness rose into the sky, the major moons opened their eyes above, and blue light bloomed on the gravehills’ ragged heights. These were the banefires, those magical prisons for the Dead Corain, buried in the graves that gave these hills their baleful name.

The banefires’ blue light revealed nothing but itself. It cast no shadows and shed no heat. In fact, the gathering night grew suddenly colder as the banefire light leapt up on hilltops all around them, including the hill they were standing on.