THE QUIET GNAWED at me. More than the half-burnt structures, and the undisguised evidence of appalling violence that had wracked the little village beside the Forest of the Children, it was the eerie silence that made me uneasy. Beyond the pitched roofs of the little homes and lives these lost souls had made for themselves, constructing by black timber and riverstone foundation what Hell itself would not offer freely, I could see the treetops of the lightless forest. No sound came from those swaying boughs, even as hot winds swept across the cavernous plain.

Such a place should have been alive and bright. But there were no people in the streets. There were no children playing at ragball games, or hide-and-go-seek. No dogs wandering, looking for scraps or trouble. No chickens or pigs in the gutter, and no cats perched on the roofs, sunning themselves with as much insolence as any noble might.

Despite the walls and roofs, the dark doors and carefully squared windows, this village was as dead as the people who inhabited it. A mirage, carefully constructed to blunt the pain of death, the isolation from their distant and uncaring gods.

Yet, Father Iainov insisted the gods cared. He preached a message I had never heard before, or at least did not remember. That the gods felt the separation, too, and would bring back the faithful on the promised day of recknoning. That we damned, and even the Faded, would be brought back to the shores of the living on that bright day, should they keep the faith. That all the world would be birthed anew, and that was how it had always been.

Of the Cinderborn, he spoke little. Perhaps there would be no reckoning for me.

“What happened?” I asked, as much to break the silence as to answer the questions that scraped at my insides. The damage to the village demanded answers. The cruelties inflicted on the peasants demanded understanding.

“A force of them came as we slept,” the old priest said. “It was our custom to retire by the chronolabe kept in the church, all at once. He held up the device in his hand by way of demonstration. “Knowing your fellows sleep makes sleep in turn easier. It eases the fear to know the others rest as well.” I thought about that. Had I really slept since awakening? I couldn’t remember. Perhaps in death, I had slept. But no. The fires of Hell, and ache deep in my bones, left no choice but a haunted vigilance. Perhaps that was why I was so doggedly tired. It didn’t matter now, I thought.

One of the two bundled forms on the chapel steps below me stirred, but did not speak. It kept its head down, curled in on itself miserably. Beside it, the other sat perfectly still.

“They were the raiders of the Wolf,” said Iainov. “Come to take what they would, and carry it off to their lord. At least, that’s what they said at first.”

“But they stayed.”

“Aye,” said Iainov. “There are settlements throughout the cavern. Towns, or the shells of them. From these, the Wolf had long sought fees for protection. A Cinderborn is a mighty figure, even in death. We knew the name of Harald the Wolf, for he had been a lesser plague for an age, an adventure-seeker. But until these new whelps came, I mark he did more good than harm, fighting off the hellspawn that fester on the margins.”

“What changed?”

Father Iainov did not answer for a long while. “A star fell,” he said eventually. “Into the Forest of the Children. And then armored riders from Ulstassi came. They demanded a tax to support their hunting. We paid, for we have no choice. Our service is to the forest. When at last they returned to the white city, they left us half-starved and weakened. And in their absence, Harald’s men arrived.”

“What were they searching for?”

“A god, I think.” Iainov pursed his lips.

Whatever that might have meant, the priest did not explain. Up the road that led out of the village, tracing a thin perimeter around the dark forest, a cart appeared. Two dark horses drew it along behind, and over the rocky road it clattered and creaked, loud as a wardrum, it seemed. A figure in black sat atop the cart, flaccid reigns in its hands.

“The chains, Cinderborn,” said Param. She stood from where she’d been sitting on the steps. Beside her, Father Iainov inspected the chronolabe. It was a nest of golden wires, with a crystal set in the lid. I did not pretend to know how it worked, but the crystal grew bright and then dim with the passing of unseen stars. It was dark now, almost completely inert. The appointed hour, by the chronolabe. The cart drew closer, taking its time.

I allowed Param to place iron cuffs on my wrists. She screwed the bolt on enough to keep them from falling off, and fixed me in the eyes. I nodded to her. I was ready.

“Cinderborn,” said Iainov. He put a hand on my shoulder. Again, a steady, reassuring weight. “May the gods watch over you.” With that, he disappeared into the Stone of the Vigilant and sealed the huge timber doors behind him.

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“This is foolish,” said Param, eyes on the cart. “The snake-face will smell the lie.”

The robed form on the ground stiffened as the cart rumbled to a halt in front of us. Param kicked it in the back, eliciting a wordless yelp. She seized the chain that hung between my wrists and jerked me forward.

The cart was no different than any I dully remembered. But the horses, if that’s what they truly were, were unlike anything I had every seen before. They stood about shoulder-high on me, but fat, grotesquely swollen bellies hung low, almost to the ground. Veins bulged under the skin, pulsing with exertion. Their hoofs were jointed strangely, too, and each leg was bound in an iron chain that kept them from moving too easily. And their faces. Long, thick equestrian necks rose above my own head, but ended in something nearly human. Their eyes were certainly human, full of humiliation and shame. Leather muzzles were clamped over their noses and mouths, keeping them silent. As the cart stopped, they lowered their heads and hid their eyes.

The thing on the cart was worse. It was shaped vaguely like a man, but every angle was wrong. Thin, stunted legs stuck out over the cart’s bench, ending in taloned claws easily large enough to disembowel an unsuspecting opponent. Its trunk was long and thick, but did not taper as a man’s ought. Arms stuck out with no hint of shoulders, hunched forward almost like a dog’s arms. Above that, it was impossible to see more, for the hood draped over its face masked all in shadow.

Not for long enough. It stood, drawing the filthy, ragged hood back, revealing a serpent’s square head. Black eyes glittered at us with ancient, reptilian hunger. It cracked its scaly, lipless mouth open, revealing rows of shredding teeth.

“Where,” it hissed, “is the worm Javon?”

Param planted a food on Javon’s back again and shoved him forward. The gaoler toppled onto his knees before the snake-faced demon, covering his head with his hands. They were chained, like mine. He made a wordless, burbling sound.

“What is this?” the creature said. “Who are you, woman in black?”

“I am Param,” she said. “I was one of Harald’s raiders, before he entered the forest.”

At the name, the snake’s head drew back, as if to strike. “You dare speak his name?”

A mistake, I realized too late. None of his minions had dared to voice Harald’s name, except on pain of death. Too late. Param would have to grapple with it.

“I knew him before he was the Wolf,” she said, striking a defiant tone. The eyes narrowed further. “And I know what he wants.”

This was met with a long, dangerous quiet. The snake-face did not blink. Its eyes glittered like two chunks of obsidian, and the utter inhumanity I glimpsed there made my skin crawl. It was worse, in some ways, than the Baron. There had been a dim humanity left in his corrupted bones. But this thing had never been human.

“What is it he wants?”

“A gift that’s mine to give. Here is your slave,” she said, and snatched Javon’s hair, raking his head back. The snake-face hissed again, lapping the air with a long black tongue.

“Javon,” it said. “Why are you chained?”

“He cannot speak,” Param said. “For I cut out his tongue.” The snake-face turned its inhuman glare at her. “He has lied to the Wolf since he took over the chapel.”

“Lied?” Anger bubbled in the demon’s voice. “What lie?”

“Javon and his ilk bled the slaves sent along with you. Bled them nearly dry. Every six days, he’s sent a husk along with you, snake-face, while he kept the best for himself.”

Javon moaned deep in his throat, unable to articulate a reply. What Param had said was true. They’d cut out his tongue. Her hand still gripped his hair, and though he strove to turn aside his face, the fallen gaoler could not look away. The snake’s head lowered slowly on its repulsive neck until the darting black tongue nearly flicked the man’s face.

“Truth,” it hissed. “Dog! Ungrateful slave!” It seized Javon with one arm and hauled him up into the cart. But the snake-face made no motion to climb back up onto driver’s bench. Beside him, the pale horse things groaned horribly. They stank like nothing I’d ever smelled before, a high, caustic reek. Dark blood trickled down where the tracers cut into their shoulders.

“And this one,” Param said, dragging me forward. “To show the Wolf my good faith.”

The snake-face inspected me. Being so close to it made me want to vomit. To cringe back, to hide. It took all I had not to turn and flee on the spot from the serpent’s cold gaze. But to do so would have ruined the gambit. I focused on the anger, on the heat in my blood.

“Your blood is warm!” the snake-face crowed, tasing the air. Slit-like nostrils, buried under the pale scales that lined its face, flared wide open. “You are a killer, eh? Yes. He will please the Wolf.” Gruffly, it dragged me free of Param’s grasp and threw me into the cart beside Javon. Only then did it climb up onto the cart, drawing the hood back up over its head.

Param followed it. “And I come with you,” she said. She held a bundle in her arms, long and thin and wrapped in a travel-worn blanket.

“You?”

“Or I leave your corpse here, and drive the wagon myself,” she said, securing the bundle between her knees. The snake-face’s head dipped low with menace, but Param appeared undaunted. “Drive, demon.”

What passed between them, I could not see. Javon was moaning, maybe weeping, where he’d fallen. I righted myself and craned my neck. My fingers found the loose bolt on the manacles, but I dared not loosen it yet. I did not know how good the snake’s hearing might be.

After a long, bitter pause, the snake-face simply turned its head from Param, shook the reins, and we were off.

The Stone of the Vigilant, and all the lost souls within, fell away behind us as the road turned into the Forest of the Children.