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shadowkin. By heartbeats, the red rage fled his eyes. He tossed the corpse to the floor, spat on it with a disgusted grimace, then collected is sword from the throat of another shadowkin.
    “Gods and demons,” Loro snarled when he straightened. “Where did you get off to?”
    “You went the wrong way.” Rathe looked back. The corridor lay quiet, but he chose not to trust their luck to endure. Tulfa and his spawn must know this fortress far better than he and Loro.
    “You’re mad,” Loro panted. “Why, the way out is just——” He cut off as he took in the pile of rolled up rugs staked against the chamber’s farthest wall, a dismantled bed, and a listing wardrobe, none of which they had seen when following Tulfa.
    “There might be a way out from here,” Rathe said, thinking of all the entrances they had ridden past after entering Deepreach. He pointed to a well-lit doorway across the chamber. “That corridor must lead somewhere.”
    “How can you know?”
    “If not,” Rathe said, “then why waste torches lighting it?”
    “I suppose,” Loro said. “This time, brother, you lead.”
    Moving with caution, Rathe stepped into the passage. The troubling smell of roasting meat grew sharper in this direction.
    “From the cook pot into the fire, and back again,” Loro said. “Don’t we just make a fine pair of fools? Gods and demons, why did we have to come into these accursed mountains?”
    “Because Nabar’s men were hard on our heels,” Rathe snapped. “Had we not come into the Gyntors, we’d have been shot full of arrows, and our heads sent back to Onareth.”
    “And now we are to be eaten by a brood of godless imps!” Loro retorted.
    “Alive or dead, captured or free, I do not mean to be eaten.”
    “What do you intend?”
    Rathe shot a hard look at Loro. “We escape unseen, or we bring the slaughter.”

Chapter 6
     
     
     
    Rathe led them through a long and winding stretch of many connecting passages. That savory fragrance of cooking meat twisted his guts, washed his tongue in bile, for now he knew the source. And where he saw niches filled with ornaments and bits of armor, he realized they had nothing to do with honoring past rulers or heroes. Rather, they were trophies taken from those poor fools Tulfa had lured to their doom. Just before he and his horde cooked and ate them.
    Long before reaching the kitchen, the familiar clamor of a pots and pans told of its presence. At the entrance, Rathe peeked round a corner, eyes flicking, marking. An open fire pit dominated the chamber, its smoke rising to a hole built into the vaulted ceiling. To one side, a bent shadowkin busily cranked a long iron spit. Some unfortunate had lost a leg to Tulfa, and the spit-boy had crisped it to perfection.
    “What do you see?” Loro whispered.
    “You do not want to know.” Even as Rathe spoke, the spit-boy cast a furtive glance at his fellows, men and women bearing platters, pots, and pans, then snuck a chunk of meat into his mouth and gobbled it down.
    The apparent head cook, if such an atrocious creature could bear the title, stood on a footstool at the edge of the kitchen, stirring a ladle through a kettle hung over the ruddy coals of a massive fireplace.
    Rathe was trying to decide if they should retreat or attack, when he noticed a man trussed in a far corner. The scrawny fellow noticed him at the same instant, and immediately started thrashing about, mewling behind the rag stuffed into his gaping mouth. Rathe gestured for the man to be still, but his eyes widened in panic, and he redoubled his efforts.
    All the shadowkin stopped what they were doing and looked to the bound man. All, that was, save the head cook. She followed the captive’s gaze, and Rathe ducked behind cover.
    “What is it?” Loro asked again. His face went stony when he saw Rathe’s hand tighten on the hilt of his sword. “Battle? Well, let’s be about it.”
    With a fierce cry, Rathe rushed into the kitchen. The gawping