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bolted, increasing the hours of his life, but the soul—the soul he nibbled oh so slowly for it was sweet with thought and fear.
    Above him a swarm of insects made their comforting click and buzz. Farther up, the tops of the ancient spruce trees moved with a gust of wind. He could smell the Fire in the trees, but their binding resisted him. It was very hard to steal from trees, and he thought that this must be because they had a hunger greater than his. Why else would they hold it so fiercely?
    The wind gusted again, and the scent that it carried made him pause.
    Could it be?
    He opened his mouth to smell it better.
    A stink?
    He stretched wide his great maw and felt the scent fill him, felt it pool alongside his tongue and down his throat. He began to tremble in anticipation.
    Magic. The stink of human magic.
    “Mother,” he called. “Mother!”
    He’d caught the scent before, but each time he followed it the trail had vanished before he could find the source. The Mother had told him that was to be expected. He was still young, still growing into his powers. She’d said she made him to smell and see for her, and so there was no doubt that’s what he’d do. It was just a matter of time.
    He called again. “It’s strong this time, strong like a river.”
    Words came into his mind: “Yes, and can you smell a human female in it?”
    Hunger could.
    “You are ripening,” the Mother said. “You are ready. Find the female who wields the powers. Bring her and her brood to me.”
    “Will you give me some?” he asked.
    “No,” she said.
    “I’ll eat them then,” he said. “I’ll eat them all.”
    “You’ll bring them to me, and I’ll know if you take a bite.”
    “I’ll eat them,” he said. But he knew he wouldn’t.
    Hunger wanted to taste their souls. He craved their thoughts. Even the thoughts of a little thing full of fear tasted good. So what must it be like to feed on a human?
    But if he did, the Mother would know. And she would hurt him. She would send him to the others who had asked her if they might lick and nibble bits of him.
    No, he wouldn’t tempt himself. He would find the woman and her brood and carry them back whole.
    Hunger stood, dirt falling from him to the ground, and lumbered out of his dark glade toward the source of the scent.
    * * *
    Barg did not want to stand watch around the burning ruin of Sparrow’s house. Not in the dark. Not on this night. The hunt had gutted Sparrow, his horses, pigs, fowl, and dogs: every living thing. All of the organs went into the raging fires of the smithy and home, followed shortly thereafter by the chopped parts of the various carcasses.
    Normally, a criminal’s flesh would be left to the vultures and foxes and beasts of the woods. And if no beast would touch it, there were always plenty of maggots. But the hunt dared not leave Sparrow to such a fate. No trace of him could remain. His bones, if any survived the fire, would be scattered on the sea.
    They’d obtained a Fire sword from the temple in Whitecliff and used it on Sparrow and his beasts. And that gave them some comfort because a Fire sword, forged by the Kains, severed more than flesh. But they had no Seeker, no Divine with the powers to hunt sleth, to confirm that the soul had fled, and the soul of such a man would be full of wrath. It would linger about. It might even try to possess and ride some weakened man or beast in an effort to exact vengeance. No, Barg did not want to go out. But some things had to be done.
    He got up off the floor in front of his hearth. The cups and stones of a game of transfer lay before him. His daughter had just taken her turn and ruined his next move.
    Their censer of godsweed had stopped smoking. So he picked up the tongs and fetched a hot coal from the fire. He put the coal in the censer and blew until the weed began to smoke again.
    They’d burned godsweed until the air was thick with it. Burned it in every room as proof against the souls of the dead. Even