Jofor smiled coldly. “You like to dance, Gom Gobblechuck of Windy Mountain? Then you shall dance for us."

A huge colt moved up through the cluster. Gom gazed at it in awe. It was totally black save for a gleaming silver ringmark on the brow, and stood a full hand above the others.

A refugee, a short-term stowaway in the solahinn’s caravan: that’s all he’d meant to be, but now, without intending it, he was their prisoner.

A figure moved out from the back wall, a burly shape dressed in black shirt and bright green britches. Zamul!

That bird was huge, with wings bigger than any raven’s. It couldn’t be, Gom told himself, slowly sitting up, but even as he tried to get to his feet, it came at him—the skull bird!

It was just like her,” Gom murmured brokenly.

“If Katak is after magic, why does he want your treasure?”

As Gom lay there on his back, water running from him, the huge beast leaned down his long neck and peered closely into Gom’s face.

Gom pictured the bone-white skull hovering in the darkness, above whatever hideousness it possessed for a physical body, its dark eye sockets staring toward the tunnel, waiting for him to emerge.

Gom blinked to accustom himself to the darkness, and looked about. With a cry, he ran the length of that short space and back again. The cleft was empty. Zamul was gone!