Martimeos walked glumly down the well-trodden dirt paths that served as roads in Pike's Green, hands in his pockets, shivering a bit in the brisk autumn air. Flit sat perched upon his shoulder, offering occasional chirps of encouragement, but Martimeos mostly ignored these.

He lifted his head, to gaze discontentedly out across the rolling plains of his home. Long grass, waist-high, shone gold in the sun, dotted here and there by light blue larkspurs, blooming wild. Beyond, the leaves of the forests that ringed his home were an ocean of reds and yellows, swaying gentle in the breeze. Brightly painted farmhouses nestled between gently rolling hills, standing out starkly against the muted colors of fall. He...

No, wait. This wasn't right, Martimeos thought. He looked down at himself, seeing the gangly limbs of an awkward child, one who was only just beginning to grow into a man, clad in simple, loose, baggy clothing, green and brown. That wasn't right. He wasn't a child, he was full grown, and Pike's Green - his village had burnt, that farm over to the west - he knew, that one had burnt and never been rebuilt, its well-tended fields should be reclaimed by the forest by now. He wore a leather tunic, not these simple clothes, not anymore, and a black-furred cloak, and a bright red scarf, and...

Martimeos shook his head, chasing the odd thoughts away, forgetting them nearly as soon as they faded into the fog in his mind. Pike's Green had never burned, and of course he wasn't full grown. Though that didn't necessarily mean he was a child. In fact, he thought to himself solemnly, he had quite adult concerns.

"Oi! Martim!" a voice called, the shouts echoing beneath the clear autumn sky. Martimeos tried to ignore this, his face burning - he knew who that voice belonged to, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to talk to the owner just at this moment. He continued to walk, dirt crunching beneath his boots, pretending he hadn't heard. "MARTIM!" the voice bellowed, jovial, and loud enough to be heard a mile away.

Well, there was no use pretending he hadn't heard that. Sighing, he turned in the direction of the voice, raising a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. Some distance away, out across the fields and towards one of the farmhouses, he could see four figures leaning against a low farm wall, one of simple stacked stone. As he watched, one of the figures waved him over. Sighing once more, Martimeos trotted in their direction.

He knew these folk; they were his brother's friends, and he was actually very familiar with them - he felt no trepidation as he approached. There, on the left, long and lithe and graceful, sat Harkheim, the huntsman, who had actually taught Martim to speak with birds. His chestnut hair held back by a worn leather band, his dark eyes seemed ever-alert in his narrow face, no matter how relaxed he was. Harkheim only ever wore leathers cured from the animals he hunted, and a long, black hooded cloak. He was an excellent hunter, and could move like a shadow - there had been many times that Martimeos had walked the forests, only to be startled by the huntsman, not even knowing he was there.

By Harkheim's side sat Kassandra, his lover, one arm draped around the huntsman's shoulders, while her other rested on her stomach, idly kicking long, slender legs in the air as she sat upon the stone wall. Nearly as tall and lithe as Harkheim himself was, Kassandra was a woman with a mischievous sense of humor, eyes ever twinkling with hidden mirth. Tanned from long hours in the sun, she cut her dark hair short, for a woman - it was even shorter than Martim's was, not even touching her shoulders. Even as old as she was, she still dressed like a man, preferring shirts and pants to dresses and skirts, though the ones she wore were always a bright yellow. Around her wrist she wore a golden bangle, which she fiddled with, smiling slyly at Harkheim as she did so.

And there, on the right, idly flipping a coin in the air and catching it deftly with one hand, stood Daveth Pike. The Pikes, it was said, were descended from the founders of Pike's Green, and might be considered the closest thing the village had to nobility - though Daveth certainly never insisted upon it. Though there was something a bit regal about the man's bearing; broad-shouldered and straight-backed, his hair bronze curls that fell down around his face, wavy and long, with piercing hazel eyes. He wore a shining breastplate, and had a sword buckled by his belt - the Pikes served the village as a guard, though that was hardly ever needed. Daveth, though, was impressive with a blade, having been trained by his father; Martimeos had watched the two practice before, and been awed by the clash of flowing steel, nearly too quick to follow with the eye.

And between them all, stepping forward to greet Martimeos as he approached, stood the man who had waved him over and shouted his name. Hadley Farram.

Hadley was a giant of a man. Tall, but not unusually so, what gave him his size was his sheer muscle - as the eldest son of the village blacksmiths, long hours in the forge had given him thick arms and a barrel chest. He was also Vivian's eldest brother, and he shared with her the golden blond hair and clear, sky-blue eyes that ran in their family. His face had a perpetual friendly laugh etched in it, always seeming on the verge of bursting out into a loud guffaw.Truth be told, Hadley was a good man, and Martimeos could not help but cracking a small smile as he approached.

Martim was old enough now to be able to tell that Vivian's parents disapproved of their daughter spending so much time with him, though he was not certain of the reason. But Hadley had always been kind, and would help Vivian sneak out of the house to go meet Martim in the forest, when her parents might have otherwise told her not to go. And Hadley had promised Martim that one day, he would forge him his own blade. The idea of a sword all his own was exciting.

"Martim, lad," Hadley boomed, clasping Martimeos' shoulder in one gigantic hand as he drew near. "You haven't seen your brother about, have you? He was supposed to meet us here." When Martimeos shook his head, Hadley sighed, exasperated. "Just like him to make us wait."

"And he'll swear up and down that we were the ones who got the time wrong, too," Daveth laughed, curls bouncing as he shook his head. Then he peered at Martimeos, sharp eyes curious and concerned. "But you, Martim, what has you down? I could tell even from a distance you were lacking the bounce in your step."

Martimeos reddened, glancing up at Hadley. "Nothing," he muttered. "Nothing's wrong."

"Ooh, I bet you I know what it is. Girl trouble." Kassandra's dark eyes gleamed as she looked Martimeos up and down, suppressing a small smile. "He's got the look about him my brother gets when his wife shouts at him."

Martimeos reddened even further, enough to make Flit jealous. "No, it's nothing, really-"

But Hadley put his hands on his hips, frowning. "I think I know what it is," the large man said quietly. "My parents have found out about you and Vivian kissing, haven't they?"

Martimeos felt his face burn so hot he thought his hair might catch fire. "It wasn't even a real kiss! It was just a practice one, she...we... just wanted to see what it was like," he snapped, avoiding Hadley's gaze. "And now they won't even let Vivian out to see me."

Harkheim snorted, suddenly, the normally stoic and quiet huntsman slapping his knees with laughter. "Oh, a practice kiss, was it," he said, grinning. He glanced over to Kassandra, raising a dubious eyebrow. "I remember when you used that excuse on me, Kass. 'Just a practice kiss, Hark! I just wanna see what all the fuss is about!'"

"You were so dense, how else was I going to get you to give me a kiss," Kassandra muttered, silencing the huntsman's chuckles with a punch to the arm.

Daveth cleared his throat, giving the two lovers a meaningful look. "As I recall," he said, tapping upon his breastplate thoughtfully, "The two of you went far beyond kissing not long after." He nodded, as Harkheim and Kassandra blushed furiously. "Perhaps Vivian's parents have reason to be concerned."

But Hadley was shaking his head, sunlight giving his golden hair a vibrant glow. "No. My parents, they're just...they're wrong, is what it is." The large man looked down towards Martimeos, giving him a friendly, comforting smile. "I'll talk to them. Don't worry. They won't hold out for long, anyway; they know how miserable Vivian will get if she's not able to see you."

Martimeos, despite himself, felt relief rushing through him. He had not thought that Vivian's parents could have kept them separated forever. But it was a comfort, having her eldest brother on his side. At least someone in her family liked him. A small, reluctant smile crept across his face, and he ruffled his his long, shaggy hair. "Thanks, Hadley," he muttered.

"No thanks necessary," Hadley grinned. "You make my little sister happy. That's good enough for me."

But for some reason, when Hadley said that, a sharp spike of guilt and shame roiled through Martimeos. He put his hand to his head as memories came flooding back to him, dim and blurry, as if through a fog. Memories of Vivian sobbing, begging him not to leave, tears falling fast and hot from her clear blue eyes, memories of...a fire...

Suddenly, the world twisted. And then everything was in flames.

The grassy fields, their gently rolling hills, were a sea of fire, stretching out as far as the eye could see. The forest, too, was all in flames, and so were the farmhouses, little more than blackened skeletons in the midst of howling infernos. Hot embers drifted down from the sky like burning snow. Screams of the dying, wails of horror, rose up from within the blaze, echoing all around, coming from everywhere, all at once. Thick black smoke poured into the sky, dimming the sunlight, and the heat was so intense that Martimeos immediately felt his mouth go dry as he breathed, felt his skin begin to blister. He threw up a hand to shield himself from the heat, shouting in alarm, as Flit took off, coursing into the sky.

"But that was a lie, wasn't it," a hollow, whispering voice hissed.

Martimeos whirled around to face the source of the voice, squinting against the waves of heat that beat against his face, only to find his brother's friends once more. But they had twisted, as well.

Kassandra was simply gone. Instead, Harkheim knelt in a patch of burnt and blackened grass, weeping bitterly, clutching a small, sad, smouldering corpse, a golden bangle still around one arm, warped from the heat.

That's right, Martimeos thought. Kassandra burned, that day.

The huntsman had his black cloak wrapped about him, the edges of it trailing smoke, and his hood drawn up around his head. His eyes were gone, the empty sockets filled instead with black, writhing feathers. As Martimeos watched, Harkheim raised his head, as if to say something, but all that escaped the hunter's mouth was a wretched, howling roar, inhuman, that went on, and on, and on, even as his trembling arms held Kassandra's corpse tighter and closer. And his face began to change as he howled, going crooked, breaking in some way, but before Martimeos could see how, Harkheim collapsed over the corpse, hood hiding his face, shoulders shaking in great, wracking sobs.

Daveth was there, as well, though he was barely recognizable. He wore a suit of finely-wrought plate, darkened and stained by ash, and a long skirt of finely-wrought chain. His long curls were gone, and instead he wore an open-faced helm, with a crown of dark iron forged into it, each of its long spikes licked by orange flame. In his left hand he held a staff bearing a banner, a great black flag unfurled and graced by three silver bells, and in his right hand he held a sword dripping with bright red blood. His hazel eyes, once clear and sharp and friendly, seemed flat and dead.

And Hadley...

Hadley stood, quaking with rage, clenching and unclenching his fists, every muscle on his large frame tensed. The cords on his neck stood out, and his once-friendly face was contorted with some monstrous fury, something darker than Martimeos had ever thought the man could contain. And his eyes were nothing but twin pits of utter black, streaming down his face like tears of pitch.

"It was a lie," Hadley snarled, and as he did, his face began to stretch and change, his skin growing gray, his shadow drifting up from the ground like smoke to wrap around him. "You're going to break her heart." And even as he changed, even as his face vanished beneath shadow, he lifted his head to the smoke-stained sky and sang, in a voice that was like the howling screams of all those who burned.

Martimeos ran.

He ran down the dirt path, the flames of his burning village searing his skin, his heart pounding in his ears, his breath dry, ragged gasps. He didn't need to turn around when he heard galloping footsteps following after him to know it would not be Hadley behind him, but rather the Bogge-King, did not need to hear the crackling, tearing sound of its movements to know what would be there. And though he ran until he thought his lungs would explode, until his dry lips cracked and split and bled, he felt something seize him by the shoulder and then shadow wrapped around him and he was falling, falling-

-falling, until he landed on a hard, smooth surface, the air being driven out of his lungs.

Martimeos quickly scrambled to his feet, spinning around, his hand going instinctively to the sword on his belt. But the flames were gone, Pike's Green was gone; Hadley, the Bogge-King, was gone.

Intead, he stood in a large, circular chamber, with a high domed ceiling, built out of pale, many-colored stone bricks - some a light pink, some having an almost blue hue, greens and purples and oranges, all pokished to a shimmering gleam. The floor was tiled with this stone as well, the colors arranged into a strange spiraling pattern that converged at the center of the chamber. And there, in the center, was the source of light for this place - and Martimeos was a bit curious to see that it was a lamp, much like the ones the town of Twin Lamps was named for, a long pole of shimmering metal dozens of feet high, and topped with a translucent glass orb that burned with a brilliant white light that shimmered and danced off the stones. It was all strangely beautiful.

Just how large the chamber was was difficult to tell; it seemed that even as he watched, the very walls stretched and squeezed, almost as if they were breathing. The walls, too, were lined with a variety of doors, of all shapes and color - many were made of painted wood, some simple slats nailed together, others magnificent and carved. Others were made of heavy iron, buckled and forged, and others still of strange, shimmering metal that Martimeos could not identify, the same that made up the lamp. Hundreds of them lined the chamber walls, perhaps even more.

Martimeos glanced down at himself. He was also no longer trapped in a younger version of his own body. He was as he truly was - full grown, in the garb he had worn when he fell asleep - leather tunic and loose woolen pants, well-worn traveling boots, his black-fured cloak and crimson scarf. He could remember properly, as well; remember the hypnotic, many-colored smoke that had filled his eyes and lungs, remembered Grizel cackling as she sent him off to sleep. Flit, however, was gone, his familiar nowhere in sight about the strange chamber. He seemed to be utterly alone.

He had to assume this was the Land of Dreams. It was from a dream, after all, that he had been pulled here - part memory, part nightmare. He did not feel as if he were dreaming now, though - in fact, he felt entirely awake and clear-headed, as if he had not spent the entire night before without sleep.

His mind raced with questions for a moment - how had he gotten here? What had Grizel done to them to send them to sleep? Were they truly safe while under the witch's spell? Could they trust her, or might Grizel be planning more than she told? Might he force himself awake, if need be? What was this place, and what might be found here? But as the fear from the nightmare left his blood, the curiousity over these things faded, shrunk in the shadow of the one, singular question that had burned in his mind ever since he had seen the Bogge-King. What had happened to Hadley?

That question had driven him to near madness, the night before. No matter his exhaustion, no matter how tired he had been, he had not been able to bring himself to sleep. He had left Grizel's chambers to wander the halls of Dun Cairn, in search of distractions, though the witch had warned him not to head upwards: That is where the rest of the Crosscraw lived, and she could not guarantee that he might be safe among them. Instead, he had skulked the lower halls that Grizel had claimed as her own, where he discovered that the witch lived among tombs; room after room of strange carvings and walls filled with ancient bones, all lingering with a trace of the Art.

Was that what had happened to Hadley? Had the man fallen prey to some foul Outsider, lured in by Grizel's necromancy? It certainly seemed possible, though there were a thousand other possibilities. Perhaps it was something the Witch-Queen had done to him, after all, or perhaps he had stumbled upon some ruin on the mountain and disturbed something wretched there, or...

Martimeos put his face to his hands as his breath became shallow, and a bleak, long sadness filled his skull with a dull ache. He might have expected to be happy. After all, Hadley was alive. He was expecting to find the his brother's friends dead, if indeed he even found them at all. Hadley was alive, and, an excited voice within him whispered, he might be saved! If the helm he wore might be removed somehow, then...

But Martimeos could not delude himself for long. There was no saving Hadley. There was no undoing whatever had happened to him that had twisted him so. Once you were that far gone, you couldn't come back. Martimeos had been prepared to find Hadley's bones. He had even been prepared to find that the man might have died dishonorably, as much as that would have disquieted him. He had been prepared to go home empty-handed, having found nothing at all. But this? To see the friendly, jovial, gentle Hadley turned into something like the Bogge-King was too much to bear. He tried desperately to breathe deeply, to calm the storm in his head, to banish happy memories of Hadley's laughter and smile that felt like poison to him right now.

He thought he had managed to gain some control over himself when there was a stange, sudden pop, a thud, and a yelp, from somewhere behind him. He spun, hand going once more to the hilt of his blade, only to find that Elyse now lay sprawled on the floor, lying on her back. The witch was red-faced and breathless, her long dark hair a ruffled mess, looking about startled and confused. Martimeos moved forward to give her a hand, but once she spotted him approaching, Elyse's eyes widened and she scrambled backwards. "W-wait," she said, though her face wore an odd smile, "Hold on. What...where am I? What just happened? We were just -" suddenly, she slammed her mouth shut, blushing, and peered at him. "You are the real Martimeos, aren't you? Not some....dream-Martim?"

"I am," he said, as he helped her gain her foot on unsteady, shaking legs. "As for where we are, I do not know."

Elyse brushed dust from the floor off her dress - dream-dust?, wondered Martim - and ran her hands through her hair to straighten it, eyeing him warily, though it seemed as if she was trying to suppress a chuckle. "I was in the midst of some other dream when suddenly I felt myself...sinking, you might say...and then I was here."

"It was the same for me," Martim replied. "What was the dream about?"

Elyse froze for a moment as she flattned the wrinkles in her robes, then gave him a mischievous look as she straightened her hat upon her head. "Wouldn't you like to know," she said slyly.

"That is why I asked," he grumbled.

"Nevermind that." Elyse turned, hands on her hips, to look about the chamber, boggling at the size of it, and the glittering, eerie beauty. "Well! What is this place?"

Martimeos had to admit that it felt good to have someone else here, so that he was not alone with his thoughts. The two of them paced about the chamber for some time, wondering if someone else might appear, but it seemed as if they were alone for now. With little else to do, they inspected the doors, and discovered something odd. Well, to be more precise, several odd things.

It was not really the doors that were odd - those were uniformly locked, as Martim had thought they might be, when they even had handles that he could grasp at all, and impervious to being battered down. No, what was strange was that the doors changed, without either of them noticing. Martimeos checked a green door with a black hare painted where the porthole might be, moved three doors to the left, to check another, and then moved three doors back to the right - only to now find that where the green door ought to be, there was a red one, for all the world looking as if it were someone's barn door.

The other odd thing was how confusing space was, within this chamber. They would swear they were walking counter-clockiwise along the walls, only to find that suddenly, no, they walked clockwise - or think that a wall lay hundreds of feet from the center of the chamber, only to reach it in a few steps. They tried counting the doors that lined the walls, and came up with wildly different answers each time - first forty-two, then three hundred and twelve, then one hundred nineteen, then seven - Martimeos had no idea how that one had even happened; the chamber still seemed as large as it always did when they somehow reached that count.

And the last oddity they discovered - the Art simply did not work, here. Well, that was not quite true. Some Art worked within the Land of Dreams. Martim discovered this when he pulled his pipe from his pocket and packed it with tobacco, intending to light it - only to find that it was like trying to light a flame on nothing at all. The Art was still there, he could still attempt to light things on flame - it was just as if there were no fuel here for the fire to work with. Now glamour, on the other hand - when he created a glamour-flame at the end of his pipe, not only did it spring to life much more easily than it usually did, but it burned true, as well, actually creating heat and lighting his pipebowl.

"I suppose that makes sense," Elyse said thoughtfully, as she watched Martim puff away at his pipe with content. "If the land of Dreams 'tis truly all a dream, after all, then what is there of the Art here but glamour?" She pursed her lips, giving him a considering look. "Though, I wonder..."

Martim yelped as suddenly his own cloak wrapped itself around his head, dropping his pipe with a clatter as he wrestled it away from his face, though it squirmed and even growled as if it were alive. When he finally managed to get it under control, settling it upon his back with a few punches, he glared at Elyse, who was laughing delightedly. "This is wonderful," she cried. "It is as if any glamour I create is truly real, and not just for fooling the sight alone."

Her laughter stopped, though, when Martimeos concentrated, and suddenly her hat was five times as large as it usually was, and collapsed down upon her to the waist. "You're right, actually," Martim said, picking his pipe up off the floor as she struggled to escape it. "This is pretty wonderful."

Elyse finally managed to lift her now gargantuan hat off of her, eyes flashing as she tossed it aside. "I'm going to glamour you naked, wizard," she snapped. "Hold still."

"Wait, truce," Martim cried, as she stretched out her hand. "Instead of our clothes, what about, well..." he gestured around the chamber. "All this? Perhaps glamour could be used to create us a way out of here."

Elyse frowned, pausing, glancing around thoughtfully. "Not a bad thought," she said quietly. And then Martimeos sighed as his clothes disappeared anyway, as Elyse shot him a grin. "Let's try it."

But after Martim had conjured his clothes back, they found that the chamber itself seemed to be impervious to any changes that they tried to make to it. No touch of glamour upon the stone seemed to have the slightest effect, nor upon the doors, or the strange lamp in the center of the chamber. They were just as trapped as they had been before. And, as Elyse pointed out, time seemed to pass oddly here. Martim could not say whether they had been stuck in this place for five minutes, or an hour.

With nothing else to do, unless they wanted to attempt prying the stone tiles from the floor by hand, they sat in the center of the chamber, backs to the thick pole of the lamp, as they thought of what to do next. "Grizel did say that she would try to follow us...whatever that may mean," Martim said, groaning as he leaned back against the pole, taking out his pipe once more. "Perhaps 'tis she that bought us here? And perhaps she will come for us, eventually."

"It is at least a pretty enough place to wait," Elyse replied, gazing out across the spiralling, colorful patterns that the pale rainbow stones made across the floor.

Martim responded by simply blowing out a plume of blue smoke above their heads, and a long moment of silence passed between them as they watched the smoke dance in the lamplight, swirling and spiraling, giving shape and form to the slow, invisible currents of air within the chamber.

"Martimeos," Elyse said quietly, "I'm going to ask you a question, and I would like an answer."

Martim glanced over at the witch. She sat, not looking at him, knees drawn to her chest as she gazed out across the chamber, face hidden by her dark hair falling across it. "Go ahead."

"How is it that you escaped the Bogge-King?" When a long silence passed, and Martim did not answer, she continued, "Is it that you do not trust me enough? Just enough to share my bed, but not your secrets?"

Martim sighed as he took another puff from his pipe, blowing long streams of smoke out his nose. "You know," he said, "I don't think you've shared your secrets with me yet, witch." He watched carefully as Elyse gave a start, and then fiddled fretfully with the dark ring she wore. "But...no 'tis not that. It would not have been a good idea to share where Crosscraw might hear."

"I don't see any of them here now," Elyse replied, her voice soft, as she still stared down at her ring. Martim still did not reply. "You know, I really thought you were dead, for a moment there," she went on. "So did Kells, I am sure, but he probably thought you were doing your damn fool duty, or whatever it is. But it made me so angry. I think I deserve to know."

"Why, because you were angry?"

"Because it pained me to think you dead, wizard," Elyse snapped. "Is that so strange? If you will not tell me, I think I owe you a slap or two, at least, as payback."

Martimeos remained silent long enough for Elyse to begin to growl, thinking of what he might say. "I apologize," he said finally. "'Twas just...it seemed personal, and I did not know what to think of it myself, at first. I still don't." He paused, waiting for a response, but Elyse did nothing but silently wait for him to continue. "The Bogge-King is a man I used to know," he said finally, his voice quiet. "A man named Hadley. One of my brother's friends, and a friend of mine, as well. Even as the Bogge-King, he recognized me, and spared me. Simple as that."

Elyse sat, mulling this over for a moment. Martimeos watched as she glanced at him, out of the corner of his eye, as he puffed silently at his pipe. "I can see why you did not want to say that where the Crosscraw might hear. He is a man from your village...?"

"Aye. Older than me, but always kind. I knew him well, as I grew up. The elder brother of, um, a girl I used to know." Martimeos coughed on his pipe, running a hand through his shaggy hair. He had not meant to say that.

"Is this girl you used to know Vivian, by any chance?" Elyse asked quietly.

Martim reddened, staring at the witch. "How did you know?"

The witch gave him a small, mischievous smile, though her dark blue eyes seemed sad. "I've heard you call her name at night," she replied, letting out a soft chuckle as Martimeos blushed even further. Then her gaze softened. "What do you plan to do?"

Martomeos tried to force his face into a carefree grin, to make his voice as lighthearted as possible. It was enough for Elyse to know about Hadley. She didn't need to know bout how much it pained him. "I haven't really decided yet," he replied. "I don't rightly know."

Elyse stared at him for a moment, dark blue eyes frank and sharp, and opened her mouth as if to say something.

But suddenly, the chamber echoed with long peals of cackling, raucous laughter, so loud, and reverberating off the walls so much, that it seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. Martimeos and Elyse leapt to their feet, looking around the room in a panic, trying to find the source of the noise, but there was nothing. Nothing but the same rainbow stone, door-lined walls, and high domed ceiling that they had been looking at for some time now.

Eventually, the laughter stopped, only to be replaced by Grizel's voice. "Ah thought et strange, wizard," the old witch's voice cried, "Ah thought et strange indeed, that ye had escaped the Bogge-King! Ah thought ye maight ken somethin' about him that auld Grizel didnae!"

"Show yourself!" Martim cried, spinning around the room, eyes darting about to see.

The pale rainbow stone blurred before him as he spun, and spun, until with one turn, Grizel was just suddenly there, her green eyes flashing bright and mirthful, long silver hair spillng down around her to pool on the floor, leering at him with a nasty grin. The patterns on her shawl seemed almost to move on their own, in this place, as she leaned on her gnarled stick. "So," she said, as Martim backed away from her in alarm, "The Bogge-King es yer friend. Puts ye en an interestin' spot tae be en, do ye nae think so?"

Martim began to sweat as the witch cackled uproariously once more.