They left the Ironclaw barrows behind safely, though Kells grumbled about losing his spear, and Elsye her sword. It seemed the creatures that had pursued them, whatever they were, did not appear in the light of day; either that, or Mors had scared them off entirely. There was a part of Martim that felt a little odd regret that he could not at least see one again. Something to document and write about might take his mind off of the horrors of this place. He decided to call the creatures grave-mimics, and told himself he must rememeber to ask Elyse to make a drawing of them to go along with his notes.

Time seemed to pass strangely, the further they went into the Killing Grounds.

For Martimeos, it seemed as if sometimes, they had barely begun to walk when twilight fell, and they found themselves needing to make camp. Other times, a single day felt like a week, driving him to the point of exhaustion, bones weary and aching from what seemed like an endless march through the snow. And the further along they went, the more bitterly cold it became.

And all the more dark, every step a reminder of what had been done here. Martimeos found it a little disturbing how quickly he grew numb to the ever-present reminders of the slaughter here. You never fully became used to the sight of corpses nailed to trees, or the ghostly wails of the headless dead. But it was what it was; this terrible thing had been done, done some time ago, in fact, and there was no undoing it. What came to disturb him more was the lingering pull of the Art he felt, whenever he saw the brutality of what had been done.

He discussed this with Elyse, whenever they made camp; late at night, when Kells and Aela had fallen asleep, whispering to each other in the dark. It seemed such a dirty thing, this side of the Art, that they felt the need to keep it secret; they did not want their companions associating them with it. It was certainly the pull of necromancy they felt, they both agreed on that, though Martimeos was puzzled as to why it should seem stronger here. He had been on old battlefields before, scenes of carnage, and while whispers of ghosts lingered in these places, never did he feel such a pull as this. He thought that, perhaps, it was the influence of the bogge-men themselves - they could make corpses walk, after all - but then why had he felt the same when looking at the corpses that had simply been nailed to trees?

Elyse, for her part, had a theory about this. "Think, wizard," she whispered to him one night, eyes gleaming in the dim glow of the lowly-burning embers that remained of their campfire. "The headless corpses, they do not seem to know they are dead. Perhaps when people are killed so swiftly, in large number, they also do not know they have died. Or perhaps their deaths were so unpleasant they simply do not wish to remember it. Maybe it is that which makes their spirits linger, and creates the pull from the Art we have felt."

Perhaps she was right. But Martimeos did not like to think of it; not because it was not interesting. Precisely because it was too interesting. He did not want to walk a path with the Art that would have him circle around slaughters like a vulture, but just the idea of probing the veil of death was fascinating.

It was not merely signs of old death that they found in this place, however. Mors was right; the world did grow thin here. At night, when they made camp, they would see strange, blue lights dancing in the distance, winking in and out of the forest. And the grave-mimics were not the only strange creatures they saw. One night, camping in a cave on the side of a long slope down into a sea of dead pines, they could see strange, pale creatures seeming to swim among the trees, beneath the light of a pale moon. They reminded Martimeos of nothing more than catfish, long whiskers trailing out behind them, and occasionally they would let out long, keening cries that echoed off the mountainside. It was difficult to tell, with how far away they were, but they must have been gigantic; certainly much bigger than even Mors was.

But perhaps the most interesting were the spirits. Martimeos nearly jumped out of his skin, the first time he saw one walking through the trees beside them, pale and translucent, the edges of it tattered and frayed. But never did these spirits interact with them; indeed, it seemed as if the ghosts were not aware of them at all.

They saw strange folk, in strange clothing, walking between the trees, only to see them fade and disappear moments later. Some were Crosscraw, dressed in their furs and hides. Others appeared to be Crosscraw as well, red-headed and pale, but wearing robes of fine white silk that floated lazily about them, on unfelt currents of air. Martim wondered if these were the spirits of dead Chiefs; it reminded him of the robes Maol-Manos wore, but there seemed to be so many of them, man and woman. And sometimes they'd see Crosscraw not in furs, hides or silks, but in strange, finely-wrought armor, well-shaped to their bodies, scalloped and jointed, men with long, gigantic beards spilling wildly down from their faces.

But still others were not Crosscraw at all. They saw Queensmen, Kells' folk, lanky and black-haired and gray-eyed, many of which were clad in chain and steel, and carrying halberds or crossbows; often marching in formation, as if reliving whatever last battle they had fought. And other folk as well, tanned and grim farmfolk in patchwork armor and carrying a motley array of blades spears, that would clash with the Queensmen before disappearing, as if they had never existed at all. Sometimes they simply heard the cries and din of battle, the ring of steel on steel, before it would fade away into nothing, without seeing anything at all.

And sometimes, they would see a truly strange spirit. Tall folk, almost impossibly beautiful, as if their features had been painstakingly sculpted by an artist. Their clothes were bulky and odd, covering their entire body, annd scribed with unrecognizable symbols. They ranged widely in color; sometimes their skin was as pale as a Queensman's, sometimes darker than Martimeos had ever seen, and everything in between. What bound them together was their dress, and the masks they wore; strange, transparent things over their heads, looking almost as if they were made from glass.

"Ah hae nae idea," Aela answered, when put to the question about these spirits. "Ah recognize th' Queensmen, aye, an' some o' th' others, but never hae Ah seen folk like that."

But it was not merely the creatures, or the spirits, that was strange here. The land itself became odd. They crossed streams that ought to have frozen in the bitter chill, only to find the water nearly boiling hot, instead. Sometimes, as they watched them, the streams would suddenly reverse currents, abruptly flowing in the opposite direction. The bark of the pines whorled and knotted in the shape of faces, far too often for it to be coincedence. And when the night was clear, unfamiliar stars dotted the sky.

But for all the strangeness, and all the marks of death, the land here could be eerily beautiful.

One clear night, when the moon's light settled down upon the snow in a gentle glow, they made their camp in a shallow cave carved into the slope of the peaks, hidden well in a dense copse of skeletal pines. They lit a campfire by the entrance and sat around it, watching as ribbons of pale light danced across the sky, strange hues of blue and purple and green, slowly drifting, staining the stars, the mountain peaks a black silhouette against their rhythm. In silence, they gazed at the sky, the sight a soothing wonder, beauty almost worth the ache in their bones from days of travel in the bitter cold.

Elyse, in particular, was awestruck. "What are those?" she asked quietly, clutching Cecil to her chest, half-awed, half-afraid. "Is this, too, something from the Lands of Death?" She frowned at Mors as the bear gave a snarling, derisive chuckle.

"I don't think so, or at least, I should hope not," Kells replied, sitting on a rock, kicking up his feet to dry his boots by the fire. "You can see these lights in Twin Lamps from time to time, as well, though not quite as clear as this."

"I've seen them once or twice as well." Martimeos was puffing thoughtfully on his pipe, feeding small crumbs from his rations to Flit, perched on his shoulder. "Folks call them the Faelights."

"They call them Woed's Gift, in Twin Lamps. Say it's what Woed gives to farmers to make up for the harshness of winter." Kells gave a shrug, and grinned. "Pretty certain most farmfolk would rather have an extra season of crops each year."

"Ah used tae hear tell they were th' spirits o' clans fallen an' gone, comin' bah tae watch over th' land they once walked." Aela's voice was low and hushed; the Crosscraw woman stared intently into the night sky, as if she could actually see the spirits of those lost up there. "Though Ah hae heard Grizel say et's how th' sky talks tae th' land, instead."

Mors interrupted them with a low growl. The bear was a hulking shadow in the moonlight; he shifted his head so that hi orange eye gleamed at them in the light of the campfire. "MEN. ALWAYS YOU NEED AN EXPLANATION. THE LIGHTS DO NOT HAVE TO BE ANYTHING AT ALL. THEY SIMPLY ARE. MIGHT AS WELL COME UP WITH A STORY FOR WHY WATER IS WET."

Martimeos tapped his pipe against the side of the rock he sat on, clearing it of ash. "Why is water wet...?" he pondered. He gave a small smile as Mors snarled an oath in beast-tongue in response.

They sat for a moment in silence after this, admiring the slowly drifting colors in the sky, listening to the crackling of the campfire.

"So," Kells said, breaking the silence, "How much longer do we have, before we reach the ogres?"

Mors did not deign to answer. Instead, it was Aela who spoke. "Ah...am nae sure," she said quietly. "Th' land...et ent as Ah remember et. Things...they ent en th' right place. Moved about, ye ken. An' Ah swear Ah see parts o' th' woods Ah ent ever seen afore." She gave a weak, wan smile. "Mebbe mah memory es jest failin' me."

"YOUR MEMORY IS FINE, FOXHAIR." Mors stretched out; in the light of the campfire, the dead half of his face seemed to grin. "THE WORLD IS THIN. THE LAND HERE CHANGES, LIKE A DREAM. BUT WE ARE NOT FAR OFF, NOW."

Kells leaned forward, scratching his chin, his gray eyes sharp. "And when we meet the ogres," he asked, "What then?"

"I WILL STOP THEM FROM EATING YOU." Mors raised a gigantic, black-furred paw, each of the claws on it like a hooked sword. "BUT THE REST, MANLINGS, IS UP TO YOU."

They remained by the campfire, for a time, watching the colors in the sky. But eventually, Martimeos left, trotting off to the cave to make his bed, Flit fluttering from his shoulder to remain by the warmth of the fire.

As he unfurled the hides from his pack and lay them down, he examined the cave's walls. It was odd, certainly. They were far too smooth to be natural; it seemed as if they were carved into the rock. He wondered if it was some old, abandoned post of the ancient Crosscraw, or at least, a part of one, the rest of it having been lost to time and the shifting of the earth. But if it was, it was different from the ones he had seen before - Dun Cairn and Stelle Cairn had decorations covering almost every wall, finely worked into the stone, but the walls here were entirely smooth.

It was also not merely that the rock seemed to have been shaped by hand. Strange, small holes had been carved into the rock as well, perfectly circular. He regarded one by his boots; nearly a foot wide, and leading straight down into the mountain. He paused for a moment, and then kicked a loose pebble down it. It disappeared into the darkness, and he could not hear when it hit the ground.

And by the pale light of the moon that filtered into the cave, he could also make out odd, red streaks stained into the cave's walls. Wrinkling his nose at these, he reached out to touch them with one gloved hand; some of the red streak scraped off as dust as he ran his hand along the walls. It was almost as if it were...

"Rust."

Martimeos turned, to find Kells standing behind him. He had crept away from the campfire as well, at some point; Maritmeos could see by the cave's entrance that Elyse and Aela still sat by it. The soldier stood with his hands on his hips, his kettle-helm held under one arm, standing and staring intently at t he cave's walls. "It's rust," Kells repeated. "I was a little surprised to see this cave, though perhaps I ought not to be. There are a few I know of around Twin Lamps much like this one. Clearly manmade, and with these strange holes carved into them." He nodded towards the small, dark pit that lay by Martim's feet. "And all the walls stained with old rust."

Martimeos nodded thoughtfully. "Do you have any idea who made them? It seems...different, from Dun Cairn."

"I haven't the slightest, and nobody else does either. They're older than the town itself. Just old tales about monsters living deep in the earth, to scare people off from visiting them. Some of those caves have holes big enough for people to fall down into, and I don't think anyone knows how deep into the earth they go." Kells shrugged, and turned away from the wall, looking directly at Martim. "It isn't old rocks I wished talk to you about, though."

Martimeos gave a curious frown. "What is it, then?"

Kells paused for a moment before speaking, tugging at his now mud-spattered black coat to straighten it. "I admit," he began, "I am not so knowledgeable about the Art. Though I know perhaps a little more than the average man. I understand your plan is to find the place that your friend was...changed, into the Bogge-King, in the hopes this gives us some idea on how to defeat him."

Martimeos nodded, without speaking, but a small, foolish voice within him said, Or to find if there is some way to change him back.

"Well, what I wonder is," Kells continued, "What if we find nothing...?" He waited, for a moment, letting this sink in. "What if there is nothing there? What if whatever it is that changed your friend is long gone? Or if we find whatever it was, but it gives us no clue on how to defeat him? What would you do if we go through all this and end up back where we started?"

Martimeos sighed, and drew out his pipe once more. He glanced into his tobacco pouch, frowned at how much he had left, and then simply placed the piple between his teeth to chew on the stem. "I had given it some thought," he muttered. "Perhaps, since he recognizes me, he still has enough of his own mind to be reasoned with. Or if not, perhaps he might be tricked, or trapped, or ambushed. I have imagined many ways he might be killed, though I have no idea if they might work. A fierce enough fire? Throwing him off the side of the mountain? If he is at all like the bogge-men who serve him, he might be destroyed, but without knowing more I cannot say what it might take. Or how it might be done."

Kells nodded, gray eyes glinting in the harsh shadows of his sharp-angled face. "And...what if there is no way? Or no opportunity presents itself? What I am asking, wizard, is what will you do if it seems impossible?"

"Are you asking if I'm a fool?" Martimeos gave a grim chuckle. "I put some faith in Grizel's telling. But if I truly think it's hopeless, I am not about to throw my life away. Hadley must be stopped, but I am not going to let myself be killed for naught."

"And what if," Kells asked, "Hadley might be stopped, at the cost of your life?"

Martimeos was silent for a long time, chewing on his pipe, green eyes dancing with shadow. Then he flashed Kells a small grin. "Born to die," he said simply. "I suppose I'll know if I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."

Kells nodded, smiling back, and clapped the wizard on the shoulder. "Good to know. We might be born to die, but it doesn't mean we need to die like idiots."

"We may very well die like idiots anyway," Martim replied, but the words had barely left his lips when a panicked cry went up. He whirled, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.

By the entrance of the cave, Elyse and Aela had leapt to their feet, staring out into the woods. Even Mors had risen, his snout high, scenting the air. Cecil prowled around the fire, his hackles raised, and Flit fluttered nervously to alight on Martim's shoulder as he approached. "What is it?" he asked.

"Something is out there," Elyse replied, her voice small and quiet. "Listen."

"Something is always out there," Kells muttered.

"Hush, fool!" the witch snapped in response, shooting Kells a withering glare. "Open your ears!"

For a long moment they stood still, holding their breath, as they stared out into the black bramble of the dead woods that surrounded them. The fire cracked and popped as they waited, listening, straining their ears.

And then, they heard it, from the distance. A wild, howling yell, full of rage and fear, faint but clear.

Martimeos frowned. That did not sound like the noises they had become used to in these woods - the strange, alien calls of unseens creatures, the ghostly moans of spirits, or the groans and ramblings of the headless dead. "That sounds almost human," he said. "Perhaps a grave-mimic has followed us?"

The cry came again, long and echoing, and Aela cocked her head to the side curiously. "Ah dinnae ken...et sounds like..." She paused for a moment. And then her bright green eyes went wide with shock; she snatched up her bow, and bounded, sprinting as hard as she could, into the woods, disappearing into the shadows before anyone could say a word.

"Aela!" Martim cried, while Elyse shouted "Idiot, what are you doing?!" But Kells did not say anything. He was the first after her, tossing aside his helmet with a curse without time to put it on, his long legs carrying him swiftly after her.

Martimeos hesitated for only a moment more, bending to snatch up a flaming stick from the fire to serve as a torch, before he bounded off after them himself, Flit taking off from his shoukder to scout ahead. He heard Elyse cry "Are you mad?!" And then shortly after, he heard the snarling roar of Mors, and the snapping of branches, as the bear barreled after him. But he soon outpaced the beast; the woods here were too dense for Mors to make his way unhindered through the trees.

Martimeos used the Art to keep his makeshit torch alight as he ran, struggling to keep up. Kells ran like the wind - if it were not for the moonlight glinting off the soldier's breastplate, and Flit's occasionally twittered directions, he might have lost the man. But Aela ran just as fast, if not faster, and more gracefully, like a deer bounding between the trees. And all the whle, the cries she ran after grew louder and louder.

Their chase bought them to a large, snow-covered clearing in the woods, the rolling slope of a steep hill rising up to kiss the low-hanging moon. Aela was already halfway up it when Martimeos came to the clearing; Kells was not far behind her. Flit circled somewhere overhead, chirping furiously in his staccato bird-speech. He looked up the hill, and gasped when he saw what Aela was after.

Down the slope staggered a man, just a silhouette against the moontouched snow, stumbling and cursing as he ran as fast as he could. For behind him, two flowing shadows with burning eyes followed, swimming forth through the night like fish through water. Bogge-men. They followed at a leisurely pace, as if they were toying with their prey. As Martim watched, the man wheeled around to scream madness and fury at the both of them, as if his howls alone might scare them off. And then he stopped dead, his breath caught in his throat, as he realized something.

The man the bogge-men were pursuing had only one arm. It can't be, Martim thought, as he began to run once more, the air burning in his lungs. It can't.

Aela was in range now, halfway up the slope; she raised her bow and let loose an arrow. It clattered uselessly against the hard skull helm of one of the bogge-men. But it did serve to distract it; the creature stopped in its pursuit, and slowly turned its burning, howling hell-lights of eyes on her. Martimeos could see, as he drew close, that he knew this bogge-man. It was the one with the wolf-skull for a helm, and a bright blue thread wound between its teeth; the one that he had talked to before entering the Killing Grounds. The sharp canines of its wolf skull seemed to gleam in the moonlight.

Torc - for there was no mistaking it now, that was who the one-armed Crosscraw man was; lean and haggard and filthy, seemingly covered head to toe in ash, his hides and furs painted a smeared gray - spotted them. He dove in the snow, sliding and tumbling down the slope, only coming to a stop when he slammed into Kells. The soldier grabbed the man with a shout, pinning him.

The two bogge-men stopped in their pursuit, standing deadly still, twin shadows, simply watching and staring. Besides the wolf-skull bogge-man, the other one wore the skull of some creature Martimeos did not recognize. It looked as if it might have been a horse, but it was far too lumpy and misshapen. The bone around its eye sockets had been painted a dull red.

Martim's mind whirled with a thousand thoughts, with countless questions, as he stood, catching his breath, staring back at the bogge-men. What was Torc even doing here? He glanced towards the Crosscraw man, who staggered now to his feet, the snow falling off him as he did so. Hid eyes were wide and wild, and dark bags lay beneath his eyes; he still bore the fading bruises of the beating Martimeos had given him. The stump at the end of his one good arm was wrapped with leaf-bandage poultice that seemed caked to his skin, and dark red with blood. Martim felt his blood begin to boil, just looking at the man, and his hand begin to itch towards his sword.

The bogge-men were the first to speak. The one with the wolf-skull helm reached towards its belt, lifting up its rotting Crosscraw head. Its voice rasped, now, gray tongue fumbling, as if the rot had taken such a deep hold that it had trouble speaking. "Marti...meos. Why...do you interfere...with our quarry." The bogge-man leaned forward, its skull helm leering in the moonlight. "I...need...a new head. This one...grows old."

"He ent yet quarry, ye foul thing," Aela cried, her voice wavering and growing weak as the bogge-man turned its attention back to her. "He..." She bit her lip, glancing towards her brother, who would not meet her eyes. But then she stamped her foot in resolve. "Ye cannae hae him."

"That...is up...to Martim...eos," the bogge-man replied. It turned back to Martim, its bright, burning eyes piercing through him. "What...say you...wizard? Is he...one...of yours...?"

Martimeos held his makeshift torch up, almost like a shield, between himself and the bogge-man. He looked at Aela, staring at him wide-eyed; he looked to Torc, who would not lift his eyes from the ground. He snarled, and spat in disgust. "Yes," he replied, voice thick with contempt. As much as it pained him, he was not about to give up Torc to the bogge-men. The man could be given a cleaner death than that, if necessary.

But this answer only seemed to enrage the wolf-skull. It stepped forward, shaking the head it held at them, teetch clattering and chittering; its other hand rested on the hilt of the wicked curved sword it wore at its belt. "You...lie. I...can smell...your hate for him. I...can taste it." Martimeos felt his heart wither as the thing's eyes screamed with flaring light; he heard Kells curse beneath his breath and Aela moan in fear. "I should...take his head...right now."

The other bogge-man, the one with the strange skull, turned slightly, to face its companion. It spoke without the aid of a head; perhaps this one was younger, more fresh. "We must....obey...the First. You must."

With a deep, guttural roar, the wolf-skull whirled, drawing its blade. And with a single blow, it split the other bogge-man's head in two.

Martimeos stumbled backwards with the others, shouting in shock. The wolf-skull stood, looking down at its companion, as the slain bogge-man fell to the ground. A great, wheedling shriek pierced the night, as black flame erupted from its eye sockets and quickly began to consume it. Martim felt a sick fear and dread, in the pit of his stomach. He had never thought of the possibility that some of the bogge-men might chafe at Hadley's orders; never suspected that they might disobey. They were not as safe from the creatures as he had thought.

He looked at the torch in his hands, then back up at the wolf-skull bogge-man, still watching its companion writhe and burn. This one, he thought, was too dangerous. Seizing the moment, he focused with the Art, feeding the hunger of the flame on his torch until it writhed and roared with the desire to burn, and sent a great arc of fire leaping forth towards the bogge-man.

The wolf-skull whirled once more, its black cloak swirling around it. And then Martimeos felt it. A pulling, a working of the Art from the bogge-man itself. And then the arc of flame he had sent forth withered and died, dissolving into scraps of floating ember and smoke, its hunger crushed and deadened. He stared silently at the now black, unlit torch he held in his hand, as smoke curled up from it. "You...know the Art," he whispered.

But the bogge-man ignored this; indeed, it ignored what Martim had just attempted altogether. It stood there, severed head held high in one hand, its wicked curved sword dripping blood in the other. "You...have not...visited...the First," the head said, almost choking on the words. "I...grow...impatient."

Martimeos steeled himself, forcing himself to look the creature in its blazing eyes. "You grow impatient?" he replied quietly. "Not Hadley? You do?"

The bogge-man regarded him for a long quiet moment. And then it took a step forward, holding its cruel sword low. "I begin...to wonder..." it said, "Why I...allow you...to live."

And then a great roar shattered the night.

Martimeos looked down the slope to its source. There stood Mors, having torn a hole through the forest - Martim could see rent and torn trees knocked down from the path the bear had taken. Elyse stood to his side, her hands to her ears, looking up at them all in confusion. Mors himself simply stared grimly up the hill, great paws raking the earth in threat, his one eye glaring wild and fierce, ready to charge.

By the time Martimeos turned around to face the bogge-man once more, it had already retreated, slinking away into the shadows of the trees, leaving behind only the stained pile of ash in the snow that had been its companion. It turned, pinning Martimeos with the hard, cold fire of its gaze one last time, before disappearing entirely into the darkness.

Elyse was rushing up the slope now, nearly tripping in drifts that came up to her knees, one hand held to keep her wide-brimmed hat in place. "What is happening...?" she asked breathlessly, glancing down at Torc in shock, and then staring at Martimeos. "What is he doing here?"

Martimeos had a thousand questions from what had just occured. But that was the one that burned the brightest in his mind. Dropping his dead torch, he stalked through the snow towards the Crosscraw man, who stood with Kells' hand locked firmly around the stump of his wrist.

"Well?" he asked stopping a step away from the man. "What are you doing here?"

Torc, haggard and shivering, merely looked down at the ground.

Martimeos felt a great anger flare up within him; this butcher dared to ignore his question? He seized the man by the hides, his green eyes blazing and wild. "Answer me, you wretch," he snarled, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Torc reeked of ash and animal droppings; and he could feel the fever baking off the man, who was shaking like a leaf in the wind in his grip. "Answer me, or I'll make you beg for the bogge-men to come back. Why are you here?"

"Answer him, Torc," Aela said quietly. Her expression was unreadable, face hidden in the shadows of moonlight, as she looked at her brother. "Ah would like tae ken as well. Fer why are ye here?"

Martimeos released Torc with a shove; the man stumbled and fell, held up only by Kells. He let out a racking cough, and shivered, and then looked up, his thin mane of red hair plastered to his face by sweat. He did not look at Martimeos; it was Aela that he had eyes for. "Ent et obvious?" he asked softly, his voice ragged and pained. "Ah couldnae let th' wizard drag mah sister tae her death fer mah crimes."

"Oh, Torc," Aela murmured sadly. But Torc could not respond. A great fit of coughing wracked him, and he collapsed, shivering, into the snow.