“Have we beaten them?” Railing asked, leaning on his crutch as the old man helped support him.
Farshaun shook his head. “I don’t know, boy.” His eyes were vacant as he stared out at the darkness. “Have we?”
Time slipped away, and no further attacks came. The smells of death and dust cleared, and the night’s wildness faded into silence. The bodies of their attackers littered the broad surface of the ledge, but the defenders were too exhausted to clear them away. Their strength drained, they sat hunched over in small groups—Seersha and the Rock Troll at the edge of the precipice, Farshaun and the Speakman at the back of the outcropping, and Skint and Railing midway between—conversing in quiet tones and waiting for the inevitable.
“You did well,” Skint said to the boy. “You showed real courage.”
Railing shook his head. “I was too scared even to think about being brave. I was just trying to stay alive.”
“Which is the point.” The Gnome’s wrinkled face tightened in what might have been a grimace. “Maybe it’s always the point.”
They were silent for a moment. Railing was thinking, That’s right. That’s the point exactly. That’s all we’re doing now. Trying to stay alive. All that stuff about searching for the missing Elfstones is gone. No one cares about that anymore.
“Did you find any sign of the Ard Rhys or my brother?” he asked Skint impulsively, remembering he had never heard the other’s report.
The Gnome gave him a look. “I didn’t even find the opening they went through. That’s why I was gone so long. I was searching for it. Everywhere. I knew where it had been, but when I couldn’t find it there, I started searching the cliff walls, thinking I was mistaken.” He shook his head in disgust. “I never found anything. It was as if the opening just disappeared, and everyone who went in disappeared with it.”
Railing stared at him. “You couldn’t find anything? How can that be possible?”
“Couldn’t say. Seersha thinks there’s magic at work. Someone else’s magic. But there’s nothing we can do about it. Not until we’re out of this mess.” Skint looked away. “I’m sorry about your brother.”
Railing was stunned. “Well, I can tell you one thing,” he managed. “I’m not leaving Redden.”
Skint nodded. “No one said anything about leaving anyone. Calm down. Maybe you should try to sleep a bit.”
He got up and moved away, leaving Railing alone. The boy stayed awake, trying to come to terms with what he had been told, unable to believe his brother could just be gone and no one know anything. It didn’t make any sense.
The night faded into morning, and still their attackers did not return. They sat together and watched the sunrise, faint gray light filtering down through the haze and mist, the stark world of the Fangs slowly revealing itself. They ate a little food and drank some ale, and then they cleared the ledge of bodies, throwing them over into the precipice and onto the rocks below, where they lay in crumpled heaps.
No one came for the bodies.
No one came for them. Not Mirai or the Walker Boh or the Ard Rhys or any who had gone with her or the fierce little creatures that had attacked them during the night.
No one.
Finally, darkness approached with a thief’s silent cunning, the shadows lengthened in a cool hush, and the stillness that comes with day’s end deepened with night’s soundless fall.
Reluctantly, the little company prepared for a fresh onslaught.
9