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Garrett," he
said, "I'm not even sure that Mauravant and Malleatus were ever
really gods to begin with. For all we know, they could just be
metaphors for two competing philosophies, or perhaps they were
mortal leaders who found a sort of godlike immortality in the
religions of their followers after their deaths... I don't know,
but Uncle seems to think they were real, and I respect his opinion
more than any other man's. Then, of course, I am rather biased by
the fact that he saved my life."
    Garrett smiled. "So, what were those
creatures out there in the forest?" he asked.
    "I don't know," Cenick said, "I really wish
Uncle was around to ask."
    "I miss him," Garrett said.
    "We all do," Cenick said, "I think Max could
use his help too."
    "What do you mean?" Garrett asked.
    Cenick exhaled slowly. "When Uncle isn't
around to channel him in the right direction... Max can be a little
dangerous."
    Garrett laughed, but Cenick wasn't
smiling.
    Cenick cast a long glance across the grassy
field to where Max was having another argument with Jitlowe. Though
indistinct, the tone of their words made their meaning clear. Max
was enforcing his will on his brother necromancers once again.
    "You think he'll go back to normal once we
get back to Wythr?" Garrett asked.
    "I hope so," Cenick said, "for all of our
sakes."
    They had reached the mess tent, and the smell
of Chunnley's cooking drifted out through the open flap of the
tent's main door. The high-pitched hooting of ghoulish laughter
rang out as Garrett and Cenick stepped inside.
    A trio of ghouls sat at a makeshift table.
Two of them pounded their fists and howled with laughter as the
third struggled to swallow the contents of a large stew pot into
which he had thrust his entire head. Loud gulping noises echoed
from inside the stew pot as the ghoul upended it, spilling gobbets
of soup down his scraggly haired chest.
    The boy with the tattered white robe huddled
behind a table at the far corner of the tent, watching the ghouls
with wide eyes. His eyes lifted to the hulking form of Chunnley as
the great, brown-furred ghoul approached him with a plate full of
tiny pies.
    "Made you somethin' special," Chunnley said,
plucking one of the little pies from the platter and offering it to
the boy in the palm of his clawed hand.
    The boy shrank back, looking at the pie, then
at Chunnley. Finally, his hand reached out and snatched the pie
from the ghoul's grasp, and he clutched it to his chest, trembling
in fear of the monstrous dog creature in the stained white
apron.
    "Hi," Garrett said as he and Cenick
approached the boy's table, "Chunnley's cooking is really good. You
should try it."
    Chunnley turned and grinned at Garrett. "He's
already had two plates of leftovers, but I thought he should have
something fresh for dessert. Baked some apple tarts for him."
    "Do you mind if we sit with you?" Cenick
asked.
    The boy looked up at the necromancer. His
lips moved, but no sound came out. Garrett had known Cenick for so
long that he had forgotten how intimidating he could be. The black
runic tattoos that covered the big man's face gave him a devilish
appearance.
    "Our friend is taking care of your sister,"
Garrett said, "She wanted us to look after you until she got
better."
    The boy's eyes went to Garrett, and a little
of the fear in them dissipated. Garrett was glad that he was
wearing the hood. His own scars might have been every bit as
unsettling as Cenick's tattoos.
    A furious boiling noise sounded from beyond
the rear flap of the tent. Chunnley muttered something about the
caramel and quickly set the plate of tarts down on the table in
front of the boy. He loped away and disappeared through the back of
the tent.
    "Those pies look good," Garrett said, "Can I
have one?"
    The boy looked down at the platter. After a
moment, he reached out with his free hand and pushed the plate
roughly toward Garrett before snatching his hand back to his
chest.
    The battered wooden plank, stretched between
two crates