CHAPTER THREE Graden’s wagon sat at the far end of the Arundale barn, just off the main road that cut through the center of Lommar. Two huge chestnut horses with flaxen manes and tails stood hitched to it, dozing in the morning sun. Their heads shot up as Graden and Brand approached, and the nearest animal laid back its ears for a brief moment. The wagoner pulled himself up onto the wagon’s seat and Brand started around the front of the horses toward the wagon’s far side. “Watch them horses, boy,” Graden called. “They don’t like strangers.” “Then I won’t be a stranger.” Brand walked up to the animals, right hand held out, and spoke softly to them. “Don’t blame me if ya get bit,” Graden said and gathered the reins. But the horses only explored Brand’s hand with their soft, stiff-whiskered lips, and blew their hot, sweet breath on him as they searched his clothing for anything of interest. “Sorry I didn’t bring a treat,” he whispered to them. “Maybe I can find something for you when we stop.” He gave each a quick rub under the chin, hurried to the wagon, and pulled himself up onto the seat beside Graden. Glancing into the back, he saw only the half dozen bags of seed bound for Edmon, four small barrels, a large tarp, and assorted boxes, buckets, and other odds and ends. He set his bundle of clothing behind the seat and turned forward as Graden flicked the reins and the wagon lurched onto the road. “What are the horses’ names?” Brand asked, trying to figure out whether the sudden queasy feeling in his belly was a result of excitement or apprehension, or a mixture of both. “They don’t got names.” Brand gave the wagoner a surprised look. On Arundale, even the barn cats had names. “Then what do you call them?” “I call them horses.” “Can I give them names?” Graden snorted. “Do what ya want, but be quiet about it. Geiro paid me to let you ride, not listen to you talk.” Brand frowned at the man’s gruff tone, but soon lost himself watching the tilled fields and distant wooded hills roll by as they made their way north. Birds called from the bushes that lined the road, their joyous songs mingling with the horses’ rhythmic hoofbeats. Overhead, the sky shone blue and clear. Graden kept the horses to a brisk pace. By late morning, they had passed the last of the Arundale fields and entered the oak woodlands that covered the surrounding hills. The sun shone down through the canopy of pale spring leaves, dappling the ground with green and gold light. Birdsong rose above them in a dome of sound, joined now and again by the chatter of squirrels, and once Brand heard the high-pitched yip of a fox and saw it melt into the underbrush at the side of the road. Brand had, for the most part, enjoyed his life on the farm, but taking in the new sights and sounds as the wagon rolled steadily along made him think that a job traveling might be enjoyable as well. He started to ask Graden how he became a wagoner, but remembered the man’s request to keep quiet. Near noon, they crested the hills above Arundale and started down the north slope toward Edmon. A short time later, the trees began to thin and a village came into view. Brand had occasionally accompanied Geiro or one of the Arundale workers on an errand to a nearby village. While he retained vague recollections of at least one large city from his life before Arundale, all of the villages around the farm consisted of little more than a small square built around a community well, surrounded by a smattering of businesses with a dozen or so thatch-roofed stone houses located along outlying paths, each with a small garden and a couple of cows, goats, or pigs. The village they approached now was much more compact, with the wooden houses nestled together at the edge of the woods, close to the town square. The road widened as they approached, and the village center straddled the roadway, with the well situated in the middle of the street. Several one and two-story businesses lined the square, including an inn, a blacksmith, a livery, and a clothier. Graden slowed the wagon and directed the horses into a wide lot that separated the blacksmith’s shop from the inn. “What town is this?” Brand asked. “Juroton,” Graden said, climbing down off his seat and shuffling toward the rear of the wagon. “I got a delivery to make.” He reached into the back and pulled out two wooden buckets. “Water the horses. There’s some grain in the feed box.” He waved vaguely at a large wooden box near the rear of the wagon. “Give ’em each a bit.” Brand hopped to the ground, fetched the buckets, and started for the well. “Graden!” an angry voice called from nearby. “You’d better have my money.” Brand had reached the front corner of the inn, but stopped and glanced back in time to see the bald, leather-aproned blacksmith charge out of his smithy, hammer in hand. He headed Graden off on his way to the inn. The wagoner glared at the man. “You’ll have your money the next time I come through town.” The blacksmith scowled. “That’s what you said last time. I’m thinking maybe I should pull that wheel off your wagon until I get paid for fixing it.” “Do that and you’ll never get your money.” Graden tried to push past the big man, but the smith stopped him with an outthrust arm. Graden sighed. “Fine.” He withdrew a jingling leather pouch from beneath his tunic. “Here’s some of what I owe you. It’s all I got right now, but I should be back in a day or two with the rest.” The blacksmith frowned and looked at the pouch, but did not take it. “Look,” Graden said, taking the blacksmith’s hand and forcing the money into it, “I got some extra cargo this time around, and it’s going to earn me enough to pay you the rest real soon.” He shot a glance at Brand still standing at the corner of the inn. “What are you looking at, boy? Get them horses watered like I told you.” “Yes, sir.” Brand turned back to the street, thinking that a wagoner’s life might not be as much fun as he first thought, particularly if he’d have to worry about money and dealing with angry blacksmiths. A half dozen girls close to Brand’s age stood around the well, all with buckets of their own. A goodly amount of water darkened the fabric of their bodices and skirts. They were giggling and gossiping, but grew quiet as Brand approached. He smiled at them but they only gave him curt nods, lowered their voices to whispers, and found a sudden interest in drawing up the well’s bucket to fill their own. Brand shrugged. The girls he’d met on Arundale had behaved similarly; he supposed it was just the way they were. He took his place in line behind them, waiting for his turn at the well. After a moment, the girl at the end of the line glanced back at him, her lower lip caught between her teeth. She had bright green eyes, long brown hair worn in braids, and a pretty, heart-shaped face. “Hello,” Brand said, smiling again. “My name’s Brand.” “I’m Trina. Did you just get into town?” He nodded. “I don’t think we’ll be staying long, though. I—” A sudden chill tightened the skin on the back of his neck, and he glanced around. Graden stood in front of the inn talking to a lean man dressed in an outfit of dusty black leather. He wore his long, stringy black hair tied at the nape of his neck, and several days’ growth of beard shadowed his chin. A sword hung at his side, sheathed in a well-worn scabbard. Brand guessed he was in his mid-thirties. The man was looking toward the well, eyes shadowed, but he turned to Graden as the wagoner said something to him. Brand wondered if they were talking about him. Maybe the lean man was from Edmon (although he didn’t look anything like a farmer) and Graden was asking if they needed help there, or maybe he was looking to hire someone to help with something else. Brand had discovered that by concentrating hard, he could sometimes hear things other people could not. Geiro had told him it wasn’t polite to listen in on conversations uninvited, but Brand felt certain the two men were talking about him and decided that gave him the right to hear what they said. Drawing a deep breath, he centered his attention on the two men and concentrated on being able to hear them. The creak of the well handle, the splash of water from the girls’ buckets, and the quiet hiss of their hushed conversation faded away. A blue-white glow appeared at the edges of Brand’s vision, tunneling his focus to Graden and the dark man. His body began to feel light, as if it might drift into the air, but the dirt beneath his feet seemed to pull harder in response. Vaguely he sensed Trina calling his name and heard startled exclamations from the other girls. For an instant, the medallion he wore beneath his tunic seemed to burn with cold, and then the voices of the two men came clearly to his ears. “—Stefan usually prefers them a bit bigger,” the lean man was saying to Graden. His words held a hint of a cultured inflection, contrasting oddly with his shabby appearance. “Still, I believe I can get you a respectable price. Perhaps you should think about heading up to the mines yourself. There’s plenty of raw ore that needs hauling to the smiths down south to make weapons to use against the Shadows.” Graden scoffed. “Zain, everybody knows you can’t kill a Shadow by sticking a sword in it.” “I’ve fought more Shadows than you’re likely to see in a half dozen lifetimes,” Zain said. “Sticking a sword in one might not kill it forever, but it certainly ends any immediate threat from the beast, giving you a chance to get away, or time to stick a weapon in the next one. From what I hear, there’s been a bit of need down south for that kind of thing lately. The Shadows may have lain quiet for the past few years, but rumors suggest something is going on in Shadowland. It’s making weapons a popular commodity down there right now, and it takes iron to make them. That’s why Stefan is paying well for mine workers.” Graden shook his head. “I’m too old to be hauling myself up into the mountains, and my rig’s not built to handle those roads.” Brand breathed a relieved sigh. For a moment he’d feared that Graden was planning to take him to a mine to try to find work for him there, but the men didn’t seem to be talking about him at all. What they were talking about, however . . . He shuddered at the thought of Shadows and felt thankful they were so far north of the creatures’ influence. Frightening memories tried to worm their way into his consciousness, but he forced his attention to remain on Graden and Zain’s conversation. “I just thought I’d mention it since you’re looking for extra coin,” Zain said. “Meet me at Odran Crossing this evening. I’ll have the money for you there, and then you can get back to your easy haul through Lommar.” Graden nodded and stepped through the inn’s front door. Shooting a quick glance toward the well, Zain strode to the inn’s far end where a number of saddled horses stood hitched to a rail. He untied a spirited black mare, mounted, and galloped north out of Juroton. Brand blinked away the radiance that edged his sight, and awareness of his immediate surroundings returned. The girls had all departed, leaving several puddles of water around the base of the well. Brand filled the buckets he held and carried them back to Graden’s horses. After letting them drink, he gave each a few handfuls of grain and checked their hooves. As he worked, Graden came through the inn’s side door with two young men. Under the wagoner’s guidance, the men unloaded the barrels from the back of the wagon and carried them into the inn. “Time to go, boy.” Graden pulled himself onto his seat. Brand stowed the buckets and climbed up beside Graden. The wagon lurched into motion. “Two days, Graden!” the blacksmith yelled from behind them, standing outside his shop, hands on his hips. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” Graden called and snapped the reins. The horses broke into a trot as the wagon rumbled back onto the road, headed north down the hillside. Once the horses had settled into an easy canter, Graden pulled a cloth sack and a waterskin from under the seat. He withdrew a round loaf of dark bread and a hunk of cheese from the sack, broke each into two uneven portions, and gave the smaller pieces to Brand. Brand ate in silence, washing the dry bread down with mouthfuls of water from the skin. Around them, the oak woods dissolved into scrub and then disappeared completely as the wagon rolled out of the hills into the Edmon valley. As in Arundale, the fields lay ready for spring planting. The buildings of the Edmon farm complex appeared ahead of them after awhile and Brand’s heart quickened. Would the Edmon overseer want him? A farm could always use more workers, but workers had to be fed and housed, or otherwise compensated. Part of an overseer’s responsibility was to find the balance of how much help the farm needed and how many workers it could support, while being able to provide the yearly tithe to the farm’s overlord and have enough in reserve to get through bad harvests and other unforeseen events. Brand’s apprehension increased as they drew nearer, and his stomach felt twisted in knots by the time Graden eased the horses to a stop beside a watering trough near the Edmon barn. A smiling, red-haired farmhand with bright blue eyes came trotting up. “Afternoon, Graden. Have you got that Arundale seed for us?” “Picked it up today,” Graden said as he lowered himself to the ground. “Where’s Tamas?” “In the barn. Want me to fetch him?” “No, I’ll find him.” Graden looked at Brand. “Boy, help unload those bags of seed. I’ll go talk to the overseer.” Brand nodded and climbed down off the wagon. His stomach roiled and his head felt light. Edmon looked disturbingly similar to Arundale. Strangely, he’d felt more comfortable in the completely unfamiliar environs of Juroton than he did surrounded by the almost familiar buildings and people of Edmon. For a brief irrational moment he hoped the overseer would tell Graden he didn’t need another worker, and then the chilling reality of that happening played itself out in Brand’s imagination and tears welled in his eyes. The overseer had to need him. Where else could he go? What else could he do? He didn’t— “Want to help me here?” the red-headed worker interrupted Brand’s terrifying ponderings. He took a deep breath. “Yeah. Sorry.” Another farmhand arrived a moment later and the three of them quickly unloaded the sacks of seed and stacked them against the side of the barn. Brand was just about to ask his companions if they thought Edmon could use another worker when Graden shuffled toward them out of the barn, watery eyes squinting in the bright afternoon sunlight. “On the wagon, boy,” he said. “We gotta get to Odran Crossing before dark.” Brand froze, his limbs suddenly numb. “He didn’t—want me?” “Don’t take it so personal. Not everyone needs an extra mouth to feed.” He limped toward the wagon. “But I’m a hard worker! You heard Geiro. Did you tell the overseer? I worked at Arundale for seven years, and I’m good with animals. You saw. Your horses like me.” Graden scowled. “Get on the wagon.” Brand glanced at the two Edmon farmhands. They gave him sympathetic looks. He opened his mouth, intent on pleading with them to let him stay, but he’d worked on Arundale long enough to know that the overseer’s word was law, overruled only by Earl Argyde. Swallowing a sob, he ran to the wagon, pulled himself into the seat, and stared straight ahead, feeling dispirited and hopeless. The wagon lurched and creaked as Graden climbed up beside him. The wagoner sat still for a moment, and then the harness jingled as he took up the reins. “Change can be good, boy.” Graden flicked the reins and the horses trotted back out onto the road, continuing north. Brand nodded listlessly and watched the empty fields roll by, thoughts and emotions tumbling through his head in a confused muddle. Eventually he shook himself out of his reverie. The sun hovered low on the gently rolling western horizon. Ahead of them, the Edmon fields ended in a forest. Farther on, the woods rose onto high hills and rugged, mist-shrouded mountains that filled the horizon. As they drew closer to the trees, Brand began to make out the regular shapes of buildings spread out before them in a fair-sized town. “Is that Taggart?” he asked, remembering the city Geiro mentioned, a place where Brand might find something to do, someone to take him in. Graden nodded. “We’ll go through it, then on to the Crossing.” “Why are we going to the Crossing?” “Business.” He glanced at Brand. “Enough talk.” Brand pursed his lips and looked forward again. They reached the outskirts of Taggart a short time later and followed the road to the center of town where a wide east-west roadway intersected the one they were on. Graden kept the horses headed straight toward the forest north of the city. “Where does that other road go?” Brand dared to ask, watching the buildings and people as the wagon rumbled by them. Most of the structures in Taggart rose two stories above the wide roadway, their bottom floors formed of blocks of pale stone, top floors constructed of wood planking. Weathered shingles covered the roofs. The buildings crowded close together on either side of the roadway. Men and women wearing simple, homespun garments hustled along the road or scurried from one building to another on end-of-day errands. “The west road cuts through north Lommar,” Graden answered. “Eventually it leads to Wolshire. East road goes to Gresham. Stay on this road and you’ll cross the Odran River into Dusan.” Brand shot the wagoner a look of surprise at the long-winded reply. “Where are we going after your business at the Crossing?” he asked. “We’ll see.” They left the built-up center of Taggart a short while later and Graden urged the horses to greater speed. Soon they passed the last of the buildings and entered the forest. As they rolled in under the tall pine and fir trees, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the tree’s upper branches with red-orange light. The road grew rougher and narrower and Graden had to slow the horses. The light dimmed as they moved deeper into the woods, and Brand caught an occasional glimpse of an early star in the pale sky through the foliage overhead. Birds squabbled high in the trees as they prepared to roost for the night, and the wagon startled a small herd of deer crossing the road, sending them bounding away into the forest. At one point Brand thought he saw something large and dark stalking beneath the trees. A chill shivered down his spine, but the dark form disappeared before he could be sure it was there and he comforted himself with the reminder that they were hundreds of leagues north of the lands the Shadows controlled. Several minutes later, he spotted two mounted men waiting beside the road ahead. He recognized one of them as Zain, the dark man Graden had spoken to in Juroton. He sat astride the frisky black mare he’d ridden out of the village earlier in the day. Beside him, mounted on a large, sturdily built red roan, sat a muscular, heavily bearded blond man dressed in fur-trimmed leather. Graden reined in the horses, and the wagon rolled to a stop near the two men. Zain rode his horse around Graden’s side of the wagon; the blond man circled toward Brand. “You got my money, Zain?” Graden asked. “Right to business, eh?” Zain asked and tossed him a leather pouch. “Do you ever think of anything else?” Graden caught the pouch with a noncommittal grunt and began to count out the silver coins. Zain gestured to the blond man. “This is Brody, one of Stefan’s men.” Graden glanced briefly at Brody, finished counting the money, and then reached into the wagon behind Brand. “Get down, boy. You’re going with Brody.” Brand stared at the wagoner, brow furrowed. “Going where?” Graden thrust Brand’s blanket-wrapped bundle into his chest with enough force to push him off the seat. “Get down.” Brand jumped to the ground beside the wagon and clutched the bundle to him. Brody dismounted and led his horse toward Brand. “Zain says you’re looking for something to do with your life. I’m going to give you something.” With a start, Brand recalled Zain’s words to Graden in Juroton: Stefan is paying well for mine workers. Everything fell into place. The wagoner was selling him to Brody to work in a mine! Fear clenched an icy hand around Brand’s heart. The bundle he held fell from his suddenly unfeeling grasp and he took a stumbling step away from the wagon. Brody reached for him. Brand yelled and tried to duck away. He sensed the gray chasm begin to open before him and felt something respond from deep in the forest. The medallion he wore beneath his tunic vibrated against his chest. Gasping, he clutched it with his left hand. Brody’s hand fell heavily on his shoulder. Terror twisted Brand’s insides. A pale glow surged across his vision, and the chasm disappeared. Brody’s grasp tightened on his shoulder as the man started to turn him around. “Stop!” Brand attempted to jerk out of the blond man’s grasp— —and succeeded easily as Brody froze in place, his hand stuck out before him, fingers grasping empty air, motionless. Brand stared in astonishment. He’d told Brody to stop, and the man had, quite literally, stopped. Graden lunged across the wagon’s seat. Brand ducked away and shouted “Stop!” again. Graden jerked to a halt in mid-lunge, eyes wide with surprise. The leather pouch flew from his grasp and fell to the ground beside the wagon, spilling bright silver onto the forest mulch. Mouth twisted in a frozen snarl, the wagoner stared at the coins as he toppled helplessly sideways from the seat and landed heavily on the footboard, his body frozen in a lunging position. Zain spat a curse and drew his sword. “What’d you do to them?” He spurred his horse around the back of the wagon toward Brand. Brand tried to summon the energy to stop Zain as he had the other two, but a wave of fatigue washed over him. His head spun and his knees threatened to give out. He stumbled against the side of the wagon, clutched at it to catch his balance, and searched desperately for a way to escape. The presence he’d sensed deep in the woods was moving closer, but not nearly close enough to aid him—assuming that was its intention. Brody stood just a few feet away, unmoving, his arm still outstretched unnaturally, hand grasping nothing. Behind him, his big roan horse tugged at the reins in his other hand. Brand staggered around Brody, unhooked the reins from his frozen fingers, and pulled himself into the roan’s saddle just as Zain reached him. The dark man started to swing his sword, blade turned so it would strike flat-sided, then his iron-gray eyes met Brand’s and he jerked his sword away with a gasp. Brand dug his heels into the roan’s sides and snapped the reins. The animal spun on its haunches and galloped up the road, headed north. Brand hung on tight and glanced over his shoulder. Zain wheeled his horse toward the wagon. Brody had recovered enough to stagger against it. He clung to the side, swaying slightly. Behind him, still sprawled on the footrest, Graden was beginning to stir. “I’m fine!” Brody yelled to Zain. “Get the boy.” Zain sheathed his sword and spurred his mare after Brand. Turning forward, Brand kicked the roan’s sides and snapped the reins again. The horse broke into a hard run, hooves thundering against the road. Zain’s black mare pounded behind him. Ahead, a wide, shallow river cut across the roadway. The roan ran through the thick mud of the gently sloping bank and charged in, water spraying about him. They reached the far bank, and the horse leaped up it. Brand looked back and found Zain struggling with his prancing mount on the other side of the river, trying to coax her into the water. Finally, the animal relented and plunged into the shallow flow. The roan charged on, seeming to enjoy the chance to stretch its legs. Brand clung tight to the saddle. He still felt weak and dizzy, and a sharp pain was growing in his head, throbbing behind his eyes in time to the horse’s pounding steps. The final glow of daylight faded from the sky and the woods grew dim. The road curved to the right to bypass a heavy stand of trees and dense underbrush, and then snaked back to the left. Behind Brand, Zain vanished around the bend, only to reappear as he cleared the curve and the road straightened again.. Brand’s horse stumbled over something on the darkening roadway, recovered, and ran on. Brand knew he had to slow down soon or risk the horse taking a dangerous spill, but if he did that, Zain could catch them by pushing his horse just a little longer, a risk Brand feared the man would be willing to take. The road curved right again, skirting another thick cluster of trees, and Brand got an idea. As soon as he rounded the bend and drew out of sight of Zain, Brand tugged the roan to a stop, slid out of the saddle, and slapped the animal’s rump, sending it galloping on up the road. Breathing hard, he watched it for an instant and then scrambled into the brush at the side of the road and lay still. He struggled to take deep, slow breaths and wished he could quiet the terrified pounding of his heart, certain Zain would be able to hear it even over the sound of his horse’s hoofbeats. A moment later, the man galloped past, watching the dim-lit road ahead. Breathing a deep, shuddering sigh of relief, Brand put his aching head down on his arms. He would hide until Zain caught Brody’s horse and passed Brand’s hiding place on his way back to the wagon. After that, Brand would follow the road back to Taggart. With luck, the men would be satisfied they had Brody’s horse back and wouldn’t bother to search for Brand in the dark. After several minutes, the quiet clop of slow hoofbeats drifted over the chirp of crickets and the tiny rustlings of nocturnal animal life that had begun to fill the cool evening air. Brand peered cautiously out of the bushes. Zain was approaching on foot, leading his black mare and Brody’s roan, his attention riveted to the ground before him. With a start, Brand realized he was searching for the place where Brand had sent the horse on without him. Fear seized him again and he swallowed a gasp. He started to crawl away from the road, but realized the rustling sounds and movement of the brush would only serve to pinpoint his location. He froze, his mind racing. The presence he’d sensed earlier plucked at his awareness again. He concentrated on it, trying to figure out what it was and where it came from. Whatever it was, there seemed to be several of them at various locations in the nearby woods. Some were moving toward Graden’s wagon on the other side of the river; others converged on the area where Brand hid. He glanced toward the road again. Zain stood only a few feet away, studying the ground. He bent for a closer look and then swept the bushes with his eyes. A twig snapped somewhere to Brand’s left. Zain straightened and glanced toward it. “Come on out, boy,” he called, his refined accent much stronger than before. “I’m sorry about what happened back there. I didn’t realize—” An inhuman screech echoed through the woods from the direction of the river, followed by a guttural yell. Zain blanched, cursed, and drew his sword. Another screech split the night air a few feet away and a huge, dark form sailed out of the brush beside Brand. It smashed into Zain, slamming him to the ground and sending his sword skittering away. The horses reared in panic and fled north up the road. Brand scrambled to his feet. Three more of the dark creatures stood in the woods around him, pale eyes locked on his. His heart leaped into his throat, stealing his breath, and he stumbled out onto the road. The first creature looked up from where it crouched over Zain. The man lay beneath it, pinned to the roadway by its weight. Brand turned to flee after the horses, but the other three creatures slunk into his path. He stared in horror. Naked, leathery black skin rippled over taut muscles as they moved. White eyes with no pupils watched him from round, blunt-muzzled heads with tiny, low-set ears. Long, thick tails lashed behind them and glistening ebon claws graced their heavy paws. A fifth creature crept from the bushes to join them. Brand gaped at them, trembling, convinced they would attack at any moment. But they only circled him, skulking on silent paws, heads low, jaws parted to reveal pointed black teeth. Their dead white eyes watched him, as if waiting for something. And then he remembered, it had happened before . . . Nighttime in the nursery at Wieland Manor, his cousins asleep in their beds near his. Eerie shrieks reach his ears, followed by terrified screams and distant pounding footsteps. “Shadows!” someone cries beyond the nursery door. His aunt’s voice. “How can they be here? The children—!” Another scream echoes down the corridor. Black specters appear throughout the room, rising from a pit of gray nothingness that splits the nursery floor, seeping down from the ceiling, sliding along the walls. Brand tries to cry out, but an unseen hand squeezes his throat and he manages only a whimper. Around him, the other children begin to stir. One of them whines softly. The specters waft about the nursery, settling briefly onto each of the small beds, bypassing only his. One by one his cousins sigh quietly and grow still, flesh pale, eyes open and staring. Then the specters flow together in the center of the nursery and congeal into a half dozen massive black creatures with white eyes. They pad around the room on silent paws, heads low, jaws parted, white eyes watching him, expectant . . . «Master.» The Shadow that crouched over Zain straightened, one powerful paw pressed against the man’s chest, claw tips poised above his heart. Its white eyes met Brand’s and a voice spoke in his head. «Master, shall I end this one’s life?»
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