The Wide World's End Read Online Free PDF Page A

know. But, “We need to know. Ruthen Sharvetr—”
    The Longtooth was only a red-eyed shadow against the lit doorway behind him, but Morlock saw him hold up his hand. “You Guardians will go into the gravehills. I will send a messenger to the Little Cousins under Thrymhaiam, and another to the Silent Folk beyond Kirach Starn. I think you had better write them a letter yourself, Morlocktheorn. Many of them dislike the looks of us.”
    â€œ Ruthen —”
    â€œ Ruthen , enough. Blood of yours is blood of mine, whether they know it or not. I only speak the truth.”
    â€œAnd we should send a line south to warn the Graith of what we know,” Naevros added.
    â€œ Harven ,” said Sharvetr, “it will be done. If you write that, and Morlock writes the others, then we can dispatch the messengers and go back to our several nests.”
    Sharvetr Ûlkhyn was not greedy for gold, or power, or rage, or any of the things that led to the dragon-change. But he loved to sleep nearly as much as he loved those of his blood, be they harven or ruthen .

C HAPTER F IVE
    Evening in the Gravehills
    The gray plume of smoke coiled in the darkening sky over the invaders’ camp, deep in the gravehills.
    Evening soup , thought Naevros glumly. Just like mama used to make.
    His mother’s cooking was infamously bad—one of twelve or thirteen reasons he rarely saw his parents in recent centuries.
    He and Morlock had been worming their way into the gravehills for most of a day, trying to keep out of the invaders’ way. So far it had worked, and this was their reward: a cold spring twilight was falling; they were days away from anything Naevros considered a civilized place to sleep; and a thousand paces away or less, a ghoulish tribe of cannibals was preparing their evening feast.
    And, in fact, just when things seemed their worst, they actually got worse (as Naevros often found to be the case). As darkness rose into the sky, the major moons opened their eyes above, and blue light bloomed on the gravehills’ ragged heights. These were the banefires, those magical prisons for the Dead Corain, buried in the graves that gave these hills their baleful name.
    The banefires’ blue light revealed nothing but itself. It cast no shadows and shed no heat. In fact, the gathering night grew suddenly colder as the banefire light leapt up on hilltops all around them, including the hill they were standing on.
    Beyond the blue ridge of fire upslope from them there was . . . something. Something within the flames ringing the hilltop. Something that moved and looked vaguely like a man.
    As Naevros watched in fascination, he heard a voice whisper his name. His name. . . . It was his name—yet no one had ever called him by it. Only this voice knew it; only this voice could touch that part of him. He climbed, against his own will, a step or two upslope. He heard the name that was secretly his again, louder this time.
    â€œNaevros,” Morlock whispered, and drew him back.
    â€œEh?” Now he had lost the name, like a dreamer loses a dream on awakening.
    â€œDon’t look into the flames. The Dead Corain can draw you to themselves through the banefire. They hunger for your tal and your living flesh.”
    â€œDo they?” Naevros shook his head and said, “Well, they can stand in line with everyone else. I’ll get around to them eventually.”
    Morlock’s shadowy face wore a shadowy smile. He led the way around the hill’s shoulder, and Naevros followed him, taking care not to look at the dead shape whispering beyond the blue flames.
    Eventually, Morlock went down on his stomach and squiggled forward like a worm across the hard windswept slope of the hillside. Naevros nearly rebelled at that. But anything Morlock was willing to do, he could do as well. He got down on his belly and squiggled. But—damn it!— he thought he did it with a certain