Now, the gargoyle turned its head, widening its eyes in mock innocence.

  “Me?” it asked, glancing back to where the ogres were discussing their options. “I told you nothing you had not guessed.”

  “Nothing,” the other garitzik confirmed, then, “They are waiting.”

  And, indeed, they were, looking up at Seppelitus and his guards with an air of expectation.

  “Are we agreed?” the garitzik asked.

  “Agreed,” the lead ogre said.

  “On what?” the garitzik pressed.

  “We take seventh son. You receive dragon blood when war won.”

  “And our part in the deal is done,” the garitzik declared.

  “Yes. You give seventh son. Your part done,” the ogre repeated, its brow furrowing with concern. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” the garitzik confirmed, and prodded Seppelitus forward.

  The bodyguard stumbled, and might have fallen if the second garitzik had not seized him by the arm.

  “Wait,” it said, and touched the stone encircling his throat, flaring its wings to block the ogres’ view. One word unsealed the catches, and it quickly stowed the collar inside its leather jerkin.

  “But…” Seppelitus protested, even as he filed the command for unlocking the collar, in case he might need it, some other time.

  The garitzik glared so fiercely at him that he subsided.

  “Why?” it asked.

  Seppelitus nodded.

  “We do nothing to jeopardize the deals in play,” the garitzik explained, keeping its voice soft, “but we must take action if the outcome of a deal is revealed to threaten our race. With your delivery, this deal is complete.”

  “But...” Again, the gargoyle stilled his words with an upraised hand.

  “You are a seventh son,” it said. “Once you are in the ogres’ hands, these ogres’ hands, our bargain to deliver you is at an end.”

  “But you cannot free me.”

  “That would break the deal.”

  “But…”

  “We cannot bargain with you, until this part of the deal is complete, and we cannot free you, or we break the sanctity of the deal. You are a seventh son; you work it out.”

  Seppelitus allowed himself to be maneuvered down the steps. As he stepped onto the hillside, he turned and said, “You owe me.”

  The gargoyles prodded him back toward the ogres, their mouths opening in typical garitzik grins.

  “We owe you nothing, seventh son. No bargain can be made.”

  Seppelitus stumbled back under their persistent prodding, opened his mouth to retort, and was silenced by the heavy hand that descended on his shoulder. He glanced up, past the ogre’s armored belly and chest, and into the ugly satisfaction on its face.

  “Come,” it said, and its grip on his shoulder tightened, hard enough that Seppelitus felt bones shift.

  He gasped, and the other ogre barked a quick protest. The ogre’s grip eased, but did not release him. Instead, it lifted him and placed him in the centre of the sack. Dried grass rustled underfoot, and Seppelitus wondered why they’d thought he needed a nest.

  “Sit,” the ogre ordered, and Seppelitus obeyed; he did not want to be standing when the sack was thrown over the creature’s shoulder.

  Stolen story; please report.

  In short order, the sack was lifted around him, and then drawn closed over his head. It left him with less room in it than he’d hoped, but enough for him to maneuver in. He waited, missing the feel of fresh air on his face, and trying to brace as the bag was lifted and swung.

  It didn’t matter. The impact, as it settled over the ogre’s shoulder, left him winded and bruised, and the ogres, hearing the sound he made as the wind left his lungs, laughed.

  “Be still, little seventh,” one teased. “Long journey. You should rest.”

  Rest, even as he thought it, Seppelitus registered the scent of crushed herbs. He hadn’t been standing in a nest of grass at all. Oh, for sure, there was grass in the mix, if only to hide the laceweed and fen flowers from garitzik notice, but the laceweed and fen flowers made up the bulk.

  Sweet lords of heaven, Seppelitus thought as the pungent aroma built around him. If he didn’t find a source of fresh air soon, he was, indeed, going to rest. Seppelitus took a cautious sniff to try and gauge how long he had, before the scent overcame him. A wave of dizziness followed.

  Not long, he thought. Not long enough.

  He reached up, trying to rub at the collar, and was startled when his fingers met bare flesh. Vaguely, he remembered the garitzik taking the collar from his throat and, carefully, he reached for the magic that had been denied him.

  Clean air, he thought, as stars began to dance in the darkness of the sack, and was relieved when a mask of cold air slid over his face. Even then, it took him several of the ogre’s long, bouncing strides for the dizziness to fade.

  Seppelitus spent it trying to figure out what to do next. He could no longer smell the herbs making up the ogres’ hay, and didn’t know what else might have been added.

  He knew it held herbs to make him sleep, and that wasn’t knowledge he’d thought they possessed. If they wanted something unconscious, they usually belted it over the head. If the thing was lucky, they didn’t crush its skull—and that, he realized, was why they’d used the herbs. But who had given them the idea?

  The demon? It seemed all too likely, and Seppelitus suppressed a shudder. That creature wanted him alive, which meant ceremony and sacrifice, with him at the center. It was not something he wanted to be a part of. It was not!

  The garitzik had bound his hands in front of his body, instead of behind. At first Seppelitus had thought that was because it was easier to pull him through the tunnels and guide him down the stairs, but now he thought they had another purpose. This way, he’d be more balanced when he ran, better able to protect himself when he fell—just as soon as he could work his way out of the sack.

  The spell he’d used to transport Haskelline away from the initial attack—and a fat lot of good that did him, he thought, the idiot—that spell had to be prepared beforehand, the subject carrying something that tied him to the destination.

  Anything Seppelitus had been carrying was still in the garitzik lair…and he hoped they hadn’t worked out what it meant, hoped they wouldn’t think to look, hoped—he pushed the thought away. There was no use in worrying; it was nothing he could mend. For now, his immediate focus had to be in getting out of the sack, and away from the ogres.

  How far had they said they must travel?

  A long journey. What was a long journey to an ogre? More than a day? More than two? He couldn’t recall if the ogres of the north were nomadic or not. Nomads had an entirely different sense of time. If they went any longer than a day, was it a long journey? What about two? Or three, maybe?

  Seppelitus decided he could be sure of one day of rest, and another night’s travel, and decided to wait. With the spell for fresh air woven close around his face, he allowed himself to be lulled into sleep.

  He woke as soon as the ogre’s gait changed, and was glad of having avoided the effect of the herbs. If he hadn’t, he’d have missed the sudden crackle of undergrowth, and the shouts, as the sound of men and horses burst around them. He might have lain in drugged torpor, when the ogre dumped him unceremoniously on the ground, and met the threat with a roar of its own.

  As it was, Seppelitus, once again, found himself stunned and trying to gather his wits, as what sounded like an epic battle rang loud outside the confines of the sack. Realizing the ogres would be too busy to notice his movement, he felt around the sack until he found the tied opening. Tied. How he wished for his knife.

  Carefully, he found the opening and worked his hands far enough out to feel around the edge. Somewhere there had to be straps. If he was lucky, there’d be a buckle. He searched carefully, shuffling his hands around the edge of the bag.

  When he finally found the fastenings, he realized he was even luckier than he’d hoped; the ogres had used thick hemp rope to draw the bag closed, and, for all his searching, Seppelitus could find no knot.

  He wriggled closer to the bag top, and pulled the opening apart. It grew wider. Bracing his feet against one side of the rim, Seppelitus placed his hands against the other, and then stretched, feeling the rope slide beneath the cloth. He had to reposition himself twice, before the opening was wide enough for him to work his way clear, but he kept at it until he could pull himself free.

  Seppelitus did not let himself rest; getting out of the bag was only the first step. Now he had to get away from the fight, before anyone noticed. He was relieved when he found he could make out the thick dark trunks of knotwood, interspersed by something with lighter bark, but didn’t stop. Dawn could not be far away, and that meant the attack had been planned.

  Since he could not think of any reason for the ogres to use the route regularly, Seppelitus decided magic had been involved. And magic bespoke of a greater purpose than killing two ogres far enough away from their tribe to be an easy target. Magic meant the attackers had been looking for something, had been led to the ambush point, rather than stumbling across the ogres by mistake—and he was pretty sure he was the only thing of any significance they’d been carrying.