BY TERRY BROOKS

SHANNARA

First King of Shannara

The Sword of Shannara

The Elfstones of Shannara

The Wishsong of Shannara

THE HERITAGE OF SHANNARA

The Scions of Shannara

The Druid of Shannara

The Elf Queen of Shannara

The Talismans of Shannara

THE VOYAGE OF THE JERLE SHANNARA

Ilse Witch

Antrax

Morgawr

HIGH DRUID OF SHANNARA

Jarka Ruus

Tanequil

Straken

GENESIS OF SHANNARA

Armageddon’s Children

The Elves of Cintra

The Gypsy Morph

LEGENDS OF SHANNARA

Bearers of the Black Staff

The Measure of the Magic

The World of Shannara

THE MAGIC KINGDOM OF LANDOVER

Magic Kingdom for Sale—Sold!

The Black Unicorn

Wizard at Large

The Tangle Box

Witches’ Brew

A Princess of Landover

THE WORD AND THE VOID

Running with the Demon

A Knight of the Word

Angel Fire East

Sometimes the Magic Works: Lessons from a Writing Life

Copyright

Published by Hachette Digital

ISBN: 978 0 748 12557 9

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 Terry Brooks

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

Hachette Digital

Little, Brown Book Group

100 Victoria Embankment

London, EC4Y 0DY

www.hachette.co.uk

FOR BETSY MITCHELL

A good editor, a better friend

1

HUMMING TUNELESSLY, THE RAGPICKER WALKED the barren, empty wasteland in the aftermath of a rainstorm. The skies were still dark with clouds and the earth was sodden and slick with surface water, but none of that mattered to him. Others might prefer the sun and blue skies and the feel of hard, dry earth beneath their feet, might revel in the brightness and the warmth. But life was created in the darkness and damp of the womb, and the ragpicker took considerable comfort in knowing that procreation was instinctual and needed nothing of the face of nature’s disposition that he liked the least.

He was an odd-looking fellow, an unprepossessing, almost comical figure. He was tall and whipcord-thin, and he walked like a long-legged waterbird. Dressed in dark clothes that had seen much better days, he tended to blend in nicely with the mostly colorless landscape he traveled. He carried his rags and scraps of cloth in a frayed patchwork bag slung over one shoulder, the bag looking very much as if it would rip apart completely with each fresh step its bearer took. A pair of scuffed leather boots completed the ensemble, scavenged from a dead man some years back, but still holding up quite nicely.

Everything about the ragpicker suggested that he was harmless. Everything marked him as easy prey in a world where predators dominated the remnants of a decimated population. He knew how he looked to the things that were always hunting, what they thought when they saw him coming. But that was all right. He had stayed alive this long by keeping his head down and staying out of harm’s way. People like him, they didn’t get noticed. The trick was in not doing anything to call attention to yourself.

So he tried hard to give the impression that he was nothing but a poor wanderer who wanted to be left alone, but you didn’t always get what you wanted in this world. Even now, other eyes were sizing him up. He could feel them doing so, several pairs in several different places. Those that belonged to the animals—the things that the poisons and chemicals had turned into mutants—were already turning away. Their instincts were sharper, more finely tuned, and they could sense when something wasn’t right. Given the choice, they would almost always back away.

It was the eyes of the human predators that stayed fixed on him, eyes that lacked the awareness necessary to judge him properly. Two men were studying him now, deciding whether or not to confront him. He would try to avoid them, of course. He would try to make himself seem not worth the trouble. But, again, you didn’t always get what you wanted.

He breathed in the cool, damp air, absorbing the taste of the rain’s aftermath on his tongue, of the stirring of stagnation and sickness generated by the pounding of the sudden storm, of the smells of raw earth and decay, the whole of it marvelously welcome. Sometimes, when he was alone, he could pretend he was the only one left in the world. He could think of it all as his private preserve, his special place, and imagine everything belonged to him.

He could pretend that nothing would ever bother him again.

His humming dropped away, changing to a little song:

Ragpicker, ragpicker, what you gonna do

When the hunters are hunting and they’re hunting for you.

Ragpicker, ragpicker, just stay low.

If you don’t draw attention they might let you go.

He hummed a few more bars, wondering if he had gotten past the predators. He was thinking it was almost time to stop and have something to drink and eat. But that would have to wait. He sighed, his lean, sharp-featured face wreathed in a tight smile that caused the muscles of his jaw to stand out like cords.

Ragpicker, ragpicker, you’re all alone.

The hunters that are hunting want to pick your bones.

Ragpicker, ragpicker, just walk on.

If you wait them out they will soon be gone.

He crossed a meadow, a small stream filled with muddy water, a rocky flat in which tiny purple flowers were blooming, and a withered woods in which a handful of poplars grew sparse and separate as if strangers to one another. Ahead, there was movement in a rugged mass of boulders that formed the threshold to foothills leading up to the next chain of mountains, a high and wild and dominant presence. He registered the movement, ignored it. Those who had been watching him were still there and growing restless; he must skirt their hiding place and hope they were distracted by other possibilities. But there didn’t appear to be anyone else out here other than himself, and he was afraid that they would come after him just because they were bored.

He continued on furtively, still humming softly.

Daylight leached away as the clouds began to thicken anew. It might actually rain some more, he decided. He glanced at the skies in all four directions, noting the movement of the clouds and the shifting of their shadows against the earth. Yes, more rain coming. Better find shelter soon.

He stalked up the slope into the rocks, his long, thin legs stretching out, meandering here and there as if searching for the best way through. He headed away from the watchers, pretending he was heedless of them, that he knew nothing of them and they, in turn, should not want to bother with him.

But suddenly his worst fears were realized and just like that they were upon him.

They emerged from the rocks, two shaggy-haired, ragged men, carrying blades and clubs. One was blind in one eye, and the other limped badly. They had seen hard times, the ragpicker thought, and they would not be likely to have seen much charity and therefore not much inclined to dispense any. He stood where he was and waited on them patiently, knowing that flight was useless.

“You,” One-eye said, pointing a knife at him. “What you got in that bag of yours?”

The ragpicker shrugged. “Rags. I collect them and barter for food and drink. It’s what I do.”

“You got something more than that, I’d guess,” said the second man, the larger of the two. “Better show us what it is.”

The ragpicker hesitated, and then dumped everything on the ground, his entire collection of brightly colored scarves and bits of cloth, a few whole pieces of shirts and coats, a hat or two, some boots. Everything he had managed to find in his travels of late that he hadn’t bargained away with the Trolls or such.

“That’s crap!” snarled One-eye, thrusting his knife at the ragpicker. “You got to do better than that! You got to give us something of worth!”

“You got coin?” demanded the other.

Hopeless, the ragpicker thought. No one had coin anymore and even if they did it was valueless. Gold or silver, maybe. A good weapon, especially one of the old automatics from the days of the Great Wars, would have meant something, would have been barter material. But no one had coins.

“Don’t have any,” he said, backing away a step. “Can I pick up my rags?”

One-eye stepped forward and ground the colored cloth into the dirt with the heel of his boot. “That’s what I think of your rags. Now watch and see what I’m gonna do to you!”

The ragpicker backed away another step. “Please, I don’t have anything to give you. I just want you to let me pass. I’m not worth your trouble. Really.”

“You ain’t worth much, that’s for sure,” said the one who limped. “But that don’t mean you get to go through here free. This is our territory and no one passes without they make some payment to us!”

The two men came forward again, a step at a time, spreading out just a little to hem the ragpicker in, to keep him from making an attempt to get around them. As if such a thing were possible, the ragpicker thought, given his age and condition and clear lack of athletic ability. Did he look like he could get past them if he tried? Did he look like he could do anything?

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said suddenly, stopping short in his retreat. “You might not fully understand what you’re doing.”

The predators stopped and stared at him. “You don’t think it’s a good idea?” said the one who limped. “Is that what you said, you skinny old rat?”

The ragpicker shook his head. “It always comes down to this. I don’t understand it. Let me ask you something. Do you know of a man who carries a black staff?”

The two exchanged a quick look. “Who is he?” asked One-eye. “Why would we know him?”

The ragpicker sighed. “I don’t know that you do. Probably you don’t. But he would be someone who had real coin on him, should you know where to find him. You don’t, do you?”

“Naw, don’t know anyone like that,” snarled One-eye. He glanced at his companion. “C’mon, let’s see what he’s hiding.”

They came at the ragpicker with their blades held ready, stuffing the clubs in their belts. They were hunched forward slightly in preparation for getting past whatever defenses the scarecrow intended to offer, the blades held out in front of them. The ragpicker stood his ground, no longer backing up, no longer looking as if he intended escape. In fact, he didn’t look quite the same man at all. The change was subtle and hard to identify, but it was evident that something was different about him. It was in his eyes as much as anywhere, in a gleam of madness that was bright and certain. But it was in his stance, as well. Before, he had looked like a frightened victim, someone who knew that he stood no chance at all against men like these. Now he had the appearance of someone who had taken control of matters in spite of his apparent inability to do so, and his two attackers didn’t like it.

That didn’t stop them, of course. Men of this sort were never stopped by what they couldn’t understand, only by what was bigger and stronger and better armed. The ragpicker was none of these. He was just an unlucky fool trying to be something he wasn’t, making a last-ditch effort to hang on to his life.

One-eye struck first, his blade coming in low and swift toward the ragpicker’s belly. The second man was only a step behind, striking out in a wild slash aimed at his victim’s exposed neck. Neither blow reached its intended mark. The ragpicker never seemed to move, but suddenly he had hold of both wrists, bony fingers locking on flesh and bone and squeezing until his attackers cried out in pain, dropped their weapons, and sank to their knees in shock, struggling to break free. The ragpicker had no intention of releasing them. He just held them as they moaned and writhed, studying their agonized expressions.

“You shouldn’t make assumptions about people,” he lectured them, bending close enough that they could see the crimson glow in his eyes, a gleam of bloodlust and rage. “You shouldn’t do that.”

His hands tightened further, and smoke rose through his fingers where they gripped the men’s wrists. Now the men were howling and screaming as their imprisoned wrists and hands turned black and charred, burned from the inside out.

The ragpicker released them then and let them drop to the ground in huddled balls of quaking, blubbering despair, cradling their damaged arms. “You’ve ruined such a lovely day, too,” he admonished. “All I wanted was to be left alone to enjoy it, and now this. You are pigs of the worst sort, and pigs deserve to be roasted and eaten!”

At this they cried out anew and attempted to crawl away, but the ragpicker was on them much too quickly, seizing their heads and holding them fast. Smoke rose from between his clutching fingers and the men jerked and writhed in response.

“How does that feel?” the ragpicker wanted to know. “Can you tell what’s happening to you? I’m cooking your brains, in case you’ve failed to recognize what you are experiencing. Doesn’t feel very good, does it?”

It was a rhetorical question, which was just as well because neither man could manage any kind of intelligible answer. All they could do was hang suspended from the ragpicker’s killing fingers until their brains were turned to mush and they were dead.

The ragpicker let them drop. He thought about eating them, but the idea was distasteful. They were vermin, and he didn’t eat vermin. So he stripped them of their clothing, taking small items for his collection, scraps of cloth from each man that would remind him later of who they had been, and left the bodies for scavengers he knew would not be picky. He gathered up his soiled rags from the earth into which they had been ground, brushed them off as best he could, and returned them to his carry bag. When everything was in place, he gave the dead men a final glance and started off once more.

Bones of the dead left lying on the ground.

One more day and they will never be found.

Ragpicker, ragpicker, you never know

There are rags to be found wherever you go.

He sang it softly, repeated it a few times for emphasis, rearranging the words, and then went quiet. An interesting diversion, but massively unproductive. He had hoped the two creatures might have information about the man with the black staff, but they had disappointed him. So he would have to continue the search without any useful information to aid him. All he knew was what he sensed, and what he sensed would have to be enough for now.

The man he sought was somewhere close, probably somewhere up in those mountains ahead. So eventually he would find him.

Eventually.

The ragpicker allowed himself a small smile. There was no hurry. Time was something he had as much of as he needed.

Time didn’t really matter when you were a demon.

2

WHEN SHE HEARD THE EXPLOSION RIP THROUGH the steady patter of the rain, Prue Liss knew at once what had happened. Deladion Inch, her rescuer and protector, had done exactly what she had feared when he sent her on ahead of him: sacrificed himself so that she might have a chance at safety. She had seen it in his eyes and heard it in his voice when he had told her he would catch up to her when he could. He was too badly injured to keep up with her; they were still too far away from safety for him to have any real hope. He had recognized the truth of things, accepted the inevitable, and given up his life for hers.

She was standing just outside the locked door that led to the entry of his fortress when the end came. She closed her eyes for a minute, listening as the sound of the explosion reverberated and died away. She wondered how many Trolls he had taken with him, whether he had experienced any sense of satisfaction.

She wondered if she was worth it.

She was only a girl, after all. He hadn’t even really known her. He had rescued her from Taureq Siq and his Trolls as a favor to Sider Ament, and whatever promise he had made surely didn’t include dying in the bargain. It was a choice he had made on the spur of the moment, an indication of how seriously he took his word and the kind of man he was.

She brushed away her tears, cleared her eyes, and set to work releasing the lock on the door. If she didn’t escape now, his sacrifice would have been for nothing. She would not allow that to happen. She busied herself with her work, pushing aside everything else. The locks were right where he had said they would be, hidden in the crevices of the stone blocks. She worked the levers until she heard the locks release and then pulled down on the big iron handle. The door swung open with a squealing of hinges, and she stepped inside out of the rain and looked around. The solar-powered torches Inch had promised were standing upright on a shelf; she grabbed two, stuffing one into her belt and switching on the other.

Then she pulled the heavy door closed and locked it anew.

She stood staring at it for a moment afterward, wondering if it would keep out whatever Drouj remained. She looked around to see if there was anything else she could do to stop them, but it appeared she had done all she could. It was better than she had expected, and it gave her the chance she needed.

Her plan now was simple. Inch had told her to work her way back through the corridors and rooms of the complex to the rear exit, which would take her higher up on the slopes where she could see if anyone was following. He had sketched a map in the dirt to show her the way, giving her signs she should look for to keep her on the right path. There were doors all through the complex, heavy barriers with locks. She could close them off behind her as an added precaution. Nothing could follow her. She would be safe. He suggested she hide out in the fortress for at least a day or two before trying to venture out. That way there was a better-than-even chance the Trolls would grow tired of waiting for her to reappear and abandon their efforts, and then the possibility of slipping past them and finding her way home would be even greater.

Home. How long had she been gone from it now? Two weeks, three, more? She had lost all track of time. She thought about Pan for a minute, wondering where he was and how he was managing without her. He would be worried sick, of course. But perhaps Sider had told him that Deladion Inch had promised to help her, so that he would know she hadn’t been abandoned entirely. She only hoped he wouldn’t make the mistake of trying to come for her himself. The fate of Deladion Inch was an object lesson in how dangerous such an endeavor could be.

She wondered, too, if anyone had discovered the duplicity of the treacherous Arik Siq. He had fooled them all in the beginning, even Sider, but his luck couldn’t last forever. There was every reason to think that he had been found out and dealt with by now. But if he had escaped, then the valley was at risk. He would lead the Drouj into the passes and flood the valley with Trolls bent on taking everything away from them and either killing or casting them out. How could they possibly stop something like that from happening, even with help from Sider Ament?

She was still standing there, thinking about it, when she heard voices on the other side of the door, low and guttural in the silence. Trolls. Some of her Drouj pursuers still lived. She found herself hoping that Grosha was not among them, but what difference did it make who it was? She flicked off the handheld solar light and stood motionless in the dark, listening. The Trolls stood outside for a long time, trying the handle, pushing on the door, talking among themselves. She waited, not knowing what to do.

Eventually, all the sounds disappeared as the Trolls moved away.

She stayed where she was for a long time afterward, waiting on their return. But finally she realized they weren’t coming back right away and decided to venture deeper into the fortress compound. Turning the solar light back on, she started down the darkened corridors, following the path Deladion Inch had laid out, intent on reaching his personal quarters, where she had been told she could find something to eat and a place to sleep.

It took her forever. Or at least, it seemed that way. Part of the problem was in the directions, which required that she follow a series of painted red arrows. There were painted arrows of all sorts, and sometimes they overlapped and sometimes they disappeared for long distances. As a result, she was forced to retrace her steps repeatedly to stay on the prescribed path. She didn’t blame Inch for this; after all, he probably never once thought that someone would have to find the way without him. It wouldn’t have occurred to him to improve on the markings or to develop a more comprehensive map.

She was tired by the time she reached her goal and found herself in the kitchen where he kept his foodstuffs, cold storage, dishes, and utensils. She set about making herself something to eat and sat at the wooden table he must have used for himself many times over. She thought on him at length, imagining what his life must have been like, saddened all over again that it had ended because of her. She had liked him and now wished she had been given a chance to know him better. But chances were few and far between in their world, and mostly you had to settle for what you were given and be grateful.

When she had finished eating, she climbed some steps to an overlook and crept forward to its edge, scanning the darkness. Far away— perhaps a mile distant, but directly in front of the entrance to the ruins through which she had fled to reach the compound—a fire burned bright and steady in the blackness. The Trolls had not left after all, only retreated a short distance to wait out the night. In the morning, they would likely come looking again. She wished she knew what the odds were, but there was no way of telling. Better than before, but still too great.

Then she remembered the automatic weapon Inch had given her, still stuck in a pocket of her coat. She reached down and drew it out. It was a short-barreled, stubby black killing tool, one that used metal projectiles like they had during the Great Wars. The name on the barrel, raised in tiny letters, said FLANGE 350. Inch had called it an automatic. Twelve shots. Just pull the trigger and it would fire them one at a time or all at once. She studied it dubiously. She had never seen a weapon of this sort, never held one before, and certainly never fired one. She supposed she could use it if she had to, but she found herself hoping it wouldn’t come to that. She would be happier with a bow and arrows, if she could find them. The metal weapon felt uncomfortable, as if it were as much a danger to her as to anyone she might try to use it against.

It gave her no sense of satisfaction at all to know she had it. She stuffed it back in her pocket and went back downstairs to sleep.

WHEN SHE WOKE, she was heavy-eyed and disoriented, brought out of her sleep mostly by a sense that something wasn’t right. For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was. She pushed herself upright and peered about in a darkness lit only by gray light seeping through a ventilation opening high up on the wall behind her. She remembered then she was in Deladion Inch’s fortress lair, cocooned away from the rest of the world, sealed off from the Drouj.

She rose and yawned, stretching her arms over her head. She had slept, but felt as if she hadn’t gotten much rest. She switched on the torch, scanned the room in a perfunctory way, and then climbed the steps to the exterior overlook.

This time when she emerged, she did so much more cautiously, crouching down so that she couldn’t be seen from below. The sun was overhead; it must have been somewhere close to midday. She slipped through the door and made her way on hands and knees to the edge of the overlook, keeping the wall between herself and whatever or whoever might be looking up. She found a split in the stone blocks and peered out, searching the landscape below.

She didn’t see anyone.

She kept looking anyway, then shifted her position, moving to one of the sidewalls. This time when she peered over the edge, she saw a Troll moving up through the rocks, scanning the walls of the keep.

They were still hunting her.

She slid down against the wall, putting her back against it and staring at the mist-shrouded peaks of the distant mountains. If Grosha was still alive, he wouldn’t give up. She could feel it in her bones. He would keep looking, and eventually he would find a way inside. She needed to get out of there before that happened. She needed to be far away and leave no trail that he could follow.

She moved in a crouch back across the overlook and through the door leading to the stairs. She passed rooms filled with old furniture and large paper boxes that were battered and broken and stacked against the walls. Pieces of metal and types of materials she didn’t recognize littered the floors of those rooms, which seemed not ever to have been used by Inch. Strange black boxes with shattered glass screens and hundreds of silver disks lay scattered about one room, and in another beds filled huge spaces that reminded her of healing wards, all of their bedding torn and soiled and ruined. Remnants of the old world, once useful, now discarded and forgotten, they were a mystery to her. She glimpsed them fleetingly, dismissed them, and hurried on.

Once in the kitchen, she packed up enough food and drink to sustain her for three days, strapped her supplies across her back, and started away.

She had just reached the hallway leading deeper into the complex when she saw the big cabinet with its doors not quite closed and caught sight of the weapons.

She stopped where she was, debating, and then walked over and opened the doors all the way. There were all kinds of old-world guns, explosives like the ones Deladion Inch had carried, knives, swords, and bows and arrows. She smiled in spite of herself, taking a set of the latter and adding a long knife in the bargain.

She almost left the Flange 350 behind, but at the last minute changed her mind and kept it in her pocket.

The light was poor at best within the corridors she followed, making it no easier to read the sign markings during the day than it had been at night. But she persevered, using the torch when no light penetrated from ventilation shafts, taking her time. Because the rear of the compound was elevated, there were stairs to be climbed, and as long as she was going up she could be certain she was headed in the right direction. It wasn’t like tracking out in the open, where you could see the sky and the sun and the way ahead was clear. But her sense of direction was strong enough that even without those indicators to rely on, she could find her way.

Still, she got lost and was forced to retrace her steps more often than she would have liked. It was oppressive being closed in like this, buried under tons of stone and shut away from the light. She thought about how people had lived like this before the Great Wars, and she wondered how they had endured it. If she had lived then, how would she have managed? She expected she would have lived her life much as she was living it now, even given the differences. She couldn’t imagine living it any other way.

At one point, she sat down and rested; the complex was so much bigger than she had expected, and the constant back and forth of her efforts was draining her strength. If Pan were there, this wouldn’t be so difficult. Pan could read sign and intuit trails much better than she could. He would have had them out by now. Back in the light. Back in the fresh air.

Thinking of his absence depressed her, and she got back to her feet and continued on.

It took better than an hour, but finally she found an exterior wall and a huge pair of metal doors. Light seeped through the seams of the doors, and their size and shape and the presence of huge iron latch bars marked them clearly for what they were. She studied them for a moment and then decided that opening something this big and closing it again was too risky.

She moved right along the wall, searching for a smaller portal. She found one another fifty feet and several storage bays farther on, tightly sealed with a drop bar and slide latch. She stood at the door and listened, but heard nothing. Carefully, she lifted the drop bar, slid back the latch, and opened the door, just a crack.

The daylight was hazy, but visibility was good, and she could see hundreds of yards in front of her where the foothills climbed toward the distant mountains. She opened the door a bit farther, looked right and left, and didn’t find anything that looked out of place. It should be all right, she thought. The Drouj were still out front. She could slip away before they knew she was gone.

She pulled the door open all the way and stepped outside—right in front of a Troll as it came lumbering around a corner of the outside wall.

She froze, stunned by her bad luck. What were the odds that a Troll would appear just now? It was moving parallel to the wall perhaps twenty yards away, studying the ground, glancing up toward the hillside as it did so, clearly believing she had already gotten clear. Against all odds, it hadn’t noticed her.

She backed toward the open doorway, slowly and carefully. She took one step after another, eyes fixed on the Troll.

Then her foot slipped on the loose rock, and the Troll’s dark eyes found her.

She had but a moment to escape back inside; the Troll was coming much too fast for anything else. It carried a war club studded with spikes, a killing weapon she could not defend against. She was quick, but too small to stop a creature like this without help. The bow and arrows were slung across one shoulder—no time to get them free. She had the long knife out, but she didn’t think it would do much good. She would have to run, but there was no time to go anywhere but back inside.

It took her only seconds to gain the opening and rush back into the building. Once there, she began to run. The Troll came after her without slowing, undeterred by the darkness. It was faster than she had thought it would be, picking up speed as it pounded down the corridors. She would have to hide or outmaneuver it. But she didn’t know her way. Where would she go? She began to panic, searching the shadows for a way out, for an escape. But there were only other corridors and locked doors and hundreds of feet of stone floors and walls.

I should have stayed inside, she thought despairingly. I should have stayed hidden. I should have waited.

The Drouj had almost caught up to her when she remembered the Flange 350. She fumbled for it, yanked it from her pocket, released the safety as Deladion Inch had instructed her, wheeled as the Troll flung itself at her, and fired six times as fast as she could. She heard the sound of the metal projectiles striking her attacker and threw herself aside as it lurched past her, tumbling head-over-heels into the corridor wall.

She came back to her feet at once, swinging her weapon about, searching the gloom.

The Drouj lay folded over in a motionless heap, blood running from the wounds to its body. She looked away quickly, fighting not to vomit. She’d never killed anyone, she realized—as if it were a revelation. Only animals for food and once a wolf that tried to attack her. She didn’t like how it made her feel. Even though it was a Drouj intent on doing her harm. Even so. She looked back, forcing herself to make certain of it. She stared at it for a long moment, but it didn’t move.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she slid down against the wall. A shiver passed through her slender body, and she closed her eyes. She tried to think of what she needed to do. She must retrace her steps quickly and close and lock the door. She could not chance going out again now. She was too frightened, too unsure of herself. She would wait, as she should have done in the first place. If Pan were here, he would approve. He would tell her she was doing the right thing.

She stared at the body of the dead Troll a final time and realized suddenly that she was crying.

THE HOURS PASSED and dusk approached in a webbing of shadows and ground mist crawling down off the heights. In the vast expanse of the wastelands surrounding the complex, the Trolls were still at work, searching for a way in, trying to find a weak spot in the mix of stone and steel. The ragpicker counted five of them—big, hulking brutes with tree-bark skin and hunched shoulders. He didn’t like Trolls much. They were all the same, using their size and their strength to intimidate and, if need be, to overpower. Reasoning with Trolls was of little value. Trolls had a different mind-set about creatures like himself. Why reason with things so much smaller and weaker, they asked themselves, when you could simply crush them like eggs?

His ragged, scrawny figure was hidden by the glare of the fading sunlight as he approached them, barely more than a blurred image. The Trolls hadn’t noticed him at all, even though he had gotten to within a quarter mile of them and was traveling over ground that was mostly flat and bare. He had no wish to engage them, and so he was moving away, heading north toward the darkness, when he sensed the magic.

He stopped where he was, surprised.

Where was magic coming from in a place like this? Not from those Trolls, surely. From someone else, then? Someone inside the buildings that the Trolls were trying to penetrate?

He considered the possibility that it might be the man with the black staff, but couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that he was that lucky. For one thing, the magic he sensed did not appear strong enough. Nor did it appear to be of the right type. The ragpicker could parse degrees of magic; he could intuit their shapes. Over time, during his travels, he had encountered it often enough that he recognized its differences. This magic that he was sensing now was not that of a talisman, but of a living creature—a magic that was personal and innate.

Still, one thing usually led to another. A source here could lead to a source elsewhere and eventually to the one he was seeking. Baby steps, he reminded himself. Small successes.

He sighed. Pursuing this would mean confronting the Trolls. He would have to walk over there to determine what it was they were trying so hard to reach. He was not fond of the idea, but what was he to do? He couldn’t walk away if there was a chance that the origin of the magic he was sensing was one of the missing black staffs.

He stood looking at the Trolls, debating. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of shadows moving like quicksilver on the air, so thin they were virtually transparent. He didn’t bother looking at them. He didn’t need to; he knew what they were. He knew, as well, that trying to look directly at them wouldn’t work. You couldn’t see them that way. You could only glimpse them as bits of motion.

Feeders.

Once, they had been clearly visible to those who had use of magic. Humans and Elves and their ilk couldn’t see them, not unless they had magic at their command. But demons could. And Knights of the Word. But something had changed all that with the destruction of the old world, and in the aftermath of the Great Wars, feeders had evolved into something that was almost entirely devoid of substance. They still fed on human emotions, still savaged those consumed by their darker instincts. But they had become as empty as wind.

What mattered here, however, was that there were feeders present at all. Their appearance signaled the presence of magic; it was the possibility of feeding that had attracted them. Use of magic expended the sort of dark emotion that feeders craved. They were drawn to it like flies to garbage and Men to evil. He smiled. You couldn’t find a better indicator than that, could you?

Decided, he switched directions and walked slowly toward the Trolls, the now distinct possibility that his search was over a guiding light.