that. Hands reached for him, gnarled and hairy and grasping.
He lost himself in a whirl of coarse bodies and cluttering voices,
hearing only his own voice screaming from somewhere inside
not to be taken again, not to be held.
He was suddenly at the edge of the bluff. He summoned the
magic of the wishsong, striking out with images at the Spider
Gnomes who beset him, desperately trying to force a path
through their midst. The Shadowen had disappeared, lost some-
where in the smoke and shadows.
Then he felt his feet go out from under him, the edge of the
bluff giving way beneath the weight of his attackers. He grap-
pled for them, for a handhold anywhere, and found nothing. He
toppled clear of the bluff, falling into the abyss, tumbling into
the swiri of mist. The Shadowen, the Spider Gnomes, the fires,
caves, and burrows all disappeared behind him. Down he
fell, head-over-heels, tumbling through scrub brush and grasses,
across slides and between boulders. Miraculously, he missed
the rocks mat might have killed or crippled him, falling clear
finally in a long, agonizing drop that ended in jarring blackness.
He was unconscious for a time; he didn’t know how long.
When he came awake again, he found himself in a crushed bed
of damp marsh grasses. The grasses, he realized, must have
broken his fall and probably saved his life. He lay there, the
breath knocked from his body, listening to the sound of his heart
pumping in his breast. When his strength returned and his vision
cleared, he climbed gingedy to his feet and checked himself.
His entire body was a mass of cuts and bruises, but there ap-
peared to be nothing broken. He stood without moving then and
listened. From somewhere far above, he could hear the voice of
the Spider Gnomes.
They would be coming for him, he knew. He had to get out
of there.
He looked about. Mist and shadows chased each other through
a twilight world of gathering darkness, night descending quickly
now. Small, almost invisible things skipped and jumped through
the tall grasses. Ooze sucked and bubbled all about, hidden
quagmires surrounding islands of solid earth. Stunted trees and
brush defined me landscape, frozen in grotesque poses. Sounds
were distant and directionless. Everything seemed and looked
the same, a maze without end.
Par took a deep breath to steady himself. He could guess
where he was. He had been on Toffer Ridge. His fall had taken
him down off the ridge and right into Olden Moor. In his efforts
to escape his fate, he had only managed to find it sooner. He
had put himself exactly where the Shadowen had threatened to
send him-into the domain of the Werebeasts.
He set his jaw and started moving. He was only at me edge
of the moor, he told himself-not fully into it yet, not lost. He
still had the ridge behind him to serve as a guide. If he could
follow it far enough south, he could escape. But he had to be
quick.
He could almost feel the Werebeasts watching him.
The stories of the Werebeasts came back to him now, jarred
free by the realization of where he was and sharpened by his
fear. They were an old magic, monsters who preyed off strayed
and lost creatures who wandered into the moor or were sent
there, stealing away their strength and spirit and feeding on their
lives. The Spider Gnomes were their principal food; the Spider
Gnomes believed the Werebeasts were spirits that required ap-
peasement, and they sacrificed themselves accordingly. Par went
cold at the thought. That was what the Shadowen had intended
for him.
Fatigue slowed him and made him unsteady. He stumbled
several times, and once he stepped hip-deep into a quagmire
before quickly pulling free. His vision was blurred, and sweat
ran down his back. The moor’s heat was stultifying, even at
night. He glanced skyward and realized that the last of the light
was fading. Soon it would be completely black.
Then he would not be able to see at all.
A massive pool of sludge barred his passage, the wall of the