it, its heavy body churning up the ground behind them, scatter-
ing rocks and dirt as it came, its cry an ugly whine of hunger.
The magic. Par thought, distracted – I have to use the magic.
The wishsong will work, confuse it, at least. . .
Steff pulled him onto a flat rock, and he felt the others bunch
around him. “Stay together!” the Dwarf ordered. “Don’t leave
the rock!”
He stepped out to meet the Gnawl’s rush.
Par would never forget what happened next. Steff took the
Gnawl’s charge on the slope just to the left of the rock. He let
the creature come right up against him, then suddenly fell back,
mace jamming upward into the Gnawl’s throat, booted feet
thrusting against its massive chest. Steff went down, and the
Gnawl went right over him, the momentum of its lunge carrying
it past. The Gnawl could not catch itself. It tumbled past Steff,
rolled wildly down the slope into the hollows below, right up
against the fringe of the trees. It came to its feet instantly, growl-
ing and snarling. But then something huge shot out of the trees,
snapped up the Gnawl in a single bite and pulled back again into
the murk. There was a sharp cry, a crunching of bones, and
silence.
Steff came to his feet, put a finger to his lips, and beckoned
them to follow. Silently, or as nearly so as they could keep it,
they climbed back up to the trail and stood looking downward
into the impenetrable dark.
“In the Wolfsktaag, you have to learn what to look out for,”
Steff whispered with a grim smile. “Even if you’re a Gnawl.”
They brushed themselves off and straightened their packs.
Their cuts and bruises were slight. The Pass of Jade, which
would take them clear of the mountains, was no more than an-
other hour or two ahead, Steff advised.
They decided to keep walking.
IX
It took longer than Steff had estimated to reach the Pass of
Jade, and it was almost midnight when the little company
finally broke clear of the Wolfsktaag. They slept in a nar-
row canyon screened by a tangle of fir and ancient spruce, so
exhausted that they did not bother with either food or fire, but
simply rolled into their blankets and dropped off to sleep. Par
dreamed that night, but not about Allanon or the Hadeshom.
He dreamed instead of the Gnawl. It tracked him relentlessly
through the landscape of his mind, chasing him from one dark
comer to the next, a vaguely distinguishable shadow whose
identity was nevertheless as certain as his own. It came for him
and he ran from it, and the terror he felt was palpable. Finally
it cornered him, backing him into a shallow niche of rock and
forest, and just as he was about to attempt to spring past it,
something monstrous lunged from the dark behind him and took
him into its maw, dragging him from sight as he screamed for
the help that wouldn’t come.
He came awake with a start.
It was dark, though the sky was beginning to lighten in the
east, and his companions still slept. The scream was only in his
mind, it seemed. There was sweat on his face and body, and his
breathing was quick and ragged. He lay back quietly, but did
not sleep again.
They walked east that morning into the central Anar, winding
through a maze of forested hills and ravines, five pairs of eyes
searching the shadows and dark places about them as they went.
There was little talking, the encounter of the previous day having
left them uneasy and watchful. The day was clouded and gray,
and the forests about them seemed more secretive somehow. By
noon, they came upon the falls of the Chard Rush, and they
followed the river in until nightfall.
It rained the next day, and the land was washed in mist and
damp. Travel slowed, and the warmth and brightness of the
previous few days faded into memory. They passed the Rooker
Line Trading Center, a tiny waystation for hunters and traders
in the days of Jair Ohmsford that had built itself into a thriving